Disclaimer: Harry Potter, not mine.

Note, this is rated for mature themes/content in chapter 3.

After Midnight

Chapter 1: Draco

.

It was late.

Snow was piling heavily outside the library window as it enshrouded the castle in white. Very soon, it might be altogether possible that Hogwarts would be entirely hidden – not just magically rendered unfindable and unplottable, but wholly sheathed in snow. And when that moment came, he wondered, would the castle, finally, be as isolated and as bloody cold as he felt? It would be only fitting, after all.

He sighed. It had been a long, hard day. Just like every day before it.

He turned his gaze back to the book he had been perusing, but it was useless. He would get nowhere. The candles had burned so low he could barely see at any rate. He slammed the book shut and made his way slowly out of the library.

You resent it.

The voice, which had been at the back of his mind all day, burst forth in an uncontrollable surge of frustration. He sighed again. There was no use denying it after all. He did resent it. His family broken. Mother and Father both locked up in Azkaban, atoning for the crime of serving Voldemort. They had left his side in the last moment, in the Battle of Hogwarts – Mother had even helped Potter, had lied about him being alive to Voldemort himself – but even so, Kingsley and the Ministry had not been forgiving. Potter had even spoken in Mother's defense at her trial. But even so… Even so.

He bit his lip angrily. They had let him off, at least. They had allowed him to return to Hogwarts to redo his N.E.W.T. year… and every day he wondered if it had been a mistake. The Slytherins, who had not chosen to abandon Voldemort, scorned him. The Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs, who did not believe he could change, avoided him. He didn't blame them. Goyle and Pansy were gone. Crabbe… he couldn't think about Crabbe. But fools as they all had been, he had needed them. Without them, he found himself utterly adrift.

He walked along dark corridors to the Slytherin common room, thinking back to the events of that morning. He must have blocked it out, he realized. He must have forced it into some distant corner of his memory, because he could recall only flashes.

He remembered the dark room, though. Distinctly. Dingy and derelict, with a pervasive smell of cigar smoke – as if the Aurors could find no use for their time other than to smoke it away. At least there were no Dementors. Not anymore.

Mother had sat across the table from him, her hair lank and unkempt, her eyes hooded. Her hands, which had been chained together roughly, were clasped atop the stained and cracked table, as if she were a schoolgirl sitting at attention. It nearly broke him to see her so defeated. Even without the Dementors walking the halls of Azkaban, the holding spells that kept the prisoners isolated and trapped in their cells were enough to drive anyone mad.

"You'll be out soon, Mother," he had said softly. "I've been pushing the paperwork for your appeal through to the Ministry. I've even pleaded your case to Gawain Robards personally, and he assured me they're looking into it. Robards does not think that you belong in Azkaban…"

She didn't react, and he allowed himself to trail off into silence, his gray eyes fixed upon her face. She looked so thin. Was she eating?

"Draco," she said at last. Her voice was hoarse – as if she had forgotten entirely how to use it. "The Ministry will not let us out. Neither me nor your father."

"Don't say that. You can't think like that, Mother. They're bound to act soon. I expect everything's just delayed, with the holidays. But come January –"

"You don't understand."

He fell silent, watching her. She smiled slightly.

"You're still so young," she whispered. "They'll make an example of us, Draco. It doesn't matter that we chose to walk away. No matter what Robards has promised you, the appeal will lead nowhere."

"That's not –"

"Stop," she said, more forcefully. She had looked up then, her blue eyes boring into his gray ones. "Stop it, Draco. We will leave here when we've served our time. Not sooner. Go. Live your life. You have that, at least."

He cast his eyes down, tracing a crack along the chipped surface of the table.

"Mother…"

He reached forward, taking her thin, cold hand into his own. His fingers trailed over the cuffs on her wrists.

"No touching, Malfoy."

He drew his hand back sharply and glared at the Auror who stood at the edge of the room, eyeing him suspiciously. Mother moved her hands back and placed them in her lap. The chains clanked. He felt sick. This caricature of a life that had become their new normal... did they deserve it?

A gong sounded loudly, reverberating through the small room. He could hear it echoing through the distant halls beyond.

"Visiting hours are over," the Auror said. "Wrap it up."

Draco thought he could detect a note of contempt in his tone. It was a tone he had adopted often in the past. He knew it well. He looked back at Mother.

"It's all right," she said. She stood up, her chains clanging again. Two more Aurors entered the room from a door directly behind her and stood silently, waiting. "Happy Christmas, Draco."

"Happy Christmas, Mother," he said quietly.

He stood, watching as the Aurors marched her out of the room. She didn't look back.

"Get going, Malfoy."

He glanced over at the Auror, who now stood impatiently by the visitor door. Silently, Draco made his way past him and out of the room.

He was seething as he walked down the long dingy corridor, his thoughts whirling furiously. Mother had all but given up. And Father… he hadn't been allowed to see Father since the trial. The Ministry during Voldemort's reign had been a joke. But this post-war Ministry… how was it any better? His parents had walked away from Voldemort, after all. Mother had risked her life to save Potter. And now his parents had been thrown into Azkaban, all but forgotten. The Malfoy name disgraced.

Change takes time, Malfoy. I expect it'll be years yet...

The cold wind slapped his face as he stepped outside the fortress, snapping him out of his reveries. Her voice broke apart, carried away by the gale, which pelted him with errant drops of water and numbed his face almost instantly. He stepped onto the dismal boat along with the scant few others who had braved the freezing cold and miserable voyage to visit Azkaban on Christmas morning.

The mood on the boat was rather glum. He pulled his cloak tightly around himself as they began to move away from the island which housed the prison. The wind grew stronger. It was too much to hope, apparently, for the boat to be spelled with a Heating Charm – or, at the very least, to include some kind of indoor shelter. Visitors of prisoners did not warrant such small comforts, it seemed. He turned away from the others, gazing back at Azkaban as it faded into the distance, his thoughts running away once more.

She wanted to be the change. Well, how bloody long would that take? He was hardly going to sit around and wait until the Ministry became the benevolent, transparent, and accepting government that it was currently pretending to be. He was going to have to figure out how to get Mother, at least, out on his own.

He found himself before the familiar blank stretch of wall before he was aware of it.

"Severus," he said distinctly.

The wall melted to reveal a hole, and he stepped through it and found himself in the Slytherin common room. As expected, it was empty. There were no other Slytherins at Hogwarts for the holidays. He wasn't even sure why he had come back, but it was somehow more bearable to be alone in a nearly empty castle than to be alone in an entirely empty house.

A/N: This is a three-chapter short written for the Platform 9 ¾ short story contest. The theme was Christmas and New Year. It's my first attempt at a Dramione, and I had quite a bit too much fun with it, and with writing from Draco's POV. Thank you so much for reading it, and please do drop a note if you can!

Rina