Chapter Text
I.
Project Rebirth: A Second Chance or a Calculated Risk?
By Agnes Bott, Political Correspondent for The Daily Prophet
At a time when the wizarding world is trying to rebuild itself from the ashes of a war that struck at the very heart of our community and our future, the Ministry of Magic has launched an initiative bound to divide public opinion: Project Rebirth, a new rehabilitation program for long-term Azkaban inmates—including some serving life sentences.
Supervised by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, under the sponsorship of Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt and the operational direction of the current Undersecretary for Justice, Hermione Granger, the project aims to assess, monitor, and—when deemed appropriate—gradually reintegrate into wizarding society those prisoners considered "redeemable."
Hermione felt her newspaper being crumpled from above.
«Seriously, Hermione?» came Harry’s exasperated voice. «Are you being serious right now?»
Harry Potter, the Savior of the Wizarding World, was standing over her. His black hair was still messily tousled, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose, and his Auror uniform fit snugly around his frame.
He was looking at her with those green eyes filled with what seemed to be a mix of concern and irritation—the same expression he wore whenever Hermione threw herself into one of her hopeless causes. And this one probably was.
At least, on paper.
She lowered the newspaper entirely and let her amber eyes meet his.
Harry had climbed the Auror ranks quickly and had been at the helm of law enforcement for a few years now. His face still looked gentle and composed at first glance, though a touch more hardened by the faint stubble framing his jaw.
Hermione still struggled with the fact that she’d found her childhood friend vaguely attractive for some years now.
In the most objective part of attraction, that is—the part that belonged to a single 33-year-old woman.
«What are you talking about?» she asked with feigned innocence, setting the paper aside and bringing her coffee to her lips.
Her daily fuel to survive another morning at the office.
«You really agreed to meet with Draco Malfoy for the ‘Rebirth’ project?» he asked, clearly rhetorical. «This morning, I found your request to meet and consider him for the program sitting on my desk.» He tilted his head. «At first I thought it was a joke. Then I saw it had both the DMLE’s seal and your office’s.» He placed his hands flat on the table and leaned in. «So I figured you’d finally lost your mind.»
Hermione gently set her coffee down on the Ministry canteen table. She blinked twice before crossing her arms beneath her chest.
«And why would that mean I’ve lost my mind?»
«Have you seen Malfoy lately, Hermione?» Harry asked rhetorically. «Of course you haven’t. You’ve never been to Azkaban, you have no idea what you’re walking into...»
Hermione sighed.
Ever since she’d asked to be assigned to Draco Lucius Malfoy’s evaluation, at least three Aurors had come rushing to warn her off.
“Honestly, Hermione, he’s insufferable and has lost any sense of decency. He’s coarse and vulgar.”
“It’d be easier to bring Dumbledore back from the dead than redeem that one.”
Harry was just the fourth person that morning to barge in and tell her how far gone Draco Malfoy was.
«And you? When’s the last time you were in Azkaban?» she shot back.
«Oh, give me a break,» Harry snapped. «He’s been in there for fifteen years, Hermione. I’ve pulled endless shifts as a guard at Azkaban, and trust me—that one doesn’t go unnoticed.» He lowered his voice as if she couldn’t possibly understand.
«He told me—and I quote—‘I got life, and you married the sweet little female Weasel. I’d say we both got screwed, Potter. You think she still touches herself thinking of me?’»
Harry even mimed the quotation marks.
«That man enjoys being in Azkaban. And you want to let him back into society?»
Hermione sighed again.
That specific sigh that Harry knew meant Hermione thought he was being particularly stupid.
They’d been best friends for so many years that even their sighs had meanings neither could ignore.
«Harry,» she began, leaning back in her chair. «I appreciate your concern, I really do, but first of all—I haven’t decided to release him. I’m just going to assess him.»
She raised an eyebrow. «And if he’s really as awful as you all say, then fine, he stays there to rot. Second, I’m a war veteran who nearly killed Fenrir Greyback at eighteen. I’m not exactly scared of Draco Malfoy, who no longer has magic, nor a wand, and will likely be in shackles the entire time.»
Harry groaned in despair and let himself slump into the chair across from her. Hermione allowed herself a small smile.
She loved that Harry still worried about her.
Despite his marriage, his kids, and all the responsibilities weighing him down, he always found a way to be by her side—even when he didn’t support or understand her choices.
She was lucky. And every time he dropped into a chair across from her with a sigh, surrendering to her arguments and causes, she remembered why, fifteen years ago, she had nearly died for him.
«Tell me why him,» he asked, adjusting his glasses. «Of all Azkaban prisoners, why Draco Malfoy?»
Hermione sat straighter in her chair.
«Because the Head of Department at the DMLE is about to retire, and having Draco Malfoy’s redemption on my record might give me the edge over other candidates.»
«Blane’s stepping down?»
«Septimus is old, Harry. He wants to retire. I’ve heard he’ll do so as soon as he can propose a successor to Kingsley. So I picked the hardest case offered by the Azkaban Warden.»
Harry fell silent for a moment, narrowing his eyes the way he always did when analyzing a line of reasoning he didn’t like.
Hermione knew he was weighing every word, every motive, every political angle.
«So this is for your career?» he asked finally, without malice.
Hermione exhaled, more softly. «Partly. Not only.»
Harry stared at her. «What else is there?»
Hermione shook her head, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and stared down at her coffee.
She was trying to find the right words to tell her best friend what had actually gone through her mind when she’d seen that name on the list.
If she’d been completely honest, Hermione would’ve told Harry that Draco Malfoy’s name hadn’t been on the list of inmates recommended for the program.
He was on the list of those they explicitly discouraged from even trying.
Hermione had spent an entire day thinking about her former classmate—the terrified boy she’d seen at the Battle of Hogwarts, the shame in his mugshot when he’d been dragged to prison far too young to deserve life behind bars.
