The time of year when we drink firewhiskey until we can no longer consider our terrible life choices or remember the consequences.

For my father, please enjoy the fire-whiskey I sent, I know you must need it after raising me. We might disagree on certain issues now, but I care about you and I still hope to make you proud (not counting on it, but I do hope).

To my own offspring (clearly ungrateful as I’ve had no well-wishes today), I love you more than anyone else in this world. I wish I was better at showing you, I’ll try harder.

Draco Malfoy rested his head against the glass as he curled up on a windowsill. He’d discovered the spot a couple months ago, back when his eighth year started. It was at the end of a quiet corridor, a perfect refuge.

He brought his textbooks with him, but always ended up dozing off after several minutes of studying. He would focus better in the library, but any sleep he could get was precious. Tucked up in the quiet nook with afternoon sunlight warming his school cloak, he slept far better than his bed in the dungeon. 

No one walked down that hall, which allowed him to relax completely.