Work Text:
#1
Dear Miss Granger,
I do acknowledge that, in general occasions, letters like this should be owled with an exquisite bestowal directly to your mansion. However, I bet no-one knows about it better than you, that the MAJESTIC place I currently accommodate bears absolutely no such thing for a lady.
They, jailers, Aurors, those who have treated me as one of those degenerate war criminals (Oh I almost forgot that in fact, Draco Malfoy was nothing but le criminel de guerre as well as in name) permitted me to write a letter in this special occasion.
Permission, homologation, or rather COMPULSION. With their “bemoaning the universe” faces, they handed out parchments and quills as if these inferiorities were some sort of amnesty that every single one here anticipated. When the tall bloke named Leipzig thrust them into my hands, the undisguised abhorrence and taunt in his eyes annunciated his hideous lust of me bowing on my knees and shedding grateful tears. Indeed, Greg in the next block was doing exactly the same thing; on the floor reverberated his resounding sob. But a Malfoy? HE BET.
Even though I would still like to believe that, if I refuse to actually put down something as well as a valid address on the envelope, Leipzig and Bohn (The other Auror who’s in charge. He’s a lot easier, guess that’s because his entire family was safe during the war) would probably dedicate himself to making my two-year term even more intolerable. Resigning to their will would just make my life here much easier, and that’s the ONLY reason why I’m here at a nasty little desk, holding up my no-longer-fully-functional wand, and writing to you.
Wonderful, Granger, now let’s think about what we could potentially talk about. The whole pure-blood thing? I’m afraid, and it’s a fairly plausible guess, if I ever dare to write a single word about all that “dregs of the old times”, I would just have to say adieu to the sunrise tomorrow morning, with this bloody swan song in my hand. Since this, our one and only old topic in the past seven years was nothing but an utter taboo, maybe we can start with those acquaintances of us. Plausibly you would want to talk about THE TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE SAVIOR AND HIS SIDEKICK, right? After all, I bet plenty of those interviews and activities was expecting you. Need no astonishment on “why would Draco Malfoy know all about this” — the brand new version of Azkaban resolved to advertise the Ministry’s “generous brightness of humanity”, and therefore the despicable souls here bore the rights to read about your noble deeds in the newspaper and await the arrival of their final redemption. Then what about it? Would you like to hear about how your OLD FRIEND feels about your almighty victory? Or, somewhat more frankly, compliment? Things you would never grow sick of even after tons of thousand of times?
Aha, we're off to a good start here. Hermione Granger lived up to her reputation as the most lenient person at the end of the century. She stood up to be the bigger man there and testified for the other two Malfoys, well except for the capital one Lucious Malfoy, in court. She ran hither and thither, won that shimmering-hypocritical SCAR HEAD over for support, and successfully brought these two wretches who chickened out at the very last minute, an honor of remission. BRAVE, FAIR, VIRTUOUS, AND ALMIGHTY GRANGER!!! I bet the Ministry will assign a marble stela to grave all your heroic deeds. If I were still out there, I would be brought to total ruin just to ensure that marvelous thing would be exhibited at the most conspicuous spot. What about the front gate? A plausible demonstration of my highest respect and appreciation for our war heroine.
THANK YOU.
It wasn’t as hard as I’ve imagined. Granger, I appreciated the efforts you put forward for me and my Mother — I knew you didn’t just do that for us. But still, for the sake of your bloody justice, I appreciated that.
Hereby wish you a splendid Christmas.
Sincerely yours,
Draco Malfoy
12.24.1998
——————
#32
Granger,
About the inquiry in your last letter, the lighting conditions in Azkaban: my answer might sound mean, but let’s just make it clear, it has nothing to do with the one who came up with this funky question, THE BRIGHTEST WITCH OF HER AGE.
Listen up, for Merlin’s sake, we have bloody awful lighting here. Since, guess what, this very place happened to be the largest habitat of Dementors — at least until the war ended. Dementors just love everything gloomy and muggy, and therefore I guess they did choose this very place for fair reasons.
