Title: Say just words to me
Author: kabal42
Characters: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Somewhat dark but with light at the end. Angry sex.
Themes/kinks chosen: Abandoned prompts
Word Count: 5741
Summary: In Azkaban Prison a prisoner writes letters to the person in the next cell. Neither know who the other is and yet they latch on to this scrap of communication as the last piece of life.
Author's notes: The request was: Hot letter fic. Preferably with the recipient not knowing who the sender is (meaning Slyth/Gryff pairing, prefer Harry/Draco, Regulus [Stubby!Reg a plus], or Severus/Remus), with a final reveal and the two having mad passionate sex, that possibly starts as a fight.
The fis is in part inspired by Alan Moore, one of my great writing heroes, and one idea was borrowed directly from him. I consider it tribute to a great man.
Title nabbed from a song by Paradise Lost and the fic is DH compliant, AU to the epilogue.
I originally picked this prompt for the Farewell fqfest, but RL got in the way. And it almost did this time, too, but thanks to the two lovely people mentioned right below here, I managed to finish it this time.
Thanks to melusinahp for providing valuable input and elfflame for betaing and helping and being wonderful!



The first thing I discovered was that Azkaban Prison was still able to suck the life out of you even without Dementors there. I'd feared that to be the case the moment I set foot on the island and saw the towering, grey, stone fortress. The colour alone was enough to make me feel as if hope was very far away indeed and the second I stepped inside, the feel of cold, damp air and the musty smell of loss and longing hit me. After three days I knew my worst fears were true and after three weeks I knew I wouldn't last much longer. Not with my sanity intact, at any rate, and to tell the truth, it had been a little frayed already when I arrived.

A few years ago, no one would have even thought it possible that I would end up in Azkaban Prison. After Voldemort was destroyed the hero-stuff started all over again and my greatest concern had been how to have some time to myself in the middle of all the celebrating and rejoicing. I managed to avoid some of it to preserve my sanity, but I did my part despite the cost.

In here there is no celebrating. There is nothing at all. My days are spent pacing the cell (it's six steps wide and five deep). At times I have wondered if the outside world still celebrates dates of significance during the war, if they still have a huge party in Diagon Alley on that June night where Voldemort died. If they do I'm not sure it would be a joyful one. At the time I was imprisoned, the fear was already creeping in everywhere, right into people's souls.

Rebuilding after the war was necessary, but that was where the trouble started; where the Wizarding World took a wrong turn. We were decimated, war-torn and weary, and it was far too easy to see enemies all over the place. Anything and anyone that wasn't in line with what the post-war government could find themselves at the wrong end of smear campaigns, or worse. Some had to move away to protect themselves, some had to hide who they really were. Later came the arrests. In secret at first, then more overt. After a few years, even Harry Potter was no longer safe to speak out against them. Especially not when he spoke up for the rights of those already imprisoned, killed or deported. So here I am, sharing a fate with them. I said I'd go with my head held high, and I did, but now I can hardly lift it from the hard mattress on his cot when I wake up. In my darkest moments, I even wonder if I did the right thing - if I should not have gone into exile instead as Hermione wanted.

Sometimes I can hear vague cries and that's how I know there are other people here, but the walls are thick in this place and it's rare that I hear anything at all. The silence is in a way worse than the screams and sometimes it starts to get to me and I imagine that I'm alone, completely, that even the guards are dead and gone and that I've been left in this cell for eternity.

That was likely why the sound intrigued me so when it first appeared. That one thing I could hear. It got increasingly interesting as it continued. It was a scratching, scraping sound coming from the bottom of the wall my cot was pushed up against. I was sure it had to be a prisoner in the next cell making that sound and when I investigated I noticed a small crack. It may be proof of how dire the situation was, that the fact that the wall could have cracks filled me with a hope I had not felt in ages.