She’d nearly forgotten about him. Seeing that name had felt like a punch to the gut—realizing she couldn’t even remember his face.
She and Harry had offered to testify on his behalf at his trial—or what passed for a trial—but Malfoy’s lawyer had sent them a handwritten note from Draco himself.
“I’d rather rot in here than owe you anything.”
That had been clear enough.
Neither she nor Harry had felt obliged to contradict him.
So, without their support, he got a life sentence.
Hermione had spent the first two years thinking he deserved it.
He’d had a way out and chose not to take it.
Then her new life had swept her away, and she’d lost interest.
«Have you ever thought maybe no one ever gave him a real chance?» she asked quietly, biting her lip.
Harry scoffed. «He had more chances than anyone. He was born with every advantage. He chose the wrong side of the war.» He lowered his voice. «And Merlin help me, we even offered to testify for him and he told us to fuck off.»
«He was sixteen, Harry. I was sixteen and fighting for freedom. He was sixteen and trying to survive Voldemort in his living room,» Hermione shot back. «None of us ever fought for a boy forced to kill just to keep his mother alive.»
«Don’t you dare make him sound like a victim, Hermione. He enjoyed making us suffer at Hogwarts,» Harry pushed back. «And once you spend five minutes with him in Azkaban, you’ll see what I mean.»
She met his gaze, steady.
«And I don’t forget anything he’s done. But we’re talking about a boy who had nothing but his pride back then. Maybe we should have testified anyway. And most of all—fifteen years have passed. He must have changed.»
«Oh, he’s changed,» Harry said darkly, leaning in. «But not in the way you think. You probably won’t even recognize him. If his mother saw him now, she’d probably faint.»
Hermione let out an even deeper sigh, pressing a hand to her face.
«Harry, you told me it was a great idea to reassess inmates and ease the overcrowding in Azkaban—and that maybe a project like this could’ve saved Sirius twelve years of wrongful imprisonment.»
Harry leaned forward, clasping his hands under his chin. «Yeah. But I’m not sure the system can handle Draco Malfoy as he is now. It’s like throwing a Hungarian Horntail into a Puffskein pen.»
Hermione smiled faintly. «Well, at least he’ll make the pen interesting.» she chuckled, even though her hands trembled slightly.
Harry studied her for another second, then sighed and reached into his bag.
He pulled out a thick file, edges worn, marked with the red DMLE seal.
He dropped it on the table with a thud, along with a signed clearance form.
«Fine. Get yourself killed. But at least read everything before you walk into that cell,»he said firmly. «I signed your clearance. First interview’s in three days, 11:00 a.m. I’ll have an Auror escort you to Azkaban. Then you’ll see: redemption isn’t for everyone.»
Hermione knew he wasn’t angry—he was worried.
She also knew he’d already signed the clearance before even confronting her.
Hermione knew that pushing for the rehabilitation of the youngest Death Eater in history would ruffle feathers.
But she would move forward with her project—at any cost.
She lowered her gaze to the file. The name stood stark and cold at the top:
DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY – INMATE DM830
FILE No. 13-420-DSM / AZKABAN
Harry stood, stretching his back.
«I approved wand usage, too,» he added.
Hermione smiled but didn’t look up.
She slowly opened the file and began reading the tightly packed text.
A photo of a young Draco holding his prisoner number made her shudder.
His face was so young, so sharply defined—just as she remembered it. His silver eyes were blank, hollow. Fear crouched behind the walls of his mind.
Gaunt, pale, a shadow of the boy who had once tormented her at Hogwarts.
Harry watched her for another moment, noting how she touched the mugshot with her fingertips.
«Hermione...» he said gently.
She looked up, eyes a little distant, her hand still on the photo.
"I trust your judgment—you know I do. But promise me: if you realize he’s manipulating you, twisting you—lock him up and throw away the key."
Hermione nodded «I will. I promise.»
But her fingers were already tracing the edge of the page, reading the first lines.
And something deep in her gut told her:
It was never going to be that simple.
*
It was already evening when she Apparated into an alley not far from her home in Old Town, London.
Her house was located on a quiet residential street, lined with classic Georgian townhouses. It was a Muggle semi-detached home that she loved with every fibre of her being—sandstone bricks, large white-framed windows overlooking small, well-tended gardens.
Colourful, flower-filled plants decorated the windowsills, giving the place a cheerful aura that its owner herself often lacked.
Hermione opened the gate that separated the street from the short flight of stairs to her porch. She grabbed her keys, stepped inside, and quickly threw her coat and bag into the small built-in closet by the entrance before pulling the hair tie from her curls, clutching the file Harry had handed her.
Crookshanks peeked around the stairwell, stretching his short legs toward his owner.
«Hello, sweetheart. Did you nap well?» Hermione asked gently, opening the door to the living room so he could come in.
She placed the file on the six-person dining table in her open-plan space and headed to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
Her after-work routine was always the same: soft music, hair down, bra off, and a long soak in the tub with a hot cup of tea at arm’s reach.
And so, that evening, after feeding and watering her cat, she went upstairs to sink into a bath full of hot water and bubbles, bringing the file with her to read in peace. She cast a waterproofing charm on the papers and finally opened it.
She paused for a moment, staring at the photograph, before letting her eyes drop to the first page.
Name: Draco Lucius Malfoy
Date of Birth: June 5, 1980
Blood Status: Pureblood
Date of Incarceration: May 18, 1998
Height: 191 cm
Weight: 90 kg (updated November 4, 2012)
Prisoner Number: 830
Sentence: Life imprisonment without the possibility of parole (modifiable only through direct Ministry intercession)
Security Level: Level V (Maximum Security)
Hermione ran her fingers across the words.
