A gasp tore from Draco's throat as his eyes snapped open and he sat up, looking wildly around before finally, realisation dawned. It had all been another nightmare. He was not a terrified sixteen year old trapped in the Manor, but eighteen and in his room in the Moody Institute. In the blueish half-dark of the early morning, Draco lay back down on sheets that were damp from sweat, and took deep breaths.

It was just a dream, Draco. It's not real. You're not going crazy. It was just a dream...

Reaching up, Draco wiped a hand over his face and tried to clear his head, and when his heart rate had slowed to a more normal tempo, he looked at his watch. It read twelve minutes past six. He wondered why they hadn't been roused by the alarm yet - which usually went off at six - and then remembered in one big rush what day it was.

What a great way to start Christmas, Draco thought, angrily. Falalalala lalalala.

Not even prisoners were expected to wake up at six on Christmas day, but, lie in or not, there was no way he was getting back to sleep. He pulled back the covers, got out of his narrow bed, and dressed in the black overalls that were standard to all the inmates of the Moody Institute. Charlie, with whom he shared his room, was softly snoring on a bed identical to Draco's, beer-belly creeping over the edge of the mattress. Charlie was a big, gruff man with a heavy North London accent who had gone down for three years after using crucio on a gay couple one night when he'd had too many drinks. Their relationship was uneasy at best. Thank God the man was a heavy sleeper - who knew what he might hear if he wasn't.

The room was something between a cell and a cheap hotel room, with its only furnishings being a bed on each side, a tiny desk and hard chair at the foot of each bed, a cabinet at the head, and a thin window stretched across the top of the back wall. The automatic lights hadn't gone on yet, and Draco could only half see as he sat down at the desk and pulled a notebook and quill towards himself.

Magic is a powerful thing. It can heal almost any physical injury with relative quickness, and it can alleviate pain and suffering with the simple brewing of a potion. But Draco had learned that one of the few things more complex than magic itself is the human mind. There were no spells for the flashbacks he kept on having; no potion to end the tremors that started with loud noises. In the field of psychology, it was wizards who copied muggles. There were, of course, some ways in which magic could be used - anti-anxiety potion, sleep draughts and reliving memories through a pensive all helped to put a bandage on the problems - but when it came down to it, the mind took no shortcuts. It appreciated hard work, not pretty spells.

As Draco had told Harry several visits ago, the psychiatrist he was seeing was called Emma. Emma was Muggle-born, the daughter of a psychologist and a surgeon, and had trained in both the Muggle world and the magic. It had been clear from the minute Draco had walked into the Psychiatric wards of the Moody Institute that she was someone who knew what they were doing. She didn't seem to mind the Mark he bore like a curse on his forearm, and didn't seem bothered by the fact that three attempted murders hung over his head. She had smiled, and then she had started to help him.

Draco began to write, as he did dutifully every night, every single detail of the dream that he could remember. This was one of the techniques Emma had taught him in an effort to stop the flow of nightmares from plaguing his sleep. The dream hadn't been much different from the other ones - just another distorted memory resurfacing and doing its best to drive him insane - but he wrote it down anyway, and when he'd finished, he took a new line and wrote the dream again, this time changing the ending to turn out positive. This was the most important part. This was the step which, hopefully, would help his brain gain control over the memories. A small desk lamp helped him see - no wands meant no Lumos - but by the time he'd finished, the day had aged sufficiently for him to see without it. He stood up, stretched, and wondered how much longer he'd have to wait before breakfast.

The answer came fifteen minutes later in the form of a loud beeping noise, which seemed to come from the very air of the room. Despite how familiar the sound was after hearing it every day for six months, Draco still had to consciously stop himself from reacting to it, as muscle memory could often cause him to take cover or reach for a wand that wasn't there at any abrupt noise. A spell meant that the alarm only stopped when every last prisoner was up and dressed - a clever little detail which forced efficiency from even the hardiest night owl. As soon as the door to his cell was unlocked, Draco walked through the corridor and into the mess hall. Hands in his pockets, eyes on the floor, he tried his best to be invisible as he made his way to the self-serve, collected a slice of toast and an egg, and sat down at the very edge of the large room as the beeping noise fell silent, signalling that everyone had woken up.

Draco didn't have any friends in the prison, nor did he want any. He preferred to stay on the sidelines, to watch the world go by as an observer instead of a part in the play, because if they didn't notice him, people probably wouldn't be so tempted to do bad things to him. Cut his face up, for example. He'd played that one down for Harry and Blaise. Played it all down, in fact, because there was no point in worrying them. But people simply couldn't ignore a Death Eater, and fair enough when many had lost family to Voldemort's cause. Maybe he deserved the punches and kicks, and God only knew he felt guilty enough not to complain.

As the mess hall filled, a booming voice filled the air.

"Merry Christmas, Inmates!" It said in a falsely cheery voice. "Due to the high quantity of items travelling through the system, you will be called alphabetically in groups of five to collect gifts. Please wait patiently for your name to be called. Could Aardan Abet, Adam Ablong-"

Draco didn't have very high hopes of his name being called, though Blaise might possibly have bought him something. And he was hoping for a letter from his mother, who was currently in the female section of the Moody Institute.

