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The breakfast tray on his fourth birthday in Azkaban arrived with a small stack of envelopes.
People liked to pretend he didn’t exist—tucked away as he was in his small cell in Azkaban—until that one obligatory day of the year they felt they had to remember him.
His first birthday inside had been a week after he’d been incarcerated. The second, he’d had some visitors. The third, no one had come. And now, it looked like there were even fewer letters than last year.
Draco took a tasteless bite of buttered toast and picked up the first envelope.
It was ornate and pink with the letters N.B. embossed in the wax seal. Draco stared for a moment at the realization that she must have started using her maiden name.
Dear Draco,
Happy birthday, my darling.
The weather in France is fantastic this time of year. Amos and I are here on vacation, but I would love to spend more time here year round. I’ve become quite close with him, you see. Ever since your father passed, he’s been a surprisingly supportive friend. I do hope you’ll be able to make it out here one day to visit.
All my love,
Narcissa
“Friend, my arse,” Draco muttered, tossing the letter aside. Last year, she’d at least made an excuse not to visit him on his birthday. He supposed she must be happy with this Amos fellow, if the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind.
Narcissa never acknowledged that he lived in a cell. She liked to believe that he wasn’t stuck behind while she moved on from the darkness. He couldn't exactly blame her; he wished he could move on too.
With an uncomfortable ache in his chest, he opened the next letter, this one from Pansy.
Draco,
Happy birthday! I was remembering how much you used to love your birthday, but I suppose you probably like it less now.
You’ve probably heard your mum is dating Amos Diggory. We were all surprised. Their engagement is the talk of the town. How are you taking it?
I’m getting married soon as well, by the way. Mother and Father haven’t given me a choice, but I like him. His name is Alejandro. I think he'll be a good husband. He's from Spain, with a huge estate just outside of Barcelona and enough galleons to live ten lifetimes in all the luxury I could ever want. The fashion industry is thriving there so it'll be full of opportunities for networking. You’d better come visit when you get out.
Everyone is moving away. Is that just what happens as we get older? Or is it a curse of our generation? After the wedding, we'll be moving to Spain. Your mother is in France most of the time now. Blaise is in Italy. You're in Azkaban. After Astoria passed away, Daphne has been traveling around America, and I hear she's met an American wizard she quite likes. At least you'll still have Theo. I don’t think he’ll ever leave England.
I’d say Have a great birthday, but I get the feeling you’d try to curse me. Regardless, I hope you do.
All my love,
Pansy
The ache in his chest doubled. They were all moving on without him. And apparently his mum couldn’t even tell him she was engaged, let alone dating someone.
He opened Theo’s letter next.
Mate,
How’s Azkaban? Don't answer, we both know it sucks.
A lot is changing around here. I think I'm the only one left. Do me a favour and get out early on good behaviour, would you? I miss my best mate.
If you were here right now, I’d be sliding a glass of the world’s best firewhiskey in your hand and celebrating your 21st birthday the way it should be, with lots of sex and alcohol. Not with me of course, I’ve got Harry for that now. We’ll find you a pretty witch though. In fact, I’ve got one in mind already.
Do they give you a birthday cake in there? Probably not, yeah? Just wait for the day when the department head steps down so Harry can take over and give you all the cakes you could ask for.
We’re fighting for you, dickhead, so don’t you dare give up hope. You’ll be home and in my arms in no time.
Love you like I know you love me,
Theo
Homesickness flooded in him at the thought of sitting in one of Theo’s leather armchairs with a whiskey in hand. Longing for the outside world would destroy him.
He tossed the remaining letters aside for later, only to stop short at the sight of a lemon-yellow envelope sealed with a golden sticker.
He frowned in confusion and turned it over. His name was written in an imperfect scrawl. A vaguely familiar one. But… it couldn’t be.