The man she was about to meet was no longer the thin, anxious teenager she remembered. According to the report, he was tall and in good health—likely exercising regularly in prison and having gained both weight and muscle.
Azkaban, thanks to reforms she herself had helped implement, was no longer the soul-devouring place haunted by Dementors. It resembled a Muggle prison far more now.
Interesting.
She bit her lip and continued reading.
She skimmed through the list of crimes he had been convicted for: multiple counts of Muggle murder, kidnapping and torture of magical dissidents, attempted murder, use of Unforgivable Curses, collaboration with the Dark Lord.
The crimes were accompanied by his testimony and statements from others, portraying him as Voldemort’s right-hand man—an image starkly at odds with the frightened boy she’d seen at Malfoy Manor, and the coward she remembered from school.
It was clear he’d been made a scapegoat by others looking to secure lighter sentences.
They had pinned everything on the youngest and most vulnerable.
Detainment Record – November 4, 2012
Prisoner 830 is consistently sarcastic and provocative toward guards and Aurors, deliberately refusing to acknowledge authority. He has accumulated 42 formal disciplinary warnings in the past year and spent a total of one month in isolation.
He has incited riots on at least three occasions since January 2012 and has been placed in solitary confinement for offensive language and seditious behaviour toward on-duty Aurors.
The prisoner displays no remorse for his crimes; in fact, he frequently jokes about them with a dark, often incomprehensible sense of humour.
He shows total disinterest in the recreational and rehabilitative programs offered by the facility, describing them as “clown shows for mediocre wizards” (edited for official tone).
Although not physically aggressive, he remains entirely uncooperative. He avoids fights and altercations with other inmates and has not had a physical incident in the past five years.
He has received three warnings this year for being caught in compromising situations with at least four on-duty Aurors.
Hermione chuckled.
Draco Malfoy had always been insufferably arrogant and sarcastic. That had been his mask since Hogwarts—his superpower.
What intrigued her most was the part about refusing authority and inciting prison unrest.
He was described as offensive and vulgar.
The Draco Malfoy she had known had worshipped authority and power. He had always strutted before those who could advance his influence—his father, Snape, Umbridge, Voldemort.
Draco hadn’t just recognized authority—he’d venerated it.
Rebellion had never been part of the composed, sneering bully who had tormented her at school. No, he had worn the role stitched for him by his family with unsettling ease.
All afternoon, Aurors had warned her about him. Now, reading the report, she could see why: he was arrogant, crude, verbally combative.
All the more interesting.
She turned the page and felt a shiver run down her spine.
PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION
Dr. Miriam Kettleborn, Senior Mind Healer assigned to Azkaban – Ministry of Magic
Preliminary Diagnosis :
The prisoner exhibits chronic manipulative behaviour and presents overt narcissistic traits (grandiose self-image, contempt for others, belief in personal moral and intellectual exceptionalism).
Though a full diagnosis of overt narcissistic personality disorder cannot be confirmed, he shows clear markers in that direction.
Displays tendencies toward self-destructive behaviour, claims to take pleasure in provoking others and watching their reactions—even at personal cost.
Emotionally inhibited responses (notably: lack of empathy, rationalization of cruelty).
Reported to be a natural Occlumens, and even with magic inhibited, can compartmentalize emotions to the point of suppression.
Eloquent and verbally sharp, he uses language as a tool for control and destabilization—his self-declared favourite weapon.
Always alert and intellectually agile, with cognitive abilities well above average. His IQ is recorded at 145, significantly higher than the prison norm, making him dangerous due to his capacity to manipulate less intellectually equipped individuals.
Frequent use of sarcasm and irony as both a defensive and offensive shield.
Additional Notes :
Alternates between silent indifference and long, verbose monologues expressing a cynical, disillusioned view of magical justice and the Ministry—often claiming he feels better without magic.
Shows signs of voluntary self-isolation, occasionally as a form of self-punishment.
Only interacts with selected inmates he deems “intellectually worthy” (his own words).
No evidence of severe psychiatric instability, but his psychological balance seems rooted in a strong sense of control and superiority over others.
The greatest risk in potential reintegration is not immediate violent relapse, but his ability to infiltrate and manipulate systems and people to his advantage.
Subject also shows an increasing disregard for common social decorum, particularly in verbal behaviour.
Chronic manipulator with overt narcissistic traits—Draco Malfoy was a ticking time bomb.
And more and more, the Aurors’ stories matched the man described in these pages.
He was having fun in Azkaban.
And he had clearly, drastically changed.
The file ended with what appeared to be an internal assessment: not reintegrable, too unstable, and in need of constant monitoring.
He was perfect for her cause.
Hermione knew that much of Malfoy’s behaviour came from being abandoned by everyone.
Half of the charges against him were false—and with testimony from her and Harry, Draco wouldn’t have been sentenced so harshly.
His hatred toward the government was more than justified.
Draco should never have been sentenced to life at just seventeen.
To Hermione, that had been a gross violation of human rights.
She closed the file, leaned her head back, and smiled.
Now she truly couldn’t wait to meet Draco Malfoy again—after fifteen long years.
*
The night was always starless behind the bars.
Or maybe it was just that the Dementors’ fog had never truly left with them. Too much time, too many souls drained.
Or perhaps it was just that shithole itself—cold, foggy, and hidden away, even from death.
In all those years, he had never looked out the window. He hadn’t even dared think about the outside.
He was serving a life sentence, after all—why torture himself with the thought of that asshole of a world beyond Azkaban’s walls?
His cellmate was snoring quietly.
He’d been used to solitude for at least a decade before the Aurors decided he wasn’t dangerous enough to be left alone and threw in someone crazy—or stupid—enough to let their guard down around him.
A single cell was too much for the "Princess."