An hour later found Draco lying fully clothed on his bed, staring at the ceiling in a stupor born of boredom. Lazy thoughts drifted through his mind in half-formed sentences, but he couldn't be bothered to follow any of them through. Because Charlie usually spent his daylight time out of their room, this was often how he spent his time unless he was running the track that circled the whole of the Men's courtyard, which he found to be a mediocre replacement for flying - something which they weren't allowed to do for obvious reasons. When Draco had come to the prison, he could barely run two laps. Now, it took closer to fifteen to tire him. Emma had been delighted when he'd told her about the running, because according to her,

"Exercise releases a load of really good hormones into the brain. Oxytocin, for example, is the same chemical released when you hug someone and makes you feel happier, as well as reducing stress. Plus, you can give yourself a goal to work towards, which will give you something to do."

Draco had simply shrugged. "I just like that I don't think when I'm running. It gives me a break."

"All the more reason to do it. Just be careful not to overdo it and hurt yourself."

Today, however, the freezing cold and the sleet which tipped from the sky had somewhat put Draco off the idea of running. It was another half hour before, finally, the voice called-

"...And Draco Malfoy, please come to the collection booth for your gifts."

Unbidden, a smile rose to Draco's lips. Blaise, you genie. He rolled off the bed, walked briskly to the mail collection booth in the northern end of the institute, and stood in the queue with the other men, all feeling the same impatience that a child might feel when waiting for their parents to wake up and give the go-ahead for the present opening. When Draco got to the front, he was surprised by the two packages he was presented with, and was even happier when he saw that his mother had indeed sent him a letter, and it was waiting for him in his mail slot. Gathering everything up with an excited, child-like grin, and fighting the urge to run, he walked quickly back to his room.

First of all, he read the letter from Narcissa. It was, as usual, several pages long and very well-written. They almost never mentioned the fact that they were both in prison in their letters, preferring instead to discuss what they might have talked about if they were able to speak in real life - books, news, ideas they had, or anything else which piqued their interest.

Once he finished the letter, he placed it back in the envelope and onto his desk where he would soon write a reply. He then looked at the packages. He knew which one was from Blaise because of the letter addressed to him stuck on the top of it, written in Blaise's hand. But the other one wasn't so easily identified. Draco peered at his name, written messily on a letter stuck to the package. The writing looked familiar.

Suddenly, Draco understood, and couldn't believe he hadn't recognised the writing faster after reading dozens of letter's worth of it before. The package was from Harry. It had been a long time since he'd received a letter from him, and since his father had burned almost all of them - and he hadn't dared look at the ones he'd saved - it had been just as long since he'd read one. But he would know that scrawl anywhere.

Resisting temptation, he opened Blaise's letter first.

Dear Draco,

It read.

Wishing you a very merry Christmas, and eagerly awaiting your return to the real world. Only 44 days to go!

Hope you like this gift - I didn't know if you were allowed magic items, so I played it safe. If they don't fit, we can get them changed.

-Blaise

The package contained a cardboard box with the word NIKE written in bold white across the red top. A tick shape underlined the name. Draco had no idea what a NIKE was - he knew that Nike was the Greek goddess of victory because he'd had a book about the Greek Gods as a child, but this clearly wasn't the same thing. A note attached with spell-o-tape to the top said, in Blaise's writing:

For the running. Hope you don't mind the muggle brand.

Draco raised the lid of the box, and was presented with a pair of shoes. They were plain black, apart from the same tick that was on the front of the box, which stood out in bold white on the sides, and were made of a material unlike any that he was used to. Kicking off his usual prison-issue shoes, he pulled the NIKES on and stood up. They felt very light, and bouncy compared to the usual thin-soled shoes which he wore. He would thank Blaise profusely next Monday - this was going to completely change the game. He'd have to find out if he was allowed to use the shoes, though. Maybe he could get Emma to write him a note saying it would be 'good for his mental and physical health to wear running shoes' or something like that. He'd worry about it later. Right now, he wanted to open Harry's letter.

Pulling the unopened package towards himself, he removed the letter taped to the top and opened it, frowning slightly as he deciphered the writing.

Draco stared at the short message for a few seconds after he'd read it, feeling oddly emotional. He thought back to the hours he'd spent reading letters from Harry, sitting in his room at the Manor, and how the words had made him feel a little less alone. They'd been the only happiness he'd had during the summer, except maybe his books. When he got out perhaps he'd find the ones which he'd managed to save. He had put them in one of his sketchbooks to keep them safe, and seeing as he didn't really draw anymore, he hadn't seen them in years.

Putting the letter aside, Draco tore the wrapping paper off the gift, and covered his mouth with his hand. A smile crept across his lips. In his lap sat four beautiful editions of books - 'Jane Eyre' by Charlotte Bronte was in hardback; 'The Old Man and the Sea' by Hemingway was clearly a very old copy, with yellowing pages which smelt sweetly of old paper; 'The Potion Master' (Author unknown, and the only non-muggle book present); and 'Oliver Twist' by Charles Dickens - fully illustrated. They were his four favourite books of all time. He had no idea how Harry had remembered - Draco couldn't even remember telling Harry that he liked the books - but here they were, in all their glory. he'd missed reading all his time in prison, wishing he had something, anything to distract him from the monotony. And now, here where the four books that had made him who he was. Draco felt stupid as he wiped a tear from his eye, laughing a little. He kept picking the books up and turning them without thinking until eventually, he put them into his cabinet and sat down to write a reply to his mother.

For the first time since he'd arrived at the Moody Institute, he smiled as he did so.