Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Draco sat quietly in the corner of his cell with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Reluctantly, he opened them, blinking rapidly as he struggled to readjust to the dim lighting. A cold draft seeped through the small cracks of his cell, and he shivered, tugging his Azkaban robes tighter around his body—though it did little to help. He traced his dirt-crusted fingers down the lines on one of the stones in the wall and sighed heavily. 

2 years, 3 months, and 14 days. That’s how long he had been left here to rot. 

Well—at least by his calculations. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Each small drop of water echoed off the stone loudly. The steady rhythmic plink of each one rang in his ears. He wished his cell would stop making that noise. He wished the other inmates would stop screaming. He wished the guards would stop coming randomly to drag him away. 

Yet, what he wished for more than anything—any of it—was for the memories to go away. 

But that was not his fate. 

No, instead, he was sentenced to this. To sit here day in and day out, listening to the screams of the inmates being tortured around him, at all hours of the day and night. All while praying to whatever deity might hear him for it not to be his turn. To not hear his own screams echoing off the stone around him. 

The torture didn’t come every day. 

The guards had learned early on that the prisoners who were tortured daily lost their minds too quickly, and insane prisoners weren’t what the Ministry wanted. What they wanted was for all of them to suffer.

Slowly. Painfully. Repeatedly.

Insanity was too merciful. 

The Dementors had been removed after the war. Their allegiance to the Dark Lord had given the Ministry the perfect angle to play during the trials. A big deal had been made once their removal had been announced—showing how reformed Azkaban had become since then. They had boasted on and on about ‘prisoners’ rights’ and the ‘humane conditions’ that had been granted after each Death Eater had been sentenced. 

Draco scoffed. 

Humane. 

The way he was living wasn’t humane. The molding bread and dirt-filled water they were given wasn’t humane. The way they shoved potions forcefully down his throat every few days wasn’t humane.  

No. He was living in the 9th ring of hell. 

Draco tried to suppress the shiver that slithered down his spine at the screams from the cell next to his. The sound was deafening. He tucked his knees up to his chest, combing his hands through his hair, and pressed them firmly over his ears to try to muffle the sound. He curled in on himself, slowly rocking back and forth. The Dementors might be gone, but he would dare to argue that the people who now ran Azkaban were far worse. At night, he would often lie there in his cot and wonder if he would’ve been better off with them instead.

The screams continued. He didn’t even know who it was—he wasn’t meant to. None of them were allowed to interact with each other. The guards were careful to keep them separated. No one was allowed to speak outside of their cell. If a prisoner was removed, they were forced to look at the ground or were magically restrained. 

His head snapped up, and he went still when the lock on his cell door clicked open. His eyes cut to the bars, and he held his breath as he waited to see who would be entering his cell this time. The sharp sound of metal against stone made him flinch before the lock clicked shut again. His breath left him in a quick exhale. Standing slowly, he shuffled carefully to retrieve his breakfast. Tray in hand, he settled back onto his cot and set it down gently next to him on the thin mattress. 

He stared at it warily, stomach churning at the thought of actually eating it.

It had been so long since he’d had a proper meal. Almost as long as it had been since he’d had any contact from the outside world. The only physical contact he’d experienced since his sentencing was from the beatings given by the guards. 

Azkaban was the complete opposite of anything soft or warm or comforting. No one expected it to be. It was cold, harsh—dark. Even the strongest of dark wizards broke down over time. It was only a matter of when. 

Prisoners weren’t allowed contact with anyone on the outside for the first year. And Draco had waited patiently for his first year to be up, and each day crawled by with agonizing slowness. When that day had finally come, he’d hoped for a letter or a visit from his mother or friends…but there were no letters, no visits. No one ever came. Even his solicitor had stopped contacting him. 

Draco was truly alone. Completely. Achingly.  

He took a bite of the stale bread and forced himself to chew. Each grind of his jaw became more painful as he willed himself not to think of the taste. He abruptly chased it down with some of the water, but the relief was practically nonexistent. The metallic aftertaste that lingered sent him into a coughing fit, eyes burning as he fought to keep the contents of his stomach down. Despite how awful it was, he knew he needed every ounce of strength he could muster—and starvation and dehydration wouldn’t do anything to help him. 

After he’d begrudgingly finished and his stomach had settled enough to move, he turned to the wall and dragged his thumbnail against the stone. Over and over, he dug his nail in until there was a perfectly straight line. Now, 837 small lines decorated the wall of his cell.

2 years, 3 months, and 15 days. 

Another day had gone by. He kept time by keeping track of each meal delivery. By his record, he was fed twice a day, so every other meal he carved another line into the stone. With no windows, it was the only way he could account for the time that passed. His attempt to keep track of how much longer he had left of his sentence. 

He stared at the hundreds of marks with a bitter sense of hopelessness. 

The sight of them drove him mad.

Draco despised being here, but it was his burden to bear. His side had lost the war. He, along with his father and mother, had been put on trial shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts. Their solicitor had assured him that he would be sentenced to either probation or just a year in Azkaban. 

His mother’s trial was held first. It had been short and to the point. The lie she had told the Dark Lord, which had saved Potter’s life, was taken into consideration when The Boy Wonder himself had testified on her behalf. She’d been given just 2 years of house arrest. He hadn’t been allowed to attend, but when he’d been notified of her sentencing, the relief had hit him so hard he’d barely been able to breathe. 

His father’s trial had gone as expected. The longest of their three trials, Lucius had been questioned repeatedly on the stand for upwards of a week. The Wizengamot had taken their time making a spectacle of the Malfoy name, and had dragged it out as long as they could. Every crime he’d committed during both wars had been brought to light for the public to see. He’d been given life in Azkaban. Draco hadn’t seen him since before their arrest, though he had a suspicion he was only a few cells down.

His own trial had been a joke. He was never meant to get off on his charges—that was clear. His solicitor had presented a convincing case of painting him as just another victim of war, that he’d had no choice. Potter had testified for him like he had for his mother, even Golden Girl Granger had spoken in his favor, but it hadn’t been enough. He’d been sentenced to serve 10 years. 

10 long and miserable years. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Fuck he wished that dripping would stop. It was driving him fucking mental. 

Maybe he was already. He’d certainly been here long enough. And if he wasn’t yet, he was teetering on the brink of it every day. 

He wondered if he would’ve been better off dead. He wished he had died during the war. It would’ve spared him all of this. 

His only solace was knowing that at least his mother and friends were alive and well. His mother’s house arrest would be up by now. Without his father, she’d be free to go where she wanted. Be who she wanted. And Theo, Pansy, Blaise… His friends could live their lives, pursue their careers—even fall in love. They could have their own families and move past it all. Everything they’d been through. 

That was what gave him even the tiniest peace of mind. He’d endure rotting in here for the rest of his life if it meant they were happy. Gods, he hoped they were. 

“Prisoner 457392. Malfoy, Draco Lucius.”

Everything snapped back into focus at the call of his name. Then panic set in. 

No—no….not today. This couldn’t be happening…

He felt his heart pounding in his chest, sweat clinging to his neck as his hands shook, waiting for the sound of the door unlocking. He was just taken yesterday. Or, at least he thought it was yesterday. It didn’t matter. It was too soon. He couldn’t go through it—not again. 

He couldn’t.

“Stand and face the wall.”

Draco stood on shaking legs, the command muffled by his heartbeat still roaring in his ears. His eyes darted to the floor as the guard approached him. He turned quickly, nose pressed to the wall, and hands behind his back before the guard even told him. 

He felt the moment the magical restraints clicked into place. A heavy calm washed over him. The charm had been designed to keep them compliant during transport. Their magic was already suppressed, but they made it impossible for him to fight back or defend himself. 

“Your lucky day, Malfoy. Warden wants to see you,” the voice behind him taunted with a cruel chuckle. 

Draco’s entire body tensed. The Warden was only involved when they were searching for something specific. Prisoners were removed from their cells for two things: medical care and interrogations. He shook his head, and the guard pressed him harder against the wall, the stone scraping against his face. 

“You working out again?” he was asked. 

He didn’t answer the question as hands moved roughly over his arms before dropping down and patting up and down his legs. Satisfied that there was no makeshift weapon hidden, the guard flipped him around.

Draco recoiled at the hatred burning in the guard’s eyes. 

Everyone hated him. He was nothing now, and they never let him forget it. 

“I asked you a question, Prisoner 457392.” 

“Nothing else to do in here,” he replied flatly. Working out was the only way Draco could keep his sanity. 

In a split second, the sneer on the man’s face twisted into a scowl, and it was the last thing he saw clearly before pain shot through his body as his head slammed against the wall. He blinked. Once, then twice. His surroundings went in and out of focus as his vision swam, blurring around the edges as he struggled to stay on his feet. Unable to use his hands to reach out and steady himself, he fell forward onto the guard, who promptly shoved him to the ground. 

“Pathetic,” the man hissed out through clenched teeth. “Get up.”

He didn’t move at first. Then struggled to rise to his feet as the anger burned through him. He wanted to fight back desperately, but the restraints kept him in place. He barely made it up before a sudden rush of pain radiated through his side as a boot collided with his ribs. 

“I said— Get. Up,” he bellowed. 

He braced himself for another blow as it came just as quickly as the first one had. Then another. And another. 

“Get up!”

The breath he tried to take was sharp and short. A salty, metallic tang flooded his mouth as he spat out blood. Then the world went black. 

“Do you know why you are here?” 

Draco held back a groan. His side pinched when he breathed, and his head was throbbing as the Warden’s voice wavered in and out of his mind.  

“Heal him before you administer the potion.” 

“Prisoner 457392. Malfoy, Draco Lucius.”

“Do you know where you are?” the voice clipped out again, harsher that time. “Prisoner 457392.”

“Prisoner 457392.”

“Prisoner 457392.”

“Prisoner 457392.”

“Prisoner—”

“—457392.”

Draco was lying on his back on his bed, hands clasped behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. He hadn’t wanted to return home for Spring holiday, but staying at Hogwarts wasn’t an option he preferred either. He wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Far away from all of this. 

This house. This war. From the monster downstairs, twisting his childhood home into something sinister and tainted. 

The mark on his arm itched. 

Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the burn. The sensation hadn’t gone away, and he resisted the urge to claw at it. One moment, one decision had changed the course of his entire life. He wanted to cut it off, tear the blasted mark from his skin, and run. Disappear.

But he knew that wasn’t possible. The Dark Lord was a madman and would find him wherever he went. And it wouldn’t be him who paid the price. It would only result in his mother being punished for his disobedience. She’d be taken and tortured, or killed. 

He couldn’t let that happen. 

A knock sounded at his door. 

“Come in,” he said gruffly. 

The door opened, and his mother stepped in. She was dressed in all black, her hair neatly pulled away from her face, but she seemed shaken. He sat up immediately as the fear in her arms. 

“Mother?” he asked as he tore the covers back, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong?

His feet hit the floor just as he heard her suck in a breath. 

“Potter’s been captured.”

She’d said the words so hastily that he nearly missed it. He blinked, trying to grasp the gravity of her words as they finally hit him. Then he was up and in front of her in an instant. He’d grown taller, and it struck him in that moment just how small and frail she seemed next to him. His mother, who had always been strong and powerful, had been diminished to a shadow of herself. 

“What? When?”

She shook her head, voice urgent and quiet. “We don’t have time. Your father wants you to identify them. Now.”

She turned, leaving his room swiftly with soft but hurried steps. Draco followed, catching up quickly. “What do you mean, identify?”

“Hush,” she whispered, ignoring his question and heading straight to the parlor. 

That’s when he saw them.

His father was standing next to Greyback and a few snatchers—and Weasley, Granger, and a very swollen-faced Potter were bruised and tied at their feet.

“Draco,” his father called, beckoning him further into the room. He heard the tension and strain in his voice as his father spoke again. “Come.”

Draco took a measured step forward, standing between his parents as his mother moved to the other side of him. His eyes darted quickly between the three of them. They looked horrible. 

Potter’s face was a mess, puffed up and blotchy, one eye swollen nearly shut. He looked thin and worn out. Weasley was bruised up, clothing torn, but for the most part looked in better shape than Potter.

And Granger—

His breath caught. Granger was so thin he could see her ribs protruding through her shirt. She looked nothing like the confident and outspoken know-it-all he’d known for years. Her face was hollow-looking, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She looked like a shell of a person. 

She looked like him. 

"Well, Draco?” Lucius hissed out again. “Is it him? Is it Harry Potter?"

Draco stared. Frozen in horror as the words died in his throat. “I—I can’t…” he swallowed hard against the thick feeling in his throat. “I can’t be sure.”

His father scowled in frustration. “Surely that’s the girl Potter is always with– the Mudblood.” He pointed to Granger, and then to Weasley, who struggled against his binds. “And the red-haired one. This must be them. Look at them—Look, Draco.”

He still didn’t speak, the terror still surging in his veins. The expression on his father’s face was manic. Desperate. 

But could he really do it? Could he confirm it was them? 

He knew. Knew without a doubt that it was them. And if he gave them up, his family would be forgiven by the Dark Lord. They’d be back in his good graces, and things would get at least a little easier. 

He stared down at his three former classmates. 

Something held him back. Something inside him told him to keep his mouth shut. 

“I can’t be sure,” Draco said weakly. “Maybe?”

That was the moment his aunt chose to enter the room and everything quickly went downhill.

Bella stormed in, eyes and hair wild as she surveyed the room. Immediately, she was shouting at his father, the two arguing about something he could barely make out over the sudden roaring in his ears. But it was impossible not to hear the shrill tone in her voice as she shrieked orders at Greyback. 

Time slowed as it all unfolded in front of him. He just stood there, watching helplessly. 

Bella’s wand slashed through the air, stunning the four snatchers who had brought the trio in. She sneered angrily down at them, snapping out an order to Draco to take them into the courtyard.

“You,” she spat, staring at Greyback. “Take them to the dungeons.” 

The werewolf gave an irritated grunt and started to move forward, but she stopped him with a raised hand. Her lips peeled back, crooked teeth flashing in a deranged smile—one that sent a shiver down Draco’s spine. “Wait… except for the Mudblood.”

“No! You can have me–” Weasley shouted, foolishly, as he struggled against his binds again. “Take me—take me instead!” 

His aunt cackled, amused at his begging. “If she dies under questioning, then you,” she said, pointing her wand at Weasley, “I’ll take you next. Blood traitors rank next to Mudbloods in my book.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Take them downstairs, Greyback. And make sure they’re secured, but don’t do anything more to them—yet.”

Draco moved quickly, levitating the snatchers out to the courtyard and dumping them onto the ground carelessly. He didn’t bother doing anything further. He knew Bella would probably just kill them later. 

At least her focus hadn’t been on him. He’d suffered under her Cruciatus on more than one occasion when she’d been angry with him. It wasn’t something he wanted to repeat anytime soon. 

When he returned, he resumed his place beside his mother. His aunt was still screaming. Something now about the Sword of Gryffindor as she held Granger to the ground, pinning her in place as she leaned over her. She kept repeating the same question viciously. 

“HOW DID YOU GET THIS FROM MY VAULT?”

Granger screamed out that she was innocent, that she’d never been inside her vault. 

A heavy, sinking feeling gripped his chest as he watched her scream and struggle under Bella’s hold. He knew what was to come. Seconds later, it did.

“Crucio!”

A scream tore from Granger’s throat. 

“How did you get this, you filthy mudblood?”

Sobs racked her body.

“Crucio,” she snarled again. 

Draco hadn’t realized that he’d shifted his stance until his mother’s hand gripped his wrist tightly. His heart was racing, and each time she screamed, he felt it in his chest.

He needed to do something. Anything. He couldn’t just stand here. 

This was wrong. This couldn’t be happening—

“It’s a fake!” Granger gasped out from the floor, her voice ragged and raw. “It’s not real— it’s not!”

“Liar,” Bella spat out, inches from Granger’s face. The curse struck her again, and her body thrashed beneath his aunt's. 

Her screams were so loud. So painfully loud. He felt each one at the core of his soul. Each one cutting deeper than the last. 

“Crucio.”

His aunt pulled out a knife. 

The sounds from Granger’s mouth were bloodcurdling as they echoed off the stone walls. 

Draco felt the guilt creeping up his spine. 

You did nothing to help her. 

You stood there like a coward. 

Her blood was red. 

Just like his. 

Yet you stood there. 

He couldn’t move.

Nothing.

He felt nauseous. 

You did nothing.

“There was nothing I could do!” Draco screamed as he watched his aunt. “My family would have been killed!”

You did nothing.

Draco woke up in his cell. He knew he had been brought back by the smell alone—stale air and the pungent stench of unwashed bodies. It was enough to make his stomach churn.  

He tried to sit up but couldn't. Every muscle in his body hurt like he had spent hours under the Cruciatus. His long hair was plastered to his head with sweat, and his clothes stuck to his body like a second skin.

He felt horrid. Violated. 

It was always the same. 

The guards would retrieve him from his cell, he would be beaten, brought to the warden, then forced to relive one of three memories. It was always the same three. 

Always. 

It was the punishment worse than the rest. 

You did nothing to help her. You stood there like a coward. 

The voice was always the same—whispering to him things he already knew. 

You did nothing.

Draco clutched at his hair, muscles screaming in protest as he curled in on himself, rocking back and forth. He should’ve done more. Consequences be damned—he should have done more. Granger hadn’t deserved to be tortured. No one deserved that. But especially not her.

Hermione Granger was the strongest witch he knew. After everything—everything his family did to her, she had still stood in front of the Wizengamot and defended him. He’d listened as she recounted each detail of that night, of her own torture, with the strength of a thousand Abraxans. Her voice had been steady the entire time.  

She’d pointed out that he had been too young for the war. A war that all of them had been too young for. She empathized with them that he’d chosen not to identify them at his manor, when he very easily could have. Her words had given him a glimmer of hope, just a small semblance of peace when there was none left in him as he’d sat in the middle of that courtroom. 

He’d never even thanked her. He hadn’t gotten the chance to. 

The Wizengamot had issued his sentence swiftly, and final, before he was quickly lowered below the courtroom and hauled away to Azkaban. 

The last thing he saw was a pair of chestnut-colored eyes locked on his as the cage sank down, and the sorrow reflected in them was yet another memory that haunted him. The fear and the pain emanating from her had mirrored his own. 

Draco lay stiffly on his cot and thought about her eyes until sleep overtook him.

“Prisoner 457392.”

The grating sound of metal against metal was what woke him again. He snapped to attention and sat up. 

“I said—get up, Prisoner 457392,” a guard yelled from the hallway. 

“All prisoners stand in your cells and face the bars!” 

Draco watched as the guard paced up and down the hall. Each time he stopped at a cell, he barked out commands until whoever the inmate inside was, complied. He couldn’t see into any of the other cells, but he had a clear view of the hall. He was surprised to see more than one patrolling this time. 

His hands clutched at the bars in front of him, waiting to find out what was going on. Never in his entire time of being here, had the guards ever done this. There had never been this many in the hall, and they’d never addressed everyone all at once. 

“Prisoner 457489,” one of them barked at someone down the way. “Put your uniform on this instant.” 

The guard walked back towards Draco and turned towards him. “Everyone, stand with your hands wrapped around the bars! I want to see everyone’s hands.” 

Boots thudded against the cement floors, stopping in front of each door again.

“The Warden is bringing a visitor by.”

Draco’s back stiffened at the word visitor. 

“I want everyone to be on their best behavior,” the guard warned.

They didn’t get visitors. No one ever came here—at least not the ward he was on. His mind shuffled through the possibilities. 

The Minister? He was too important to bother. 

Someone from an oversight committee? Hopefully. Maybe then someone could look into how shitty this place was being run. 

Whoever it was must be important. 

Draco grew more anxious as he waited. Every minute that passed only added to the anticipation.

The sound of shoes headed in his direction. Once set Dragonhide, Draco would know that sound anywhere, and the other a pair of low-pump heels. 

“This is our maximum security ward,” the Warden explained, voice carrying through the space. “It’s where we house our most—dangerous witches and wizards. The walls are magically reinforced, and the cells are pumped with magic suppressant gas every few hours.” 

“Every few hours?” A feminine voice remarked. “Isn’t that a bit obsessive? A daily potion could take care of it more efficiently.”

Draco strained his ears to listen for more, but the inmates had started to get rowdy. Cat-calling the woman as she passed by, yelling obscene profanities at her.  

“Oi! Step closer, little missy,” someone called out.

“Like I said, this ward holds only the most dangerous. It’s necessary.” The Warden continued on like there was nothing else going out around them.

“Yeah, come ‘ere—I’d love to taste your cunt.” 

“Fucking Mudblood! Get the fuck outta here.” 

Draco swore all the air in his body left him at once. His knuckles were turning white from gripping the bars too tightly, but he couldn’t let go. He looked down, fixating on a crack in the floor, and silently begging for him to remain unnoticed.

The walking came to a halt outside his cell. But he kept his eyes down. Couldn’t bring himself to look up. Didn’t dare. 

He heard a sharp intake of breath. 

“Malfoy?” 

He forced himself to look. He had to know. 

A pair of chestnut eyes stared widely at him through the bars. 

“Granger.”

Chapter Text

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Hermione sighed in frustration, laying her forehead on the cool wood of her desk. She exhaled slowly through her nose. “Blaise—we have been over this.”

“We have. But as I keep telling you, we cannot afford to be picky on what clients we choose, Hermione.” 

Lifting her head, she fixed her gaze on her friend, and now business partner, Blaise Zabini, who was lounging casually in the chair across from her. His suit was perfectly tailored and freshly pressed, and his dark hair was kept neatly trimmed against his scalp. His deep-brown eyes were shimmering with mischief as he cornered her, yet again, into the same argument that they seemed destined to repeat almost daily.

“I won’t do it, Blaise. I won’t. I don’t care that we only opened the practice six months ago.” 

It had only been three short years since the war ended. Hermione, determined to make a change, had gone straight into the Ministry in hopes of becoming a solicitor. Blaise, who had similar aspirations, was the only other person from her year who had gone into the same field.

Their first year had been nothing but training, studying wizarding law, and becoming intimately familiar with the entire judicial process. Both had excelled, passing with top marks, and forming a solid friendship and professional partnership. Yet, despite all of those achievements, the Ministry had no interest in what they had to offer. They were passed over, dismissed, and shoved to the side every day. Every day brought new, impossible, and tedious obstacles their way until their frustration had nearly driven them to quit the field altogether. It became clear that she, a Muggleborn, and Blaise, who carried the burden of his family’s dark history—were unwelcome amongst their peers and superiors. 

So, six months ago, and finally fed up with the system, they decided to strike out on their own. Blaise had helped fund the practice with the limited access he had to his mother’s wealth, and they’d rented a modest two-office flat perched at the crossroad of Diagon Alley and Knockturn. Building their client base was slow and painstaking. With it only being the two of them, every case was laborious, and despite their impressive credentials, their youth was taken as inexperience amongst the public. It was yet another obstacle that they fought daily to overcome. 

“Money is money, Hermione,” Blaise sighed. “Until we can develop name recognition and a good repertoire, we have to take what we can get.”

“I know that,” she snapped. “But I want to help people—not defend wizards who utilize dark magic and then find themselves in a pickle.”

Blaise’s brows pinched together. “We haven't had a single case where a wizard has turned themselves into a pickle, Hermione.”

She let out another sound of frustration, pressing her fingers to her temples as she rested her elbows on her desk.“It’s a Muggle expression, Blaise.”

