North Sea
In late winter, the frigid sea cruelly embraced a desolate island — the last place any wizard would willingly visit, and a paradise for Dementors.
No one escaped from here. No one.
Those who came often went mad within weeks. The Dementors drained everything — spirit, health, youth — until the mind turned against itself. Prisoners screamed in their sleep, shouted senseless things, went on hunger strikes, lost their minds, and eventually their will to live.
Most who entered never left. The island was a burial ground for countless souls. Even those who died here in agony received no sympathy from the wizarding world — the inmates of Azkaban were considered the most heinous of criminals.
There might be one exception.
He was a haggard, dark-haired man. His filthy, unruly hair hung to his elbows. His pale skin stretched taut across his cheekbones, and he was as thin as a skeleton. He leaned against the prison wall like a corpse, his gaze vacant, oblivious to the screams of the prisoners next door and the Ministry officials walking the corridor.
"Sirius Black! You've been exonerated." The official stopped in front of his cell and spoke in a gentler tone than he'd used in over a decade. "We… we were mistaken. You are innocent. You are free."
Sirius Black showed no reaction. He didn't even glance at the man — as though the whole thing had nothing to do with him.
"We've captured Peter Pettigrew. He's on trial now," the official said uneasily, looking him over. "He was hiding at Hogwarts and was caught by Harry Potter's friends. You know Harry Potter, don't you?"
Sirius Black raised his eyes. A light flared in their hollow depths.
"Potter," he hissed — like a stopped clock being wound up again. "Harry Potter?"
"Thank Merlin you still remember. The Dementors haven't completely destroyed you. The Minister can finally sleep soundly." The official's expression shifted to relief. "That's your godson, isn't it? Come with me. Let's leave this place and start over."
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In late February, the arrest of Peter Pettigrew sent a shockwave through the wizarding world.
Draco Malfoy did not look well that morning.
He'd had nightmares all night and woken feeling wretched. Seeing Pettigrew's face again in the papers had dragged up memories he spent considerable effort keeping buried: the Dark Lord's tortures and murders — sometimes in the dungeon, sometimes at the dinner table — all carried out with Pettigrew cowering nearby.
Then, as he made his way into the Great Hall, he nearly walked straight into Charity Burbage, the Muggle Studies professor, at the entrance. He bowed to the cheerful-looking woman, couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes, and only moved on long after she had passed inside.
He always remembered what had been done to Professor Burbage. How she had been tortured before him. How she had died a gruesome death above his family's long dining table — all because she had written a piece in the Daily Prophet defending Muggle-born wizards. All because she believed it a "welcome phenomenon" for pure-bloods to marry Muggle-borns.
He remembered how she floated above the table. How the tears ran from her eyes and into her hair. How she cried out Professor Snape's name in a pleading voice, and how Snape did not move. How a flash of green light extinguished her, and how her body crashed onto the table with a sound that made the wood tremble and creak.
He remembered sliding from his seat and onto the floor, unable to watch. Unable to watch as Nagini devoured her.
That creaking sound still echoed in his ears. It was the sound that had made him understand, completely and finally, his own fear, his cowardice, his weakness.
In that moment, he had known there was no possibility — not while the Dark Lord lived.
Draco Malfoy, you can never take chances.
He walked past her in the aisle now, his face expressionless. She was drinking milk, nose buried in a thick book. He felt a dull pang in his chest.
He steadied himself behind a wall of Occlumency and took his usual seat at the Slytherin table, intending to have a quiet breakfast.
He was a little late. Draco checked his pocket watch — fifteen minutes before Herbology in the greenhouses. He took a sip of coffee, sighed, and became aware of an unsettling feeling: eyes. Dozens of them, falling on him from across the Great Hall.
He swept a cold glare around the room. It did nothing. The staring only intensified.
"What's gotten into everyone?" he asked Blaise Zabini irritably.
"This is no time for your morning scowl." Blaise wore a strange, barely suppressed smile. "You're the center of attention. Mind your image and do Slytherin some credit."
"Is that irony?" Draco fixed him with a sharp look.
Across the table, Pansy Parkinson was already grinning, and slid him a copy of the Daily Prophet. "Read this."