To be fair, Kay wasn’t that bad. Just a petty dealer of magical hallucinogenic mushrooms and clearly scared enough of him.
A Muggle-born dumped into the cell of someone once described as the Right Hand of a Muggle-born genocide.
The nutjobs in charge probably hoped he’d rip poor Kay’s head off with his teeth.
Instead, he’d taken him in like a pet.
Kay slept below him on the bunk bed—the same one where he hid the dirty magazines he’d stolen from the Auror who watched him during laundry duty.
Damian Bruke was a brain-dead idiot, and Draco had always wondered how he’d even passed the Auror exam with the brain of a Mountain Troll.
Draco raised his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
The image of a Troll brought back memories of a tangle of curly hair and amber eyes that pierced straight through him.
Before he could indulge in his second-favorite pastime in this lovely holiday resort he’d been living in for fifteen years, the sound of metal clanging made him laugh even harder.
If he had a wand, he might have seen that it was exactly 05:59 AM.
With a feline leap, he jumped down from the top bunk and kicked the frame of Kay’s bed, waking him with a jolt.
The strangled groan as Kay’s head smacked into the upper bunk’s mesh made Draco laugh heartily.
«Rise and shine, little shit.» he taunted, sauntering toward the bars and letting his hands slide through to cross them outside the cell.
Kay groaned again, the sound of him rubbing his sore head echoing softly.
«Don’t be like that.» Draco scolded sarcastically. «You look even more like a puppy begging for cuddles, shithead. And someone like Bastian might get the wrong idea.» He stressed the name of the guard who was approaching, baton in hand, waking the inmates.
«Don’t worry, Malfoy.» Bastian smirked as he appeared in front of the bars, wand already ready to unlock the cell. «The only ass I’ve got my eye on is yours. McNair said it’s like a damn cavern back there.»
Draco curled his lips into an almost obscene grin «Ohhh, I didn’t know you liked me that much, Bastian. Look, I’m blushing.» He tilted his head. «And if McNair wasn’t dead, I’d make sure he knew his wrinkled cock never had a shot at satisfying me. But I’m sure it would’ve been way more fun to be raped by a slobbering fifty-year-old obsessed with a sliver of power, right Bastian?»
Bastian immediately reacted, making Kay flinch in his bed.
He slammed his baton against the bars, the sound echoing through the High-Security Ward.
The distant reverberation didn’t cover Draco’s laughter, hands still outside the cell.
«Touchy, aren’t we?» Draco purred, voice low and drawn out. «Thinking about me on all fours gets you hard, doesn’t it? Bent over like a filthy bitch?»
«Draco...» Kay warned softly, fully aware of what his cellmate was doing.
It was his morning ritual.
Provoke the guards until they beat him. That, and burn his split lip with his fancy milk tea.
«I won’t fall for your provocations, Malfoy.» Bastian said stiffly. «You’re just scum.»
«Oh, I know—Death Eater scum once, always scum.» Draco sang as if chatting about the weather. «But come on, Bastian, we’ve known each other for over a decade now—when you fuck that poor wife of yours, do you ever whisper my name?»
Before the baton could reach him, Draco pulled back laughing.
«So sensitive this morning.» he muttered, laughter still on his lips. «If you unlock me now and skip the handcuffs, I might even let you in and let you suck my cock. I know you jerk off to me.»
Bastian was really trying to open the cell now, and his clumsy attempts amused Draco even more.
Just a pathetic fifty-year-old who probably bought his Auror badge through bribes at the Ministry.
A pureblood like him—a Selwyn, even—but always so eager to spew judgment at someone who, during the war, had been just a stupid teenager.
As if his uncle hadn’t worn the same damn skull mask.
The click of the lock was drowned only by Bastian’s heavy breathing, baton trembling in his hand.
Finally, the pig managed to open the cell.
Draco had already stepped back, leaning casually against the wall, his smirk still intact.
He watched Bastian charge at him, face red with that ridiculous rage that only lifted Draco’s mood.
«Look at you rushing in like you’ve been waiting for the invite!» he taunted as Bastian grabbed his prison shirt and yanked him forward, ready to throw a punch.
«Don’t.» A voice behind the guard—rough but more tired than angry—cut in.
Auror Marius Thorne, scar across his left eye, scruffy beard, stepped in behind Bastian with the air of someone who’d seen this scene too many times.
He still had his paper tucked under one arm and his wand already raised in case disarming became necessary.
He looked bored. And he probably was.
Draco Malfoy loved watching them fall into his traps, burn in their own rage, and play by his rules.
Once he’d prayed to be saved. Fifteen years later, getting beaten was just a good way to pass the time—and to irritate them.
«Let it go, Bastian. It’s not the day to lose your badge over this son of a bitch.»
Draco chuckled softly, savoring it like dessert. His shoulder still pressed to Azkaban’s cold stone wall.
«The right day never comes, does it? But you get so close—must be the age. Or the frustration...» He examined his nails, fingers stained with the ink of his tattoos.
Bastian turned halfway, eyes burning with barely suppressed fury.
Marius grabbed him again, stopping him from going back into the damn cell and letting Draco play more mind games.
«One day, I’ll wipe that smug smile off your face, Malfoy. And you know what? You’ll still be here. And I’ll still be the one with the wand.»
«How lucky.» Draco clapped slowly, theatrically. «I’ve got life, sweetheart. All the time in the world. Maybe I should make a note: ‘In twelve years, at 6:03 AM, Bastian finally grows a pair and fucks me like he dreams about every night.’ Want to pick the position I’m in when you find me?"» He raised an eyebrow, a smirk full of mockery and madness—proof of his slow descent into something feral.
Thorne sighed and motioned Bastian to stand down, knowing the man was close to snapping.
With a swift flick, he pushed him back against the bars with his wand, calm as ever.