Once, I tried to call to my neighbour through the wall, but that only resulted in guards storming in and I only just managed to pull back from the crack and hide it behind me before I was kicked in the stomach. All the air was knocked out of me and I remember just being glad I had fallen sideways in a way that didn't reveal the hole in the wall. In the middle of it, I was still vaguely aware of the neighbouring door slamming too and felt horribly guilty. I can't remember what the guard looked like. All I remember is tasting iron and the hoarse voice that called me filth and someone forcing my head back by my hair. He told me that if he ever tried that again they would beat the living daylights out of me, spat me in the face and left.

It had still been worth it. At least now the other person knew someone was in here, even if they didn't know who I was, and I'd let the other person know that the scratching had been heard. I didn't plan to try the same thing again, though. I did have a vague idea of whispering into the crack in the wall when I heard scratching and hoped to establish contact that way.

There was little doubt in my mind that the reason it was my turn to be dragged off for "questioning" the following day was that I had called that kind of attention to myself. Literally, even. I use the word questioning because I don't know what else to call it. I'm still not ready to call it torture. Anyway, the idea behind questioning prisoners apparently was that dissidents would automatically know other dissidents and that they would be encouraged to tell about them with a mix of threats, torture and promises of an earlier release. Earlier than what is a good question, though, since there was no maximum to my sentence. Or even a sentence at all. Not one that meant anything, for sure.

I don't know how much time had passed when they carried me back. I did notice that it was darker in the cell than it had been, so perhaps some hours. They didn't even dump me on the cot but threw me on the floor. My clothes were soaked, and it was cold in the cell. I was bleeding from a few places but I didn't notice that, not really. I was too wasted. And something else caught my attention, something a lot more important. It was evening and the last, red rays of sun were coming through the tiny sliver of the barred window that sat high up on one wall and in the light I saw something in that crack in the wall. Something white.

I didn't even think before I thrust my hand in there and pulled it out. It was a rolled-up piece of paper. Toilet paper, judging by the texture. My first reaction was to be impressed that this unknown prisoner had sacrificed something that valuable. But I understood too. If I'd thought of it, I'd have done the same. It wasn't as if I could get much filthier than I already was.

I don't know who you are, the letter said, and I don't know why you are here. I don't care either. What I do know is that we are in the same mess. I heard you call to me the other day. It was stupid, but you clearly need this too, before we completely lose our minds. It is bad enough as it is. I also heard them hurt you. Did the same in here just in case I'd heard you. I pretended I hadn't of course. But never mind, that's not why I write to you. It's like I said: for my sanity.

I read it and when I was done I just stared at the paper. It was a rush to hear from someone, a living, breathing person who was in the same kind of predicament. And there was more. When I turned the paper around there was more written there. It had to have been be done by magic and that made me wonder how the hell this person managed that – especially without the guards knowing about it.

I want someone to know my story it continued I want someone to know I lived, that I was here. It doesn't matter if you can't tell anyone else, what matters is that you know. I have been here so long. I don't even know what year it is. It's the second time I've been here and when I was sent here that second time it was the year 2004 and I figured I was going to die here – and I still believe I am. I hope it wont be too long.

I read the letter over and over until there was no light left to read by and then I curled up on the cot, huddled under the blanket to try and keep the cold out and wondered if the person in the next cell was doing the same or if, perhaps, his cell was slightly warmer. For some reason I imagined it was. Perhaps because of the fact that he – or she – had something to write with. I had a bad feeling about that. In here, there is nothing, less than nothing, in fact. So how did this person get a pen? Ink? I kept having this really bad feeling that this person might be a trick, something to give me a bit of hope that could then be taken away to make me feel betrayed. To crack me. I couldn't write back and even if I could I wasn't sure I would. It was far too risky.

My suspicion that it had all been a trick was strengthened when no more letters came and the scraping stopped as well. Days passed and the only new thing was that I managed to wrench a bit of rock off of the stone walls and started, very slowly, to carve marks of the passing days. It took me a long time to make a legible mark, and it took days to mark out the four weeks I knew I had been here. I wasn't sure it wasn't more, but I was sure of the four, at least. Four weeks. Twenty-eight days. And after that, I planned to start each day with marking it out.