He tore open the envelope and stared. A cartoon sloth dangled lazily from a tree with a silly cone hat on its head and one arm outstretched holding a balloon. Below the picture were the words: “Hang in there! It’s your birthday!”
He let out a strangled laugh at the absurdity and opened the card. The inside was filled with small cramped writing, as though the writer tried to cram as many words onto the page as they could. He looked at the signature and froze.
Heart pounding, he read.
Hi Draco,
I stood in front of the Muggle card display for twenty minutes debating whether to buy this for you. But I figured, what the hell? You might appreciate some dumb humour. (And if you don’t, then at least you’ve had to suffer through it with me.)
I’m kidding, of course.
I’ve been thinking about you a lot these days, and whether I should even write you this letter.
It never seemed right to me, your sentence. We both know what you’ve done, but the fact is you were blackmailed and coerced for most of it and thrown into jail a week before your 18th birthday. Your situation is not remotely the same as Death Eaters who have spent decades in the service of Voldemort.
Did you know I was at your trial? I cried when it was over and wrote the head of the DMLE a ten page rebuttal. To no effect, sadly.
I’m a barrister now, working in Magical Law, and I’m working to overturn some of the unfair punishments doled out in vengeance after the war, as well as fighting to get Azkaban better living conditions. The removal of dementors a year ago was my initiative. So was a new courtyard for socialization and activities. Has it been any better there since?
I can just see the look of disdain on your face. I know there’s still a lot of work to do, but it's a start, I hope.
I never told anyone, but I did it all because of you.
I just keep thinking of that time in sixth year… Do you remember? You were quieter that year, distancing yourself from your friends and spending a lot of time in the back of the library.
You were reading about Roman history, and I scolded you for annotating in the margins a library book before realizing it was in fact yours. We stayed up talking about Roman gods, debating the muggle and wizarding differences for hours until we were the last ones left in the library. You stood up first and reached out your hand to help me up, but you didn’t let go. You stood there, staring at me with a look in your eyes that set my whole body on fire. You looked like you wanted to kiss me, and I’m not going to lie, I wanted you to.
You came to your senses, though, and said goodnight before walking away. In retrospect, you already had the mark then, and the weight of that burden pressing down on you. We were impossible. On opposite sides of a war.
I still wonder about you, though, and whether or not we could have been friends—or more—if things had been different. Or maybe I am just a silly girl fixated on a moment of whimsy from the past.
You might not even remember that day, and it's okay if you don't. I just wanted you to know that I'm on your side.
Happy birthday, Draco.
Hermione
His heart didn’t stop racing. He reread the card again and again, only stopping when it was time to shower. Anton gave him half an hour that morning, and that was as good a birthday gift as he’d get—it felt good to be clean and properly groomed without rushing. But when he got back to his cell, he sat on his bed and picked up the card once more.
Hope sank its claws into his wretched heart like a poison, and he pushed it down, knowing it would ruin him.
His fingers traced the ridiculous sloth over and over again. Unlike his friends and family who wrote him out of obligation, she’d reached out entirely on her own. Why? Was she just reminiscing, or had she held a torch for him all this time? Had she really done all those things because of him?
He lay the card on the bed and hugged a knee, looking down on it.
Maybe he could ask Anton for paper to write back. But what would he say? How much he'd dreamt of that moment in the library too? How it had been such a respite from the stress to distract himself in her conversation? How beautiful she’d been looking up at him, utterly unattainable? How hard it had been to walk away?
By the time afternoon rolled around, he felt sick to his stomach. The universe was known for playing cruel jokes on him. What difference did it make that she’d wanted to kiss him in sixth year? Even if she still wanted to, he would be rotting away in Azkaban for another seven years.
The cell door creaked on its rusty hinges as it opened. Anton leaned against the doorway, grinning at him.
“Get your sorry arse up, Malfoy. You’ve got a visitor.”
“I do?”
“A pretty one, too.”
Was it her?
Surely not.