«Turn. Hands behind your back.» he ordered.
«Mh, sounds like foreplay.» Draco chuckled, cheek pressed to the stone under Thorne’s spell. «And here I was hoping for breakfast after the usual preliminaries. You lot are so dull.»
«Shut up, Malfoy.»
The cuffs clicked into place around his wrists, the chains ice-cold against his cracked skin.
Draco took half a step forward, then turned slightly toward Bastian with a venomous little grin, even though it was hard with his arms twisted behind him.
«There’s only one thing worse than being shackled every morning, Bastian...It’s knowing that every night, you touch yourself thinking about me.»
«Fuck you, Malfoy.» Bastian growled.
«Every. Night.» Draco whispered it like a predator, walking past, a head taller than the Auror. «And if you want, I’ll even sign an autograph—something to keep under your pillow.»
Thorne gave him a tug to keep moving—but it wasn’t really needed.
Draco let himself be led away, hands behind his back, step light—like a model on a catwalk.
His hair was tousled, the cut on his lip already reopened and crusted dark from the day before.
Draco Malfoy, despite Azkaban, was as handsome as sin—and as annoying as a mosquito in summer.
Kay was cuffed too, pushed out more gently. «Christ, Malfoy.» he muttered under his breath, watching his cellmate still snickering behind the Aurors. «You’re sick. One of these days, you’re going to get yourself killed.»
«Who said that’s not the point?» Draco replied, voice grim and lucid. «I’ve still got plenty of time to make it happen.»
The Azkaban dining hall had been built just ten years earlier. According to the new government, it was essential for prisoner rehabilitation to have shared spaces where inmates could socialize.
It had certainly been a brilliant idea—putting together 400 people with severe psychiatric issues and forcing them to breathe the same air and the same stench of cabbage and rotten eggs.
Draco had missed his solitary meals ever since that particular circle of hell had opened.
Half the prison was infested with former aristocrats who still held their noses high—and yet, they had managed to destroy most of the tables through brawls and attempted murders.
Clearly, the brilliant officials at the Department of Magical Justice had never set foot inside a real prison.
The Azkaban cafeteria had a symmetrical layout, vaguely reminiscent of a darker, bleaker version of Hogwarts’ Great Hall.
It didn’t have long tables overflowing with food, but instead sterile iron benches, permanently glued to the floor with spells and adhesive charms—measures to prevent them from being used as weapons between inmates.
The lighting was always dim and cold, a pale bluish hue that set Draco on edge. There were no windows—only a series of staircases that led to iron walkways above, where Aurors paced back and forth to monitor the room from above.
There were only four places in Azkaban where inmates were allowed to be unshackled: their cells, the cafeteria, the showers, and the courtyard.
In those places, the Aurors were everywhere—like it was some sort of twisted party.
Marius removed Draco’s handcuffs with a rough jerk.
«I like it rough.» the blond quipped with a grin, earning an exasperated and unimpressed glare from the Auror.
Draco massaged his tattooed wrists and stepped into the food line behind the rest of the prisoners, waiting for what passed as food in that place. He was always among the tallest in line.
Kay joined him shortly after.
His cellmate was a young man Draco vaguely remembered from Hogwarts—a few years younger. He claimed to have been present at the Battle of Hogwarts and said he’d been a Hufflepuff. Draco had no trouble believing it.
The boy sold and consumed hallucinogenic magical mushrooms and had been caught like an amateur.
He had short, brown hair and equally brown eyes. He was thin, not particularly tall, and had the irritating habit of hunching his shoulders together as if trying to hug himself for comfort.
As he was doing right now.
«I’ve told you not to do that.» Draco scolded him softly, stretching his arms behind his head. «Everyone will think you’re a little coward, and they’ll either try to fuck you or rob you of the little you have.» He turned to him, silver eyes sharp. «And you’re my dog—not theirs.»
Kay nodded instantly and dropped the self-hug, earning a small, approving smile from Draco.
«Good morning, darling!» Draco suddenly greeted, overly cheerful, startling Kay behind him.
Sometimes, Draco scared him to his core.
He watched the blond lean over the counter where the kitchen witches served the food, fixing his gaze on Mildred, the head cook.
The woman was a witch in her sixties with an impressive bouffant of white hair. Her makeup was always heavy, her pale blue eyes framed in dark eyeliner, and she wore a thick violet lipstick.
Her face lit up the moment she saw Draco—just as it did every time.
He leaned in closer, that mischievous smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. «You’re glowing this morning, sunshine.»
«You’ll make me blush, Draco. You’re always such a gentleman.» she chirped, fluttering her hand as if tempted to touch his arm.
«All well deserved, Millie.» he purred, leaning even further across the counter. His cologne—a mix of cedarwood and smoke—seemed to make the elderly witch straighten involuntarily. «What’s on the menu today?».
She let out a breathy giggle, like a schoolgirl in front of her favorite pop star. «Boiled cabbage, hard-boiled eggs, and oatmeal porridge. But for you…»she winked, sliding two extra sausages onto his tray «…I found a little chicken leg, hidden just for you.»
«Hidden well, I hope.» Draco teased, hand to heart like a knight receiving a sacred gift. Then he picked up the tray with theatrical elegance. «Your generosity brings light to this wretched place of penance.» he declared dramatically, throwing in a flirtatious wink for good measure.
Mildred giggled again, hand over mouth, watching the blond strut away like he owned the place.
Behind him, Kay muttered a shy thank-you when she handed him his tray. Mildred didn’t even look at him.
They stepped out of the line. Draco walked slowly, with the deliberate confidence of someone utterly used to being watched.
Kay had arrived at Azkaban two years ago (with three more still to go) and had quickly realized that his cellmate was both a shield and a curse.
The way Draco dealt with Azkaban and his life sentence was... strange.