“Ah, I see,” he rubbed his hand over his clean-shaven chin, contemplating his next words. “Fine, I’ll take the dark artifacts case.” He stood from his seat stretching as he did. “By the way, we received an owl this morning from an anonymous sender. They requested you by name and wished to meet.”

“Anonymous?” Hermione looked at him. “I don’t know if I feel comfortable meeting with somebody without even knowing their name ahead of time.”

“We are solicitors, Hermione. Get used to it. I scheduled them for 10 a.m.,” Blaise said as he turned and headed towards her office door, glancing back over his shoulder with a pointed look. “Remember—we need this.”

For all his wealth, Hermione knew Blaise carried a quiet embarrassment about how little he had been able to invest in their firm. His mother, infamous for her string of wealthy marriages, and now onto husband number eight, was generous when it came to Blaise’s personal stipend, but guarded when it came to larger financial ventures. Hermione suspected Mrs. Zabini wasn’t just being frugal, but was really trying to teach her son financial independence. As a result, however, Blaise and Hermione were left to build their practice solely on the profits they earned themselves.

Glancing at the clock mounted on the far wall, Hermione tried her best to prepare herself. Their mystery client would be arriving in less than 15 minutes. Her jaw clenched. She hated secrecy, even if she understood the necessity and reasoning behind it. “Fine,” she muttered to herself, finally relenting. 

Right on cue, at exactly 10 a.m., a knock sounded at the door. Hermione hastily stacked the papers that were strewn across her desk into a neat pile and adjusted her name placard so it faced outward properly. Running a hand down the front of her robes, she smoothed out the creases, steeling herself for whoever was about to walk through her door. 

“Enter.”

The door swung open, and a slender, hooded figure stepped inside, closing it softly behind them. Hermione’s heart thudded painfully in her chest as she watched the stranger hesitate just inside the threshold.

"Hello," she greeted, her voice a touch uncertain. "I’m—"

Before she could finish, her words caught in her throat. 

They lowered their hood, and Hermione watched as silky blonde hair spilled free around the aristocratic features of a familiar face, and her breath caught as her eyes locked with the grey, sharp-eyed gaze of Narcissa Malfoy.

Narcissa unfastened her cloak with a graceful flick of her fingers, revealing elegant plum-colored robes. The rich hue seemed almost at odds with the faint hollowness of her cheeks and the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Her delicate frame looked somehow diminished by fatigue, the lines around her mouth and eyes more pronounced than Hermione remembered.

To say Hermione was shocked was the understatement of the year.

"Mrs. Malfoy," she greeted, finally finding her voice and willing it to remain steady. “Please, come in.”

She gestured to the chair opposite her desk, feeling the unease in her stomach tighten into a knot as Narcissa moved forward.

With an elegance that could only come from years of practice, Narcissa smoothed her robes and took a seat in the chair across from her. Her eyes scanned the small office space, the corners of her mouth turning up into a small smile. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me.” 

“I was unaware I was meeting with—” She stopped when that soft smile pulled into a tight line. Clearing her throat lightly, she quickly switched tactics. “It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Malfoy. What can I do for you today?”

Narcissa clasped her hands tightly in her lap, knuckles turning white from the pressure, and then took a steadying breath. “I would like to hire you to assist me with a few matters.” 

Hermione’s first instinct was to flat-out refuse the witch, but it was her appearance that gave her pause. From what she remembered of the few times she had seen Malfoy’s mother, she’d always been very put together. Even at the height of the war, the woman had remained the epitome of pureblood grace, pristine and collected despite the chaos surrounding her. But, despite the fact that she was still well-dressed and still poised, there were signs of stress etched into her posture and her expression that were hard to ignore. 

“Oh,” she replied, keeping her voice smooth and even. “What matters do you need assistance with?” 

The Malfoy family was one of, if not the wealthiest of families in Britain. So she couldn’t fathom what assistance she would need from her. Undoubtedly, she could afford the best solicitors money could buy. In fact, she was pretty sure that the Malfoy’s did have their own solicitor. Or at least they had at some point.

“Before I begin,” Narcissa said, “I would require some sort of guarantee for your…discretion.” Her eyes shut, inhaling deeply. “What I came to discuss is of the utmost importance, and if word got out that I was—” Her eyes snapped open, breathing deeply again before she looked away, turning her head to the side. 

“Mrs Malfoy, I can guarantee that whatever we discuss today will never leave this office. Even if you decide not to accept my services, my office is charmed to prevent anyone from listening in on our conversation. You’re able to speak freely here.”

She turned back, giving a curt nod and brushing an invisible piece of lint from her robes, and Hermione waited patiently for her to speak again. 

Minutes ticked past before she did. 

“As you know, I spent two years on house arrest after the war.”

She was correct, Hermione was very familiar with the Malfoy family’s trials and had been greatly invested in them. She had attended all three, alongside Harry, who had been the one to speak at Narcissa’s trial in favor for lesser sentencing. He’d spared her the hardship of Azkaban.

Her curiosity piqued, she was eager to find out exactly where she was going with this. She nodded slowly. “Yes, I’m aware.”

Letting out a shaky breath, she spoke again. “During that time, I was not granted access to my wand, or allowed to receive visitors or correspondence— nothing. I had very little communication with anyone outside of the Ministry, the Daily Prophet, and a few other magazines.”

Her brow furrowed as she waited for her to continue.

“So, when my house arrest ended, the first thing I did was reach out to Azkaban to check on my husband and son.”

Hermione kept quiet. She hoped Narcissa wasn’t here to ask her to defend her husband. Lucius deserved to rot in Azkaban for what he did. But Malfoy—she was unsure what to think. Yes, she had defended him during his trial, but the Ministry had still sentenced him to 10 years. She still didn’t know what to make of it. Part of her always wondered if there had been something in his file that she wasn’t privy to—some piece of evidence that showed proof that he truly was a monster, and deserved to be there.

“I take it you are here because of them?” she asked, praying the hesitation didn’t show in her voice. 

“My son—” Her voice hitched, and her hands began to shake. “Draco…” 

“Is he alright?” she asked, wincing and mentally cursing at herself the moment the question left her lips. 

Of course he wasn’t alright. He was locked away in Azkaban. 

Who would be alright serving a prison sentence? 

“I don’t know,” Narcissa admitted.

“You haven’t—” 

“My son isn’t allowed visitors, Miss Granger. Or at least, that is the conclusion I have come to.” 

“What do you mean, not allowed visitors? I was under the impression that anyone was allowed visitation to any family members currently serving a sentence in Azkaban.

“That has always been my impression as well,” she agreed.  “Over the past year, I have been able to visit Lucius four times. However, he is now refusing to see me.” 

Her eyes drifted to the placard on Hermione’s desk. 

“And you have tried to visit Malfoy? I mean, Draco,” she corrected. 

“Each prisoner is allowed one visit per month. Each month since I have been off house arrest, I have put in a request—and each month, I’m denied. I have also written, almost every month as well, but have never received a letter back.”

Hermione mulled over her words as different scenarios rolled through her mind. There were multiple reasons to why he may have been denied visitors. “Could it be possible that someone else is using his allotted visit? A friend…or perhaps his solicitor?”

“I had assumed that was the case, until I asked around. None of Draco’s friends have been able to visit him either. They’d been under the impression that it was because I was using the visitation slot.” Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip, the movement so out of place that Hermione figured she probably didn’t even realize she was doing it. 

“And your solicitor?” Hermione prompted. 

Narcissa slowly shook her head. “Our family has several. The one who we used for our defense quit about a year ago with no explanation as to why. The others are more for financial protection than criminal defense. And no one will take our case.” 

Hermione silently wondered if that had to do with just the Malfoy name, or if there was something deeper was happening in Azkaban. She’d studied magical criminal law thoroughly and was well aware that all prisoners were allowed visitors. Even the most dangerous witches and wizards were given the right to family visitation.  

“I see,” she said softly. Her lips parted to say something further, but thought better of it and decided not to ask. 

“Miss Granger, something is going on at Azkaban. Why am I able to visit my husband, who committed far more egregious crimes, but not able to see my son? Draco—” her voice wavered for a moment before she cleared it. “My son was just a boy. He was scared, and he did as he was told, but he never harmed anyone— well, he never killed anyone. That much I know is true. I still don’t understand why his sentence is so long and why I’m unable to see him—why no one is able to see him.”

Hermione’s eyes as she studied the woman across from her. 

On one hand, it was hard not to feel sorry for Narcissa. Her only child was locked away, along with her husband, leaving her completely alone. On the other hand, the Malfoy’s had made their choice during the war. They had chosen to follow Voldemort and the path they’d gone down had been dark. 

Still, it could be argued that the war may not have gone in their favor if not for Narcissa. Had she not lied about Harry, who knows where the world would be today. 

And then there was Malfoy. 

Although he had been cruel when they were younger, and they were far from friends, from what she’d known of him and the extent of his involvement in the war—she truly never felt like he should have been sentenced to prison. Let alone the length of time that was given. At one point, she had even felt like there was a possibility he was changing. Like everyone they knew from Hogwarts, they had been far too young to be involved in war. That was one of the reasons why she had chosen to speak in his defense. She’d spoken too about the fact that he had lowered his wand when facing Dumbledore, despite being ordered to kill him, and he hadn’t identified Harry at Malfoy Manor.

Their entire sixth year, he had looked ill. As if he was fighting a war within himself. She’d watched him closely—although she would never admit that to anyone. It was hard not to. It was jarring to see the ‘Slytherin Prince’ looking so…hopeless. She’d known that something was the matter, but she’d never imagined it would be because he’d taken the mark, or that Voldemort had assigned him with an impossible task. 

On the rare occasion she’d spoken with him during that time, or had been partnered on an assignment together, he had been oddly…indifferent to her. The usual sneer and bite to his tone were no longer there, and she struggled to remember the last time he had called her Mudblood. She wouldn’t go as far to say that their encounters were pleasant, but she would definitely describe them as out of character for him.

“Mrs Malfoy,” Hermione began, “I’m struggling to see why you came to me for this. Blaise is just across the hall, and he and Malf–Draco,” she corrected again. “They were friends in school. I think perhaps he would be a better fit…”

Narcissa’s spine straightened in her chair. “I didn’t ask for Mr.Zabini, Miss Granger. I asked for you.”

“Why?” 

“You served as a character witness at my son’s trial. You, an eighteen-year-old Muggleborn, who at the time was not formally trained in Wizarding law, provided a better and more thorough defense than our paid solicitor. Although I may not know you personally, as I do Mr. Zabini, I have seen enough and heard enough that you’re not one to be pushed around. That you’re far too stubborn and determined. If anyone could get answers—it would be you.”

Hermione leaned back in her seat as those words sank in. She didn’t want to admit out loud that Malfoy’s trial was the reason she’d decided to study law. The hours she’d spent in preparation for his defense, had made her realize that she could make a career out of defending people. When her words hadn’t ended up making a difference in his sentencing, it should have deterred her. Instead, it only made her more eager to change the ass-backwards way that the law system in their society was run. 

“My character witness had no impact on your son, Mrs. Malfoy. He was still sent to Azkaban regardless of the case I’d argued.” 

Even she could hear the bitterness in her tone, and fought to rein it in. Her failure in Malfoy’s trial hadn’t deterred her desire to go into law, but it didn’t mean it still didn’t make her angry at the fact that she hadn’t been successful.

Narcissa’s grey eyes lingered on her, searching her face for an answer to something that had remained unspoken. There was a quiet moment between them, and then the corner of her mouth tilted into a sad smile. Brief, but real. Then her expression evened out again, as though she was coming back to the conversation from something in the back of her mind. 

“Your defense is not the reason my son lost, Miss Granger. I have the distinct impression that the Ministry would’ve sent him to Azkaban even if he’d done absolutely nothing during the war.”

Hermione blinked, staring at her. “You think the Ministry is punishing the Malfoy family.”

“Yes.” 

When there was no further elaboration, she cleared her throat. Although it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility—it was still a very bold and dangerous accusation to make out loud. Corruption on a government level was common, unfortunately, but what Narcissa was specifically accusing the Ministry of was beyond that. 

“I do not believe my son is the only one either,” she added.

“What do you mean?” 

“There are several others. Younger Death Eaters who were given ten year sentences despite their level of involvement. Marcus Flint, for example. He was marked, and his father was a Death Eater, but Marcus was never really used by Voldemort. To my knowledge, the only crime he committed was taking the mark at all. When I found out from his mother that he was serving the same sentence as Draco, I was baffled. Theodore Nott as well—his father was also a Death Eater, but he was unmarked and hadn’t fought during the war. So legally, there was nothing the Ministry could do. But it didn’t stop them from trying.”

“Are you asking me to look into Azkaban as a whole?” she asked, shifting in her seat. 

“Yes. I’m mainly asking you to help my son, but if there are others who benefit from your findings…” 

Narcissa’s words trailed off. Then, reaching into the pocket of her robe, she pulled out a small photograph and passed it to Hermione, who took it carefully with trembling fingers. 

It was Draco. Younger. He was standing in an open field with a broom in his hand next to another boy with curly brown hair, who she vaguely recognized as Theo Nott, who Narcissa had mentioned. Both boys were smiling. Hair windswept from flying, as though they had just gotten off of their brooms. The photograph played in a loop as they grinned wide. 

She stared at it. 

This wasn’t the Draco Malfoy she’d known. Not sneering or smirking. Smiling. Still untouched by the full extent of what the world dragged him into. She looked up, Narcissa’s eyes welling with tears. 

“That was taken the summer before fifth year. He was so happy. So full of life.” Narcissa’s lips trembled for a moment as she pressed her fingertips to them. “He was just a boy,” she whispered. “He still is, to me. Please help my son, Miss Granger. He is all I have left.”

Hermione glanced down at the photograph once more before handing it back. She still wasn’t entirely sure of what was being asked of her. 

Did she want her to get him released? Or just to look into the prison for answers and to get her access to him?

At this point, she didn’t care.

Her mind was already made up. She was going to try to do whatever she could. She’d have to be discreet about it, and careful with how she approached the situation—but she would find out what was going on. 

Hermione nodded, her voice sure and firm. “I’ll help you.”

The relief that washed through the woman was clear to see. “Thank you, Miss Granger,” she breathed. “Thank you.”

“This won't be easy,” Hermione continued. “I will need you to provide me with some things before I can get started.” 

“Whatever you need,” she said quickly. “Whatever it is, I’ll provide it.”

“I would like access to everything your previous solicitor prepared for your son’s trial. Documentation, memories, character witnesses—everything. Also, if you still have it, I would like every piece of correspondence from Azkaban that you have since you’ve been off of house arrest. Even requests to see Lucius,” she added. “Write me a list of each date that you had requested to see your son, and the reasons why the request was denied. Anything you can get me will be helpful.”

“Consider it done,” Narcissa agreed. 

Hermione stood from her seat. “This will take time,” she warned gently. “Anything that deals with government bureaucracy always does.” 

Narcissa stood as well, smoothing her robes as she did. “I understand,” she replied. It looked as though she meant to say something further, but she shut her lips tightly and then a slight frown formed. “You haven’t mentioned payment.” 

Hermione paused. During the entire conversation, the idea of payment had never crossed her mind. Logically, she knew that this case would be a lot of work—but the idea of receiving money to help someone like this just didn’t sit right with her. She didn’t even know what would be considered a fair charge. She didn’t even know how long this would take. She bit her lip as the uncertainty tugged at her.

“Pay me whatever you think is fair,” she finally said. 

Narcissa nodded once in agreement, moving towards the office door. Her hand rested on the handle as she stopped to turn towards Hermione again and gave her a small smile. One that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “One last thing—I would appreciate if you would keep this quiet. I don’t want anyone knowing that I’ve hired you.”

Hermione bristled immediately, but she seemed to notice immediately and corrected herself. 

“Not for any of the reasons you might be imagining, I can assure you. I only meant that for your safety. There are reasons as to why no other solicitors would help me with this. I do not want to see you hurt, Miss Granger.”

“Blaise is my partner. I will need to tell him,” Hermione pressed. 

Narcissa hummed her disapproval. “Then tell him you’ve been hired to look into the prison, if you must, but for now—leave my son and my name out of it.” 

Unsure about her request, Hermione reluctantly agreed. She watched as Narcissa donned her cloak and exited her office. It was only once she had left did Hermione relax. 

What had she just gotten herself into? 

*** 

October 1996

“Malfoy,” she spat. “What are you doing? We are supposed to translate these runes.” 

Two grey eyes stared back at her, filled with quiet contempt. With an air of indifference and a bored flick of his wrist, he examined his nails as he leaned back in his seat. 

“What’s the point?” he drawled.

“The point,” she emphasized, “is to learn and to finish this project. Don’t you care about your marks?” 

“No,” he replied as he ran a hand through his platinum hair. 

She tried to ignore the even paler color of his skin, and how disheveled and exhausted he looked.  

“You used to,” she mumbled under her breath, sliding the open textbook across the desk so it was directly in front of him.  “I care about my marks—and you’re my assigned partner. I refuse to do everything for this project.”

Malfoy’s hand hovered above it for a moment, his long fingers reaching out to caress the page. He paused and his gaze flicked to her, staring for a few seconds before he turned his attention back to his work. He said nothing. No argument, no other snide remark—just lazily flipped the pages of the book. 

She looked at him closely again, before she spoke up. “Are you alright? You look ill…”

His eyes snapped to hers, anger flashing across his face before he seemed to collect himself. “I’m fine,” he clipped out. He rolled his neck with a sigh. “What do you need me to do?”

***

For three months, all of Hermione’s thoughts had been consumed by one person.

Draco Malfoy.

Now, she was standing in the receiving area of Azkaban as she went over her plan in her head for the hundredth time. It had taken those three months for her to finally get a tour of the prison. Countless hours and sleepless nights had been spent preparing petitions, submitting inquiries, filing requests to the Ministry for documents she needed. It was only when she finally threatened to bring the issue up to the Minister of Magic directly, that she received a letter with a date for a tour. 

Azkaban, as it turns out, was far harder to get into than she would’ve even thought. She had subpoenaed records, poured over prisoner case files, and had pieced together some wild theories on what could be truly going inside of it. Without even stepping foot on the island, she was already horrified by what she had uncovered.

The recordkeeping there left little to be desired. The prisoner files offered essentially no real information on their well-being, or status. Even long-term prisoners who had been there for over 10 years, had unusually slim files. Besides the off medical check-up here and there, there was no other notations on their mental state, physical health, or their daily activities. All they were worth, essentially, was just proof that the prisoner was alive.

She had even gone as far as to subpoena their records from the 1980s. She wanted to cross-reference the recordkeeping to see if it had changed at all over the years, or if their documents had always been kept that way. And she’d discovered that even back when Sirius Black was still in Azkaban, the records were better than they were now. They still didn’t contain quite as much information she would’ve liked, but at least she had more of an inkling of what was going on inside there at that time. 

Today, the Warden was the one scheduled to give her the tour. She was given clearance to have complete access to the prison to assess the current living conditions of the prisoners. Glancing at the watch on her wrist, she clenched her teeth in irritation when she realized she was being made to wait. The tour had been scheduled for 11 a.m., and it was now a quarter after. And the longer she waited, the more she got the feeling that the waiting had been intentional. Up until she was forced to pull strings, the officials in Azkaban had been less than willing to provide her any access. The feeling of being toyed with didn’t sit well with her and it sat heavy in her stomach. 

She hated games. Especially when it came to something like this. 

All she could do while she waited was remind herself why she was here. She had been hired to look into the prison, and find out what was going on with Malfoy. That was her focus. She took another steadying breath to calm the nerves, when her name was called.

“Miss Granger.”

She looked immediately towards the sound of footsteps as Warden Dawlish approached. The former Auror had taken the position shortly after the war ended, and in her research, was the primary reason behind all of the changes that were brought to the prison.

And all the secrecy.

Hermione stood from her seat and extended her hand in greeting, which he reluctantly took. She purposefully ignored the grimace on his face as she shook his hand. “Warden Dawlish, thank you for agreeing to finally meet with me.”

His response was only a hum of disapproval as he pressed his lips together, eyes squinting slightly as he looked at her. Holding out his hand, he motioned for her to follow him, and lead her down the dark stone corridors. The dementors were gone, but she couldn’t ignore the feeling of hopelessness and dread that washed over her. Whatever magic the prison held, seemed to suck out all the happiness from her body.

“We run a tight operation here, Miss Granger,” Dawlish told her. “The prisoners are separated based on the level of threat that they pose to the population. On this level,” he said, waving his wand to open the stone doors, “we have our lowest security threats. Petty criminals, thieves, and unmarked Death Eaters.” 

Hermione glanced around as they walked, eyes darting back and forth between the cells. Each prisoner stood still, their hands wrapped tightly around the bars, their eyes cast downwards as her and Dawlish passed by. She couldn’t see much, but she could tell that each person was dirty, and thin. Their hair was long, matted and caked with grime, and the smell—

The smell was pungent. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. 

“How often do the prisoners eat?” she asked, glancing at an older man. He wouldn’t look at her, just continued staring at the stone floor. 

“Three square meals a day.” 

“THAT’S A LIE!” one of them yelled. 

The sharp sound of metal hitting against metal sounded through the hall as the guard’s batton was slammed against the bars of one of the cells. 

“Silence!” he bellowed.

It had taken everything in her power not to jump from the sound. Clenching her fist, she moved to stand next to the Warden again. She hadn’t seen Malfoy yet, and wondered what floor he was being held on. He was marked, so she wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t on this floor.

As the tour continued, she was beginning to lose her bearings. Each floor looked remarkably and eerily similar, appearing to be designed to confuse visitors. Which explained why there hadn’t been any break-outs besides Sirius Black and Barty Crouch Jr. Navigating the place would require a lot of help. 

In all the floors they had visited, she had yet to see Malfoy, and with each stop, her concern only grew. He had to be somewhere in the prison. Unless…

Her breath hitched and she quickly dismissed the thought.

No. Word would’ve gotten out if he had died—wouldn’t it?

As they walked through the underground levels, Hermione struggled to adjust to the low lighting. Torches lined the walls, eliminating the path, but the lack of windows kept the space filled with shadows. They had passed a large glass front room on their right, and she stopped to peer in. 

There was a large glass enclosure in the center of the room. It was brighter, and cleaner than the rest of Azkaban. The enclosure even contained a desk, bookshelves, and a small bed in the corner—where a woman sat. Hermione couldn’t see much of her, just the curtain of long, dark hair. 

Scanning the wall around the window, she tried to find a prisoner number where they were usually marked, but there was none. 

“Who is she?” Hermione asked, straining her eyes to get a better view. 

“Our most dangerous person here. Which is none of your concern, he spat. “Let’s move.”

Thrown by his sudden change in behavior, she took one last look at the mysterious prisoner. He had claimed it was their most dangerous inmate, but she was in far better conditions than anyone else was. Not just for the bed and small furniture, but she was clean and her uniform seemed to be newer than the rest. 

She filed the thought away for later, and continued on with the tour.

They came to a stop outside of another set of large stone doors. This one had a metal bar across the front, keeping it locked tightly in place, and sealed. Two guards flanked the sides, their arms crossed and eyes fixed ahead. The Warden motioned towards them and they lifted the bar, opening the doors.

“This is our maximum security ward,” he explained, voice carrying through the space. “It’s where we house our most dangerous witches and wizards. The walls are magically reinforced, and the cells are pumped with magic suppressant gas every few hours.”