Admittedly you would like to argue that, your TRUE QUESTION was in fact “whether this condition was improved after the Auror takeover or not”. This, forgive me if you may, happened to be another question with a naivete kindred to ignorance. Let me think it through, how should I depict this complicity here in a rather concise way… Aha — the answer is no.
Seriously, Granger, do you actually expect a bunch of good-for-nothings, who dared not object the Ministry and hence vented out their downsides on us, the war criminals who would be sentenced to death the moment they express a single slice of revolt, would try their best to accommodate us in a Dementor-free Azkaban?
Things turned out to be just the opposite of that. Without the bill your Department of Magical Law and Enforcement signed last year, empowering prisoners using their wands “within a certain boundary”, our owl communication here would be nothing but impossible.
Oh, right, congratulations from Azkaban block #351, the very bloke holding up his wand for illumination and trying out his neatest script — promotion in the first year, your schoolmates would just be utterly proud of you.
No need for surprise, see, ALL THE THINGS that you were TOO STINGY to cram into your tiny little piece of reply were always compensated by the Daily Prophet. Faster than your letters even. Since you know, compared to the Weekly Granger, Daily was after all daily.
Therefore I was wondering since a decent amount of your reputation was built upon my case, maybe it would be TOTALLY ELIGIBLE for me demanding you reply sooner? Look, I referred Bohn for this: it takes about half a day for Azkaban’s censors to owl the letter, and then about a whole 24 hours for it to get to London. In that sense, based on some basic computation, it generally took you three to four days to get back to me every time you heard from me. Compared with catching up with your poor old friend, is your job indeed that important? Believe it or not, you happened to be my ONLY correspondent who’s not my Mum.
AND — due to the fact that my wand was no longer capable of performing all sorts of transfiguration — my ONLY pastime in the spare time. When I refer to “spare time”, in fact I mean all the time except for those I was asleep. I mean, it was bloody Azkaban. After the first two months of fury and self-deprecation followed by the next half month's of graffiti decoding, my daily routine got stuck with pretty much “getting up from the bed sitting still” and “going back there falling asleep”. Lumos became one of the only incantations that I barely forgot.
Ha, I wasn’t trying to play the puppy dog eyes trick here. But if you could, therefore, write back much more attentively, I believe the LONELY SOUL writing here would be somewhat happier.
Do a good turn daily, Granger. See, I’ve posted you my colorful daily life; I suppose in return, you could share one thing or two about you?
Yours,
Draco Malfoy
03.12.1999
——————
#61
Granger,
Thanks for your urgent, and I did read about the obituary on the Daily Prophet this morning.
I don’t need your comfort or anything. As a matter of fact
That was quite a bombshell I must say. Although she never seemed to be all that sanguine, it kept occurring to me whether it was because my Father’s death followed by my
Would you perhaps come by? Whenever you got time, some evening, or just whenever. You’re the Ministry’s mascot, all those paperwork and stuff doesn’t seem to bother you that much — of course, if you will.
You are all I have left.
Draco
05.28.1999
——————
#143
Dear Miss Hermione who-I-thought-I-knew-well Granger,
When you told me in your last letter about, “there was a holiday surprise for me, but it probably would arrive a bit late”, neither of us could have thought about that those BLOODY BLABBERMOUTHS of the Daily Prophet actually spoiled it?
Now let me take a reasonable guess of what’s the surprise of the Ministry’s supernova all about: dreamy duet at the Christmas Eve? Oh, that’s, in fact, the subtitle of every newspaper’s headline. NOT SURPRISING AT ALL. Then.. Engaged? Pregnant? Happily married? Now what, were you planning on owling that tiny teeny little diamond ring that Weasley used to propose here for me to take a look, or much simpler, would you like to drop by arm in arm with your troll-headed boyfriend who you secretly went out with for a year, showing off to your arch-nemesis about how wonderful the bright and free lives were for you war heroes?
In that case, Granger, please do pass it on to your DEAREST Fiancee that his childhood dream finally came true: that same old Malfoy heir whom he’s been so green with envy would rather die in Azkaban than take another glance at his bloody weasel face.