He was self-destructive and yet constantly armored.
The Draco Malfoy he’d known at Hogwarts, even from a distance, was recognizable now only by his hair.
The man walking in front of him was tall, imposing, almost frightening. He was also unhinged, shameless, and cruder than anyone Kay had ever met.
He couldn’t recall a single sentence from Draco that didn’t include some insult, unless it was when he was charming the kitchen witches for extra food.
Kay had half expected Draco Malfoy, the one the press had hailed for years as Bellatrix Lestrange’s spiritual heir, to sit like a king among the Blood Purists.
After all, he was one of the few who had received a life sentence for his crimes during the war.
The youngest Death Eater in history, the man who murdered Dumbledore, the one who had let Fenrir Greyback into Hogwarts by fixing a Vanishing Cabinet.
Kay had thought he’d be celebrated by the others.
The reality was far different.
A loud, wet spit landed squarely at their feet, making Draco pause.
Kay watched him glance down at his shoes—one was now glistening with saliva.
From the sound and smell, it came from Gregory Goyle.
Draco chuckled, then slowly raised his gaze to the table where a small circle of still-imprisoned Death Eaters sat.
«Oh, delightful.» he said, laughing lightly. «Look who still knows how to use his tongue. I thought you’d worn it out licking Dolohov’s ass.»
He quickly turned to Kay, who was half-hiding behind his back.
The sheer size of Goyle—and the rage on his face—made Kay’s stomach twist.
«See that? Goyle just baptized me.» Draco said with a wide grin. «Either he wants to marry me, or he mistook my shoe for his mother.» He turned back to Goyle, grin sharpening, voice dripping with mockery «Oh honey, if you wanted my attention, all you had to do was ask. No need to waste that precious pureblood spit on these shitty shoes.» His head tilted slightly. «Or do I still turn you on, hmm? You still jerk off that sad little worm thinking about me? Nostalgia’s a bitch, I hear.»
Kay edged away just as Goyle stood, his massive frame casting a shadow over them both.
He was broader than he was tall, but his snarling face was still terrifying.
Draco didn’t move. He stared him down, smirk still lopsided, silver eyes glinting with feline amusement as Goyle’s face turned red with rage—and perhaps a hint of shame.
«We’re making progress.» Draco murmured. «You’re standing on your own. Impressive. Guess you’ve got at least one working brain cell.»
«You want to die.» Goyle growled, jabbing a finger at Draco’s chest.
«Very much so.» Draco replied smoothly. «Want the honor for yourself?»
Goyle growled again, but Draco didn’t flinch.
He stood firm, nose nearly touching the other man’s.
«What now, hmm?» he taunted. «You gonna break my face? Please do it. Just make it count—maybe I won’t have to see your dickhead mug for a while.»
Goyle grabbed him by the collar of his striped shirt, making Draco laugh louder.
He yanked him twice and raised a fist, ready to swing.
Draco waited for it, laughing like he always did.
«Hey!»
The sharp voice of a guard made Goyle freeze.
He stepped back slowly, deflating like a balloon.
Draco smiled — a mocking smile, thick with playful scorn.
He leaned back, drifting toward his rightful little entourage: Travers, Rookwood, Mulciber, and Rowle were glaring at him like rabid dogs as their prodigal son sat back down, sprawling across at least two seats.
«Mh. Interesting.» Draco muttered calmly, curling his lips to one side.
«I thought you’d lost your tongue licking Dolohov’s arse. But turns out, you just sold your own arse to the Aurors.»
He snorted. «Next time, Greggy, try spitting in my face. It’s far more bearable than the stench of shit coming from your arse right now.»
Goyle growled again, but Draco didn’t even glance his way. He was already moving, grabbing Kay by the shoulder — Kay, who was still trying not to make eye contact with the Death Eaters.
He knew damn well they weren’t torturing him simply because he never left Draco’s shadow. Not even to piss.
Kay had rearranged every routine just to cling to the blond: he ate with him, peed with him, even bathed with him.
He knew — feared — he was easy prey without that shield.
He followed Draco like a mutt to the last table in the hall, the one everyone now called “The Malfoy Table.”
Draco dropped onto the bench with a smug grin, setting down a tray that looked halfway edible.
Kay watched him neatly arrange the cutlery, then lean his elbows on the metal table. He turned his hands outward, flashing the tattoos across his knuckles.
On the right: the word FUCK inked in jagged black letters. The upper phalanges were covered in tiny runes Kay never understood.
On the left: PURE, same font, same defiance.
A walking contradiction. A visual “fuck you” to the ideology he'd been raised with.
Draco lowered his fingers, leaving only the two “U”s raised, flipping off the blood-purity ideal without saying a word.
Kay turned to follow the gesture and just then noticed Goyle half-rising again. Rookwood caught him by the arm and shoved him back down, while Draco, unfazed, began eating with serene calm, completely disarming his cellblock rival.
Draco Malfoy moved through emotions like a shark through water: fluid, deadly, elegant.
Kay sat across from him in silence, clutching his tray like it could shield him from the pack of hyenas still eyeing them from the far side of the room.
Draco barely glanced up, tearing a piece of bread with his teeth. “Stop trembling like a virgin staring at her first cock, shitstain. You’re not that interesting. And you’re not their target—unless they ever manage to pull their heads out of their own arses.”
Kay huffed but didn’t reply right away. He scratched at his chin, eyeing the faded tattoo on Draco’s knuckle, trying to pull himself together.
He hated it when Draco reminded him he was weak, terrified, and utterly insignificant in this place.
«Ever think of getting that ‘PURE’ covered up?» he asked finally, poking at his slop, which looked nothing like the food Mildred had dumped onto Draco’s tray.
«And why the fuck would I do that? So I can look like just another random asshole instead of an asshole with layers?»