“Every few hours?” she remarked. “Isn’t that a bit obsessive? A daily potion could take care of it more efficiently.”

A hissing sound on her right caused her attention to falter as a man, covered from head to toe in grim shot her a toothless smile. She fought the urge to recoil as she stared into his dead, vacant eyes.

“Oi! Step closer, little missy,” someone called out.

“Like I said, this ward holds only the most dangerous. It’s necessary.” The Warden continued like there was nothing else going out around them.

“Yeah, come ‘ere—I’d love to taste your cunt.” 

“Fucking Mudblood! Get the fuck outta here.” 

Hermione bristled at the word, but quickly brushed it off. It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d been called that word, and she doubted it would be the last, unfortunately. In fact, if she was going to be visiting here regularly, she was going to have to keep a thick skin on her. She couldn’t afford for anything to distract her from what was most important. 

She had stopped outside of a cell when she noticed that familiar color of platinum hair. It was dirty, and his prison uniform was tattered. The black and white jumper torn from years of use. His knuckles were white from gripping the bars tightly, and like the rest of them, he kept his eyes downwards. Although dirty, and gaunt, there was only one of two people that this could be.

“Malfoy?” 

A pair of grey eyes slowly raised and met hers. 

“Granger.”

Chapter Text

“Malfoy?” 

He forced himself to look. He had to know. 

A pair of chestnut eyes stared widely at him through the bars. 

“Granger.”

He watched as her lips parted, but nothing came out. It was like she couldn’t find the words to say, and he could see the shock on her face. Her eyes moved over him, slowly taking in his ragged appearance, and he knew what she saw.

His hair was too long now. Caked with dirt and grime, and matted from the lack of washing. The uniform that hung off of him was threadbare and torn in places. He’d been healed from his last beating— mostly. The medi-witch had done enough to handle anything too bad. Or at least he hoped they had. He knew he was probably still covered in bruises, discolored in various patches across his skin. The ugly proof of what was done to him.

So he was painfully aware of the state he was in. 

And he hated it. 

Draco lowered his gaze to the stone floor again. He didn’t want her to look at him. He didn’t want her to see him in this condition. But it was too late. Her stare burned into him, and he recoiled slightly, shoulders hunching forward as the embarrassment and shame settled low in his stomach.

Why was she even here? What possible reason could Hermione Granger have for visiting Azkaban?

And why was she standing in front of his cell?

Finally, she spoke.

Her lips parted, and his name slipped out in a breathless whisper. “Malfoy—”

The sound of his name made his hands tighten around the cold iron bars, knuckles whitening from the pressure. He stared at the witch he never thought he would see again. The same wild curls, the same brown eyes— looking exactly as she did in his memories. 

The witch who haunted his thoughts, his dreams… his soul. His tormentor.

She took a step closer. “Are you all right?” she asked, her lips pressing into a thin line as soon as the words left her mouth.

“No,” he whispered.

“Step away from the prisoner, Miss Granger,” the Warden called, striding forward until his body blocked her view of him. “You are not permitted to speak to any of them— especially in this ward.”

“Granger,” he rasped, the single word raw in his throat after so long unused.

“Prisoner 457392, back from the bars!” the nearest guard barked.

“If you’ll follow me, Miss Granger,” the Warden clipped out, “we can conclude the tour. We will deal with Prisoner 457392.”

He could still hear her voice echoing down the stone corridor as she was ushered away.

“He hasn’t done anything wrong. I know Malfoy.”

“You don’t know Prisoner 457392.”

Draco didn’t hear the rest. The sharp ringing in his ears drowned everything else out. The awareness returned, only for him to realize that the sound he was hearing was his own voice— screaming.  

His own magic stirred beneath his skin, the feeling almost foreign from being gone for so long. And for one desperate moment, he wanted to let it break free. 

But, like everything else in his life, it remained just out of reach.

A pair of hands seized him roughly, shoving him down hard against the cold stone floor. A boot drove into his spine, pinning him in place. He bit the inside of his cheek until the sharp tang of blood filled his mouth.

“Magic suppressant— now!” the guard barked.

Through the haze, Draco caught sight of the guards, each wearing a Bubble-Head Charm. A faint hiss sounded through the air as gas began to seep into his cell. He felt it almost instantly— the slow, agonizing drain of his magic being pulled away. Panic clawed at him. For the briefest moment, he had remembered what it was like to feel whole, and now it was gone again, leaving only that familiar hollow ache inside him.

“Knock him out!” another voice ordered.

A brutal impact exploded across his face as a boot connected, pain reverberating through every nerve. The world blurred, and the light faded in and out.

Prisoner 457392

Prisoner 457392

Prisoner 457392

Prisoner 457392

“Put him under.” 

Draco woke to the sharp pop of apparition. He blinked in the dim lighting, rubbing at his eyes as he turned his head. Mipsy stood beside his bed, shifting from foot to foot as she twisted her ears in her hands, pulling them so taut it looked painful. 

“Master?”

He frowned down at her, unease curling in his gut. “What’s wrong?”

Her hands yanked at her ears again, and her voice cracked, higher than usual. “You is needed in the drawing room, sir.”

“Alright—”

“Mipsy is so sorry,” she squeaked, the words tumbling out in a rush as though she feared she might choke on them. Her gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders trembling. “Happy birthday… Master Draco.”

And with another pop, she was gone.

Now alone, Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed and dressed quickly, running a hand through his hair as he slipped on his shoes. He forced himself to clear his mind, tucking away the thoughts of unease that gnawed at him until all that was left was the cold emptiness of Occlumency. 

The corridors of the manor were unnervingly still as he descended the stairs. A rare occurrence ever since the Dark Lord had claimed the manor for his own. The silence was heavy, oppressive— like the air itself was steeped in dark magic. It curled along the walls like invisible smoke, seeping into every inch of the house. 

A cold weight settled in his stomach.

Something was wrong.

Terribly, terribly wrong.

He lingered outside the drawing room, hands trembling at his sides. With deliberate effort, he reached for the handle and turned it, easing the door open just enough to step through.

The furniture had been rearranged— pushed back to frame the scene like a grotesque stage. The Dark Lord sat poised by the hearth, a king upon his throne, twenty masked Death Eaters forming a tight circle around him. His mother was on the floor, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths as her sister loomed above her, wand trained steadily on her. 

Draco froze. Every instinct screamed at him to react, but he forced himself to remain calm, keeping his expression neutral.

“Ah… young Malfoy. So good of you to join us,” the Dark Lord hissed, his serpent’s voice slicing through the heavy silence. “Please— come in.”

Draco took measured steps forward until he stood just inside the ring of masked figures. His mother’s grey eyes found his, wide and pleading, fingers clutching tightly at her sides. His heart pounded against his ribs in a wild, panicked rhythm.

“My Lord,” he murmured, bowing his head in submission.

The Dark Lord twirled his wand lazily between his pale fingers, crimson eyes narrowing. “Your family has become a disgrace— disappointing me time and time again. Your father rots in Azkaban now for his incompetence at the Department of Mysteries.”

He rose from his seat, his movements controlled and unhurried, stepping over Narcissa’s prone form as though she were nothing. “But you,” he said slowly, “you have the power to change that, young Malfoy.”

He gave Draco no time to react before the tip of his wand was aimed perfectly at his chest. “Crucio.”

Agony erupted through him. Draco collapsed to his knees, his body writhing from the pain burning through every nerve in his body. A scream tore its way out of his throat. Somewhere beyond the haze, his aunt’s manic laughter, high and sharp, rang through the air as the curse dragged on. 

When at last it lifted, he lay gasping on the cold floor, vision swimming as he stared at the pale, bare feet of the madman above him.

“I have a task for you,” the Dark Lord said smoothly. “One that will restore honor to your family name and free your father from his current… predicament.”

Draco’s gaze flicked to his mother, still motionless on the stone floor. The sorrow in her eyes was heavy enough to crush him. He looked away.

“Join me, Draco, and bring glory back to the Malfoy name. I will see to it that your father is released from Azkaban, and together we will kill Harry Potter…claiming the wizarding world as our own.”

His lungs burned as he tried to steady his breath. His hands were shaking. He knew then, with a terrifying clarity, that this was no gift. Whatever task that was intended was not a chance at redemption. It was a sentence. A slow, deliberate execution disguised as honor. 

The Dark Lord had just marked him for death.

A maniacal laugh split through the air, ricocheting off the stone walls. Draco lifted his head, gaze locking onto the Dark Lord’s expression of cold amusement. 

“I see hesitation.” There was a long pause before a merciless grin spread slowly across his face. “Perhaps you require some…motivation.”

His wand raised again— aimed straight at his mother.

“Crucio.”

Her scream shattered the silence. Raw and unrelenting, each one splintered something inside him. His aunt Bellatrix’s cackle mixed with his mother’s screams, carving itself into his memory. Again, his instincts screamed at him to move, to shield her, take her place— to do something. But he stayed rooted to the spot he was in, nails leaving crescent moons in his palms as he squeezed his hands tightly, the biting pain keeping him in line. 

That moment, he felt nothing but loathing for his bloodline— for the name that had led him here. 

“My Lord,” he forced out, shifting to one knee. “I will serve you.”

The screams cut off, leaving a silence that felt louder than the sound itself. Draco swallowed hard against the shudder creeping up his spine as the Dark Lord’s red, slitted eyes shifted to him.

“Very good.” The praise dripped with silk and venom. “Hold out your arm, boy.”

The Death Eaters shifted closer, shoulder to shoulder, closing in on him as if to seal his fate. Draco extended his left arm, forcing the tremor in his hand to stop. His Occlumency walls held— thin, but firm. Keeping a fragile barrier against the suffocating dread.

Cold, inhuman fingers clamped around his wrist, yanking it forward. “Do you swear to serve me for the remainder of your mortal days?”

“I do.” 

The tip of the wand pressed into his forearm as the Dark Lord began chanting under his breath, growing louder after each repetition. Blood dripped from his wrist and onto Draco’s alabaster skin.

“Adiuro te ad me. Servire, obedire, venire cum voco. Sanguis carnis meae et virtus magicae meae. Erit.”

Blinding pain seared through him again. The curse clawed its way through flesh and bone, his vision starting to blur at the edges, the world swaying in and out of focus as the room around him faded to black until the chanting became muffled. It was like being pulled underwater, further and further from the air. 

You’re weak.

Evil. 

You are nothing. 

“I didn’t have a choice,” he roared. 

You always have a choice. 

***

December, 1996 

Hermione sat at her usual corner table in the library, fighting back tears. It was late, but she had no desire to return to the common room— or her dormitory. There, she would have to endure Ron being glued to Lavender, and she just couldn’t stomach it. It had been two days since their first kiss after the Quidditch match, and it seemed as though that was all they ever did. 

Earlier, she’d tried to talk to Ron about Harry, but he couldn’t seem to detach himself from Lavender long enough to listen. In truth, he’d acted as though she wasn’t even there. Lavender, clearly reveling in Hermione’s exclusion, had dismissed her as if she were nothing more than an irritation.

It was disgusting. 

It was hurtful. 

Rising from her seat, she wandered to the shelves, swiping hastily at the tears that escaped. She felt alone, now more than ever, as Ron divided their friendship. Harry wouldn’t take sides, not wanting to make any bigger waves. Parvati was Lavender’s friend, which made her dorm unbearable. And even Malfoy hadn’t appeared tonight for their study session.

Perhaps she was the problem. 

The tears kept coming as she took a shaky breath and turned, almost colliding with someone, and she nearly screamed. Malfoy was standing right there. Startled, she moved backwards again until her back was flush against the books.  

He said nothing at first. Just reached out, cupping her chin carefully and tilting her head from side to side as if he was examining her. 

She froze. “What are you—” 

“Who hurt you?” he growled, his grip tightening slightly.

“I’m not hurt,” she responded, trying to pull her chin out of his hold

“Don’t tell me your tears are because I failed to show.”

“Of course not,” she snapped. She managed to free herself, swiping at her face again with the back of her sleeve as she moved to gather her things. 

“Your tears would be wasted on me, Granger.” 

She packed her books, and she caught a proper look at him. His normally immaculate hair was mussed, as though someone had been tugging at it, and his white oxford hung loose from his trousers.

He looked equal parts stressed and freshly snogged.

She rolled her eyes. “Why didn’t you show tonight? Busy having your tongue down Pansy’s throat?” 

His brows furrowed. “No. Just lost track of time.”

“Right.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and moved to leave. 

“Don’t tell me you're crying over Weaselbees disgusting display with Brown.” 

Turning her head, she glanced over her shoulder. “Your concern would be wasted on me, Malfoy.” 

Without another word, she walked away. 

*** 

“I’m telling you, Harry— there’s something going on in that prison.” Hermione exhaled her frustration, leaning back in her chair across from him. They sat in his office at the DMLE, the desk between them littered with paperwork that she’d filed for access to Azkaban again. 

 “You weren’t there, it was—” Her words broke off as she shuddered against the images flooding her mind. “Harry, it was the most horrid set of conditions I have ever seen.”

Harry took his glasses off, one hand rubbing at his eyes, his exhaustion mirroring hers. 

“I know, ‘Mione. I’m trying everything I can. It’s like Azkaban has some sort of hold over the Ministry. I don’t understand it.” 

“Malfoy is on the maximum-security ward. Marcus Flint, too. Yet Lucius Malfoy is two floors down, in a cleaner cell—still awful, but better. How does that make sense?” She shook her head, unable to finish the thought.

“Nothing you’ve told me makes any sense,” he muttered. “Neither Malfoy nor Flint did anything during the war to warrant maximum security. Between your testimony and mine, I was certain he’d be cleared of his charges.”  

“No one was more surprised than I,” she agreed quietly. “Harry, he was skin and bones and looked as if he had been beaten.” 

“The only other thing I can do is submit a request for evidence. But,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It wouldn’t give us access to all prisoners. I’d have to specify which ones the DMLE needs statements from. Even then, there would be limits on the questions we could and could not ask.”

“That won’t work. I need free access to all of them in order to get a better understanding of what's really happening.” 

“Going up against Azkaban isn’t exactly child’s play, ‘Mione. I’m worried about you doing this. Not to mention, you’d be going up against the Wizengamot and a number of very powerful people. It’s dangerous.” 

She bit back the urge to scream. They’d had this argument more times than she could count ever since she’d enlisted his help— and every time it always ended the same. She wasn’t willing to back down from this. Ninety-nine percent of the prisoners in Azkaban deserved to be there for their crimes. But still, the conditions they were living in were far from being humane. There was no way she would just sit back and allow the same cruelty that Voldemort had once inflicted, even if the victims were Death Eaters.

“I know, Harry. I am being careful. But if you’d seen the same things I did, you’d be just as eager to act.” 

“I am eager,” he countered. “I’m just as invested as you are now. I know you have been hired to look into the prison, and I know you cannot tell me who hired you, but I’m here for you. Whatever it is that you need.” 

“Thank you, Harry.” 

He gave her a soft smile and a nod as he slid his glasses back on and leaned forward. “That reminds me— I pulled the files of every prisoner who had been sentenced there over the last twenty years. There’s no record of anyone matching the description you’d given me of the witch you’d seen.”

Hermione blinked. “How is that possible? She was young– I would say around our age. Jet-black hair. She was separated from everyone else, kept in a glass enclosure. She was the only prisoner who looked clean, well-fed, and cared for. Hell, she even had books and a real bed.” 

“I’ll check again, but the youngest witch currently being held at Azkaban is Alecto Carrow. Are you sure she was a witch? Could it have been a wizard whose hair hadn’t been cut?” 

“I’m positive. She was most definitely female. All the Warden said was that she’s their most dangerous prisoner.”

“If that is the case, then Azkaban has prisoners with no records. That, in and of itself, is concerning.” 

“What’s concerning?” 

Both turned to see Ron standing in the doorway to the office. He stepped in, dropping into the seat beside her as he tore open a bag of crisps. Hermione stared in disbelief as he bit down on one, mouth still half-full when he spoke. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Azkaban,” she and Harry answered in unison. 

Ron rolled his eyes, chewing loudly. “I don’t see why you two are so pressed to fix that place. If you ask me, they got what they deserved.” 

“No one asked you, Ronald,” she snapped. “You weren’t there.” 

“Most of them are Death Eaters, thieves, murderers— the list goes on.” 

“Ron, the conditions they are living in are arguably worse than Dementors.” 

That had caught his attention. He sat up straighter, brows raised as his eyes darted between her and Harry. “Really? Worse than Dementors? That’s mental. Nothing is worse than Dementors.” He shoved another crisp into his mouth. 

“Well, you’re going to have to trust me that it is,” she bit out. 

Hermione knew all too well how thick-headed Ron could be. That hadn’t changed since their childhood. He was one of her closest friends, but he was also the one she clashed with the most often. After the war, he’d followed Harry through Auror training and now worked at his side. He was a talented Auror. Good at his job, but infuriatingly stubborn.

Her real motives for the investigation she kept to herself. Ron still harbored a grudge against Malfoy, and though she suspected he might begrudgingly agree that his sentence had been too harsh, she had no desire to hear the complaints over it. As of right now, Harry was the only person besides herself and Narcissa who was aware of what she was trying to do. 

So, for now, it was going to stay that way.

Ron swallowed, his cheeks flushing pink as he offered her a sheepish look. “Alright, ‘Mione— what do you need me to do?” 

Relieved, she slid a stack of files toward him. “Help us go through these.” 

“Alright,” he replied, brushing the crumbs off his hands before pulling the stack closer. “What exactly am I looking for?” 

“Anything that seems off,” Harry answered, gathering his own pile. “Crimes versus sentence time, files with missing information…really anything that stands out to you.” 

“S’pose I can do that,” Ron said, as he opened the first file and skimmed the page. 

Hermione gathered her stack and began flipping through the pages, her eyes sweeping over name after name, crime after crime. Some were familiar— Macnair, Rookwood, Dolohov— but others she had never heard of.

Renwald Hobble, for example, was fifteen years into a twenty-year sentence for embezzlement. 

Roy MacAvy was serving life for murdering his wife’s lover in a jealous rage. 

Jonathan Saunters had received ten years for placing his neighbor under the Imperius Curse because of noise complaints. 

The list went on.

Her hands stilled when she reached Malfoy’s file. She let out a slow, quiet sigh as her fingers lingered over the cream-colored folder. She’d reviewed the file countless times, each time only deepening the frustration inside of her. There was nothing inside. At least, nothing that mattered.

Official Azkaban Prisoner File
Malfoy, Draco L.
No. 457392

Azkaban Sentence: 10 years
Date of Sentencing: 15 July 1998
Birthday: 5 June 1980
Birthplace: Wiltshire, England
Wand: 10” Hawthorn, Unicorn Hair Core

Sex: Male
Age: 18
Height: 6’2”
Eye/Hair Color: Grey / Platinum
Build: Slim, toned
Scars: White scarring on chest and torso; scar on left forearm; Dark Mark

Charges: Attempted Murder, Use of an Unforgivable, Death Eater Activities, Conspiracy to Commit Murder

Flipping to the next page, she glanced over the medical records attached. Eight clean bills of health since sentencing, and nothing else. No details on his current condition or where he was being held, and nothing on whether or not he was allowed correspondence.

Marcus Flint’s file was just as bare. Standard sentencing details, but nothing more. No health updates. No notes on his well-being. Nothing. 

It was maddening.

“So,” Ron began, speaking around a mouthful of crisps, “I reckon the only file that seems off is Adrian Pucey’s. The rest of ‘em deserve to be there.” 

“What’s strange about it?” Harry asked, glancing up from his own file.

“There’s nothing there. Just basic information from when he was sentenced,” he said with a shrug. “He was given ten years, which seems a bit harsh. They haven’t even updated it to his current age.” 

“That tracks with all the other young Death Eaters,” Harry continued. “Goyle received the same.” 

“Flint, Pucey, Goyle, Avery, and Malfoy were all held on the maximum security ward alongside some of the most vile people I’ve ever seen.” The memory caused her skin to prickle. “It seems there’s a pattern.” 

“Maybe you’re onto something, ‘Mione,” Ron admitted, startling her into silence. “I mean, I don’t like the lot of ‘em, but ten years in maximum security is bonkers. Not one of them actually killed anyone.” 

She exchanged a glance with Harry, the same unspoken thought passing between them. 

She had to get back into that prison.

***

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Draco lay sprawled on the cold stone floor of his cell, that gods-forsaken sound of water dripping somewhere in the darkness drilling itself into his skull. With the last shred of strength in his thumb, he carved another mark into the wall. He wasn’t sure if a full day had passed, or a week. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.

Ever since Granger had appeared at the prison, the guards had made it their mission to punish him for speaking to her. The beatings came more frequently. Torture sessions were prolonged. The neglect more deliberate. 

He had long since moved past hunger. It was weakness that consumed him so fully— that it was an effort just to raise his arm for that solitary mark. He felt ancient— centuries old— his youth stripped away until he couldn’t even recall if he was twenty… twenty-one?

He certainly didn’t feel like he was in his twenties. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Cold… Merlin, he was so cold…

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

“Shit.” 

He didn’t lift his head to see who it was. Didn’t care.

“Shit, shit, shit.” 

Keys fumbled. A lock clicked. He didn’t move. 

“Shit— bloody hell!” 

A hand gripped his shoulder, rolling him gently onto his back.

“Are you alright?”

Someone was talking to him.

Impossible. No one here gave a fuck.

Draco kept his eyes shut. He didn’t want to see. Maybe it wasn’t real.

“Merlin,” they breathed out, “you’re dying. How long have you been like this?” 

The world tilted slightly, his body rising, suspended in midair like he was floating. 

His eyes remained closed. He didn’t have the strength, 

This was it. He was finally free. 

“Prisoner, stay with me!” the guard called out. 

His voice grew fainter and fainter until it stopped completely. 

“Prisoner 457392.” 

“Prisoner 457392— are you with us?” 

“Prisoner 457392.” 

Light seared behind his eyelids. The sharp smell of sterilizing potions and the lingering bitter scent told him exactly where he was. He didn’t need to look. 

Cold metal bit into his wrists, chains tethering him to the narrow table. The hospital ward.

He knew he was alive

No.

No.

No!

He wasn’t supposed to be here. 

He wasn’t supposed to—

Draco blinked slowly as his vision cleared. And then he saw the young guard, the one from his cell. He was lanky, all long limbs, sandy hair, and wire-rimmed glasses— looking barely old enough to have left Hogwarts. 

The expression on his face was quiet pity. 

Draco hated it. Anger rose within him. 

He thrashed against the restraints, yanking the chains and slamming his head against the table as he screamed. It was loud, raw, and unrelenting. He couldn’t stop. 

“What’s wrong with him?” the guard asked. “Will he be alright?” 

“Petrificus Totalus.” 

He went rigid, his muscles locked by the spell, and though his screams had been silenced in the room, he was shouting inside his mind. His gaze was sharp when he looked over to the healer and the guard.

“When you brought him in, he was on the verge of death,” the healer said, her quill scratching against a clipboard. “Extremely malnourished and dehydrated. He’s good enough now. You can take him.”

They returned to his cell, the guard easing him down onto the cot before he countered the spell.

His jaw flexed as he fought to swallow the waves of fury threatening to consume him.

“Are you alright?” the guard asked. 

“Why?” Draco croaked, his voice ragged from screaming. 

The guard looked at him. “Why what?” 

“Why. Did. You. Save me?” 

