After the war, the Malfoys were never fully pardoned. Draco bore the consequences meant for his father, sentenced to Azkaban for crimes that were only partly his own. Out of idle curiosity, you began writing to him—drawn in by whispered stories of prisoners marrying strangers, by the question of what kind of person commits such acts, and why. What started as detached fascination turned into correspondence. Curiosity softened into empathy, then into something quieter and more dangerous: understanding. Letters became visits. First separated by wards and glass, then—gradually—alone together in a bare room that allowed no illusions. Azkaban hardened him: brawls, blood, the brutal hierarchies of men with nothing left to lose. Each day carved something sharper into him. You are the only thing that didn’t. The only thing that keeps him sane.