Yes, Granger, I don’t think I should be calling you Hermione anymore (Also, by the way, the only reason I did so at the very first place was due to my bloody despair of losing my Mum, let alone that I haven’t seen anyone outside for a while and that no matter who showed up at that point I would have called on that person by Christian name), because I suppose that bloody pathetic wretch would do anything he potentially could to trap me here forever. We don’t want to see that happen, do we? The reason why I said “we” was because YOU were the one who turned me into this shit using tons of muggle psychology rubbish. “This mindset would lead you to depression. You need to focus on the bright side, say, what you’re going to do after this. Your life has just begun, Draco, and there’s a whole brand new world awaits…” Craps like that almost take me back to those glory days when I actually had to stick my arm under the jaw to bear your endless speeches in class.
YOU HAVE MY BLESSINGS, GRANGER. HEREBY SINCERELY PRESENT YOU MY FELICITATION, BOTH OF YOU. THE HEROIC VERSION OF A HAPPILY-EVER-AFTER KIND OF STORY. YOU TWO WERE JUST MEANT TO BE. Think about it, he’s a man without a backbone, holed up in his tumble-down attic (or perhaps a basement? Let’s just hoping the precarious magic of his enormous family would hold up that ramshackle house-thing from falling and scrambling that bloody basement into two-dimensional), waiting for Mama feeding food to his mouth. But don’t worry Granger, with all that hot money coming along with your Order of Merlin, at least he wouldn’t have to go off of you for mere hunger, like back in the old times.
As for you, Granger, a mollusk like this wasn’t just made for you? Brandish your iconic thirst for control and will to power right in his face, and he wouldn't say a damn thing. I could tell that you bloody loved this: manipulating those weak wretches and snipping the sweet taste of condescension. Redemption means nothing but decorations to you. Seriously, ask yourself, Granger, stop pretending and ask yourself — do you even care about those subjects of your meritorious redemption? FOR HELL’S SAKE, YOU FUCKING DON’T EVEN GIVE A SHIT!!! Aren’t they just pastime-plaything to you? Things that you read and throw away during tea break — as if I don’t already see all those coffee stains on your parchments. Right, maybe after all Weasley was special. He’s the one really satisfied you, I guess, not only psychologically, but sexually as well? Granger, Granger, Granger, what a conservative horny little cherry you are! Easily carried away by a tiny teeny little bit of tenderness from THAT STUPID WEASEL? Huh?
I have to terminate our correspondence immediately. It drives me sick to even think of you filthy little hypocrite.
With his last remnant of dignity,
Draco Malfoy
12.25.1999
——————
#144
Dear Hermione,
It almost felt like your last letter was from the last century, and, you know what? yes, it was exactly the case here. Time flies, huh? I think it will only make us even more FORGETFUL.
I’ve received your holiday surprise. I LIKED IT A LOT. I could only recall mentioning that brooch ONCE in a letter a couple of months ago, and now, it dazzles on the front of my shirt.
Thank you for remembering my fondness for the trinket; thank you for taking all those efforts, purchasing it from the Borgin and Burkes (I knew how those two could be a handful); and of course, thank you for going through all those paperwork just to make a huge exception by bringing it to me — thanks a lot.
I guess this brooch now officially overweighed my former favorite, the one from Umbridge, and became something I would wear all the time.
I’ve been doing okay. I even got myself a great window seat for the little firework show on the New Year’s Eve. I guess those splendid fireworks are products from the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes? QUITE WORTH OF ITS NAME, I must say. Speaking of Weasley, having read the latest newspaper, I was hoping you could pass on my felicitations to OUR OLD FRIEND Ron Weasley — I didn’t even realize he JUST successfully proposed to a beauty like that… By the way, those Daily Prophet blokes were just fooling with things, weren’t they? In response to their idle and malicious speculation about that courtesy dance between two old friends, say, I would ask Bohn for another thirty inches long parchment for a decent letter of complaint. There was ever hardly a thing between you and your other two friends. By which I mean, you were far out of their league. Yes, YOU CAN DO BETTER.