Draco took the paper. On the cover, Peter Pettigrew wept and wailed behind bars. The headline read: PETER PETTIGREW IMPRISONED — SIRIUS BLACK EXONERATED.
"The Ministry moved quickly," he said evenly. "But what does that have to do with me?"
Blaise, uncharacteristically considerate, turned to the second page for him. "Here, my hero."
Draco raised an eyebrow. Blaise's expression was entirely genuine. A boy as proud as Blaise Zabini being considerate was its own kind of alarm bell — curiosity won out, and Draco read on.
"…The Ministry of Magic has confirmed Sirius Black's innocence via Prior Incantato on the relevant wand. Several Ministry officials believe that Bartemius Crouch Sr. — currently Director of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and former Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement — was too hasty in his verdict against Sirius Black… Draco Malfoy, a second-year Slytherin student, and Fred and George Weasley, fourth-year Gryffindor students, made outstanding contributions in the arrest of Peter Pettigrew. The Ministry of Magic has decided to award all three the Order of Merlin, Second Class…"
Not entirely surprising. He wondered, briefly, whether his father and mother would be proud. Draco allowed himself a small smile.
"We've finally got some credit," Pansy said. "The papers are even hinting that Pettigrew may be connected to the Chamber of Secrets. They can't take their anger out on us anymore. Honestly, I'm exhausted from arguing." She gestured toward the other three House tables.
"Though I highly doubt Salazar Slytherin would have chosen such a wretched Gryffindor as his heir," Blaise added disdainfully.
Pansy shrugged. "True or not — who cares? Someone takes the blame, and that's that."
She's right, Draco thought, his expression conflicted. Cornelius Fudge only wanted the matter quelled. He had no interest in the truth.
"Well done, Draco." Marcus Flint had appeared at his shoulder, looking energised. "Don't let it go to your head, though. We've got a match against Ravenclaw in a few days." He paused. "Just… try not to fall off your broom again. I'll be checking the Bludgers personally." The last rogue Bludger had clearly shaken him as well.
Draco nodded and gave him a faint smile.
Marcus was burning for the Quidditch Cup this year — training three times a week, sometimes dragging them all in for extra sessions. Draco understood it. Last year's Slytherin showing had been a disaster.
But not every student could reset as cleanly as Marcus.
Across the castle, Draco and the Weasley twins were treated like heroes. Students pointed, whispered, and stared as they passed through the corridors.
It was understandable. Three months had gone by since the last Petrification, and nothing more had happened. Fear of the Chamber of Secrets had quietly faded, and most students now believed the attacks were over. The newspaper's hints that Pettigrew had been behind it only cemented that feeling.
Then, in Herbology, Professor Sprout delivered more good news with barely contained delight: the Mandrakes were nearly ready.
"Yesterday, a few of them threw quite a rowdy party in Greenhouse Three," she announced. "They'll be ready to harvest soon."
The class exhaled collectively.
It meant the Petrified students would be revived before long. Even the task of composting the sulking Mandrakes felt lighter after that, and the students attacked it with something approaching enthusiasm.
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"Draco, are you hiding from me?"
Hermione appeared at his elbow and caught him before he could drift away.
"No," he said. His gaze moved to the Venus flytrap hanging from the rafters. The memory of Charity Burbage that morning rose unbidden, and his chest tightened.
"You were avoiding my eyes all morning!" she pressed, holding a flowerpot and brushing aside a cascade of Mandrake leaves. "I knew something was off about your attitude toward that rat. And that question in Transfiguration — you said you'd tell me when you figured it out. You broke your word. I had to hear the whole story from Harry!"
Draco pulled himself back to the present. Looking at her flushed, indignant face, it was impossible to tune her out.
"It happened quickly. Once we were certain something was wrong with the rat, we took it directly to the Headmaster's office. I do owe you thanks for that Muggle fairy tale — it was more useful than you might think." He reached out and caught the flowerpot as it slipped from her arms.
That was close.
"Thank you," she said, startled. "This pot is heavier than it looks."
"You're welcome." A faint smile crossed his face.
Clumsy, insufferable know-it-all — whatever happened to the girl who brewed a near-perfect Polyjuice Potion?