I had marked two extra days when the scratching returned. At first I tried my best to ignore it, but as the sun grew brighter and the scratching returned at intervals, I could no longer resist and I dared a look. There was paper in there.

For a full day I resisted it. I hated them for toying with me like this and yet I desperately wanted to read it, knowing it was a hoax, just to have something to do and just to know that someone was there. Someone else. Someone who kept calling attention to themselves as long as I didn't take the damned paper. I barely slept that night. There was no scratching and what if that meant I had lost my chance? Was it worth it to play along? If I kept reminding myself it was a game?

The first thing I did the following morning was to roll to the floor and snatch the paper so fast I scraped my knuckles. When I held it I felt a deep relief at seeing it there and feeling it in my hand. If it had been gone...

My first mistake was that my family was on the wrong side in the war. I love my family dearly and I'd do anything for them. I tried to as well, but I wasn't much good. In the end, we tried to help the other side and I know that my mother made a difference. I'm glad she did, and not just for my own sake. It means she's still out there. They wont take her, the right people are on her side now. My father and I were sent here and he hadn't been released yet when I went in the second time, now I doubt he ever will be, but I know my mother is safe and that is a great comfort.

I flipped the paper, feeling a deep-set worry. If this was in any way true, then this prisoner didn't know that his or her mother wouldn't be safe any more just for having been on the right side. That didn't matter any more.

My second mistake was loving the wrong person. Or should I say, the wrong kind of person. You may have guessed what I mean, but in case you haven't: I'm gay. Where you out there when they decided that anything different was dangerous? Blood-status wasn't the criteria any longer, but it was still all about breeding. People who do not multiply themselves are not wanted. They are a burden. A liability. Something we need to extract and keep away and hope we have no more of them. Did you hear the first whispers? I did. I tried to run too, after they took my lover, but it was too late. It's easy to start with former Death Eaters and their families. I was just the kind of person they needed to justify it all.

My mind was reeling after I read that and I sat on the cot, arms curled around my bent knees. After a few minutes I realised I'd been rocking myself and I forced myself to stop; I couldn't afford to succumb to that kind of weakness.

Did I ever know..? I remember far too well when different became dangerous. I tried to fight it, tried to call attention at public speeches, I even talked to Lee about how to make underground radio and tried to broadcast the message. It worked well enough to make them come for me the second they could. I am glad I was no longer with Ginny when it happened, but I feel a lot of guilt for the poor Muggle guy I was with at the time. I hope they only Obliviated him and that they did it well enough to make him forget he ever met me. It's not like I'm that good a one-night stand that I want him to remember me for that.

This letter made me doubt the person in there was a fake. The facts presented in the letter didn't fit with someone trying to get to me. I could easily buy someone passing themselves off as gay to get under my skin, but knowing me, why use the Death Eater thing? That's not exactly sympathy inducing... It got me thinking. A lot. And I had to admit that I had given in to one thing, at least: I was looking forward to hearing from my fellow prisoner.

It was a few days' wait before the next letter. I didn't blame the other guy for that. I'd heard his door slam twice with a couple of hours' pause, proving that it had been his turn to go downstairs and have his head held under water and the shit beaten out of him. It was a wonder he could write the day after, but he did.

His name was Theo. We'd met at school. Same year, same house, same privileged background. No one knew what we were up to and we went so far as to stay clear of each other most of the time so no one would guess – even then we knew we weren't exactly supposed to want each other and that our fathers would be less than pleased if they knew. But we had fun. Fucked each other's brains out and talked a surprising lot. Then something happened and The Dark Lord started to lean on my family more than he had before and the burden landed on me when my father was captured before the Ministry fell. I didn't do anything too bad, which is why my first sentence was so short, but it was a tough time.
That time, though brief, was enough to put a strain on our relationship because I couldn't tell him what bothered me and we were forced apart. It was only after the war that we reconciled and took up the connection again. My parents even accepted it. Partly. We were just glad to be alive. But it didn't last long. Like I said, they took him first. I don't know what happened to him, of course, but I have no hopes or illusions left. I know what's happened to me and I know that there's a guard in here who has it in for Theo because Theo's dad killed the guard's mother. I don't think he's alive any more. It may be a trick on their part, but they keep asking me when I want to join my lover outside. I know they don't mean in the world. They mean the graveyard.