Each word was painful, but he forced them out.

The guard hesitated, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, square parcel wrapped in brown parchment. He placed it in Draco’s trembling hands. 

“Because no one deserves this.” 

Draco’s shaking fingers closed around the package. “I… I” he stammered, “I didn’t ask to be saved.” 

The guard stepped toward the door, hand on the lock, ignoring that last comment. “It's turkey and cheese. That’s all I had.” 

Draco clutched the sandwich tightly in his hands— 

And wept.

Chapter Text

Three months. 

It has taken Hermione three months to secure interviews with the prisoners. 

Harry, walking on her left, had managed to pull enough strings to strong-arm Azkaban into complying with the warrant. When she inquired as to how he had managed, all he told her was that she was better off not knowing. She wondered what price her friend was paying to help her– and if it was worth the cost.  

Harry, however, insisted it was. Now that he was here and had seen for himself the condition of the prison, he no longer needed convincing. It was clear to see in the hard set of his jaw and the cold resolve in his eyes. 

Currently, they were following the Warden, moving deeper into the underground levels, and winding through the dark hallways toward the visitation area where they would be conducting the interviews. The further in they went, the more confusing everything became. 

They passed by the glass wall, and Hermione looked inside and stopped. The glass cell in the center was completely empty. 

No bed. No bookshelves. 

No prisoner. 

Harry stopped next to her and frowned. “Is that where she was?” he whispered, lowering his voice so the Warden wouldn’t hear. 

“Yes,” she murmured. “I promise you she was there—”

“This way, Miss Granger. Mr. Potter,” the Warden called. 

They followed after him again, and she tried hard to refocus. The stranger’s disappearance shouldn’t be a concern for her right now. There were far more important things she should be thinking about. She was here for a reason…

Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder why they had moved her— or who she was. And why was there no record for her?

The Warden stopped in front of a heavy door and held it open for them. They stepped into the visitor room, the room cold and sterile. There was a long metal table in the center, two chairs on one side, and a single chair on the other. She could see bolts protruding from the floor, where she assumed the prisoners were shackled during visits.

“Due to the allotment of time, you will only be allowed to speak to six prisoners per visit. Each for no more than fifteen minutes,” the Warden stated. 

Hermione’s mind moved quickly, tallying up the time. 

90 minutes? That was all?

“But that’s only an hour and a half? We are supposed to have all day.” 

The Warden’s lip curled. “This is a prison, Miss Granger. Not a brothel. Neither I nor my guards have the time to drag prisoners back and forth from their cells all day.”

“The warrant stated—”

“You and Mr. Potter may have friends in high places, but I run Azkaban. Whatever I say goes. Do I make myself clear?” 

“Crystal,” Harry muttered darkly. 

“Good.” He rolled his neck, the sharp crack loud in the empty space. “Now— please provide the guard with the numbers for the six prisoners you wish to speak with today.”

She glanced down at her sheet. Six. Out of hundreds. How could she possibly narrow it down just to six at a time? She had expected to make multiple trips for interviews. But this…this was going to set her back months. 

Time that she didn’t have. 

Reading through the names quickly, she felt the weight of it pressing down on her. She knew she needed to ensure it looked fair. Take some from the lower levels and some from the maximum security. 

“Fine,” she said tightly. “Prisoners 437561, 446747, 451348, 456999, 457388, and… 457392.” 

The Warden’s eyes sharpened. “Prisoner 457392 isn’t available.”

Harry’s head snapped up, his own eyes narrowing. “Per the warrant, you are to provide us unlimited access to whichever prisoner we request.”

“Correct. But if a prisoner is sick, they’re unavailable.” 

“You will bring Prisoner 457392 to be interviewed. Sick or not,” Harry pressed. “Or this place will be crawling with Aurors by nightfall.” 

The Warden’s jaw ticked, his silence heavy. After a long moment, he turned to the guard. “Bring them.” He didn’t turn to face them, but called over his shoulder as he headed to the door. “Azkaban will not be responsible if you get sick or injured.”

“Understood,” she said coolly. 

The door shut, leaving them in silence again. They took their seats at the table and waited, time ticking by slowly. She picked absentmindedly at her nails, hoping that she’d made the right decision asking for Malfoy on the first day. It had been risky, but she had no idea if she would be allowed back, and she couldn’t take that chance.  

The door swung open, and she took a steadying breath. 

A little over an hour later, they had interviewed five of the six they’d requested. Thaddius Nott, Theo’s father, had remained unnervingly silent during the entire fifteen minutes. He hadn’t uttered a single word or provided any information that would have been helpful. Though she honestly hadn’t expected much from him. He’d been a loyal servant to Voldemort, and it would have been more surprising had he chosen to help them at all. Still, he appeared to be in decent health. 

Then they’d brought in Renwald Hobble, who had been sentenced for embezzlement. It had been a shock when he’d been brought in looking far older than she had expected, considering that his file had stated he was in his early sixties. She would have put him closer to Dumbledore’s age as opposed to McGonagall’s. He’d at least been a bit more forthcoming than Thaddius. It wasn’t much, just two-word answers to their questions, but it was better than silence. The biggest complaint of his seemed to be the food, or lack thereof. That and the lack of medical care, which neither of them was surprised about after reading the records. 

Jonathan Sneed, a former snatcher, didn’t even seem to be aware of where he was or what was going on. Harry had pushed, hoping for any information, but nothing worked. Another fifteen minutes gone and nothing to show for it. Hermione was starting to get frustrated, once again wondering if her decisions about the six she’d chosen had been the right ones.

Prisoner 456999, Lucius Malfoy, had been the biggest shock of them all so far. She and Harry had, of course, known him outside of Azkaban— and he looked nothing like that man now. His long, platinum hair fell in filthy tangles around his face, and his already pale skin was an unhealthy shade of grey, sagging loosely on his face and neck. It was far more jarring than they’d expected, which made it all the more concerning. Like Hobble, he appeared far older than she knew he was, and had the same vacant mannerisms as Sneed.

Although he didn’t answer their questions, he did speak. 

None of it held any substance. But as the end of their time with him approached, he’d started to frantically mumble under his breath. Hermione could just barely make out his words, realizing that he was repeating Narcissa and Draco’s names over and over. She cut her eyes to Harry, who shared the same look of concern. 

Jonathan Saunters was the fifth prisoner brought in. More complaints about the food and the medical care, but he’d also stated that the cells were horrid and almost never cleaned. He claimed that the guards were intimidating and rough, but didn’t touch him the way they did some of the other prisoners. Harry had asked about receiving letters, but Saunters said no one had ever written to him. Hermione wasn’t sure if that was from a lack of people who cared on the outside…or if Azkaban was intentionally keeping correspondence from the inmates.

And then it was time for Malfoy. 

She was on edge. Although she’d seen him in his cell all those months ago, it only made her nerves more unsettled. She didn’t know what kind of state he would be in this time, or if he’d even say anything. He was the entire reason she was even looking into Azkaban. 

And the only person she needed to be free. 

The six prisoners she’d chosen, although a quick decision in the moment, had still been carefully considered. Of the three Death Eaters, only one had been younger. It was intentional, not wanting to risk the possibility that the Warden would shut everything down right away if he’d gotten suspicious. So, she’d kept the numbers even. 

Six prisoners. 

Three who had been marked.

Three who hadn’t. 

Her attention went to the door as it swung open again. The guard stepped in, dragging Malfoy behind him. He was bound in large, heavy chains that seemed to slow him down. He stumbled slightly and they rattled with each step he took. He was shoved into his seat, ankles secured to the floor and hands shackled to the top of the table.

And all she could do was stare for a moment. 

He looked worse than he had three months ago— worse than she’d even tried to prepare herself for. He was thinner, his frame almost skeletal, and his hair was so filthy that his natural hair color wasn’t even visible. The robes he wore were tattered and hung loosely off of him, looking twice the size they should be.

But that wasn’t what stole the air from her lungs. 

It was his eyes. 

Once sharp and vibrant, the grey had dulled to a lifeless ash.

“Your fifteen minutes start now,” the guard barked, already heading to the door. 

It was only after the door slammed shut that she glanced sideways at Harry. His face was pale, eyes wide with horror as he stared across the table. 

“Malfoy…” he whispered.

Malfoy’s lips parted, but nothing came out. A brief look of confusion crossed his face as he tried again, opening and closing his mouth once more. 

Hermione leaned forward, her own concern bubbling up inside her. “Can you not speak?”

He shook his head. 

Harry had finally collected himself a bit, clearing his throat and pushing his glasses up his nose. “Looks like we’re sticking with yes or no answers,” he said with a resigned sigh. “Has someone made it so you can’t speak?”

He gave a sharp nod.  

She stiffened, fury and disbelief curling through her. Someone had cast a Silencio on him. Or at least she suspected that they had. There wasn’t a potion that she was aware of that would’ve removed the ability to speak. What was simple freedom had now been taken from him. It was beyond cruel and way out of line. 

Clearly, they really were hiding something at Azkaban. 

“Are you hurt?” she asked softly.

Malfoy had started to shake his head, but hesitated and tilted his head from side to side as if he was uncertain of his response, which gave her the impression that his answer was far more complex than he could properly express, given his restriction. 

“Sort of?” Harry prompted. 

That time, he gave another quick nod, eyes flicking nervously toward the door.

“Do they feed you?” she asked. 

Her stomach twisted as he tilted his head again in that same indecisive movement. 

Harry leaned forward. “Have you received any letters?”

Malfoy went to speak, resignation flickering across his face as he shut his mouth and shook his head slowly. 

Hermione genuinely didn’t know if she should mention that his mother had been writing him almost every month. He was already distressed, and she didn’t want to add to it. “Have you seen or had contact with any of the other prisoners since you’ve been here?”

Another shake of his head. 

She exchanged a glance with Harry, who couldn’t mask the disturbed look on his face again. 

“Do the guards treat you well?”

Immediately, Malfoy’s eyes widened, panic flashing across his face as he shook his head frantically. 

“Do they hurt you?” Harry pressed.

Malfoy was trembling now, the chains rattling as he shook his head harder. She knew he was lying as she took in the still-healing bruises and the panic that was still clear in his entire demeanor. 

“They don’t hurt you at all?” he asked again. 

He was obviously afraid of something— or someone. 

“I hear you,” she said, trying to reassure him that she wouldn’t pressure him to say more. “I understand.”

The tremors stopped, and he went still. Slowly, he lifted his lifeless eyes up and looked at her. The relief was palpable, his tension leaving his body slightly as he sagged into his chair. 

She didn’t know which emotion she felt was stronger… anger or sadness. 

What the fuck was going on in this prison?

Harry lowered his voice until it was barely audible. “I’m starting to understand that you are worried about being honest, so I’m going to come up with some code words. From now on, if we ask you about your meals, we mean the abuse. We already understand that they don’t feed you much, so this will allow us to ask follow-up questions. Okay?”

Malfoy hesitated, but nodded reluctantly. 

Hermione’s voice dropped to Harry’s level. “We’re also going to raise hell about them forcefully silencing you. Hopefully, next time it won’t happen, but if it does— we’ll have a plan.” 

When his reaction to that was only more panic, she changed tactics quickly. “Malfoy, even if you can’t say precisely what you want, you have the right to speak for yourself. No one should ever take that from you.”

The sound of keys fumbling was heard on the other side of the door. Harry swore under his breath, realizing that they were already out of time. 

Hermione’s heart hammered in her chest, knowing she only had a few more moments. “Your mother is fine,” she whispered quickly, her words rushed. “She’s safe. She misses you so much, and—” she paused as the lock started to turn and the door scraped against the floor as it opened. “I’m going to try to help you. I’m going to get you out.” Her throat tightened. “I promise.”

Malfoy didn’t have the chance to reply. The guard stormed in, unhooking his shackles from the table and the floor before dragging him back out of the room. She and Harry sat there, watching the door close and hearing the echo of the chains fade. 

***

December, 1996

Hermione patrolled the corridors, footsteps sounding faintly as she made her way down the stairs and toward the Slytherin dungeons. It was late, and the castle was mostly empty already for the holidays. Only a handful of students had chosen to stay behind, which made her job as a Prefect relatively easy. 

She rounded the corner and collided directly into someone. 

“I’m so sor—” 

“What the fuck?” 

She sucked in a breath, tilting her head to look up into storm-grey eyes. Malfoy’s expression was cold, his face riddled with anger, and his lip curled into his signature sneer.

“Watch where you’re going, Granger.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

He scoffed. “Always knew you were clumsy, but this is a whole new level.”

“What is your problem?” she shot back, irritation already stirring under her skin. “I already said I was sorry! There were only supposed to be two Slytherins staying behind this year, so I wasn’t expecting anyone—” she paused, brows furrowing. “Wait, why are you here? I thought you went home for Christmas.”

He rolled his eyes, taking a step back. “Obviously, I’ve returned.”

“But— why? It’s Christmas Eve… shouldn’t you be with your family?”

His jaw tightened, the muscle flexing. “Are you always this nosy?” he ground out. “What I do is none of your business.”

She looked at him more closely. He had dark circles under his eyes, cheekbones sharper, and skin paler. He looked as if he hadn’t slept well in quite some time. And he certainly didn’t look like someone who had just spent five days at home for a break. 

Of course, she was curious as to why he came back to Hogwarts instead of resting comfortably at his manor. It was a bit hard for her to wrap her mind around.

“I thought we were past this,” she said, squaring her shoulders. 

“Past what?”

“Your hostility.”

For a split second, he looked as if she’d slapped him. He’d taken a step backward, his eyes widening briefly before narrowing again. 

“Stay away from me, Granger,” he muttered, his voice tight. “Just— leave me be.”

***

“I’m telling you, Harry, that was a load of Griffin shit!” 

They’d returned to the DMLE and were now in Harry’s small office. They’d just finished up their third day of interviews, and like the previous two days, Hermione’s emotions were all over the place after leaving. What they were witnessing during their time at Azkaban was one of the largest cover-ups she’d seen since the war. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind now that the Warden was hiding something. Not only that, but now she had proof that Malfoy, and possibly countless other prisoners, were being verbally, physically, and mentally abused.

Harry stood from his desk and began pacing. “What I don’t get is why they’re doing this. It’s clear that some prisoners are better taken care of than others.”

She rifled through the files on his desk, searching for something that she was sure they were missing. 

“We’ve only interviewed eighteen prisoners so far, but after the first six we already knew something was amuck.” 

Harry stopped pacing, turning to face her. “Yes. But what I don’t understand,” he started, “is the pattern. At first, I thought it was just the younger Death Eaters who were being mistreated, but Lucius—” he let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his unruly black hair. “ He’s clearly in a bad state. Maybe not as bad as Malfoy, but still.”

“Most of the older Death Eaters we have interviewed have been in far better condition than I expected,” she said grimly. “Not a single one has talked to us, though, with the exception of Alecto Carrow. She was in damn near perfect health.”

Harry’s face twisted into a look of disgust. “That’s because she’s fucking the guards for favors. I still can’t believe the things she said…” 

Hermione’s stomach churned at the memory of their interview with her. She’d been the only one to actually speak with them, but her account of Azkaban was completely opposite from everyone else’s. She went on and on about how much better Azkaban was now that the Dementors were gone, and she received three meals a day. Alecto was clean, well-fed, and clearly well-taken care of. 

She’d unfortunately also talked about now knowing which guard was able to get her off, and that was where Hermione had finally drawn the line and insisted that Carrow be removed from the room. 

Harry resumed his pacing, ticking names off his fingers. “Malfoy, Pucey, and Flint were all silenced and in horrid conditions. Nott Sr., Goyle Sr., Rowle, and Avery Sr. were all thin and dirty— but otherwise physically ok. Then you’ve got the other prisoners, the ones who aren’t Death Eaters, and they almost seemed…” he scratched his head, trying to find the right word. 

“Crazy?” she filled in for him.

“Yes!” He threw his hands up. “But not just that. Worse. Every single one of them looked older beyond their years. I mean, I know prison ages you, but the others didn’t look that way. Well, not to that extreme.” He paused, looking to her. “Am I making sense?” 

He was. She knew what he was saying, even if he was explaining things hastily.

She nodded. “I know what you mean. Like Renwald Hobble— if we hadn’t verified his information before we had interviewed him, I would’ve never have guessed that man was in his early sixties. I thought they brought the wrong prisoner at first.”

Harry swore under his breath.

“I don’t know what to do, Harry,” she admitted, slumping down in her chair. “The older Deather Eaters won’t talk, the younger ones can’t talk— and the other prisoners are barely even coherent. Without some sort of solid proof that would be enough to legally prove something to the Wizengamot, they’d only laugh me right out of the courtroom.” She sighed, staring at the files in front of her again. “Ninety percent of them deserve to be there, without a doubt. But the other ten percent? They deserve to be freed. They’ve already served more than their fair time in there.”

Harry’s response was interrupted as his office door opened and Ron stepped inside. 

Ron ran a hand down the front of his robes, awkwardly trying to smooth out the wrinkles. “Am I interrupting?”

Harry shook his head, gesturing to the seat next to Hermione. He landed in the chair with a soft plop, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “I’m knackered,” he mumbled, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “Robards is running me ragged. I don’t know how you’re doing all this extra work, Harry— it’s mental if you ask me.”

“Well, nobody did ask you, Ronald,” she hissed, kicking her foot against his leg.

“Ouch!” He winced, his hand darting down to rub his leg. “What the hell, ‘Mione?”

Harry slid his fingers under his lenses to rub at his eyes, pushing his glasses up his face a bit. “I’m doing this because ‘Mione needs help, Ron. It’s also the right thing to do.”

“You’re still interviewing them then, eh?”

Hermione let out a tired sigh. “Yes, we just finished day three.” 

Ron’s brows furrowed. “Find anything interesting?” 

Hermione and Harry launched into an abbreviated version of what was going on in Azkaban. Explaining the lack of responses, the fact that Malfoy and some of the others were being silenced, and the strange, fast aging that was happening to a few of them. For obvious safety reasons, they didn’t tell him the whole story, intentionally leaving out their suspicions about the abuse.

When they finished, Ron sat back in his chair. “Sounds to me like someone is experimenting on the lot of them,” he said casually.

Hermione’s head snapped up towards him. “What did you just say?” 

Ron sighed and rolled his eyes. “I said, it sounds to me like someone is experimenting on them. Especially those that have aged. Look— you said that they’re all in different conditions, yeah? From what you’ve just told me, it doesn’t seem to hold a pattern.” 

Harry and Hermione stared at him, stunned and speechless. “What? You said it yourselves. All the prisoners are in different conditions— some better, some worse. If you lump them all together, it seems like some sort of twisted experiment.”

Hermione blinked. “I never thought of that she murmured, contemplating what he’d just said. “That’s actually quite brilliant, Ron.” 

“Oh, don’t look so shocked, ‘Mione. I can come up with good ideas once in a while.” 

Harry pulled off his glasses, holding them in one hand as he pinched the bridge of his nose with the other. “How the bloody hell are we going to even prove this? Or begin to find out more?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. 

***

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Her voice flickered in his head like a light in the darkest dark.

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

A breath of life into his hollowed soul. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

What he would give to just hear her again. To pull him from the shadows, constantly wrapping themselves around him day in and day out. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

He’d given up hope of being free a long time ago. Had resigned himself to his fate. But— maybe…

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

She’d promised to get him out. Promised to free him. 

And he wanted to believe her.

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

You did nothing to help her.

“NO! STOP IT!” he called out.

Nothing.

He clutched at his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp burned. “Stop it— STOP IT!”

The silence. The voice in his head went quiet, and he let out a shaky breath, his hands unfurling from the grip they had in his hair. 

He just wanted to feel safe again. 

To feel warm.

To feel… something. 

Anything.

He swallowed against the dryness in his throat.

Maybe she could be the one to help him. Maybe. 

“Prisoner 457392. Malfoy, Draco Lucius.”

Draco’s head jerked up. 

No.

Chapter Text

“Prisoner 457392. Malfoy, Draco Lucius.”

“Prisoner 457392! Can you hear me?” 

“I think he is awake.” 

“Do it.” 

Screams tore through the manor, ricocheting off the stone walls. The sound of terror echoed in his ears as he walked quietly— his steps were measured as he crept through the hallway, not wanting to alert anyone of his presence. As usual, his father had been strict when he’d ordered him to go outside and not disturb him while he was conducting “business.”

But he hadn’t listened.

A woman’s voice carried down the hall, and he strained his ears to try to make out what she was saying. He couldn’t catch the words, but the tone was all too familiar. 

“Mum?” he whispered. “Is that you?” 

He moved toward where the screams were coming from, still quiet as he approached the gentleman’s parlor. His father had never allowed him past the doors, stating that he was “far too young.” 

But Draco knew exactly where it was.

“Mum?” he called out again, still trying to keep his voice as quiet as he could. 

The door was already open a crack, and so he peered inside— but his stomach twisted and his eyes went wide. 

Mr. Flint, Marcus’s father, was lying on the floor at his father’s feet. Mr. Nott was hovering nearby, pacing back and forth in irritation, his expression twisted and eyes sharp in a way that put Draco on edge. There were others in the room, though he couldn’t recognize anyone else, including a woman half-naked on the floor. Her clothes were torn, her eyes darting back and forth between the men as she tried to cover herself.

“You disappoint me, Flint,” Lucius said, voice low and seething. “You, of all people, should know better than to sully yourself with such filth.” He sneered, his pale hand pointed at the cowering woman, her whimpers a faint sound filling the silence.

“Even you sully yourself with them from time to time, Lucius,” he spat. “I’m doing nothing different from you.”

Lucius’s eyes flashed in anger. “The difference,” he hissed, the words laced with venom and loathing that Draco curled into himself slightly, “is that I do not let them into my home. I don’t bring them around my home where my wife and son are. That was your mistake— letting that Mudblood whore be seen by your family.” 

His breath hitched, fear gripping him as his father’s words settled heavily in his chest. It was the way his father had said them. He didn’t know what they meant, but his hands still shook by his side. He knew he shouldn’t be watching. Or even listening. 

But he couldn’t tear his eyes away.  

His father raised his wand and pointed it at Mr. Flint. “Crucio,” he hissed. 

A jet of red light shot across the room, and Draco’s hands flew to his ears as screams filled the room again. The man was writhing on the floor, muscles locked tight, and his face was red, veins straining in his neck as the pain racked through him. His father didn’t flinch, just held the curse steady. 

He didn’t know how long it had been, but it had felt like an eternity before his father finally lowered his wand. The screaming stopped. At least for a brief moment before Lucius gave Theo’s father a curt nod, and this time it was the woman screaming.

“Filthy Mudblood,” Mr. Nott yelled as he lifted the curse. Another jet of light, this time green, lit up the room as his wand moved through the air again. “Avada Kedavra.”

The woman went limp, her eyes wide and glazed over, and Draco’s breath caught. His hands flew up, slapping over his mouth as he stifled the scream that had bubbled up in his throat. One foot moved back, then the other, and he bumped into something soft behind him. He spun around quickly, fear coursing through him until he saw his mother’s face, and he fell into her arms. She quickly scooped him up and whisked him away, shushing him quietly as he sobbed against her.

By the time he’d finally stopped crying, he noticed they were in the ladies’ parlor. His mother was still rocking him gently back and forth, clutching him tightly to her.

“Hush, my dragon,” she murmured, her hands smoothing over his back in soothing circles. 

She didn’t tell him it was alright. She didn’t say that everything was ok, or not to worry about what he’d seen. She just held him and let him bury his face deeper into her robes.

