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Potter comes to Draco’s cell once a day.
It would be annoying if the dementors weren’t literally driving him insane.
Usually, Potter just sits outside his cell and reads, or fills out some paperwork that Draco has no idea what it’s for. He rarely talks, just sits out there for a while and then leaves. Well, he says ‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye’, so there’s that at least. Recently, he even started reading passages of the books he brings with him. Draco likes that. It’s always some classic novel—if Draco had more of a life in his body he’d make a joke about the old Romantics calling to Potter for rejecting reason and logic by spending all his freetime outside a dark cell in Azkaban—and usually Draco’s already read them, but it’s nice to hear someone speak more than a word to him, and what can Draco say? He’s drawn to the old Romantics too.
“What’s your favorite book?” Potter asks suddenly. That’s new. He doesn’t usually try to converse with Draco.
Draco tries to respond but his voice gets stuck in his throat at first, raw from lack of use. Potter just waits patiently. Over the last few weeks Draco has learned that Potter is infuriatingly patient.
“ Le Petit Prince , by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry,” Draco manages to say after a moment of awkwardly trying to silently clear his throat.
“The Little Prince?” Potter stands from his little stool, stretching, “Or specifically the French version?”
“I’ve only read the French version,” Draco croaks out. His voice humiliates him. Maybe he’ll start talking to himself—not because he’s going crazy, but so he can speak properly when given the opportunity.
“I’ve never read either,” Potter smiles at him, “Goodnight, Draco.”
“...night.”
Draco is starting to feel like he’s been meeting with a stranger every day, or maybe he’d only known a stranger the seven years he’d spoken to Potter before this. The next day, Potter shows up with a brand new copy of The Little Prince—in English—as if he’d gone out that night and bought it just to bring it here. Draco shakes that idea away. That would be ridiculous, Potter wouldn’t–
“There was only one copy left when I went last night, lucky me,” Potter smiles as he sits down again. Alright. So maybe Potter would .
Potter opens the book, and, instead of reading in silence and occasionally pointing out a passage or too, he just starts reading out loud right away. It confuses Draco at first, but he ends up sitting on the floor, back to the wall right near his cell bars so he can peek (of course, he won’t admit that he’s peeking) whenever Potter shows an illustration.
At the end of every three chapters, Potter says goodbye, and the next day he comes back and continues where they left off.
They don’t quite finish the book when Potter comes to tell Draco they’re putting him on trial officially.
“Why did they send you to fetch me?” Draco’s stiffens, not ready to admit that he was looking forward to continuing their book, but fully ready to admit he isn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of possibly being sentenced to a Dementors Kiss.
Potter pulls a set of keys out of his coat, “I’m your defense.”
Draco doesn’t know what to say to that at first. There’s an awkward stretch of silence while Potter takes down the wards and unlocks everything. Finally, Draco manages a frankly pathetic sentence; “Is that why you’ve been coming here?”
“At first,” Potter admits, “But my case for you was built before I stepped foot in here. I kept coming back just because I could, under the guise of your trial defense. To see a friend.”
“Oh,” Draco swallows hard. Potter— Harry , Draco supposes—smiles back.
When the jury lets Draco go free, the first thing Harry asks Draco is if he’d like to come over to read. Draco tells him that he’ll do Harry one better and show him the Malfoy Manor library.
Draco supposes they’re something like friends.