That letter hurt to read and despite my fears and misgivings I started to feel for the guy in there. It was strange, because he had admitted to being a Death Eater and whatever he had done, that was bad enough in itself – even if I took his word on the not 'anything too bad' part. He had still been part in supporting Voldemort. The words he used, like 'lean on my family' made me realise that perhaps not all the Death Eaters had been completely consenting to everything that had happened.

What touched me the most, though, was the relationship with his lover. I couldn't imagine being close to someone for so long and then lose them because of something as mindbogglingly stupid as politics. Power-games. I hate that with a passion so strong that only Voldemort has ever generated anything like it. And this time there was no pity to soften it at the edges. The letter fired my anger, and for the first time since I'd set foot on this island I felt alive and I knew I had to keep on living.

The next letter arrived a few days later. Again I had started to worry about the guy in there and this time I hadn't heard the door which was making me even more uneasy. Several times I crept down to try and see if I could spot anything next door, but I couldn't. The crack was too small. Then, when I'd almost given up, the letter was there.

My hands shook a bit as I unrolled the paper. This time there was only writing on one side and it was weaker, looking shaky. My heart sank.

Despite everything I don't regret it. I did what I could. What I had to do. At times because I had no choice, but later it was with my eyes open. I loved someone and we were happy for a few years. It's more than many people have. I know I don't have much time left so I won't promise more of these letters. But if you want to pass on this idea, write your own story to the person next to you, then use the incantation Scribbulus Sangvinus. It's non-verbal and works well without a wand if you practice. Take care.

My hand was shaking even more when I had read the letter and despite how tired I was starting to feel all the time, I jumped to my feet and started pacing. The guy was dying. He knew it and I believed him. It added up too well. And I couldn't let that happen, I just couldn't. I refused to.

The only thing I could think to do was try and open a passage in there and I started right away. After an hour I knew it wasn't going to work, but I still kept scratching. And suddenly I saw it. An eye. Looking back at me. I think I gasped. The eye blinked.

'Don't give up,' I said, so low it was barely there, and was surprised to hear how rusty my voice sounded. 'I'm writing you back now.'

I didn't even know why I said that, but the second I had, I knew that was what I should do. Write him. Give him something to live for, like he'd given me. Remind him that we do have something in here: our memories and our selves.

The only paper I had to write on was the back of his last letter, so I started there. It wasn't hard to make the spell work either. It was quite clever too. It worked by letting you write with your finger using your own blood and it was nothing like pricking your finger and trying to write. Instead it functioned almost as a pen. It was sensitive to pressure and would stop if I wasn't pressing my finger to the paper. The biggest problem was what to write, but I decided that I could at least try and return his trust.

You told me about yourself so I'll do the same. I grew up with Muggles and I didn't know anything about magic till I got my letter. That was when my life started for real. I loved it, too. School, my friends, everything. Okay, there were hard times too, of course, but still. This was why I went underground during the war and tried to make a difference. I had to try and help those I loved and the world I lived for. Like you and your parents. I don't have parents but I have family anyway.

I rolled up the paper again and pushed it through the crack in the wall and stayed on the floor, watching until it finally disappeared. If the guy in there at least read it there was hope.

The following morning I found another piece of paper, but when I unrolled it, I found it to be almost blank. Save for a few words.

You are stubborn bastard, are you not? Write more

I grinned. It was working. This time I'd tell him more, but I didn't want him to know who I was. Both because of what I knew of his background, but even more because I knew it might break him if he knew that I could be in here. It might take away his hope. So the trick was to avoid lying while not letting him know who he was dealing with.