“Mum?” he whispered, voice trembling. 

“Hush,” she repeated. 

Lifting his head, he finally looked at her face. Her expression was composed, the same perfectly neutral mask she usually wore. 

He breathed deep, exhaling heavily as his voice evened out slightly. “Mum? What’s a… Mudblood?”

The composed mask fell, her eyes going cold, lips contorting into a sneer. “Filth,” she spat. “Mudbloods are filth— the lowest of the low. Those that call themselves witches and wizards, but are born from the Muggles who stole our magic.”  

The venom in her voice and the look on her face mirrored his father’s, and he shrank back. 

“But Mum—” 

“I don’t want you to ever interact with them. Do you understand me, Draco?” 

“Yes, Mum.” 

No.

That wasn’t right…that’s not how it went. 

His brows pinched together, trying to focus as the memory tried to twist itself again.

No— no. 

“Mum? What’s a Mudblood?” 

“A Mudblood…it’s not a nice word for witches and wizards whose parents are Muggles. They—”

It warped again. His mother’s expression filled with hatred.

“Mudbloods are filth. The lowest of the low.” 

No! 

Her face and voice softened again. 

“You never should have seen what you did today, Draco. Your father—” 

The tone turned sharp. 

“Muggles who stole our magic.”

No. No. No!

“Sometimes your father conducts business that I don’t agree with…”

“I don’t want you to ever interact with them. Do you understand me, Draco?” 

The words blurred, overlapping and shifting to the point where he could barely tell which were hers, or which ones were lies somehow lurking in his mind. 

No.

Draco gasped for air as he came to. It took him a moment, eyes squinting against the bright light in the room. There was cold metal beneath his back, and he blinked a few times.

The exam room. That’s where he was. 

He shifted, thrashing wildly against the restraints when he realized his wrists were bound. The metal dug into his wrists, but he barely noticed. His eyes cut straight over to the healer who was next to him, clothed in crisp white robes that flowed behind her as she stepped closer. 

He thrashed again. 

“What are you doing to me?” He screamed, twisting his arms to pull at the binds on his wrists. “Why are you doing this?” 

She ignored him, not even sparing him a glance as she stared at the clipboard in her hands.

“Knock him out,” she said calmly to one of the guards.

The last thing Draco felt was a fist colliding with his face.

***

January, 1997 

“Miss Granger,” Professor Snape drawled from the front of the classroom, “a word, if you would, please.”

She straightened in her seat, Harry and Ron both shooting her a quick glance but hurrying to pack their things away. Both gave her tired smiles as they slipped through the classroom doors— leaving her alone.

Great. 

They didn’t even stick around to see what Professor Snape had to say to her. 

She stood from her desk, hastily packing away her book and quill before crossing the room to his desk. 

He was seated, scribbling away on a piece of parchment. His dark, greasy hair hung in front of his face, not bothering to look at her yet. 

“Take a seat, Miss Granger. This won’t take long.” 

She hesitated just for a second before lowering herself into the seat across from him, waiting. After a minute, his head lifted, eyes snapping to hers before they dropped to the papers in front of him. He flipped through them, rummaging around for something, before he slid a piece of parchment across the desk to her.

“Read this for me,” he ordered. “Tell me what’s wrong with it.” 

She lifted it, eyes scanning over the words. It was Malfoy’s homework on nonverbal spells and casting shields. 

Shit.

Her heart was pounding, but she didn’t react outwardly.

“This appears to be Malfoy’s work,” she said carefully, keeping her eyes on the paper in her hands.

“I didn’t ask whose homework it was, Miss Granger. I asked you to tell me what’s wrong with it.” 

She could feel the weight of his stare, but refused to look up. “It looks fine to me,” she said calmly. “He could have gone into more detail about the particular wrist movements needed when casting a shield, but I guess that might be repetitive due to the assignment being about nonverbal spells and not—” 

“The homework was perfect, Miss Granger,” he interrupted, voice razor-thin.

She looked up finally, meeting his narrow gaze. She willed herself to remain calm before answering. “I don’t understand, Professor. If it’s perfect— why are you having me look at it?”

The frustrated exhale he let out through his nose came out like a whistle. “Do you think I would consult with a student on the merits of someone else's work?” 

Well shit. 

She fought the urge to squirm in her seat. Because she knew that it, in fact, wasn’t Malfoy’s homework. 

Well, it was… she’d just done it for him. Just like she had for the rest of his classes ever since just before the Christmas holidays.

“I still don’t understand, sir. I thought Malfoy was just behind me in marks? Wouldn’t he be capable of—” 

“Draco is indeed very intelligent. However, he hasn’t turned in a single assignment this year. So, imagine my surprise when I received work for him for each of the past four assignments.” He spoke the words steadily, but the implication was clear. “So surprised, in fact, that I reached out to his other professors as well. And each of them said the same thing— that Draco has turned in every assignment for the past four weeks. Not only that, but he received top marks for them all.”

He leaned forward, just slightly, dark eyes gleaming. “Every. Single. One of them.”  

She kept her features schooled, praying he couldn’t sense her nerves. He had no proof— and that was the angle she was going to play. “I’m happy for him, Professor. Truly. I’m glad he’s turning things arou—”

“Curious, isn’t it?” he asked, cutting her off again. “Why is it that all of a sudden, he’s completing all of his work?”

“How am I supposed to know?” she asked, shrugging her shoulders. 

“I looked into it. The only two classes he has been passing all year are Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. Those, Miss Granger, are the two classes he is partnered with you in.” 

“If you are asking me if he does his portion of work in those classes, the answer is yes.” 

“I believe you are doing his work for him. My question is, why?” 

Hermione took a steadying breath, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. “What proof do you have? Because that is clearly his handwriting. If Malfoy isn’t doing his work, I don’t see why you would pin that on me. We aren’t exactly friends.” 

She’d made sure to utilize a spell to copy his handwriting perfectly. It had taken her days to perfect, but now even she couldn’t tell the difference. 

Snape peered at her over his hooked nose. His dark eyes were unreadable, and she forced herself to remain steady. She wasn’t going to back down. Snape couldn’t think whatever the bloody hell he wanted.

“No,” he said slowly. “You aren't. Which makes this all the more curious.” 

Her fingers curled into fists in her lap, trying to stop the slight shaking in her hands. “If that’s all?” 

When he didn’t reply, she stood, slipping her bag over her shoulder and turning to leave.

“Miss Granger.” 

She stopped, then turned back around slowly. 

“It wouldn’t be wise of you to get too close to Mr. Malfoy.”

“Why is that, Professor?” 

There was a beat of silence.

“It just is.”

If Hermione didn’t know any better, she would’ve thought he almost looked— concerned.

Almost. 

***

Hermione sat at her office desk, eyes locked on Blaise’s. Both refused to break eye contact as he sat in his own chair across from her. The hour was late, and the office had long been closed for the evening. It was silent, the air tense between them, and she fought the urge to move. She knew that the second she fidgeted or shifted under his stare, he’d take it as her admitting she’d done something wrong. 

She hadn’t. He needed to understand that.

The silence held for a bit longer. Then his eyes narrowed, and his mouth pulled into a tight line. “Explain it to me, one more time— exactly what it is you’ve been hired to do. Because Hermione, I understand client privilege and all that rubbish very clearly, but this affects the firm. Our livelihood.”

She clenched her jaw, then made sure to keep her voice calm as she answered him. “As I explained to you before, I was hired to look into the mistreatment of a prisoner— and now, subsequently, I am looking into the entirety of Azkaban and the mistreatment of all of their prisoners.” She was technically in the right, but it was also true that once the situation had started to progress further, she should have looped him in sooner. 

Blaise exhaled heavily, running his hand over his hair. “As soon as you looped in the DMLE, I should’ve been informed. This could cause all sorts of catastrophic consequences.”

“I know,” she admitted quietly. “And I’m sorry. I truly am. But my client, the one that you assigned to me, might I add, wanted to remain completely anonymous. And it’s not the DMLE— just Harry.” 

“Hermione, it’s not ‘just Harry.’ Potter is the bloody DMLE!” he snapped, throwing his hands up in the air. “You went from trying to free one prisoner to trying to completely overhaul Azkaban. Azkaban. It’s a bloody miracle that we haven’t been investigated!”

She swallowed the knot in her throat. “Look, Blaise. I’m sorry, ok? I’m trying to balance this very delicate situation and am clearly failing.” 

She really felt like she was.

Both she and Harry were only halfway through the interviews, and they weren’t getting very far. At least they were almost to a point where they had enough evidence to file formal charges against the prison. They just needed one prisoner to talk— truly talk. Once they had that, they could bring the entire DMLE in. 

Which was another reason she needed to figure out how to get Malfoy alone. She needed to sneak away to his cell somehow. If she could do that, then maybe that’s how she could get around the guards silencing him. 

“Are you even listening to me?” he scoffed.

Her attention snapped back into place at Blaise’s irritated tone.

“I’m not mad at you. I understand why you kept things quiet,” he told her. “I just—” He cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Her eyes drifted to the fireplace, and her lips curved slightly. “If you aren’t mad, then why are we arguing?” 

He let out a disbelieving huff, rolling his eyes at her as he leaned back in his seat. “Salazar, help me,” he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. “Look— if I were raking in the kind of gold you are right now, I would do anything my client wanted. And more. At the rate you’re going, we might at least be able to afford a better office space in a few months. Maybe even hire a receptionist.”

Her head whipped back over to him so fast she felt a small pull in her neck. “What do you mean? How much are we making from this account?”

Blaise’s face went slack before shooting her a sharp look. It seemed to take him a second to process what she’d just asked. “Are you telling me you don’t know how much you’re charging your own client? Hermione, what the actual fuck.”

Her face burned. “I just said to pay whatever they thought was fair…”

“That’s not how business works,” he groaned, dragging his hands down his face. He shook his head. “I can’t even…”

“Well, it’s clearly good enough if we’re apparently ‘rolling in gold’ now.”

His face said he was done with her, but he couldn’t hide the small grin that tugged at his lips. “Now’s not the time for jokes. Now tell me— who is this client?”

Hermione debated telling him. She really did. 

Torn between telling him, because she knew Blaise would be respectful, and had the right to know— and the fear Narcissa felt that day, which still stuck with her. She’d been so adamant that no one could know, and it was that image that held her back still. 

Malfoy’s safety was a top priority. 

But was he really safe? 

Hermione knew she was being tortured in Azkaban. The benefit of more people knowing meant more people who could help her get what she needed to find a legal way to get him out of there. However, it also meant more people who might say the wrong thing to the wrong person, and have him killed because of it. 

Was that worth the risk?

Her lips parted, opening her mouth to reply…but nothing came out. She didn’t have an answer to her questions, and that scared her. Her entire life, she’d always prided herself on the fact that there wasn’t anything she couldn’t solve. Nothing that she couldn’t overcome if she put her mind to it. But this was different. This was someone’s life she held in her hands, and not in the same way as Harry, because he’d had support everywhere. Malfoy barely had anyone. So it was up to her.

Her words and her mind held the power to either be the reason he walked out free or the reason he didn’t. 

And she’d already failed him once. 

A throat cleared, and both she and Blaise turned quickly. Narcissa was there, standing in the doorway, wearing the same cloak as before, shrouding her in mystery. Hermione held her breath, none of them moving, but waiting for whatever was about to happen.

“The reason,” Narcissa said finally, hood still firmly in place, “for all the secrecy is for safety. The safety of my son.” Then her delicate hands pushed the fabric back, revealing herself. 

Blaise’s breath hitched, and she looked over to him when she heard it. His jaw went slack, shock flickering across his face before he stood and crossed the room quickly and engulfed her in a hug. “Narcissa,” he breathed out in disbelief. “It’s so good to see you.”

They both pulled back slightly, and she cradled his face in her hands. “Blaise,” she whispered, her voice cracking even as she smiled softly at him. “It’s so good to see you too. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner…”

His expression changed when she apologized, the realization finally hitting him. His face hardened in a blend of disappointment and anger as he straightened his posture again. “Why didn’t you?” he asked sharply. “Draco was— and is— one of my best friends. You know that. So you must know, too, that I would never do anything that would jeopardize his safety.”

Narcissa didn’t answer right away, just motioned for them to take their seats again. She sat in one of the empty chairs, smoothing her hands over the front of her robes nervously as she took a steadying breath. “I do, Blaise. Of course.” There was another pause as she folded her hands in her lap. “I chose to withhold my involvement because Azkaban has proven itself as corrupt and untrustworthy. Although it is technically a separate entity, it’s still an extension of the Ministry. There are quite a number of powerful people who are in control, and no true way of knowing who is involved. I couldn’t risk exposing you to that sort of danger.”

“Yet you involved Hermione,” he said flatly. 

“I hired her,” she corrected gently. “I knew that if anyone could get away with snooping around, it would be her.” 

To his credit, Blaise stayed quiet after that. No one spoke again, silence sitting heavy in the air, causing Hermione to shift in her seat. Blaise and Malfoy had always been close in school, she remembered them always being together. So it was no wonder that he was feeling hurt over being left out. She knew he wanted to do whatever he could to help his friend. 

“Well,” he said, breaking the silence. “I know now. What can I do to help?”

Narcissa turned to her and gave a tired smile. “Why don’t you bring Blaise up to speed and update us on what you’ve found so far?” 

Hermione nodded, then told him everything. Starting with what she’d seen at the prison, the visitations being withheld from the prisoners— and from her and Harry, then explaining their interactions with the Warden and her suspicion regarding the way they were being treated. She spoke about the odd behavior and various conditions of the older and younger Death Eaters, and ended with Ron’s comment about the possibility that someone was conducting experiments on them.  

When she’d finished speaking, the silence in the air was heavier than it had been minutes ago. Blaise was visibly enraged, and poor Narcissa seemed to be on the verge of tears. She felt bad, reaching over her desk to take the woman’s hand.

“I’m sorry that I had to tell you this way. If it had been just you… I would have chosen my words a bit more carefully.”

Narcissa’s eyes sharpened— looking more like the calm and collected version of herself that Hermione had remembered from their childhood. Despite her delicate and polished exterior, there was no misunderstanding from Blaise or herself that Narcissa was not one to be messed with. “I’m glad you told me the way you did. I want the truth, Miss Granger, not the watered-down version meant to spare my feelings. Do not think I’m too fragile to handle whatever you discover. I won’t break.”

Guilt rushed through her immediately. She had still kept one detail from both of them— that Malfoy and the younger Death Eaters had all been forcibly silenced for their interviews. Despite her insistence, the cruelty of it was not something she thought Narcissa needed to hear. She would tell Blaise in private later.

The conversation shifted into a discussion of strategies and drafted plans for the better part of an hour. It wasn’t until the clock struck ten that they became aware of how late it was. Narcissa took her leave, saying goodbye to Blaise and Hermione, and leaving them alone again. She expected him to grill her immediately after, but to her surprise, he hadn’t yet. He now seemed one hundred percent on board with her involvement in the case and was fiercely committed to helping. He insisted on being part of the interviews and wanted her to connect him with Harry directly. That part of the discussion led to her finally filling him in on what she hadn’t disclosed earlier. His reaction was just like hers had been, disturbed and outraged all at once, and they discussed that situation a bit more until exhaustion finally started to take over.

“So, what’s your plan for getting to speak to Draco privately?” he asked, stretching his arms above his head. “Or do you not have one yet?”

She bit her lip, contemplating her response. “Harry and I have a half-concocted plan— though now that you’re involved, it might be more feasible.”

He looked at her expectantly, drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk, but she didn’t say anything further.

“Well? What is it?”

She paused, meeting his gaze, and took a deep breath. 

“Harry has an invisibility cloak.” 

***

Draco lay curled on top of his cot, riddled with crippling pain. The cold, damp cell only made things worse. Every nerve was screaming under his skin. 

The guards had been merciless, nearly beating him within an inch of his life. It was only just when he’d reached the point where he couldn’t take any more, silently praying for death, that the healer stepped in and healed most of his major external wounds. She’d given him a quick potion for any life-threatening injuries, but they’d left enough of him still bruised and bleeding so that the pain still lingered. Every movement was an agonizing reminder of everything they’d done to him. Not just to his body. 

But his mind, too. 

He was tired. 

Merlin, he was so tired.

He’d thought that being tortured by the Dark Lord had been bad during the war, but now even that paled in comparison. Because this? The years of daily torture he was currently living with… were worse. And he hated himself for secretly wishing the Dark Lord had just killed him back then. Because deep down, he selfishly wanted a life. One outside of this place.   

Death was a mercy he could not grant himself, and freedom was a dream he would never obtain.

How had he gotten here? What choice in life could he have made differently that would’ve saved him from living in this hell? He tried to think back. To figure it out. 

Immediately, Dumbledore’s offer came to mind. His old headmaster had offered to help him that night on the astronomy tower, and he’d been tempted. He really had. But he knew at that point that it was too late. There was no way that an old and dying man could offer the type of protection his mother needed. Draco would’ve done anything for her— he still would, hence why he’d even ended up on the wrong side of the war to start with. 

No. That offer had been too little, too late.

He thought back to Professor McGonagall, the only professor who’d asked him if he was okay during sixth year. The only one who’d looked at him with any concern. If he’d told her the truth, would it have mattered? Would she have been able to help him? Probably not.

He knew who could’ve helped. The only one who would’ve understood— and it was the one person he’d pushed away the hardest. Granger. He’d spent more time with her during sixth year than he ever had before. It had been both a blessing and a curse to have ended up partnered with her. Even his friends who truly cared for him hadn’t pestered him the way she had. The constant questions, that stubborn concern for his health. Always pushing him to actually do his schoolwork. 

He’d hated it at first. But after a couple of months, he’d softened up to her. Slowly, but surely, that stubborn witch had chipped away at his defenses until he found himself wanting to be better. Not just for himself, but for her. He wanted to earn her approval. Maybe even her friendship. 

Fear had been the reason he’d pushed her away. It had been fear that had made him make her hate him. A part of him had always known that the task he’d been assigned was a death sentence. He knew his failure was practically expected, and involving her in any way would’ve gotten her killed. 

So, instead, he did the one thing he’d always been good at doing. Instead of opening up and letting her in, he shoved her away. 

Out of all the opportunities in his life that he’d had for someone to help him, Granger would’ve been the one to succeed. Dwelling on the past and his mistakes only caused him more pain. 

At least they hadn’t found her in his mind. He was beyond lucky for that. The only memory they’d had access to was that night at the manor. That memory alone was enough to torture him for the rest of his life, even without them. Out of all the memories that the Warden and that psychotic healer had plucked from his brain, it was by far the worst. The guilt he harbored from standing there while she was tortured was enough to drown him. 

If they only knew just how much that memory weighed on his soul, there was no doubt that they would use it against him daily. 

He could see her still when he thought about it. The way her wide, chestnut-brown eyes had stared at him through the bars of his cell. The shock and horror was apparent as she took in his battered appearance. Those eyes had always shown every good, genuine, untainted part of her soul. There was so much light inside of her that it stole the breath from his lungs.  

The day he’d been dragged from his cell and silenced before he’d been brought to her had been one of the worst days he’d had. The agony of not being able to speak with her, to actually tell her what was really going on inside Azkaban, had torn him apart. Even her soft voice and the way she spoke to him like she understood, was its own form of torture.

Her promise to help him, he knew, was only going to give him false hope. There was nothing she could do. Nothing could change this place. He was going to die alone in this godforsaken prison. 

And he was okay with that.

Draco jolted awake, disoriented and unaware that he had nodded off. That slow dripping sound, as maddening as it was, was the only thing he could grasp onto as a grounding point as reality crashed into him. And it was like that every time he woke. Even still, it took a moment for his brain to catch up to his body and to remember where he was. There was still that naive part of him that always thought that one day he’d wake up back in his bed at the manor, or at Hogwarts, and all of this would be some long, horrid dream.

That day had yet to come. 

He could hear the heavy scuffing sound of boots on the stone floor outside of his cell. He must have missed the last dose of the suppressant when he was sleeping. Every hour, one of them would walk up and down, ensuring that everyone was secure and the gas had been effective. Then after, Draco would have at least one blissful hour of silence. 

The door at the end of the cell block slammed shut, confirming the guard had left. Draco sat up, tucking his knees up to his chest and resting his head against them.

Day in and day out. It was always the same.

Until it wasn’t.

“Psst.” 

He lifted his head, squinting in the low light and glancing around. He could have sworn he had just heard something…

“Psst.” 

There it was again. 

He stood slowly, his body protesting the movement, but he had to know what the sound was and where it was coming from.

“Psst— Malfoy,” a voice whispered. 

He froze. The sound had been a voice. Someone was calling his name, but he couldn’t see anyone. He carefully reached out and gripped the bars, trying to peer down the hallway, but still he saw no one. No guards. No prisoners.

He’d finally lost it. He was hearing voices now.

“Malfoy.” 

The voice was so close that time that it caused him to jump back slightly.

Then out of nowhere, just a head appeared. Not a body. Just the head. And not just any head— it was Granger’s.

“What the fu—”

“Shhh,” she hissed, moving closer to the bars. “Do you want us to get caught?” 

His eyes darted up and down the walkway, searching for a guard or anyone else who might see. “What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered. “Are you mad? You’re going to get us caught.”

“So they only silence you for the interviews. Good.” She pulled the cloak up like a hood, keeping the back of her completely invisible, and tucked it tight in front of her chin so that only her face was exposed. “Sit,” she whispered, lowering herself to the ground and motioning for him to do the same.

“Granger,” he croaked out, his voice cracking halfway through her name. 

“Keep it down,” she scolded. “We only have about an hour before the guard comes back through, and I have to follow him back out.” 

His brows pinched together as he stared at her. He knew she was wearing an invisibility cloak, but it was the best one he’d ever seen. 

“How are you here?”

“That’s not important. What’s important is that I am here. This is Harry’s cloak, and we don’t have much time,” she said quickly. “I took an educated guess that they might’ve only been taking away your ability to speak for our interviews. I’m sorry it took me so long, but I had to come up with a plan on how to get to you.” 

His mind spun. She must have studied the guard’s rotation, slipped in unnoticed, made her way through the prison, and gotten to this ward. It’s impossible. Brilliant. 

“Yes, it is brilliant,” she said softly. Her mouth twitched like she wanted to smile.

Shit— he hadn’t realized he had spoken out loud. 

“Like I said, we don’t have a lot of time,” she reminded him. “I need you to tell me what’s going on in here. We’re trying to draft up charges against Azkaban. You’re not the only one who was unfairly sentenced. There are a bunch of you, and I’m working on a plan to get you out.”

“My sentence was fair,” he said flatly. “I deserve to be here.”

Her eyes widened a fraction before narrowing, fire flashing in them. “You most certainly do not, Malfoy. I’m not going to sit here and argue with you about it either. I have a series of questions to ask you, and I need you to be completely honest with me. Ok?”

His hands shook against the bars. He didn’t want her to ask the questions. He didn’t want her to know. 

But underneath that fear was the truth that he did. 

Her head tilted slightly to each side as she rolled her neck. “Do they hurt you?” 

More than you could ever know. 

“Yes.” 

“Mentally? Physically?” she pressed. 

“Both.” The word came out so low he wasn’t sure she heard him. 

Her eyes flicked around the cell, as if searching for something that wasn’t there. “How often?” 

Draco’s tongue thickened. The words felt like sand in his mouth. “I don’t know. Maybe every other day? Every few days?” 