How’re you doing? I haven't seen you gracing the newspapers too often, except for your recent promotion, coming along with your work on the International Statute of Secrecy Amendment. Very impressive, Hermione! Congratulations! So how’ve you been? Tell me all about it. How’s your new work? Has everyone in the group been nice to you? Fill me in.
Looking forward to your reply,
Love,
Draco
01.03.2000
——————
#145
Dear Hermione,
Of course, I understand that pile of garbage in my last letter going on about a false peace doesn’t deserve your respond, but I guess I just left things to luck.
I was hoping to owl this out with a dozen of Obliviates if I could, but it would violate certain regulations here to do that, obviously. Therefore, please do finish reading this letter if you don’t want, according to Bohn, a fifty-years-extended sentence and ten thousand Galleons of fine ever happen to me.
I know how you Gryffindors like the “take no prisoners” approach so listen. SORRY. I felt tremendously sorry for that letter I sent out on Christmas day.
It was a mistake, nothing but a moody, horrible mistake.
The presumptuous reporter claimed to be “an honest friend and supporter of the Golden Trio”, and therefore I subconsciously believed everything he said, including bullshits of the smooth romantic relationship and engagement between you and Ron Weasley. Seriously, I went haywire. I said things I never meant. I WAS AN ARRANT ARSEHOLE.
I swear to Merlin that I would never mention a word about Ron Weasley if you don’t want me to. Everything I ever said about him was nothing but despicable slanders towards a brave mighty war hero. I was bloody jealous of him. I was jealous of everything he owns: Gallons, freedom, love, you.
As for my harangue on you, I can tell that hoping you haven’t got a chance to read through them was kind of late. However, I was crippled with the yearning of stopping you from reading those craps of duplicity, the yearning, which, was almost as strong as the one getting out of this gloomy wintry place.
If I could still remember exactly how I managed to put all that nonsense in that letter, I swear to Merlin that I would contradict myself word by word, sentence by sentence. For instance, HYPOCRISY was never a word to portrait you. In fact, you are the bravest, the most genuine and enthusiastic person I’ve ever met. You have no idea how much I regret it that I never truly realized this back in school. I was beclouded back then, this time as well, and hence brought endless misery for both of us.
Remember how I said I was doing okay in my last letter? I lied. I was not okay, in fact, not at all okay. Greg went bonkers. It all happened yesterday. He stared into a distant spot in the air and muttered Vince’s name over and over. He roared and screamed frenziedly every time when there was someone approaching him. Hence Bohn and other guys had to dose him on the Draught of Living Death to put him down and send directly to St. Mungo. None of us knows whether he’s ever going to come out there.
In fact, I felt like I wasn’t far from there. Whenever I heard those jailers bringing in mails or visitors, I jumped out of my bed and hurried to the bars expecting… well, you’ve seen me done that before. I know how pathetic that sounds, but I couldn’t help it. I was looking forward to seeing you, or, even just hearing from you in certain ways.
I lost track of the updates regarding your bloody amendment work. I lost track of you and your two little friends. It was like, all of a sudden, every newspaper we subscribed here decided to report NOTHING about our lovely GOLDEN TRIO. At this point, I even suspect that the Dark Lord came back to life, or there has to be some other “Lord” taking over everything including public media. As for you, our former saviors, were either busy with bringing our world new marvels or assassinated secretly already.
I know it’s sick but I can’t help it. All these days I’ve been staying in bed, holding up that same gesture — with my wand in one hand and your brooch on the other. Gradually, I began to wonder whether those things I’ve been through were real or not. The newspaper, the brooch you got me, our correspondence, even the whole thing about being imprisoned in Azkaban… Maybe none of these actually took place. Maybe you never defended me in front of the Wizengamot. Maybe I was never arraigned. Maybe, in fact, I’ve already been sentenced to death, just like my father…
Then I had to extinguish the light on my wand and murmur your name over and over again. HERMIONE. HERMIONE. HER-MIO-NE.
After that, I lit up the wand and pleaded to Hecate of serendipity for your merciful advent.
Nox ignited the ember of hope. But Lumos took my last smitch of self-deception away from me.