"I'll accept the emergency explanation. But how did you actually work out the rat was an Animagus? That's not something you arrive at by intuition…" She studied his face with her relentless, searchlight stare.
"Classified," he said, and earned a sharp snort in return.
"A Slytherin stuffed full of secrets," she muttered, looking put-upon, and turned to fetch more pots.
"Let me get those. How many?"
"Six," she said firmly. "I can manage."
"Come off it," he said, lazily but not unkindly. "Those hands are for Potions work, not for hauling clay. Hold that pot steady — your Mandrake is halfway out already."
She pressed the plant back into the soil, and watching him carry the pots with such focused effort, found she couldn't quite sustain a frown.
Then came the repetitive work of repotting. Hermione held the pot steady and watched Draco fertilise a sulking Mandrake with an expression of visible distaste, and found the whole thing — his gritted teeth, his resigned exasperation — quietly amusing.
She smiled before she meant to.
"Draco — do you really think Pettigrew was behind the Chamber of Secrets?"
"Absolutely not," he said. "If Pettigrew ever found his way to the Chamber, he'd be the basilisk's amuse-bouche."
She laughed, softly. "I think so too. Which means we still can't be careless."
"No." He held her gaze for a moment. "Stay alert. Be careful."
Yes. That was the reason, he told himself. The Chamber of Secrets wasn't resolved. She wasn't safe. She could be harmed at any moment. How could he possibly justify keeping his distance?
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After Herbology, Draco and several Slytherin classmates were cutting through the kitchen gardens toward the dungeons when Ron stepped into their path.
"Why didn't you just tell me?" Ron's face was stormy. "You suspected Scabbers for a while, didn't you? I could tell from the way you kept staring at him. Why go behind my back and have Fred and George take him?"
Blaise and Pansy both went still with anticipation, hands drifting toward their wands. They had never liked Gryffindors at the best of times, and had only kept the peace before out of deference to Draco.
Now someone was actively looking for trouble. They couldn't quite help feeling a flicker of interest.
"So you've replaced Crabbe and Goyle?" Ron glanced at them with contempt.
Pansy stiffened. Blaise's face went cold.
Draco recognised immediately what that comment had done. Pansy and Blaise were proud — nothing like the old muscle. They were not going to accept being called servants or bodyguards. That had cut them both to the quick.
"You ungrateful—" Pansy jabbed her wand toward Ron. "He saved your life, you realise that? That rat could have killed you in your sleep, you complete—"
"What business is it of—" Ron started.
"There's no need to go after my friends, Ron. I know you're angry at me." Draco turned to Blaise, whose expression had darkened dangerously. "He's angry at me. It has nothing to do with you. Take Pansy and go."
Blaise gave Ron a long, disdainful look, then let out a single dismissive sound. Ron flushed scarlet.
"Blaise, don't you dare drag me off, I'll hex the lot of—" Amid Pansy's protests, Blaise firmly steered her away, though she looked back every other step.
As they left, Blaise spat on the ground. "Weasley. Use your head. Don't push your luck."
"Go on." Draco waved them off and waited until they were well out of earshot.
"I admit I deliberately kept you out of it," he said, turning back to Ron. "I believed it was the only way to ensure it went smoothly."
"So I'd have dragged down your efficiency? Hindered your great march toward the Order of Merlin?" Ron's voice was acidic, his face as red as his hair.
"That's not what I meant. I thought you wouldn't simply hand the rat over if I asked directly," Draco said patiently.
"He's my rat! I have every right not to hand him over, to question you, and to be furious!" Ron snapped.
"That's precisely the problem," Draco said, keeping his voice level. "I respect that. But to be direct — while we argued over whether Scabbers was an Animagus, he could very easily have escaped. You do know that a wizard in Animagus form can understand human speech, don't you?"
Ron's mouth shut. He knew Draco had a point. He hated that.
"I understand how you feel," Draco continued, a note of genuine tiredness in his voice. "You've cared for that rat for years — moaned about it every other day, yes, but cared for it all the same. That's exactly why I was certain I couldn't get him from you quickly."
