Sour Grapes

Chapter 6 - Dear Malfoy

*Three Years Earlier*

Draco stepped out into blinding sunlight in the streets of Muggle London, having just collected the remainder of his belongings from his cell at Azkaban, and bidding the Ministry officials a fine farewell. There had been so many dull logistical steps to take in order for his release to be official. Those mundane moments had stretched mockingly, prolonging his sense of entrapment just a bit longer. But that was over and he was a free man now.

Just shy of his 20th birthday, he was relieved not to be rounding out his teen years behind bars. Relieved... and grateful.

He scowled at the thought. The gratitude had been eating him up as he awaited the verdict. He'd needed a proper outlet for it and was determined to get it. Today.

He reached into his bag and grabbed a stack of letters tied together with white string and began to unravel the bow as he strode toward a pub on the corner. He'd made a special request for muggle clothes to replace his Azkaban rags, and in what he assumed had been a move of merciful pity, the guards had obliged. They must have known what he could expect from entering wizarding London, and were allowing him this one kindness of a t-shirt, jeans, and sweatshirt hoodie, his first co-conspirators in what looked like would be a lifetime of hiding.

He entered the pub and walked to a booth in the far corner and slid down into the seat, placing the now open stack of letters in front of him. If a waitress came over, he would order a muggle whisky, but he wasn't interested in flagging her down. He hadn't come here to drink, well not yet anyway.

He rifled through the stack trying to discern what order they were in, which was a simple task really, considering he had re-read ad-nauseam and consequently worn out the first 10 or so pretty badly. He located the very first of the letters and opened it gingerly, taking care not to rip it. He breathed deeply and began to read.

—

22 May 1998

Dear Malfoy,

I honestly haven't the faintest idea why I am writing to you, you evil prat, but here we are. I'm quite certain that by now you have seen my signature at the bottom of this paper and have either crumpled this note into a heap and chucked it out the window of your cell, OR you've not opened it at all in which case I am just talking to myself at this point. But I'm a stubborn and hopeful sort, so I will trod on...

You're still reading this, so that's a decent sign. That's why I'm writing, actually, I've figured it out now just by getting my thoughts out on paper... it's been coming on for a while now, but I'm quite sure I'm right, so here it is: I think you're actually a decent bloke, Malfoy. Now before you get all wound up, save your scoffs because I can't hear them and furthermore don't care what sort of scornful display of disgust you emit upon reading my words. I shall continue to press on...

Don't take this the wrong way, but I can't get you out of my head. The image of you lowering your wand on top of the astronomy tower when Dumbledore was wandless. The image of you gazing into my spell-stung yet still recognizable eyes at your home and saying you weren't sure it was me. And then! If that wasn't enough, you wouldn't even LOOK at Ron and Hermione because you obviously knew it was them and you feigned doubt and ignorance, for what?!

You looked for any reason not to fight in the actual battle at Hogwarts, and sure many would call it cowardice but I think differently now. I think you have a decent heart, Malfoy, and perhaps you don't even know it, but I am telling you. I saw and learned a great number of things about how human beings work on the night of the battle, and I think it snapped something straight about you in my head that's only getting clearer as I write this out, so this was definitely a good idea to write this to you.