As Draco sat in his father’s cell in Azkaban earlier that day, he inspected his father for signs of the man he once knew. Draco had only ever known Lucius Malfoy to be perfectly put together. Long, blonde hair always sleek, hand tied with a leather ribbon on occasion. He had a healthy bit of muscle on his lean frame from flying, a past time he’d taught Draco at a young age and ingrained in him a love for Quidditch. His skin was pale, just as Draco’s was, but held a healthy flush to it, unlike his mother who maintained her pale pallor most of the time.