I remember what you described, the time when different started to mean dangerous. I was free and pretty happy then. The war was over, we were still celebrating, I had a girlfriend and everything. But it didn't last. None of it. We had broken up before it got really bad, but we heard the first rumours together and worried. After we broke up, I tried to retreat to the Muggle world, I even had a fling with this Muggle guy, but it didn't really work. I couldn't abandon the world I'd fought for. So I returned and started to fight back. I spoke out against the injustice, the disappearances, the growing fascism.
In the end, all it got me was trouble. I thought that I was relatively safe because I'd been in the war, but I wasn't. My friend tried to get me to leave and go to France, but I refused. I'm still not sure I shouldn't have – I keep hoping I made a difference, changed a few minds, sowed a bit of rebellion. When they took me I was with a guy I'd just met. I hope they didn't hurt him, he was just a Muggle. Like you, I have family in here as well as outside. It's all chosen family, but I love them no less for it.

Writing to him was as good as getting the letters. It made me feel alive too, just as reading his letters had done. I could only hope he felt that way too. Something told me that perhaps it did, because I found a new piece of paper in the crack already the next day and once again there were a few words scribbled on it already.

Tell me of your childhood.

That gave me an idea. By now, I knew I wanted to know this guy better and he was giving me a great opportunity to do that and to keep us both going. I also intensified my work on loosening that stone where the crack was. If we could just talk a bit, once in a while, we could keep this up even when there was no more paper. I had to keep us alive. It was all that mattered right now, it had become an obsession and I fed it because, deep down, I knew that this was the only way to survive.

Tell me of yours too. We will exchange. Use the back of the paper.

I wrote that at the top of the paper, right next to his words. He had a nice handwriting compared to mine. Then I started writing. I was going to use the fact that I'd never told anyone about how I grew up.

To tell you the truth, my childhood sucked. My relatives were pretty awful. I actually lived in a cupboard for the first many years and even though I didn't see it like that back then, I know now that it was an abusive childhood. Mostly psychologically, but abuse is abuse. When I first got to Hogwarts, that was the first time I ever had friends and it was kind of hard to believe people liked me. But they did, and it changed everything.

It was two days till I got the reply and I could tell by the writing that he was still weak.

My childhood was amazing. I am an only child and my parents are well off. At least I hope they still are. I was loved, very much, and even though I know my parents made bad choices that meant a lot of trouble for us later, I don't really want to change what we were because I love my memories of that time.

It was brief, but it was there. There was hope.

We continued like that for two weeks and during that time I told him things I've never told anyone. Details about how I'd felt when I first kissed Ginny or things I'd told the Muggle I had a crush on and he told me things like that too. How he'd cared a lot for his lover but never truly loved him and embarrassing little things from his childhood and memories of his mother. I grew to feel closer to him than anyone else I've ever known. I dare say I started to fall for him, too.

In between, I still worked on the stone. I'd always known it would take ages, but now I wanted it more and more so I couldn't give up, even though after weeks of work I had only managed to remove half an inch of the mortar.

This was what I was doing when I heard the slamming sound of doors being opened. All I could think was that it had to be some kind of inspection and that I would have to try and hide what I'd been doing before they reached me. It took all I had in me to move the cot just enough to cover the hole and I wasn't faking it when I threw myself on it, too tired to move.

When the door to my cell opened, I closed my eyes. I didn't really think they'd go away if I was asleep, but I wanted to postpone seeing them for as long as I could. Imagine my surprise when I heard a familiar voice:

'Harry!' Arms were around me and curly hair tickled my face and I was suddenly not too tired to hug back.

'Hermione. What.. why are you here?'

'Oh, Harry! I was so afraid you had died in here! So many did!'

'I know...' I managed to push her back enough to see her face. It was wet.

'It's over now,' she said, sounding very decisive. 'Or almost. There's been a lot going on. A revolution, almost. But we can't just release everyone here, they still did send some people here for actual crimes, so they are going over all the cases and-'

'Hermione.' I cut through, realising that I had a chance now. Finally. 'The guy next door. How is he? Is he okay?'

