We could still write letters, provided that they were searched for hidden messages and spells. Every day I sent one one to Hazel, pleading with her to help me get a trial in front of the Ministry. I was certain I could reduce my sentence— it had happened before.

I was guilty of killing Hermione, I knew it in the deepest, blackest parts of myself. But I couldn't help defending my rotted-out soul with the assertion that I was tricked into believing that killing her would prove right some wrong of hers. Those people who had come to my room all of those nights ago... they knew that if I killed Hermione that it would set off some chain of events that would lead to some horrid plot of their making.

Those two men and the woman's faces were still set into my mind. I could remember every word they said, every line and freckle of their faces. The Ministry just had to listen to me, or they would possibly risk the lives of the entire Wizarding community.

And if I knew my wife... or, The Prime Minister, she would rather die that go down as the Minister who failed.

But no matter how many letters I sent, Hazel never sent back a response. Every morning I would wake to the winds of whatever storm was brewing itself outside of Azkaban's crumbling grey walls, shackles ice-cold against my wrists. I would hear the one wizard who was stationed here shuffling down the hall, and hope that he would hand me a letter from my sister. And every single morning, I would be betrayed by the one person I thought I could always count on.

On the tenth day I banged my shackles against the wall in frustration. "You were always there, Hazel!" I yelled, not caring if the dementors heard the pain in my voice and decided to make it greater. "Every time I made a mistake, or was yelled at by Lucias and Narcissa... you were always there." My angry shouts died down into a whisper that shuttered and died. I rested my forehead on the stone, breathing deeply. "I need somebody to help me, Hazel." And obviously it's not you.

I loved Rose to the very tips of my fingers. Every time I envisioned her face; Red hair sticking out in all directions; bright blue eyes; abundance of freckles that hadn't gone away since she was a little girl... a burning sensation enveloped my body, oddly comforting and unusual in Azkaban. But no matter how many times the dementors sucked it out of me, I had ten years of memories left in me.

Rose loved me too— I could see it in the way her face slightly softened or her blue eyes sparkled when she saw me. But at the same time, I knew that her job as Prime Minister was just as important to her as she was to me.

In my stack of newspapers, I read over and over again what she said about me, about us, to the entire Wizarding World. I renounce all ties with Scorpius Malfoy... Our marriage cannot last after this deplorable act has been committed...

When I began writing to Hazel, begging for her to allow me to get a trial, somewhere I also had another plan. To write to Rose, trying to rekindle what she once felt and thought of me. I never thought it would come to that, my older sister was by all means, an infallible figure.

But she had failed me, and I needed my other plan.

My only hope was that she didn't hate me even more than before.