“Every few… What do they do to you?” she asked, horrified.

He shook his head, not wanting to answer her. 

Her lips pressed into a tight line. “Malfoy, I need to know. I know it’s difficult, but please.” 

He raised a trembling hand to his face and swallowed hard. 

“They… They—” His throat tightened around the words. He couldn’t get the answer out. 

“How about I ask you and you just nod. Would that be ok?” 

The tone in her voice was so genuine. Caring. Filled with concern— not pity. He nodded. Maybe that would be easier. 

“Are they beating you?” 

He shuddered, then nodded reluctantly. 

“Does that happen in your cell? Or do they take you somewhere else?”

His heart was pounding in his chest. 

“Both,” he whispered again.

“Do they ever torture you?” 

Another nod.

She sucked in a sharp breath. “How?” 

He swallowed hard, avoiding looking at her. His throat felt tight again. 

“My memories.” 

“What do you mean?” 

He shook his head as fear took over. He wouldn’t tell her.

He couldn’t tell her. 

When he looked back up, she was staring hard at him with her jaw tight. She made a sound that sounded like a hum and a huff and then pressed her lips together again. 

When Draco glanced back up, he found a hardened expression on her face. “Hmm.” She pressed her lips together. “Is there anyone who is kind to you here?” 

He opened his mouth to say no, then paused. There was one person. “A guard. He… he’s nice to me. Always brings me a sandwich when he’s on shift. I can’t usually keep it down— but still. He tries.”

She blinked rapidly, as if trying to push away something that crossed her mind. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

Shame burned through him. It was embarrassing, and he hated that she knew how weak he’d become. He hated that she even had the smallest knowledge of what they were doing to him here. He should’ve just kept his mouth shut. 

“Do you know his name? The guard, I mean?” 

He shook his head. He had never even thought to ask. 

“Do you think he would help us? Maybe speak about what goes on here?” 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. 

“The next time he brings you a sandwich, do you— do you think you could ask him his name?” 

He nodded. That was something he could do. 

She rummaged around underneath the cloak and then pulled out a small vial, uncorking it and passing it through the bars to him. “Here. Drink this.”

His hand trembled as he reached for it, his fingers brushing against hers. Her skin was soft against his, and it made his skin prickle, the hairs on his arms standing on end. Their eyes met, and he tipped the potion back, downing it in one go. 

“That’s a nutrition draught,” she murmured, biting at her bottom lip. “I have a few more… Do you have somewhere you can hide them? They might help you be able to eventually keep the sandwiches down.” 

Another second passed, then he gave a nod. There was a loose stone in the corner of his cell, just large enough that he could hide something behind it if he needed to. 

An alarm rang out, and immediately panic rose within him. 

Shit. 

She needed to leave. Quickly.

“Granger, they’re about to release the suppressant. If you don’t leave—”

She didn’t panic, just reached into her cloak again for her wand. With a quick movement of her wrist, she cast a bubblehead charm on herself and then on him. He felt the cool air brush over his skin as the charm settled, and he inhaled slowly. It was the only clean air he’d had in years.

He heard the soft hiss of the gas being released, but for the first time, Draco was unaffected. 

The gas settled in the air around them, but for the first time, it didn’t reach him. He savored that realization for a moment, a smile stretching across his face slowly. She waited another minute or so before she removed the charm. 

“I know they will just gas you again in an hour, but I thought you deserved at least one hour with your magic.” 

She shoved the vials at him, pressing them into his hands as she tugged the cloak completely over herself again. 

His eyes burned as they watered slightly from her kindness. It wasn’t much, but it was something. 

“Thank you.” 

The door at the end of the walkway opened, and Draco could hear the guard’s boots as he walked. 

“I’ll be back,” she promised. 

After a few seconds, the guard passed by his cell, glancing around as he usually did. Draco’s hand stayed wrapped firmly around the vials, careful not to break them. He just needed to hide them completely. 

When the door at the other end of the ward slammed shut, the air felt thick again.

He knew she was gone.

Chapter Text

Malfoy? What would you do if you were to get out of here? 

Live.

The only days Draco held any flicker of happiness were the days Granger visited. Her presence, however brief, stirred something to life in the hollowness he usually felt in his soul. For the first time since setting foot in his cell, he allowed himself to dream of a day when he would be free. When he could step outside and breathe in the fresh air, he could feel the grass beneath his feet. The thought of sleeping somewhere warm, of being clean, and feeling his magic under his skin again, slipped into his thoughts more often now. 

She gave him hope. 

Even if it was fleeting.

Whenever she visited, it always started the same way. She would update him on the progress of her investigations, ask him about more information on what was happening inside the prison, and slip him nutrition potions. Any remaining time was spent just talking. She’d tell him about her work with Blaise, how his mother was doing, and news about his friends.

Merlin, she even looked up Quidditch stats because she thought it would be something he would be interested in. She’d fumbled her way through trying to memorize the teams, rattling off wins and losses from the notes she’d jotted down. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he didn’t really care— because just the sound of her voice was enough. 

That day had been particularly brutal, after he’d been subject to hours of torture, and he’d barely been in his cell for that long when she finally arrived.

His mind had still been on the memory they’d forced him to relive, yet her words grounded him and kept him tethered back to reality. He would have done anything just to hear her speak a little bit longer. 

Sometimes they spoke of the past. She’d ask about his childhood, or what his time at Hogwarts had been like before everything had started with the war. He always answered. But he preferred when she was the one talking, and not about him but about herself. He now knew that her favorite color was purple, and fall was her favorite time of the year because she loved how the leaves changed color. Ancient Runes had been both her favorite and her least favorite class, and the mangy cat she’d had, Crooks, had unfortunately passed away last year.

“Malfoy? What do you miss most about being free?” 

She’d asked him that day, leaning against the bars of his cell. The answer had come out quietly, but honestly.

“The warmth of touch.”

He had to admit— he was feeling stronger because of her. The potions she kept bringing were helping immensely, and he’d even managed to keep down the sandwich that Dennis had brought him yesterday. It had taken three days after her first visit for the guard to be on his rotation again. Embarrassed, he’d finally managed to get his name, Dennis, and was able to tell Granger.

He couldn’t properly convey to her how much she was helping him. She apologized to him repeatedly for her failure to get him out sooner, but she had no idea that just by trying, she was already helpful.

It had been so long since anyone had cared. 

Especially about him. 

Each time she left, he’d spend the next hour practicing wandless magic— making various objects levitate, or even summoning things. For that one hour, he felt like himself. Whole. Powerful. It didn’t matter how long he spent with his magic being suppressed; he’d never gotten used to the feeling without it. 

So each time, after the hour had passed and the suppressants were released again, he’d spend another hour shaking on the floor. He imagined it was what it felt like for addicts to go through a potion withdrawal. His body would convulse, he’d break out into a sweat, and everything inside hurt in a different way than any other type of pain. He’d briefly thought about telling her to stop applying the Bubblehead charm— but the thought of losing time with his magic was unfathomable. Despite what he’d have to go through later. 

So he didn’t ask her to stop, and he never told her about what happened. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t tell her much of anything if he was being completely honest.

“Could you please tell me what they do to you? Please, Malfoy— I need to know more to try and get you out.” 

“You don’t want to know, Granger.”

It never mattered how many times he told her no. She always kept trying. 

Closing his eyes, Draco replayed their last conversation in his mind. He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips when he pictured her mouth and how it gave away exactly how she was feeling at any particular moment. Granger was the most expressive person he’d ever met. Every emotion, every thought, was easy to tell. 

The all too familiar sound of the door to the ward opening snapped him back to attention. He sat up, straining to listen as the guard walked down the hall. He willed himself to stay calm, to not act any differently, because if they sensed any change or noticed his excitement, they’d realize something was amiss. Which was the last thing he needed for himself. Or her. 

All he wanted was to see her again. Every day, he waited and prayed to whatever gods might hear him, for her to visit that day.

The moment the door shut again, he bolted towards the bars. His eyes scanned over the parts of the hall he could see, even though he knew he couldn’t see her, even if she was there. He sucked in a breath, waiting in silence for any clue. 

“Psst.” 

His heart leapt forward. She’d come. 

“Hi,” he whispered. 

“Hi yourself,” she replied, arranging the cloak carefully so her face was visible. “How are you feeling?”

Her eyes were always wide, laced with concern. He could almost feel the warmth in the rich brown of them as she checked him over. He tried to smile, hoping it might alleviate some of her worry. “About the same,” he admitted. 

Her brows pinched together, and he could tell she was unsatisfied by his answer. “Oh,” she said quietly. “I thought maybe the potions would be helping…”

Shit. 

He should’ve just told her he was feeling better. Now she looked even more concerned than she had before. Merlin, he was so bad at this now. He had no idea how to communicate with someone anymore. “They are,” he said quickly, trying to reassure her. “Loads.”

“Malfoy, you just told me you feel about the same. You can’t backtrack and say—”

“I am feeling stronger. I just—” he blew out a breath, running a hand through his dirty, tangled hair. “Nothing has changed here. It’s still the same.” 

A guilty, almost apologetic look crossed her face. “I’m trying. Truly, I am.” She reached out to him, slipping her hand through the bars to touch his arm gently. The warmth of her hand sent a shiver through him. “Blaise, Harry, and I… we’re so close.”

He closed his eyes, savoring her words. The two parts of him, the one who believed in her and the other that only ever spewed doubt, were still always at war. No matter how many times he tried not to let that doubt in, he couldn’t help it. That voice, for some reason, was louder than the rest. 

“I know,” he murmured, letting himself bask in the feeling of how gentle her touch was.

“Is there anything you can tell me?” she pressed, squeezing his arm gently. “Anything at all?” 

He wanted to tell her. He did.

He wanted to open his mouth and let every secret spill from his lips. But every time he tried, the words never came out. He didn’t know if it was fear holding him back— or something more. Whatever it was made him keep it all inside. So, just like every time before, he stayed silent and shook his head. 

As always, she didn’t press him further, despite how badly he knew she wanted to. He thought maybe she thought he’d break if she pushed too hard. He knew she needed him to tell her more. He understood why.

But the words felt scrambled inside his brain. 

He watched her bite her lip like she was contemplating whatever she was about to say. 

“I brought something with me,” she finally said, reaching into the cloak. “I thought maybe…” She pulled out a book, holding it in her hands for a moment. ‘I— never mind.” She held the book through the bars, clearing her throat quietly. “I wanted you to have something to read. To occupy your mind.”

He stared at the book in her hand, but didn’t reach for it. He wasn’t allowed books— or really any personal items at all. And if he was caught with it…

“I—” he swallowed hard. “I don’t have a place to hide something that large.” 

Her face fell. Immediately, he felt bad.

“Oh.” She pulled it back towards her, moving to tuck it under the invisibility cloak. “Maybe—” he paused, unsure of what to say. “Maybe you could read it to me?”

Her eyes widened, and the corner of her mouth twitched in a small smile. “Alright.”

She slid down to the floor, letting the cloak engulf her completely, and leaned back against the bars. He mirrored her, sitting back-to-back with her, staring at the wall across from him. 

Granger cleared her throat, a hint of nervousness in her voice. “It’s a Muggle novel… I hope you don’t m—” 

“I don’t care,” he interrupted, his voice low and gruff.

He heard her exhale, and then she began to read.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may…” 

Her voice was soft, refreshing, washing over him like rain on a hot summer’s day. He tipped his head back, closing his eyes and letting himself relax as she continued.

“I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others, and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humored as Lydia. But you are always giving her the preference—” 

His eyes opened again, a crease forming between her brows. “I’m sorry,” he said, stopping her. “Did the mother just say that her one daughter is half as pretty or funny as the rest of them? What a bloody wild thing to say about their child,” he grumbled. “What type of story are you reading to me?”

She laughed softly, and although he couldn’t see it, he could hear the smile in her voice. “Yes, she did. This is a very famous Muggle novel called Pride and Prejudice.”

“The mother sounds horrid.”

Her back shook against his as she continued to laugh under her breath. “All the characters require growth. It’s called character development, Malfoy. Now hush and let me read.”

“They have none of them,” she continued, and he let himself get lost in the calm way she spoke. 

The more she read, the more he became absorbed in the story and away from the sound of her voice. He had to admit, it was a welcome distraction. 

Before long, the alarm sounded, and Granger quickly cast the charm on them, but once the gas had subsided, the warmth of her back against his disappeared, and he heard shuffling as she moved to stand. 

“I’ll be back soon—” she started to say, but stopped. 

The door creaked open, but instead of the usual one set of footsteps… There were several. 

His stomach dropped, and fear gripped his chest tightly. 

“Whatever happens,” he whispered frantically, “do not make a sound. No matter what you see. Promise me.”

“Malfoy, what’s—”

“Promise me, Granger.”

“I promise,” she said.

“Prisoner 457392,” the guard bellowed. “Step away from the bars.”

Draco took two steps back, hands raised in surrender. He’d been praying it wasn’t going to be him today, but those prayers clearly went unanswered. 

She needed to leave. He couldn’t let her see this…

“Hands against the wall, prisoner 457392. You know the drill.” 

He heard the key turning in the lock and quickly turned, placing his hands against the wall. Two sets of footsteps entered, and then he was shoved roughly against the wall. 

“It’s your lucky day, prisoner,” the guard sneered. “Warden wants to see you.”

Rough hands groped him, patting him down, and he was thankful that he hadn’t taken the book or had one of the potions on him. 

“Mmm— working out again? You know how much I love that.”

He was slammed against the wall again as the guard forced his wrists behind his back. The cold metal of the cuffs bit into his skin as they were latched into place. They whipped him around, and a fist collided with his stomach, causing him to double over as his breath caught in his throat.

“Quiet,” Draco hissed, through clenched teeth. “Please.” 

Pain bloomed across his cheek from the next hit. “I didn’t say anything to you, fucker.” 

“Don’t—” 

He was trying to warn Granger to stay quiet and hidden, but every time he opened his mouth, he was struck again. Strong arms tugged him forward, dragging him out of his cell and down the hall. His body protested against the movement, his body still processing the pain, but he forced his feet to cooperate. It was better if he complied. 

By the time they’d reached the interrogation room, Draco was in full-blown panic. He had no idea what had happened with Granger. Had she gotten out already? How would she escape if she hadn’t? What if she’d followed them down here? That last thought made his heart beat even faster. 

His eyes darted to the large window overlooking the hall. He’d never really paid attention before— but the room had clearly been designed for viewing. 

For a spectacle. 

The Warden was already in the room, along with the healer, and he thrashed against the guard’s hold on him as they forced him towards the table. He wouldn’t keep still, even as they strapped him down. The taste of blood stuck to his tongue, coating his mouth as he fought to stay conscious. The energy was finally wearing out of him as the pain flared again.

“He’s awake this time,” the Warden remarked. “Much better condition than before.” 

He kept his eyes on the Warden as he moved around the exam table, his steps slow and steady. “I think we should do a new memory today,” he said, stopping and fixing his cold gaze on the healer. “What do you think, Healer Stross?”

“A brilliant idea,” she replied, pointing her wand at Draco’s head. “Legilimens.” 

“Do you have it?” The Warden asked. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good. Put him under.” 

Draco’s legs and arms tugged at the restraints again, his magic pulsing just beneath the surface of his skin. The guard approached, grabbing his arm in a harsh grip— and then a burst of magic surged through him, knocking the guard backwards. 

“I thought he was gassed!” the Warden yelled, grabbing his wand tightly. 

“He was,” the other guard yelled back. “We released it just before we grabbed him.” 

The Warden’s wand lifted. “Stupify.”

***

February, 1997 

“Malfoy! Are you even paying attention?” Hermione hissed in frustration. “Malfoy!”

His head snapped up, his grey eyes locking with hers. “What do you want?” he growled, causing her to shrink back. 

She blinked. “Is something going on? You look—” 

He slammed his book shut, standing up abruptly, his gaze shifting into a glare. “Leave me alone, Granger.” 

“Malfoy…” 

“I SAID LEAVE ME ALONE!” 

***

Hermione stood outside the interrogation room, screaming at the top of her lungs. She was still tucked safely beneath Harry’s invisibility cloak, out of sight. When they’d entered Malfoy’s cell, she’d had the quick thinking to cast a nonverbal Muffliato on herself and followed them all the way to the room he was in now. 

And she was testing the limits of the spell as she let out all of her frustration— loud to her ears, but silent in the space around her. She felt responsible for the accidental magic he’d displayed when he was first brought in. What if they punished him? Or investigated how he was able to use his magic again, suddenly?

The idea terrified her. 

Now, she could only watch, unable to do anything, as Malfoy thrashed on the table. He was clearly under some sort of spell. His body jerked and twitched, but his eyes remained shut. She hadn’t been able to slip into the room quickly enough, and the door was locked by the time she reached it. She couldn’t risk being caught— sneaking around without clearance in Azkaban was a highly punishable offence, and whatever she brought to the Wizengamot after something like that would be immediately dismissed. And what frustrated her even more was that she couldn’t use the memory as evidence because it was obtained illegally. Her only small hope was that maybe now that she knew what was happening, he might be more open with her. 

So as much as she hated it, she had to be careful. 

But every time the guard struck him, she felt it. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks each time he grunted in pain. 

So she screamed. 

Screamed because Malfoy was helpless. 

Screamed because she felt helpless. 

Screamed because she still couldn’t believe any of this was going on, and no one knew. 

No one cared.

Thirty minutes passed, and Malfoy was still strapped to the table, his head shaking side to side, his body still twitching as if he was in a nightmare. The Warden stood to one side, pacing back and forth every so often, but his eyes remained locked on Malfoy. There was a healer standing next to Malfoy’s head, leaning slightly over him, sweat beading on her brows. 

She reluctantly looked away, glancing down at her watch. She knew she’d have to find a way to get back to the entrance soon. Harry and Blaise would be wrapping up their interviews, and she’d need to catch the ferry with them in order to get off the island.

Her eyes flicked back to the window. 

She didn’t want to leave Malfoy. She wanted to be there when he was brought back to his cell so that he wasn’t alone. Deep down, she knew she couldn’t. It was more dangerous for both of them if she stuck around than it was to leave him be. She had to be smart. Even when everything in her wanted to just step in and stop it. 

There was also a bit of underlying concern about just how attached she was to this case… and to Malfoy. Seeing him brought up memories of the past. Memories she hadn’t thought of for years. It had started to become somewhat of an obsession. She looked forward to sneaking into Azkaban just to see him. The time they spent together had started to become the highlight of her day, even if it was painful to see him living in the conditions he was, and being reduced to such a state. 

Unable to stay a moment longer, she forced herself to move in the direction she had come from. It didn’t take long for her to get lost as she wandered down the halls. Everything looked the same, and there were no windows or markings she could use as navigation. The dim lighting didn’t help matters either.

She tried to stay calm, even as the panic started to creep in. Then, a few minutes later, and much to her relief, she recognized where she was when she passed by another large window with that glass enclosure inside. She slowed down, peering inside, and her breath caught when she saw that woman back in her cell. The woman was sitting there calmly, cross-legged on the bed inside, and reading the book resting in her lap.

Without thinking, she reached for the door handle and pulled. To her surprise, it was unlocked, and she found herself standing directly in front of one of the glass walls. 

Up close, the woman was much younger than she’d appeared the first time. Her long, flowing black hair fell in soft waves around her face, and her skin was smooth and almost porcelain colored. But warmed by the slight flush that gave her cheeks just a hint of color. She still wore prison robes. They were clean, but hung off her slender frame. Even though she was sitting, curled up, Hermione could tell that she was taller than most witches.

“Who's there?” the witch asked, her eyes never rising from her book. 

Hermione went still. Moving carefully to make sure the cloak was secured firmly around her, she remained silent in hopes that the witch wouldn’t notice her leaving.

The woman spoke again, tilting her head as she finally looked up from her book. “I cannot see you, but I know you’re there.”

Hermione thought for a split second before wandlessly casting a silent Finite so she could speak again.  “Who are you?” she rasped, her throat still raw from screaming. 

A slow smile spread across the witch's face. “I knew someone was there.” 

“What’s your name?” Hermione asked. She was curious, now more than ever, as to who this was. 

Her grey eyes narrowed, head tilting again. “What's in a name?” 

“No, I asked you for your name. What is it?” Hermione pressed.

She sat up straighter on the bed, a faraway look on her face as her eyes glazed over for a few moments before she spoke again. Each word was slow. Calculated. 

“Names hold knowledge. Knowledge holds power. Power holds control.” 

Hermione frowned, trying to make sense of what she’d just said. “I don’t… I don’t understand,” she mumbled.

Something was unsettling about her, almost eerie. It felt like she could see through Harry’s cloak, even though Hermione knew that she couldn’t. But it was the way she spoke, her mannerisms, the way she remained calm as if Hermione wasn’t some invisible stranger sneaking past.

“You are Hermione Granger.”

Her blood went cold, fear trickling down her spine. 

How in Merlin’s name did she know who she was? The woman couldn’t even see her. 

That spike of fear seemed to remind her where she was, and suddenly she felt that sense that she shouldn’t be there— like she was in some sort of danger. 

Slowly, she unfolded her legs and swung them over the edge of the bed to stand. She paced back and forth in front of the glass. “See, your name holds power. The ‘Golden Girl.’ The one who helped Harry Potter take down the Dark Lord.”

“How do you know who I am?” 

“I know more than you think,” she said, cackling softly. “You’re here to free the lost boys. The ones who went astray.” 

Hermione’s head hurt. The more the woman talked, the more confused she felt. “The lost… boys?” 

“To save them, you must cut off the head. The head is the power.”

Was she talking about… 

“The Warden?” 

“He doesn’t hold the power. Find the power. Cut off the head.” 

“I don’t understand,” she stammered, her throat sore.

The woman stopped pacing, stepping up to the glass and slamming her palms against it, leaning closer. The items in the cell shook slightly from the power radiating from her. “Find the head.”

“Find the head,” Hermione repeated. 

Suddenly, her head snapped up, turning towards the door as that same unfocused look fell across her face again, before she seemed to shake herself out of it. Blinking rapidly, she turned back to where Hermione was. “Go now. Right— left—stairs— top, pause ten seconds— right.”

“I don’t—”

“Go,” she hissed. “Run.”

Hermione took, yanking the door open and throwing herself through the doorway and back into the hall. She took the first right, then a left, her heart hammering in her chest. There was a stairway straight ahead, and she took the steps two at a time, stopping at the top to count to ten, before exiting and turning right. 

Relief hit. She recognized where she was now and easily found her way back to the main lobby. She waited just outside the door for someone to open it, but it didn’t take long for a guard to come by, and as soon as he passed by, she followed right behind.

Blaise and Harry were talking to the receptionist, clearly stalling until she arrived. She walked up behind them and touched Harry’s shoulder. Still slightly out of breath from everything that had just happened. 

Stepping outside, Harry turned to her, giving her a puzzled look. “What happened, ‘Mione?” he whispered. “I can hear how hard you’re breathing.”

“I—” Words failed her as she tried to process all of what had just happened. “I have so much to tell you.”

***

“Draco,” Aunt Bella cooed. “You need to feel the hatred. Let it flow through your body and out of your wand.”

He stared at the Muggle man cowering on the floor. His suit was torn and battered, skin covered in sweat, chest heaving as he tried to breathe after his aunt’s repeated use of the Cruciatus.

“Please,” the man begged. “I–I’ll do anything you want… just please let me go.” 