Ron felt the rage rise again, hot and sharp. Who gave Draco Malfoy the right to define him? To act like he understood him?
A sense of betrayal surfaced alongside a deeper injustice — the injustice of not being trusted to make the right choice.
"Don't tell me you know me! You know nothing about me! I thought you were a friend, but you don't deserve that. I see it now — you're exactly what everyone says: a Malfoy through and through. Arrogant, ruthless, and completely unscrupulous!" Ron's voice rang out across the garden, startling a flock of crows from the soil.
"Yes," Draco said quietly, his grey eyes fixed and steady. Whether in this life or the last, being attacked like this was nothing new. He'd grown used to it.
He took a slow breath and looked away. "I'm glad we've settled that."
Ron snorted, turned, and walked away at a sharp pace. Harry, who had been waiting at a distance, gave Draco an apologetic look and followed.
Harry hadn't wanted to get involved. In honesty, he thought Draco's reasoning was sound — Ron's attachment to the rat had been strange, and the prediction had basically held true. But Ron was his best friend. He felt a quiet, uncomfortable sorrow for Draco as he walked away.
Draco stood there and watched the crows land again in the garden, scrabbling at the earth, and worked at keeping his face composed.
Then two arms were slung across his shoulders, one from each side.
He reached for his wand on instinct — then saw it was the twins.
"Easy," Fred said, as if this were perfectly ordinary. "He works himself up to a state about once a week—"
"Sometimes twice," George added.
"He's had a go at us as well, actually — something about not respecting him. We reckon he's sore about the medals." Fred was entirely unbothered.
"Mum nearly went to pieces," George said. "Last time she was this chuffed was when Percy got his Prefect badge—"
"No, it was Bill's time—" Fred argued.
"Could've been Charlie's—" George mused.
"Honestly, she's never been this excited," Fred said plainly, to Draco.
Draco managed a small smile.
"He'll come round before long — he just needs to get a grip on himself." George patted his shoulder. "Emotional management has never been his strong suit."
Draco pressed his lips together. He really shouldn't let himself be wounded by a twelve-year-old.
And to be fair, losing a pet was genuinely hard. He looked at the twins. "I'd like to ask a favour. Use the dividends from our investment to buy Ron a decent pet — an owl, perhaps. Given his mood, I doubt he'll accept anything from me directly."
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On the morning of the first of March, Ron opened his eyes to find a tiny owl perched on his pillow.
"Where did you come from?" He blinked at the small creature. It flapped its wings excitedly and gave a short, eager hoot.
"Birthday present." George was sitting on the corner of his bed, idly spinning his wand between his fingers. "Don't be cross with us."
"It's actually mine?" Ron sat up slowly, reaching out to stroke its feathers. A grin broke across his face despite himself. "I'm calling you Pigwidgeon. Do you like that?"
The little owl hooted, ruffled up to twice its size, and began bouncing across the pillow.
"I can't believe it. An owl — a real owl, just for me." Ron stared at his brothers. "This must have cost a fortune."
"We've done well enough. The Skiving Snackboxes are flying off the shelves," Fred said with a grin, ruffling Ron's hair — Ron swatted him off. "Don't tell Mum what we're up to."
"Even if she finds out, she won't care now. You two are her proudest sons. Two Order of Merlin recipients! Percy can step aside!" Ron said, a sour edge to his voice.
"Don't start crying like Ginny. We've had enough of that to last a month," George advised. "And honestly? It's not a bad thing the rat's gone. Draco mentioned — more than once — that he was worried sick about you sleeping in the same room as a Death Eater every night."
"Don't you dare defend him! I will never forgive Draco Malfoy as long as I live! Ruthless, sneaky, coldhearted—"
Next door, Neville Longbottom jolted awake with a yelp. "What happened?" he called out, pulling the covers up. "Is it Malfoy?"
"Why are you frightened of him?" Ron demanded.
"He's got those eyes," Neville said, still buried beneath his duvet. "Haven't you noticed?"
"Don't let him get to you, Neville! Next time you see him, just glare right back—"
The twins looked at one another. They shook their heads in quiet, shared exasperation, shut the dormitory door on their younger brother's ongoing tirade, and walked arm in arm toward the common room.