December 25, 2009
Cell #731 Block Ω
Azkaban Prison
Day 96 of his 333 day sentence

He hadn't earned himself parchment for good behavior, nor a quill.  Should be easy enough to do if one was cooperative and settled in with one's situation.  However Nate Briggs was not so much and after three months he still hung on pretty tightly to the idea that he should be master of his own space and time.    For Nate had always been a creature who thrived on his own, valued his autonomy, and lashed out against people who tried to take that from him.  Suffice it to say, he was being whittled away by Azkaban prison and resented it hatefully. 

But it was Christmas and everyone was allowed an owl home no matter their delinquency.  A whole eleven inches of parchment and there could only be one recipient.

Dear Daz - wish you were here.  Weather's rubbish. We're almost a third of the way through this.  Today's 96 I think.

Nate always knew exactly what he'd write to Daz when he could.  There was never a moment's hesitation.  Life in Azkaban was a grinding mill, a monotonous drag of lurking danger and cold fingers.  Every moment was drenched in disinterest and so he would never waste parchment writing about that. 

Instead, he wrote about things he remembered.

Remember that time when I moved into our place in the Arms?  It's just one dirty room and a loo but I felt like a bloody king.  Didn't even have furniture the first night - just the one chair and your cauldron - so we had everyone over for some ruckus.  Cards, shouting, music, and someone brought that lighter-than-air potion that makes your voice squeaky.  Old dirges just sound so much better when sung by a choir of sotted squirrels.  Next morning we just swept all the garbage and empty bottles into the fireplace and Floo'd them to the Leaky Cauldron.  Got disconnected and barred from the Floo Network in less than 24 hours! I think that's a record.

Then, if I recall, we got the bed from your friend, and that table and chairs from the bin behind the Black Chimaera.

He spoke as if they both lived there even though Dazmond never officially did.  Depending on the time she spent more nights on her own than with him, a sweet alley cat who came and went as she pleased and he'd have never demanded anything more of her.  Of course he missed her, but she could be where she wanted to be.  But even though room 76 wasn't hers, he thought of it as theirs.  He rather hoped she was staying there and keeping it warm and keeping up on the rent.  And watering his plant.

Happy Christmas, Daz.  See you when this is done.