I KNEW I HURT YOU. I KNEW I DON’T DESERVE TO SAY SO. BUT I REALLY MISSED YOU.
Love,
Draco
03.31.2000
——————
#146
Dear Hermione,
I still haven’t heard from you yet.
I understand what it means, LOUD AND CLEAR. But it was my last night in Azkaban. According to Bohn, I’m technically free now, so he would just owl this letter right away as an urgent, which would arrive at your office desk tomorrow by noon. I would still want to share this piece of completely irrelevant news with you as the very last bit of my twenty-month-long life in Azkaban.
I’m released earlier for my decent behavior, although I had no idea how exactly “speechlessly huddled under my ice-cold sheet” was counted as part of it. Leipzig wasn’t pleased with this result. When assisting me changing, he muttered querulously that this must be due to some sort of surreptitious maneuvers. But after all, I’m officially leaving this bloody place.
I still remember how you talked me into things like “looking forward to life after this”. You actually had me written down a detailed plan of my new life ahead so that I can survive my term. Do you still recall? That’s exactly what I did in the past five months. Staring at that very piece of parchment days and nights.
Since you are my savior, by all means, I felt obligated to share with you what I wrote down on the parchment.
See, sharing. Our correspondence was going on for no more than two years and your Gryffindor is rubbing off on me.
Anyways, there’s a bank to start up with. My family has various investments as well as, let’s say a safety back-up my father left for me, a position at the Gringotts. It was nothing senior, but considering my current situation, a decent start-up point for me.
Resting for a couple of days, primping and grooming, and checking in. That’s my first step.
Then Draco Malfoy will be back to the game. I will saunter down the Diagon Alley wearing three-piece and haircut nicely-taken-care-of. I will run my family business and really use every Galleon well. I will prove myself to be a qualified Malfoy heir. I’ll climb up that very ladder. I’ll never back off from those devious goblins. I’ll get back to those venal suck-ups. I’ll win myself back the passkey to the Ministry. I’ll attend concerts and operas with the Minister. Fame and fortune, I WILL HAVE IT ALL.
Then I’ll court my witch. At that point when the world knows I’m good enough for her, I will pledge recklessly for her forgiveness, her attention, and HER LOVE. I’ll let every living creature know how brilliant she is. She was the ONLY ONE who never gave up on Draco Malfoy even in his darkest times. EVERY SINGLE BIT OF ME BELONGS TO HER, AND I WISH SHE WOULD GIVE ME A GRACE LIKE THIS, TO HAVE HER COMPLETELY BELONG TO ME.
At that very moment, I’ll be strong enough to shed all my filthy lies and disguises. I’ll have the courage to confess HOW MUCH I LOVE HER.
These wildest daydreams were the only thing kept me from becoming one of those who were taken by death or lunacy in Azkaban. I was bloody composed the whole time. In fact, I’ve never been that sober in the past almost twenty years of my life. I examined my past and future. I looked up to you. I wrote devoutly, shared these fantasies with the one I longed for, and hoped she would be there with me when these reinless imaginations eventually come true.
But now, if crazy talks like this successfully impressed her and she would to forgive me, she would probably like to drop by and pick up a war criminal who made up his mind to turn over a new leaf, here, tomorrow evening half eight. In that case, I wouldn’t have to sign it DELIBERATELY —
LOVE,
Draco Malfoy
04.30.2000
——————
It was pitch black out there. The tumbling of clouds and the turmoils at sea were the harbinger of a storm. He stood at the cliff, with his back against the dark iron bastion.
“Lumos.” he pointed his wand to the watch, impervious to the late-April wind that's been flailing around brute and wild.
A sudden thunder cloaked the gentle popping sound of Apparate, which by no chance someone neurotic like him would miss. He deadpanned at the woman in front of him, with his wand approaching her cheek as an attempt to affirm her identity.
“Nox.” worried about the incoming storm, she extinguished the light coming out from his wand. With one hand taking over his pitiful little suitcase and the other holding his hand tightly, she disapparated, leaving this place neither of them would ever revisit.