«I dunno. Might help you avoid attention. Even Nazis hate other Nazis, sometimes.» He regretted it the moment it left his mouth.
Draco stared at him, fork suspended midair, head tilted — the sausage dangling limply toward his tray. Then he laughed.
Low. Dirty. More threat than amusement.
«Sweetheart, they already avoid me. But it’s not the tattoos. It’s the smell of a brain, you know? When you’ve got one, it terrifies them.»
Kay frowned. «You sure that’s it?» he muttered, hands twisting nervously. «Because to me, it looks like they’re just waiting to catch you alone in the dark.»
«They already did, little shit. Repeatedly. For years.» Draco said, lifting one shoulder in a bored shrug. He swirled his spoon in the soup with elegance, almost snobbery. «Most of them had a very troubling case of erectile dysfunction, though. So young… and already limp. Tragic.»
Kay wasn’t sure whether to laugh or crawl into a hole.
His cellmate was so disturbingly open about his trauma it threw him off balance every time.
«I didn’t… I mean…I wasn’t trying to…»
«Relax.» Draco cut him off. «I’ve been fucked and I’ve done the fucking. That’s prison life, shitstain.» He bit into his bread.«You’re safe because you only let me fuck you. And I’m always gentle.»
Kay flushed violently and recoiled. «Asshole.»
«Call me Master, if my name bothers you.»
The comment made Draco smile from ear to ear, while Kay remained stunned—as he always was whenever the blond showed genuine humor and not just mockery. It was like a meteor—brilliant, rare, and doomed to vanish. And indeed, it didn’t last.
A rough, authoritative voice sliced through the tense equilibrium of the table, harsh and unkind.
«Malfoy. Director wants you in his office.» announced Simon Thompson.
Kay shrank back as the broad-shouldered Auror approached the table. Draco didn’t even look up from his tray. He kept peeling his boiled egg with calculated, almost philosophical slowness.
«Seven in the morning.» he murmured eventually, tonelessly, still not lifting those pale silver eyes to the man looming over him. «A new record. You made it all the way to breakfast. What’s wrong, Thompson? Did I drain you so hard yesterday that you’re already going through affection withdrawal?»
A stifled laugh burst out from somewhere in the mess hall.
Kay coughed into his cup, trying to choke down the laughter rising in his throat.
The guard—a man built like a concrete wall and just as expressive—stiffened, fists curling as if ready to swing. Draco slowly raised his eyes and offered his most serene smile, the one that usually heralded a slow-burning psychological evisceration.
«You’ve already got the cuffs in hand, clever boy. Getting ahead of yourself, huh» Draco went on. «Already thinking about where you’re going to chain me up? Or maybe where you’ll have to kneel to beg me to keep going…»
Thompson took a step forward, his face flushing crimson, a fist twitching, eager to meet that too-pretty, too-defiant face.
«Relax.» Draco added, rising slowly, dropping his fork onto his mostly untouched food.
«No one’s judging.» He extended his hands lazily toward the guard. «Well—maybe I am. I’m definitely judging you.»
He let himself be cuffed with saintlike composure, turning to allow his hands to be locked behind his back.
«Easy there, Greggy.» he called out toward his former friend with a shit-eating grin. «I know seeing me in chains turns you on—but I promise, I never stopped thinking about your ass. Even if now you only give it to Aurors.»
Goyle, already humiliated earlier, slammed his fist against the table with a thunderous bang that echoed through the cafeteria.
«Yes, Greg, dominate that table! Make it yours!» Draco cackled as the guard yanked him violently toward the exit. «Leave it bruised—just like you do your lovers!»
More chuckles scattered across the hall, feeding Draco’s ego and delighting him with the chaos he’d sparked on just another ordinary Wednesday morning in Azkaban.
«Christ, Malfoy!» Thompson growled.
«Mh, quote of the day.» Draco snorted as he was shoved out of the mess hall into the damp, cold corridor.
Thompson yanked him a bit too hard, but Draco didn’t falter. He let himself be dragged like a model on the runway, and started singing aloud in a smooth, mocking voice:
«I’m too sexy for these chains… Too sexy for your shame…Too sexy for my trauma… It’s a fuckin’ Hall of Fame.»
Efestus Barbadge had chosen to run Azkaban even before the Dementors left.
He had watched Sirius Black escape first, followed by a slew of dangerous, psychopathic murderers.
He lost control of the Dementors and had been imprisoned by the Blood Purists in retaliation during the war.
He had fought alongside the Aurors to retake Azkaban and had willingly accepted all the reforms the Ministry had imposed— even the ones he found far too “hippie.”
He didn’t believe in idealism or talk of peace and love.
In Azkaban, all he had ever seen were varying degrees of despair and loneliness, violence and thirst for revenge—enough to believe redemption and peace were just political propaganda buzzwords.
Efestus Barbadge had 40 years of career behind him, and 40 years of prisoners—but never, in all his life, had he imagined his downfall would come at the hands of a (not-so-teenaged-anymore) spoiled, rich blond brat discovering he had a ticking time bomb in his head.
The warden looked up from the file and sighed as the door creaked open and that same plague entered, in shackles.
He stared at him the way one stares at a live bomb with a lit fuse.
He had spent over a decade wondering when that bomb would go off.
Draco Malfoy’s fuse was just as insufferable as he was.
«I thought you’d put up more of a fight. Sit.» he ordered, pointing to the chair in front of him, while the guard unlocked Draco’s shackles and re-cuffed his hands in front so he could sit more comfortably.
«It’s the enthusiasm, you know—waking up and realizing you’re still alive in this architectural jewel of evil…» Draco replied, settling into the chair across from him.
His pale blond hair seemed to flutter as he moved with nonchalance, legs spread, his chained hands resting on the lacquered wooden desk.