She laughed, the sound sharp and unhinged as it echoed off the walls of the abandoned house. “Let you go?” she mocked. “But my nephew here hasn’t finished learning the art of torture.”

Draco felt her cold fingers brush the back of his neck as she slowly walked up behind him. She slid them down his arm, circling around his wrist and guiding his wand up toward the man.

“Please… please…” the man begged. 

“Do it, Draco,” she whispered, her breath ghosting over his ear. Her voice was silky, but he knew the danger that lurked behind every word. “Feel the power. The hatred.”

His hand began to shake. Hatred. He tried desperately to recall something he truly hated. Something that would be strong enough to fuel the curse. Something real. Not the man on the floor. 

Draco didn’t hate him. 

He was just a stranger. 

Just a man. 

“Do it,” she hissed. “Restore honor to your name.”

Draco took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady as his lips formed the word.

“Crucio.”

He woke in his cell, sweat clinging to him, plastering his robes and his hair to his skin, heart hammering in his chest. He took in a ragged breath as he tried to steady his heartbeat. It was just a dream. That’s what he told himself. 

But it wasn’t. 

It was a nightmare of a memory. One that he was glad he woke up from before it had ended. 

He’d killed that Muggle… 

No.

His brows furrowed, concentrating hard. 

He hadn’t killed him...

…had he?

He couldn’t remember. 

Chapter Text

“Malfoy… please talk to me. Please…” 

“Will you at least look at me?” 

“Please…”

Hermione shut her eyes, willing away the memory of her most recent visit to Azkaban. She’d gone to visit Malfoy the day after his torture in hopes of talking to him about what she’d witnessed. But he hadn’t spoken one word to her. He wouldn’t even look in her direction.

The first thing she made sure of was that he hadn’t been silenced again. But after a quick ‘Finite,’ she quickly realized that it wasn’t that he couldn’t speak to her— it was that he didn’t want to. She’d had a small inkling of what had happened to him, but she needed to hear him say it to her. She’d seen the guards beat him, had seen him placed under some sort of spell… but after that, she didn’t fully know what he’d gone through.

She hadn’t thought it possible for him to shut down further than he had, but after she’d let it slip that she’d followed them to the lower levels, she realized she was wrong. He’d looked hollow…crestfallen. The void in his eyes had deepened, like it had swallowed him whole, and he retreated further into himself. Never saying another word. 

It took twenty minutes before she finally gave up, opening up Pride and Prejudice to read to him instead. Her heart broke more with every page she turned, knowing that the small thread of trust she’d developed with him was now thin and frayed. 

His world, already small, had become even smaller. The space between them wasn’t just filled with silence— it was filled with the shame she could practically feel radiating off of him. 

It was heartbreaking. And there was nothing she could say to convince him that what was happening to him wasn’t his fault. 

All she could do was stare at the broken man in front of her…and pretend she wasn’t breaking too. 

Harry had been called to the D.M.L.E. immediately after they’d left Azkaban, hindering any chance of them having a conversation. Back at the office, she had debriefed Blaise the best that she could, but struggled to put into words exactly what she had witnessed. She didn’t know how to describe the look in Malfoy’s eyes on that table, or the desperate way he’d begged her to keep quiet as he was beaten and dragged away by the guards sent to retrieve him. The memory played on a loop in her head all night.

She couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat.

It was like she’d left a part of herself in Azkaban yesterday, and wasn’t sure she’d ever get it back. 

Now, Harry was seated across from her after their visit today. Carefully, she explained every detail of her experience yesterday and what she’d seen. Forcing herself to stumble through the parts that still made her stomach twist. She watched the color drain from his face, his jaw tightening with every word. 

By the time she finished, he looked just as worn as she felt. It was clear that he wasn’t sleeping much either and was in need of a full night’s rest. This case was taking a toll on all of them, but it only made them more determined.

Rubbing his temples, he let out a sigh. “Tell me one more time what she said?” 

“To save them, you must cut off the head. The head is the power,” Hermione quoted. 

Scratching his chin, he leaned back in his seat. “I’m going to be quite honest with you, ‘Mione. She sounds completely barmy.” 

She pressed her lips together, biting back the retort threatening to spill out. “I’m not so sure.” 

“I mean, let’s be realistic here,” he paused, shifting in his seat and crossing his leg over his knee. “She is locked up in Azkaban for Merlin’s sake. How sane can she be?”

“Well–”

“Did she even give you her name? We can’t simply look her up– we already went through the files. We don’t actually know who she is, and we have no idea why she’s even there.”

Hermione shook her head. “No, she said names have power.” 

“See!” He threw his hands out in front of him. “Barmy! 

“I’m telling you, she was creepy as hell, but–” Hermione hesitated. 

There was something about the witch’s gaze, the way she’d stared in her direction as if she could actually see her through the invisibility cloak, and she couldn’t quite shake it. She’d also given her near-perfect instructions to help get out of the lower levels and back to the exit. 

“She got too many things right to completely discredit her.”

Harry raised a brow, looking at her over his glasses.  “A broken clock is right twice a day, ‘Mione.”

“Look, I’m not saying I’m fully trusting her, Harry. Far from it, actually. But I’m also not going to brush off what she said. If you think about it, it would make sense that there is someone above the Warden pulling the strings.”

“It would make sense,” he agreed. “Something else we can look into.” 

She let out a slow breath, relieved that Harry wasn’t completely dismissing her. “How have the interviews been? I hate that I miss most of them now.” 

She was torn. As much as she wanted to interview every prisoner, she knew that Malfoy was top priority, and she was the only one who was able to interview him. He was her primary client, and getting him to open up and actually talk about what Azkaban was truly like, was crucial. A part of her wondered how much damage had been done yesterday and worried if she’d ever be able to get him to open up again.

“Honestly?” He rubbed the back of his neck, pausing to collect his thoughts. “A lot of them are around the bend. Malnourished, half-starved, and nearly incoherent. Most can’t talk, and those who have any ability to, won’t actually talk. Not about anything that could help us, at least. Godric, it’s frustrating,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Blaise doesn’t know what to do either. We’re pouring through scraps of information and half-truths to try to piece together something. It’s infuriating.”

“And the older generation?” she asked. “Still nothing out of them?”

“Besides Carrow and her disturbing ramblings? No.” He shuddered. “Merlin, she’s vile. She offered to fuck Blaise last week– poor bloke was utterly horrified. I don’t think he knew what to do with her after that.”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh as she pictured how uncomfortable Blaise must have looked during that interaction. “Poor Blaise. I forgot to warn him about Alecto. He didn’t say anything to me about it.”

“Probably still traumatized,” Harry muttered. “Don’t think he’s recovered.” His expression went serious again, green eyes fixed on her. “So– what are you going to do about Malfoy?”

Letting out a long sigh, she rubbed her temples absentmindedly. “I’m not sure. I guess I’m going to have to spend more time regaining his trust, and hopefully he’ll start talking again.” 

Harry leaned forward. “As fucked up as it is, he is probably embarrassed that you saw. It’s one thing to know someone’s going through something like that. You already see him in the state he’s in now, but knowing you witnessed that? I’m sure it stripped away whatever bit of dignity he had left.”

“I know,” she whispered. “He shouldn’t be embarrassed, though–”

“It doesn’t matter what you think,” he pressed. “It’s how he feels. He’s in Azkaban. Trapped. Tortured. Merlin even knows what other things are happening to him…” His face softened a bit as he looked at her. “I’m sure the last thing he wanted was for you to see him that way.”

Hermione bit at her lip, her throat tight. Logically, she knew that prison had changed him. He wasn’t the same person he’d been at school– or even during the war. There was no way anyone could live under those conditions for that long without being different. They’d known that. Seen that in every other person they’d met with. 

Yet, there had been glimpses of him beneath all of the damage and pain. Small bits of proof that gave her the hope that one day, when he was finally free, he could find himself again.

“You're right,” she admitted softly. “I just need to find a way to get through to him.” 

“You two got close in sixth year. Is there anything you can draw from that?” he asked. 

“I wouldn’t have called us close. Cerci, it’s not like we were friends. We were partnered a lot because we shared so many classes. He never opened up back then. I mean, fuck– I didn’t even know he was marked. I knew that something was going on with him. I just–” she closed her eyes, swallowing down the guilt from the memories and all the signs she’d missed. “I didn’t pay enough attention, Harry. I failed him.” 

“I had my suspicions,” he pointed out with a humorless chuckle. “You were always adamant I was wrong. But even I second-guessed myself because of how much time you two spent studying together in the library. We both failed him, ‘Mione.”

That night that the Death Eaters invaded the castle was one of the memories that had always been one of the ones she hated thinking too much about. Finding out that Malfoy had been the one to let them all in… 

It had broken something inside her. She’d thought that maybe they were coming to some sort of neutral ground, or maybe even on the path to forming some kind of friendship. But she’d been wrong. 

And when she’d failed at getting him out of his sentence? She’d given up all hope. It hurt her, thinking about him locked up for that long when she’d fought to prove that he didn’t deserve to be sent to Azkaban. But it had been clear after the final verdict that there was nothing she could do to stop it. He was destined for his fate.

She’d been quiet for a moment, and Harry spoke up again when she didn’t answer. 

“You know what I don’t understand?” he asked, pulling her back from her thoughts. “Malfoy had lowered his wand when Dumbledore offered to help him. Yes, he still was responsible for letting the Death Eaters in, and it had certainly been one of the final pieces in starting the war… but he’d never killed anyone. He hadn’t identified us at Malfoy Manor when he had the opportunity– giving us the time we needed to escape. And still, the Ministry and Wizengamot were both hell-bent on locking him up. Same with the other Death Eaters who were younger. Those trials were all shams. There wasn’t any way that they were actually going to dismiss or lighten their charges.”

Cut off the head… 

“Harry–” she stopped short, running through what he’d just said. Those had been her same thoughts for months, but the pieces finally clicked. “That’s bloody brilliant.”

He gave her a puzzled look. “What?” 

“The head, Harry!” She stood from her seat and began pacing the room! “The bloody head isn’t the Warden. The corruption started long before any of those prisoners were brought to Azkaban– you just said it! Merlin, I’ve been saying it for months.” 

“‘Mione…” 

“Our testimonies didn’t matter. They were never going to matter. Malfoy’s sentence was determined long before we even got into the courtroom. Same with Goyle, Pucey, Flint… None of them committed any crimes that warranted those verdicts. Someone powerful had decided their fates beforehand. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before,” she said quickly, pacing the room. Finally, she looked up at him, her voice lowering to a fierce whisper. “Harry– it’s not Azkaban that’s the head. It’s the Ministry.”

He sat still for a moment before standing from his seat. He rounded the desk, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder to stop her pacing. “Who would that be, though? Who has that kind of power? Kingsley?”

“Honestly, Harry,” she said incredulously. “You’re telling me you can’t think of anyone who would have a vendetta against the Sacred Twenty-Eight families who turned during the war?” 

“I may be grasping at billywigs– but yes, there are a lot of people who would,” he exhaled, brow furrowing. “But still, Kingsley holds the most influence as Minister.” 

“Yes, we both know he’s powerful. He isn’t the only one.” A slow grin spread across her face. “Harry, I’m going to need you to pull some things from the Ministry Archives.” 

He let out a sigh. “What do you need, ‘Mione?” 

***

March 1997

“What did you do?”

Hermione’s head snapped up. Her eyes scanned through the abandoned corridor until they landed on Malfoy. His robes were neatly pressed, as always, but his tie was slightly askew, and he was storming towards her. 

“Malfoy,” she said coolly.

He finally reached her, backing her into the wall and pinning her there. “What did you do?” he repeated, his tone simmering with rage.

Her breath hitched as she stared directly at his chest. The scent of his cologne surrounded her, mixing with the heat radiating off of him, distracting her for a moment. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t don–”

“Lies,” he hissed. “You’ve been turning in my assignments without my consent, Granger.”

“Oh.”  

She had been doing his work for months. She figured he hadn’t caught on since he’d never mentioned it before. “How did you find out?” she asked calmly.

His eyes hardened. “Why? Why bother?” 

“Why are you mad about it? I was helping you–”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” he snapped. “Nor do I want it. Why on earth would I need the help from the likes of you?” 

Her temper flared, and she shoved at his chest, trying to put space between them. “From the likes of me? What the bloody hell does that mean, Malfoy?”

“You’re interfering in something you don’t understand.” 

“By doing your school work?” she shot back. “How is that interfering with anything, Malfoy? How?” 

“Because I didn’t ask for your help!” he shouted, pinning her against the wall again. His eyes were wild, unhinged in a way that seemed like more than just anger.   

She didn’t understand why he was so mad. So what? She’d helped him– not hurt him. She had no idea why he was reacting the way he was. 

“Well, you got my help,” she yelled back.

His hand twitched, shaking slightly by his side, before he balled it into a fist. His lips twisted into a sneer as he stared down at her. “I have never, nor will I ever, need the assistance of a Mudblood.” 

Her breath caught when the word echoed between them. She didn’t even realize she’d lifted her hand until she slapped him, hard. His head snapped to the side from the impact. Her eyes stung, tears already forming. 

“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

For the briefest second, she swore she’d seen something flicker in his expression. Sadness? Regret? It was gone before she could think anything of it. 

“Stay away from me, Granger,” he warned in a low voice. “Just–”

“Not a problem. I’m sorry I bruised your precious ego.” 

She shoved him harder, walking down the hall quickly before he could say anything back. Still blinking away the tears threatening to fall.

***

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

That relentless, maddening sound wouldn’t stop.

Why didn’t it ever stop?

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Granger had come again today. She’d been visiting more often than she had before, attempting to get him to talk to her. Each time her voice sounded more desperate as she pleaded with him, sitting carefully concealed under the cloak with her back to the bars, until she’d finally given up. 

He wanted to talk. Merlin knows he wanted to. But every word got caught in his throat as shame choked them down. He hated that she’d seen him dragged away like trash. That she’d watched him be beaten and broken. 

What was even more crippling than the embarrassment for himself– was his fear. 

Her visits were the only thing keeping him sane most days. She always brought a breath of fresh life just being there. A reminder that there was something beyond the cold, damp walls of the prison. His stomach always twisted with dread, though, when he thought about the risk she was taking. If she were ever caught, she’d be thrown into a cell, too. Tortured daily. And for what? For trying to help him? For visiting?

No. It wasn’t worth the risk. 

He couldn’t let that happen. Not for the soft sound of her voice, or the occasional brush of her skin against his. It wasn’t worth her being arrested. He’d been a fool to lose himself in that false sense of security. The Ministry had its claws in him, and they would never let him go. 

He was paying, every day, for the price of his sins.

How much longer could he survive here? 

He didn’t know the answer to that question. 

Every day bled into the next, and each one seemed worse than the day before. The guards were more brutal, unrelenting, and more vicious. He’d lost count of the number of beatings the guards had delivered, lost track of how many times the Warden had broken into his mind. It all blurred together, and he could feel himself slipping further and further from himself.

Yet, somehow, he was still here.

Though he hadn’t spoken to Granger since that day, he still continued to take the nutrition positions she slipped him. They were a small lifeline. They didn’t take away the pain– Merlin’s fucking beard, it was still horrible– but they helped with the recovery after. He found himself healing a bit quicker and sleeping a bit better at night.

He owed her for that. 

Granger.

Everything seemed to come back to her. Not just the potions, or her attempts to get through to him. It was that his mind constantly returned to her. It didn’t matter if he tried to avoid it. She was even in his dreams, which admittedly wasn’t always a bad thing. Because when he had those dreams, it was about a life outside of Azkaban.

A life with Granger.

Those were a welcome distraction, but he still felt shame when he woke. What right did he have to fantasize about a life with her? Even if he did manage to make it out of Azkaban, he had nothing to offer her. He reminded himself that anyone would be broken if they were in his position, but it didn’t bring much comfort. 

He knew the truth.

He was fucked up beyond repair.

“Oi,” a voice whispered through the bars, pulling Draco from his thoughts. “You awake?” 

He turned his head at the sound of movement nearby and found Dennis standing just outside the bars of his cell. His black uniform was neat and tidy, as always, and his light brown hair was cropped shorter than the other day. There was a brown paper bag in his hand.

Draco stood and made his way over. “Hey,” he mumbled. “Haircut?” 

Dennis grinned, a flash of bright teeth. “I did!” He fumbled with the bag for a moment, carefully pushing it through the bars into Draco’s hand. “I brought you chicken salad today. Hope that’s alright…”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Dennis always seemed so concerned about whether or not he liked the sandwiches he was brought. He knew it was genuine, but he also found it a bit annoying. Anything was better than the slop they fed him here. 

“Of course,” he muttered, opening the bag. “I told you the only thing I don’t like–”

“Tuna fish,” Dennis recited. “I remember.”

The corner of his lip twitched into a flicker of a smile. “Although I’m pretty sure I would even eat that right now,” he admitted with a dry laugh as he removed the sandwich. Sliding down the wall, he sat on the ground again and took a bite. He groaned around the first mouthful. “Do you make this yourself?”

Dennis nodded, grinning again. “Yes, indeed.” 

“Well,” he said slowly, “I’d say you’re a good cook– but I can’t imagine it’s that hard to make a sandwich.”

Dennis barked out a laugh before quickly covering his mouth to stifle it. “I doubt you have ever made a sandwich in your life, Malfoy. I’m glad you are getting your sense of humor back a bit.” 

He didn’t say anything to that. He wished he were, but it didn’t feel like it. So, he changed the subject.

“So, what’s a decent bloke like you doing in a piss-joint like this?” 

“There weren’t a lot of options for me after I graduated,” he mumbled with a shrug. “I applied to Azkaban and got the job, so…here I am.”

Draco took another bite, forcing himself to chew slowly before swallowing. “What do you mean by not a lot of options? Didn’t get good marks?”

“No, I did,” he said carefully. “It was just… yeah.”

Dennis didn’t elaborate further.

He narrowed his eyes, studying him. “Did you go to Hogwarts?”

He knew that Dennis was obviously younger than him, but he wasn’t sure if he knew him. 

“I did,” he admitted hesitantly.

“And you still couldn’t find work?” 

“It was difficult. I’ll leave it at that.” 

Maybe the war had left the economy in shambles. He had no idea what it was like out there, or how much things had changed in the aftermath. That could be the reason why Dennis struggled to find other work. He didn’t want to press because it was clear he didn’t want to talk about it, even though he suspected it had to do with something from the war. And of course, he wouldn’t expect him to want to tell a former Death Eater who was currently locked away that his decisions had made the world more difficult for everyone.

Clearing his throat, Dennis shifted back and forth uncomfortably. “So,” he whispered. “Hermione contacted me. I’m assuming it was you who told her about me? She knew I brought you sandwiches.” 

“Yes.”

“I might,” he said, swallowing and lowering his voice even further. “I might lose my job, but I’m going to testify. I can’t ignore what is going on here. I just can’t.” 

Frowning, Draco finished his last bite before answering. “Don’t lose your job on my account.” 

Dennis’s eyes went wide. “I’m not,” he stammered. “You aren’t the only one here who is treated unjustly. There are several others who are in your position. I check on them now, too. They don’t talk to me like you do, though.” 

“Who are the others?” he pressed, wondering who else was in his same position. For some reason, it brought him comfort knowing he wasn’t alone, yet simultaneously horrified that there was someone else sharing his fate.

“Pucey, Flint, and a couple others,” Dennis mumbled. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.” 

“Why not?” His heart hurt knowing that his former classmates were in the same situation as him. He was never close with them, but knew them through his family. 

“Because of what happens to you every day,” Dennis admitted. “The less you know, the better.” 

“I don’t want anyone sticking their neck out for me. You need your job and Granger- ” he paused, sucking in a breath. “Shouldn’t.”  

“Don’t worry about me, and don’t worry about Hermione. If anyone can fix this, it’s her. She has always been amazing.” 

“She is certainly something else.” 

“She–” 

The door clanked, causing both of them to jump. Dennis quickly moved one cell down and pretended to be checking on the prisoner there. Draco sank further into his cell, allowing his body to be swallowed by the shadows. 

“Prisoner 457392.”

Fuck, not again. 

Not today, he pleaded silently. 

Please, not today. 

The key turned in the lock and he took a deep breath, trying to keep himself calm.

“Prisoner 457392!” Another guard bellowed, stepping into his cell. “Turn around and put your hands against the wall.” 

The restraints clicked shut, and he kept silent. He’d been through it too many times to pretend it would ever end differently. His head struck the wall, teeth knocking together from the force, the taste of iron familiar in his mouth. It was always the same– pain, blood, more pain. He hated himself for how he had come to expect it like a routine.

“Whoops,” the guard mocked, chuckling. “Warden has something special planned for you today. He told me not to mar your pretty little face– guess I forgot.” 

When his mind came back to him, he processed the guard's words. He didn’t like the sound of ‘something special’. 

“Let’s go, Prisoner 457392. Warden’s waiting. Chop chop.”

Chapter Text

“Let’s go, Prisoner 457392. Warden’s waiting. Chop chop.” 

Draco groaned as he was forcefully shoved forward out of his cell and into the damp walkway. His head throbbed, and his vision went in and out of focus as he tried to force one foot in front of the other. He was tired. Merlin, he was so fucking tired of having to go through this. 

He didn’t want to relive another memory. 

Didn’t want to have to go through this again.

“Get moving, pretty boy,” the guard bellowed, checking his shoulder as they walked. When Draco stumbled, the guard shoved him to the ground, laughing. 

He bit back the retort on his lips. He wanted to go tell the guard to piss off, or to go fuck himself, but fighting back never did any good. It only made things worse. And at this point? He wasn’t sure he could handle more. So, Draco forced himself to stay silent, teeth digging into the side of his cheek.

By the time they shoved him into the interrogation room, his head was spinning so much his knees buckled under him. The guard’s arms shot out, steadying him slightly so he wouldn’t fall.

The Warden’s face was tense and angry, his mouth set in a tight frown as his gaze swept over Draco. 

“Thought I told you he was to be unharmed today,” the Warden said sharply. “Looks to me like Prisoner 457392 is injured.” 

The guard stilled just slightly, but Draco felt it before the man shrugged his shoulder. 

“He resisted,” he said simply, the lie coming easily. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Stun him?” he snapped. “Did you not think of that?” He scowled at the guard before turning to the healer. “Fix him up,” he said, nodding towards him. “Then give him the potion.”

Draco froze. 

Potion? What potion were they giving him? They’d never administered anything other than Skele-Gro to him. Not even a pain potion. Even that had only been once, when they’d shattered nearly every bone in his body— but wanted to fix him up enough to do it again. He could feel the small wisp of magic on the back of his head as the healer sealed the gash. The room wasn’t spinning as much, but he was still reeling from what the Warden had just said.

There was a look shared between the Warden and the healer, and with a nod of his head, she walked over to the cabinet. She pulled out a small vial, purple liquid swirling inside. As she got closer, Draco thrashed against the chains, heels sliding on the cold metal table as he twisted and turned his head the other way.

Almost instantly, his shoulders and legs were being held down. Someone on his right grabbed his chin, pressing their fingers into his cheeks until his jaw was forced open, and the healer poured a dose of it into his mouth. He held it, refusing to swallow, but her hand clamped over his nose and mouth until the burning in his lungs became too much and he relented, coughing and gasping for air when her hand pulled back.

His struggling stopped. He didn’t feel any different— body or mind. Narrowing his eyes, he twisted to look at the Warden. “What did you give me?” he hissed through his teeth. 