'Him?' She gave me a very puzzled look. 'Why do you want to see him?'

'He saved my life.'

Her look got even more puzzled, so I told her of the letters. I even showed her some of them, though I didn't let her read them. It was too personal for that. And as I spoke I saw understanding on her face, mixed with pity and a touch of regret.

'He's okay,' she said, finally. 'We're taking him to the hospital wing here – yes there is one and we're going to staff it now – to recover. You all have to stay in here while your cases are reviewed, but I'll arrange for you to see him as soon as he's better.'

Someone called her then and she stood up.

'I'll come back soon, Harry. It's almost over.'

As she left I called after her to ask who he was, but she didn't hear. Or perhaps she pretended she didn't, I don't know.

Two weeks later when I stepped through the door to the hospital room I thought that she had made a mistake too. Because there, sitting on the edge of a bed and looking as if he was slowly recovering from plague or something, was Draco Malfoy.

'You?!?' I could hear the disbelief and distrust in my own voice. I was sure this was a trick and suddenly I remembered all the things I'd told him and knew that he finally had me – he could use all of this against me in so many ways and there was nothing I could do about it. I could already feel myself shaking with anger at the thought.

'What's the matter, Potter? And why are you in my room anyway? Get out, I have a guest coming.'

He sounded as haughty as ever and his whole thing with pretending not to know what was going on, coupled with the realisation that I'd been had, just made me even angrier.

'You can quit acting now,' I growled. 'Just tell me one thing. What are you going to do with it? All the things you know? Blackmail me? Sell it to the papers? Spread it at dinner parties for fun?' My voice rose a little bit with each accusation.

'What on Earth are you on about, Potter?' he said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. 'What would I have to sell?'

'Oh, me, for starters!'

That was when realisation dawned on his face, though I didn't know it for what it was just then, and before I even had a chance to say anything else, he threw a cup at me. I wasn't able to react as fast as I could have before coming here and it hit me in the shoulder. It hurt like hell and I threw myself at him without thinking and we were rolling on the floor, fists flying.

'You fucking snake!' I cried. 'I can't believe you'd set me up. In here!'

'As if! If I'd known it was you I'd have let you rot!'

'I told you about everything! Even Ginny.'

'And to think I thought it was sweet. If I'd known it was her I would have lost my breakfast.'

I know I punched him particularly hard after that one...

It felt like it went on for hours, but I don't think we actually fought that long. We were both worn down by this place. I don't think you can say that either of us started, either, it just happened.

Our lips met. I had my hand wrapped in his robe and he was pulling my hair. He'd just called me scarhead. And then it was there. The touch. The kiss. Neither of us know how it happened or remember initiating it, but that was all it took to change everything.

It was both the strangest and sexiest thing I've ever done. He practically tore my robe apart. I kissed him so hard I tasted blood and bit his neck so he cried out and pressed up against me, grinding and writhing. The robes were pushed up and we both gasped when our cocks touched and I thought I should die when he began stroking both of us with one hand.

Right when I thought I was about to come he stopped. I bit him to punish that but it only made him press against me more while he reached up and found a bottle of oil on the table. I didn't stop to wonder why it was there (I learned later it was massage oil, used in treatments) but let him coat us both in it.

I don't remember if I pushed his legs up or he held them, but suddenly I was inside him and it was the best thing I'd ever felt. I fucked him hard, there on the floor, and he begged for more while I did it. It felt amazing – both the sex and the fact that it was him.

Afterwards he let me share the bed with him and we talked. I should have known that he didn't know who I was, of course. When I think back now part of my reason for reacting like I did probably was that I had grown to like him so much, I'd even fallen for him via these letters. I couldn't handle having fallen for my enemy. But we sorted most of it out then and the rest we are still working on. I like working on Draco.

Now we have been moved to a larger cell with a real bed. Technically, we are still prisoners and fraternising is not allowed, but no one really gives a shit. They are reviewing our cases out there and everyone knows we'll be out of here soon. And once we are, we can start straightening out the world again, only this time we'll be doing it together.