His heart pounded in anticipation as he held the card, unwilling to part with it yet. He followed Anton through the grim hallways until he stood before one of the visiting chambres.
Inside, Hermione Granger stood in a lovely yellow sundress, looking like an apparition of his former life—the personification of what-ifs and regrets. She was as beautiful as he remembered with those large honey-brown eyes watching him like they had that day in the library, nervous and eager.
It was as though the last four years hadn't happened, and they were back in that moment.
And suddenly, he wanted to kiss her all over again.
With a chuckle, Anton pushed him in, closed the door, and then it was just the two of them.
“Hi,” she said, tapping her fingers nervously on her arm. “I see you got my card.”
He looked down at the sloth. He felt silly now, holding onto it. Were his ears red? They felt warm.
“Hang in there?” He looked back up at her with a mild smirk. “Is this the best you could find?”
“Muggle cards are all ridiculous, honestly,” she laughed nervously. “Was it in bad taste? Telling you to hang in there? I know you're probably sick of hearing things like that.”
“No. I’m practically a sloth these days anyway. Not much to do in prison.”
Hermione laughed, and her shoulders visibly relaxed. “Good. You look rather fit for a sloth, though. I mean—you look healthy,” she amended, feeling her cheeks with the backs of her hands, adorably flustered. “Are you doing well, all things considered?”
He shrugged and approached, chest swelling at her compliment. “Thanks to someone, apparently, we now have a large courtyard. I play basketball with one of the guards most days.”
She beamed, and he couldn’t fully bite down his grin.
“So, tell me, Granger,” he said, placing the card down on the table and stepping closer. “Is there a reason for this surprise visit? Or, did you come all this way just to hear that you were right?”
“Right about what?”
“That I wanted to kiss you.”
Her lips parted in surprise.
He took her wrist, letting it slide through his fingers until his fingertips touched hers—a small, harmless touch, but one that said everything.
The what-ifs of the past turned into the what-ifs of the present. What if he kissed her now? Just once? He’d probably regret it, knowing she would never be his, but what did he have to lose other than his pride and his sanity? “Had our circumstances been different, I would have. I would.”
“They’re different now,” she said, searching his eyes. Her fingers flirted with his, shyly. “How about a date, when you get out of here?”
His heart dropped, and he let go of her hand with a bitter laugh. “What? In seven years?”
He was more convinced than ever that she was there to torture him.
“My house. Tomorrow.” She bit her lip. “I'll make dinner.”
“What—?”
“I’ve known since yesterday, but I wanted to tell you in person,” she rushed to add. “I’ve been working on reversing the rushed sentences made by the Wizengamot at the end of the war. Yours has been reduced to three years. It’s official.”
He stared, uncomprehending, as a buzzing filled his ears. Had he heard her correctly?
“What?” His voice cracked.
“You're a free man, Draco Malfoy.”
She was so close, so earnest—a bloody angel whispering golden words. He couldn't help himself.
He dipped his head and kissed her.
It felt right. Good. And she was sighing into his mouth, hypnotizing him with the softest, sweetest lips he’d ever tasted.
It took a herculean effort to tear his lips away, but when he did, she looked up at him, cheeks pink and eyes bright.
“Get your belongings. Say your goodbyes. Harry will be the Auror escorting you back to the Ministry for the release proceedings. Then tonight, he’ll bring you to Nott Manor. Theo’s arranged a small party with a few friends who really want to see you. I’ll be there, too.”
He just nodded, throat tight.
She seemed to understand his state of shock and squeezed his hand before walking out.
Alone once more, his heart seemed to crack open, flooding his chest with an array of emotions he couldn’t quite control. They swelled behind his eyes and escaped through tears.
He picked up the card—silly, ridiculous, and yet somehow the most precious thing he’d ever owned—and finally let himself hope.
He couldn't wait to go home.
To drink that firewhiskey.
To be with her.
To see everyone.
Theo better have a cake.