Efestus sighed theatrically and removed his glasses «Do you know why you’re here?»
«Mm, hard to say. Could be one of a thousand reasons.» Draco tilted his head back as if thinking. «Maybe the sculpture I gave you for Christmas? I got the feeling you didn’t appreciate the gesture.»
«You gave me a soap carving shaped like a phallus and said I inspired it.»
Draco grinned—his teeth unnervingly white for a lifer.
Too handsome. Too perfect.
«It wasn’t a dick, Barbadge, it was a head of d…»
«Let’s cut to the point, Malfoy.» the director interrupted, unwilling to be dragged back into the twisted world that was Draco Malfoy’s psyche.
He pushed a document across the table and sighed again.
«The Ministry has included you in the Project Rebirth.»
«The what now?»
«Project Rebirth.» the Director repeated, summoning all his patience. «The Ministry has launched a reintegration initiative for Azkaban inmates serving more than five years. They’re reviewing sentences to find potential candidates for workforce rehabilitation.»
Draco blinked three times before he truly grasped what he was hearing.
«It’s a pilot project.» Efestus continued. «You’ve been deemed eligible.»
Draco stared for three seconds. Then he laughed. Quiet at first, then building. It was almost hysterical. He clutched his stomach, his cuffed hands bouncing as he laughed.
«What is this, a joke?» he asked between snorts. «Some new form of torture? You make me believe you’re offering me a prize after fifteen years in this shithole, and then tell me you were just messing with me?»
«Believe me, I thought it was a joke from my secretary too. But it’s real. Tomorrow you’ll meet a Ministry representative. Eleven o’clock. Light breakfast advised. Less spitting, more smiling.»
The old director adjusted his glasses and, for a moment, dangerously reminded Draco of Dumbledore.
Draco shook his head, incredulous «You’re seriously telling me that someone out there, with a name and a desk, thought, ‘You know who’s perfect for reintegration into society? That tattooed freak who laughs while people cry’?» He narrowed his eyes. «Who’s the bleeding heart?»
It had to be a sick joke. Another form of punishment.
«We don’t know who signed it. The signature was blurred, looked like it was written with the wand stuck up their nose. But it’s valid. We even have a signed clearance from the Head Auror for your visitation.»
«And this person knows who I am?»
«Honestly, Malfoy, no one out there has any idea what a minefield your psyche is.» Efestus muttered «And just to be clear.» he crossed his arms «You were on the ‘Do Not Even Consider’ list. I signed it myself. In red. With a footnote: ‘Could infect concrete.’»
Draco applauded softly, mockingly.
The laughter was lower now, taunting, as he tried to clap his chained wrists. «Thank you for the confidence. I’ll remember this during my testimony.»
«But the Ministry ignored the list. Congratulations. You managed to escape even my slander.»
«I have a gift.»
The demon never shut up.
«You’ll undergo a series of interviews with the Ministry rep, at the end of which they’ll decide whether you’re sufficiently repentant to live among ordinary mortals. If, by some miracle, you pass without traumatizing them, there’ll be a six-month probation. No magic. No brawls. No teenage psychotic outbursts.» the old man said, pointing at him. «There’ll be no leniency, Malfoy, no bullshit, no psychological torture disguised as sarcasm, no polyamory with poor female Aurors on duty, no emotional manipulation of fragile people, NOTHING.»
«Can I at least masturbate in peace, or will you assign an elf to watch?» Draco asked, dead serious.
Efestus summoned all his self-control not to slap the man across from him.
Something he hadn’t always succeeded at when it came to Draco Malfoy.
«You’re to serve the community. Behave. Show empathy, responsibility, civic spirit.» he continued, trying to suppress his irritation.
Draco pulled a face as if he’d been asked to skin himself alive and donate the leather to the poor «In other words: a full-on identity crisis.»
«If you manage it, at the end of the six months, they might restore your magic. Sentence revoked. Free as air. And maybe I get to retire alive.»
«Assuming I don’t fuck it up first.» Draco concluded for him, because that seemed far more likely than ever being free.
The director smiled. But not a happy smile.
It was the kind of smile you see at the funeral of someone everyone hated.
He looked at Draco with a mix of pity and the sad certainty that someone with his mental instability would inevitably rot here again.
«The guards already started placing bets, you know?»
Draco raised an eyebrow. «Oh yeah?»
Efestus nodded. «Some say you’ll last three days. Others say two. One guy bet on fifteen minutes. And he’s not the least likely to win.» He tilted his head. «No one thinks you’re mentally stable enough to even act like a human being. Not a decent one, just human.»
«Adorable. You lot enjoy losing money. Then again, it’s Azkaban. Nobody here got in for their brilliance.» Draco said, flashing his Cheshire-cat grin.
«There’s an entire shift planning a dinner party with the winnings from your failure.»
Draco relaxed further into the chair. «We’ll see. I hope they enjoy the wine. I’ll make them wait. Maybe I’ll last a whole week, double the stakes.»
«For once in your life, just once, surprise someone in a good way.» the director pleaded.
There was something almost paternal in his exasperation.
«Last time someone asked me that, I got a life sentence.» Draco shrugged with practiced indifference.
«For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy…» the Director groaned «The only way you get another life sentence now is if you act like you usually do. Just… try to be less insufferable.»
Draco nodded. «Fine. I’ll try to remember I once had perfect manners.» he chuckled, leaning forward conspiratorially «But come on, tell me—who’s the poor soul assigned to me?»
«No idea.» Efestus snapped. «And even if I knew, I wouldn’t let you get the advantage of manipulating the poor girl.»
«Aha! It’s a woman! Fantastic!» Draco grinned, just as Thompson walked in to grab him by the armpit and haul him up. «I promise I’ll behave. At least… human.»
He wouldn’t waste his chance to tell this shithole to fuck off.