There was silence, and then the Warden’s lips curled into a grin. Cold and predatory. “We’ve been digging through your mind for years, Malfoy. Yet, there were still things we couldn’t quite reach. Locked up. Out of reach.” He held up the now-empty vial. “So this— this will give us access to everything.”

Draco’s breath caught, his chest felt tight, as if all the air had been torn from his lungs. He clenched his hands at his side as his mind stretched for the familiar walls of his Occlumency. 

Nothing. No shield. No barrier.

His mind was wide open. 

Terror surged through his veins, eyes widening as he kept reaching. But he couldn’t do it. For the first time since he was fifteen, he was left completely exposed. The one thing— the last shred of control that he had left— was gone. 

For years, he’d relied on the small comfort that he could at least control his mind. And even as things had become twisted and murky, when it felt like he was losing his grip, he knew those things he’d locked away had been safe. 

Until now. 

The healer leaned over his head, wand in hand, as she glanced up at the Warden. “Are we ready?”

He gave a single nod. 

Her magic pressed into his mind, like icy fingers sifting and scraping through his thoughts and memories. Panic jolted him into action as he hurled memories in her path as fast as he could. Moments from his childhood, Quidditch matches, jokes with Theo and Blaise, random times at Hogwarts— Pansy, and all the times he’d shoved her against the wall to snog her. Anything useless, disposable. 

The deeper she went, the more he pulled up. He kept focused only on anything useless or disposable, holding that shred of control tightly. Then he slipped up. It was just a flicker. A flash of curls and fierce brown eyes. 

No.

He tried to shove it back, deflecting with something else quickly— but it was too late. 

She’d seen her. 

“Got it,” she said triumphantly, pulling out of his mind. “Put him under.”

That was the last thing he heard before the darkness took him. 

The only thing he could hear beyond his pulse racing angrily in his chest was the sharp sound of his boots on the stone floor of the castle. He was livid. Seething as he caught sight of the witch up ahead, leaning against the wall in the empty corridor with a book in her hand, and completely lost in her own thoughts. 

“What did you do?”

Her head snapped up, and he watched as she glanced around quickly before she noticed him. Her brows pinched together, the corners of her lips tilting into a frown as he got closer. 

“Malfoy.”

He pressed her against the wall, pinning her there firmly. “What did you do?” he repeated. 

Granger’s breath hitched, staring at his chest as he towered over her. She was close enough that he felt the small puffs of air against his neck. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t don—”

“Lies,” he hissed. “You’ve been turning in my assignments without my consent, Granger.” 

“Oh.” 

Oh? Oh?

That was her response?

“How did you find out?” 

His eyes hardened, the calm tone of her voice only making his anger flare brighter. “Why? Why bother?” 

“Why are you mad about it? I was helping you—”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” he snapped. “Nor do I want it. Why on earth would I need the help from the likes of you?” 

He saw her own anger flash in her eyes. Good. 

“From the likes of me? What the bloody hell does that mean, Malfoy?”

She didn’t fucking get it. She had no idea how much danger she was in with the Dark Lord. The monster was in his house, holding his mother prisoner while torturing her daily as his father sat wasting away in Azkaban. If he ever got wind of how much time they spent together— or even the strange sort of friendship they’d developed... 

There would be no hesitation when he killed all of them.

“You’re interfering in something you don’t understand.” 

“By doing your school work? How is that interfering with anything, Malfoy? How?” 

“Because I didn’t ask for your help!” he shouted, pinning her against the wall again. He felt like he was on the verge of losing it. He didn’t understand why she insisted on putting her nose in everything. Bloody fucking Gryffindors. 

“Well, you got my help,” she yelled back. 

For a moment, all he could do was stare at her. She was furious. He could see it in the way her normally warm brown eyes were darker now, her cheeks were flushed, and her chest was rising and falling in quick, sharp breaths. She looked like she wanted to fight him, and Merlin, it was unraveling him. 

Even angry, she was beautiful. 

Not in the traditional, polished way that the pureblood witches he’d grown up around were. She wasn’t overly done up or covered in gloss, creams, and powder. No, not her. Hermione Granger was all wild curls, warm skin, and untamed fire. She was real, and intoxicating, and it tested his restraint endlessly. 

And he shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t for all the reasons he’d just thought of. But for one brief moment— Draco didn’t give a shit about should. He was damned anyway.

He crushed his mouth to hers, swallowing the small sound she made as he pressed his body flush to hers. Her lips were so soft against his, and it only took a moment before the hesitancy melted away and she kissed him back. Her lips parted, slowly, until her confidence kicked in and her hands tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him closer. 

She tasted divine. Like temptation, and the finest elf-made wine he’d ever had. All he could smell was honeysuckles, sweet and floral, and mixed with something that was just her. His hands fisted in her robes, pulling her closer as he deepened the kiss. He didn’t want it to end. 

When they finally pulled apart, her eyes opened wide in surprise. His throat felt tight as he swallowed, his gaze dipping down to her kiss-swollen lips. 

Fuck… what did they just do?

“Malfoy,” she breathed. “I—w-what—”

He blinked, her voice breaking through the haze. Guilt flooded him immediately. That moment of weakness, no matter how perfect it had felt, had just signed her death note. 

“We—we shouldn’t have done that,” he rasped. 

Her cheeks warmed and she laughed nervously, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “But, we did,” she murmured.

He pressed his lips together, not saying anything else. He was already wrapped up in his thoughts again. 

If she were caught during this inevitable war, they’d search her mind in a split second. She had no defenses, no way to keep things out. And if being friends with Potter wasn’t bad enough— if the Dark Lord saw that kiss, he’d kill her on the spot. Then his mother. He’d be lucky if he was. 

He had to do something— he had to fix this somehow.

If something happened to her because of him, he wouldn’t be able to handle it. She didn’t know about his mission or the mark on his arm. She had no idea that the same deranged wizard the world was terrified of was sleeping down the hall from his childhood bedroom and torturing him anytime Draco set foot in his own home. She wouldn’t have kissed him if she did. 

He had to fix it. 

Had to send her away. She needed to hate him. She needed to forget…

His wand was in his hand before he realized what he was doing. 

“Obliviate.” 

She looked up at him, her expression blank, before she shook her head, brow pinched together slightly. He dropped his hands back to his side, quickly balling them into fists and pulling his face into a sneer.

“I have never, nor will I ever, need the assistance of a Mudblood.”

Her breath caught, a single second hanging in echoing silence before his head snapped to the side. He felt the blood rush to the skin where her palm had landed. His jaw ticked, and he slowly turned back to face her, catching sight of the tears that were already forming. 

“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

He felt the sharpness of it in his heart, knowing he’d just sealed his own fate. 

“Stay away from me, Granger,” he warned. “Just—”

“Not a problem. I’m sorry I bruised your precious ego.”

Without another look back, Draco watched her disappear around the corner, then he let it all hit him. He doubled over, his breathing coming in fast, heaving gasps as he tried to collect his thoughts. The word had rolled off his tongue just as naturally as it had every other time he’d said it. Yet, this time, he didn’t feel powerful. He felt like the lowest lifeform on the planet. 

Fuck. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. What he’d just done was unforgivable.  

All you do is hurt people. 

No…I did it to save her. 

Why did you hide her from us, Prisoner 457392? Why protect her of all people? Why is she so important that you hid her so deep down in your mind?

I didn’t…

Liar. 

When Draco came to, the first thing he heard was screaming. He thrashed on the table, yanking against the chains that held him firmly in place. It was only when the guards came rushing over to him that he realized what he was doing. His body fell still as the taller of the two guards pulled out his wand and stunned him. 

The world, once again, went black. 

“Psst.”

“Psst, Malfoy?” 

“Psst.”

Groaning, he rolled over on his side and opened his eyes. He was back in his cell. Lying on his dingy cot within the same four walls. He could have sworn he had just heard a voice. His name. But his head was spinning too badly to think clearly. 

“Pst, Malfoy,” the voice hissed. 

No, he knew that voice. 

“Granger?” He croaked. “What—” 

“I don’t have time,” she whispered through the bars. “I’ve been here almost an hour already. The guard should be coming back any minute.” 

He stood, his legs unsteady. He forgot all about keeping silent and not talking to her, still so disoriented from the earlier session that his mind was sluggish and slow to catch up. “How long have I been out?”

“No clue,” she mumbled. “Here,” she shoved a handful of potions through the bars. “Take these. I don’t know when I will be back with more— we’ve finished our interviews.” 

His heart plummeted. She was done, which meant that she wouldn’t have a reason to come back. No more visits. No more stolen moments of warmth and stability that he’d had for so many months. And now they were just what? Ending? 

“Listen,” she said quickly, still rushing. “I don’t have long. But we’re so close, Malfoy. We’re compiling a list of witnesses and then can bring this entire operation to trial. When that happens—” she paused, biting her lower lip. “When it does… I need you to testify.”

Testify. The word hit him like a curse, and he recoiled, grimacing. He knew it was a possibility when all this had started. But it didn’t mean he liked it.

“Please, Malfoy. Please,” she begged. “I’m going to need your help. I know it’s difficult, I know. But when you’re called, please just cooperate and answer the question. No matter how hard it feels.”

He didn’t say anything, keeping his eyes down and his jaw tight.

“Please,” she said again, quietly. “For me.”

His throat ached. 

All he could do was nod.

***

April 1997

Patrolling the Hogwarts corridors alone at night was not something Hermione did often. Especially now, with everything brewing outside of the castle. Yet here she was, her footsteps echoing through the abandoned hallways because her Prefect partner, Ethan Humberstone, had suffered an injury during Quidditch practice earlier. A stray bludger had knocked him off his broom, and currently, he was in the infirmary while Madam Pomfrey worked on regrowing several of his bones.

If she were honest, though, she didn’t mind the time alone. She found rounds to be cumbersome sometimes because more often than not, whoever she was partnered with tended to talk too much. Ethan was thankfully the exception, quiet and reserved. The seventh-year Hufflepuff opted to walk in silence, thankfully. 

That silence meant she had time to think, which was desperately needed these days.

It was April, and Harry still hadn’t been able to get the memory from Slughorn. In fact, she was beginning to worry that he might never manage to convince their old professor to share it with him— she wasn’t even sure he had a plan on how to. Every day that passed without it created a divide between them. Whenever she tried to bring it up, he just brushed it off.

That wasn’t the only thing on her mind. 

It had been a month since she’d last spoken to Malfoy. After he’d spat that word at her, she’d made a point to speak to him as little as possible. Unless they needed to communicate something briefly during a class, she was happy to keep it that way. He hadn’t apologized. And she sure as shit wasn’t going to force him to. 

So why did she still find him slipping into her thoughts?

She blew out a frustrated breath and turned onto the seventh-floor corridor. There were far more important things to be worried about. Like keeping Harry alive, Voldemort's return—and figuring out what the hell they were going to do if, or rather when, a war actually did start. 

Malfoy, with his stupid bloody hair and his tormented appearance, was not one of those things.

But why had he called her that word? After almost an entire year of whatever truce they’d formed, why had he blurted it out with so much disdain? Like all that time had never happened. It just didn’t make sense. 

I mean, they’d become— well, the word friends didn’t quite fit, but there was definitely something between them. She’d seen the way he stared at her sometimes when he thought she wasn’t looking. His expression almost seemed… affectionate. For a while, she thought that maybe he might have fancied her a bit, but she’d told herself that was a load of rubbish. 

This was Malfoy, after all.

She scoffed to herself, humming in amusement. In no reality would the pureblood Slytherin Prince ever fancy her. She knew better than that. She was just projecting her own ridiculous fantasies onto him. She was the one who, stupidly, had developed a crush on the stupid prick. 

And where did that leave her now? 

It was foolish even to entertain the thought at all. She’d been lonely. That’s what she told herself. Ron had left her for Lavender, and Harry was torn between the two of them. She and Malfoy had worked side by side for months, and he’d just…filled the void in some strange way. To make matters worse, Malfoy looked just as torn up over it as she felt. Almost as if he regretted it.

She shook her head— time to just push him out of her mind completely. 

Staring at the ground, she focused on each step she took as she approached the end of the corridor. It had been a whole month. Time to move on. She—

Hermione collided headfirst into someone, the impact knocking her back onto the floor. Landing hard on her bum, she muttered a curse under her breath. She looked up to see who she’d run into… and was met with grey eyes. 

Malfoy.

Of course. 

He stood there, towering over her, his slightly longer hair falling over his face, shadows deep under his eyes, and brows pulled down in confusion. He took a step back, giving her room to stand, but not offering her any help. A part of her, a small part, had expected that maybe he would. Yet another foolish thought. 

Her hands smoothed over her uniform, brushing the dust off. Why was he out of bed at this hour? And so far from the dungeon— no. Not her problem. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t speaking to him anyway. Without another word, she stepped around him. But his voice stopped her. 

“Granger.”

The way he said her name, low and gravelly, sent a shiver down her spine. Slowly, she looked back at him over her shoulder. He stood still, a look of resolve on his face. 

“What do you need, Malfoy?” she spat, anger from the past month rising again.

He opened his mouth, then faltered, shifting back and forth on his feet like he was weighing what exactly he was going to say. “I didn’t mean to run into you just now. Are you—” he dragged a hand through his hair. “Are you alright?” he mumbled.

“Fine,” she clipped. “Just swell.” 

She turned to leave again. 

“I’m sorry.”

She stopped, breathing deep before she whipped around and saw Malfoy standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, and head hanging low. He wasn’t looking at her. In fact, he seemed to be looking anywhere but at her.

Her temper flared. “And what precisely are you sorry for, Malfoy? Hm?” 

Silence. 

He kept his attention on the ground as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. She waited, but he didn’t say anything further. 

She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Are you sorry for bumping into me just now? Or calling me a Mudblood the last time we spoke?” 

His jaw ticked, and a look of irritation washed over his face, but he remained silent. 

“Gods, Malfoy.” She tipped her head back and looked up at the ceiling. “You’re infuriating!” 

She looked forward again when he made a low noise in his throat. He was glaring at her now, anger burning in his eyes. “I’m sorry that I’m not in the position to say what you need to hear. I’m sorry,” he growled, pausing as he took two steps forward, “that I’m not the type of person who deserves your kindness and respect.” He stopped just in front of her, his tall frame dwarfing hers. He searched her face for something he didn’t seem to find. “And I’m sorry—that this isn’t what you need to hear from me.”  He let out a slow exhale. “But it’s all I can give you.”

Her breathing quickened, but she stood firmly in place, refusing to back down. Her eyes narrowed at him. “Why? Why is that all you can give me? Why can’t you just apologize like a normal bloody person?”

“Granger.” 

“I’ll even go first,” she told him. Taking a deep breath, she relaxed her posture and rolled her shoulders. “I’m sorry for overstepping and doing your work without asking you first. And I’m also sorry for not paying attention just now and bumping into you. See? It isn't that difficult.” 

“It is for me,” he argued. “You don’t understand.” 

“Then enlighten me, Malfoy. Explain why it’s so difficult for you to apologize.” 

“Because I can’t!” he bellowed, leaning forward until his mouth hovered over hers. His chest heaved, and for one brief moment, Hermione thought he might kiss her. She could smell the mint on his breath and his eyes flicked down to her lips once before he forced himself to stand straight.

“Think about it, Granger,” he clipped out. “Use that big brain you’re so proud of and work it out. Why do you think?”

She didn’t need to. In a split second, it was abundantly clear why. “Your family,” she whispered. 

His eyes narrowed, grey darkening to steel. “I’m not the person you want me to be,”

“But you could be.” Her voice wavered for a second before she steadied it again. “You are that person. Even if you don’t believe it yet.”

He stared at her for another moment, then slowly pulled away and turned on his heel. He’d made it a bit down the hall, then, without looking at her, he turned slightly so his voice carried over his shoulder. “I’m not a good person, Granger. If you knew the things I’ve done— you wouldn’t believe it either.” 

He finally looked up, holding her stare for a moment before he kept walking. She called out again just as he reached the end of the hall. 

“Why don’t you let me make that decision on my own?”

No reply came. 

***

Hermione was on edge. But she wasn’t the only one. 

Blaise, Harry, and Narcissa sat across from her, just as anxious as she was. In just one week, they’d be bringing the formal charges against Azkaban, and she’d be petitioning for Malfoy’s release. The deadline was looming over them, and every day that passed only made it worse. 

They had almost everything they needed. Testimonies. Medical reports. Even a lineup of witnesses who were willing to testify against the Warden in court about the abuse and inhumane conditions. 

The most damning? Malfoy’s testimony. As long as he spoke up and told the truth on the witness stand.

The countless hours they’d spent interviewing and collecting data weren’t what concerned her— it was that they still had no idea who was behind all of it. No matter how much digging they did, they were coming up short. Everyone was tight-lipped and wouldn’t crack. 

Blaise was still confident that they’d be able to convince enough members of the Wizengamot to support their cause and successfully overturn Malfoy’s sentence, too. And on a surface level, he was correct. A simple majority vote would be enough to get him out of prison. 

And what then?

Would the “head” of this whole operation come after them? After Malfoy? Was everything they had even enough to overhaul the whole prison?

It was those questions that kept her up at night, that were the reason she got so little sleep nowadays. Whoever was playing puppet master must be powerful to have that kind of control. She couldn’t lie to herself and say that everything was going to be okay.

Then there was the public. Merlin.

She knew that it would ruffle more than just a few feathers once news got out that Malfoy, and possibly some of the others, would be getting out of Azkaban. The war was only a few short years ago, and a lot of people still carried the scars from it. Malfoy himself might not have caused that much damage, but his family’s name alone caused pain for a lot of people. 

There was another risk, too. 

Chances were small, but the possibility was still there that instead of the prison being overhauled, it could be shut down. The backlash they’d face if that happened would be horrendous. It was something she and Blaise had discussed thoroughly, in private, but they’d decided that the reward outweighed the risk. If it came down to it, they’d advocate and push hard for a restructure in opposition to closure.

“Once formal charges are brought,” Harry said grimly, breaking the silence, “all hell is going to break loose.” He shifted in his seat, rearranging the stack of parchment in front of him and bringing one to the top. “The Prophet will have a field day, and the Wizengamout will have time to prepare their counterarguments.” He turned to Narcissa. “Hermione, Blaise, and I discussed it, and we feel it’s best to push for a quick trial to cut down their chances to rebut.”

“This means that we have everything in order before the case is filed,” Blaise added. “We can’t allow them time to get to our witnesses, and we need to have the opportunity to talk to as many of the chairholders beforehand to see if they’re willing to support us.”

Narcissa gave a tired smile. “I can help with this. Who do you need help reaching?”

“I’m assuming you’re familiar with who they are? Anyone you know, or think you could sway.”

“Consider it done.” 

There was a sharp knock at the door, and everyone quieted as Blaise stood to see who it was. The moment he pulled it open, a tall, lanky figure barrelled in and pulled him into a hug. 

“Oi, wanker,” Theo said cheerfully, clapping Blaise hard on the back. 

Hermione shook her head. No one else she knew greeted people like that.

“Thought you told me the party started at ten?”

“For you, maybe,” Blaise said, shaking his head as he chuckled. “We’ve been here for hours.”

Theo Nott was the epitome of charm— obnoxiously tall, with an easy smile and restless spirit, with wavy hair and sharp green eyes. The former Slytherin was one of the most fun and light-hearted people she knew. He never took things too seriously, and to her knowledge, had never met a situation he couldn’t diffuse with a joke. 

Ever since she’d started working with Blaise, she’d become well acquainted with some of his friends. And out of all the Slytherins, she liked Theo the best. 

Though she’d never admit that to Blaise.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Theo purred, pulling her hand to his lips and brushing a kiss over her knuckles. “Looking ravishing as always.”

“Always the charmer, Theo,” she said in amusement. “Good to see you too.”

Theo conjured a chair and collapsed into it next to Harry. 

“Chosen one,” he greeted with a nod, then turned to Hermione and grinned. “My favorite lioness.”

Harry muttered something under his breath, and she bit back a smile. “Hello, Theo.”

“Where’s Red tonight? I was hoping she would be here this evening,” Theo teased.

“My wife,” Harry said flatly, “is home with James.”

“Pity,” Theo sighed. He lounged back in his seat, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “So. When are we scheduling this prison break? I’ve cleared my calendar for the next few weeks.”

“I was under the impression your calendar is always clear, Theodore,” Narcissa mused. “Leaves you ample time to meander about the streets of London.”

Theo pressed his hand over his heart. “You wound me, Narcissa. As a prominent member of the Wizengamot, my schedule is very full.”

“I, too, hold a seat. I know just how busy you are,” she countered, leveling him with a stare that even caused Hermione to straighten in her seat. 

Theo opened his mouth to say something back, but Blaise reached over and slapped the back of his head. “Ouch—that hurt, fu—”

“If you are quite finished,” Blaise interrupted, “we should get on with the matter at hand.” 

“Please do,” Harry muttered. “I, for one, would like to get some sleep tonight.” 

A slow grin spread across Theo’s face. “I don’t know how you get any sleep with Red as your wife.” 

Harry’s face went crimson, but Hermione stepped in before he could say anything. 

“Knock it off, Theo. This is serious. And you riling up Harry isn’t helping.”

“Sorry…” he mumbled, giving her a sheepish look, even though his grin lingered. “I’ll be on my best behavior from here on out. Promise.” 

Hermione let out a heavy breath, rubbing at her tired eyes as she resisted the urge to slap him. Reminding herself that he was here for a reason, since he held his family’s seat. “Blaise told you what we’re doing?”

“Breaking Draco out of Azkaban.” 

“Theodore,” Narcissa warned. 

He shifted under Narcissa’s gaze, clearing his throat. “You’re petitioning the Wizengamot for Draco’s release, and to bring up charges against Azkaban for the abuse and mistreatment of the inmates.”

“Correct.”

“And I’m assuming the reason I’m here is that you need my vote,” he said. “You have to know that, of course, I will support Draco’s release.” 

Harry removed his glasses, cleaning the lenses on the edge of his jumper before sliding them back on. “Yes, but we also need you to help feel out the other members, too. We need to know who we need to press for their support. We’ve got a list of witnesses ready to testify, but that means nothing if the majority rules against even hearing them.”

“Who do you have as witnesses?” he asked. 

Hermione hesitated. The more people who knew their names, the more dangerous it became. As of now, only the four of them did. 

“Five prisoners agreed to go up on the stand. Plus one guard and Malfoy. We’ve got a few character witnesses lined up to speak for Malfoy.”

“Out of all the prisoners, only five agreed to testify?” Theo let out a low whistle. “Why so few?” 

“Most either wanted their sentences shortened or weren’t stable enough to serve as a reliable witness. We’re lucky to have the ones we do,” Harry told him.

“What’s stopping the guards from just killing the ones who are called to testify?” 

“Nothing,” Blaise replied. “That’s why we’re pushing for an emergency trial as soon as the charges are announced. Potter’s going to pull as many of them from Azkaban as he can.”

“Merlin—” he whispered. “Well, you have my support. Who do you need me to look into?” 

“We’re dividing and conquering,” Narcissa interjected. “I’m handling the Greengrass, Parkinson, Avery, Flint, and Burke seats.” 

“Percy holds the Weasley’s. Hermione and I are fairly confident we can get him to come around. We’ll speak to Abbott, Macmillan, Longbottom, and Prewett,” Harry added. “I’ll also be the one to meet with Shacklebolt.”

Blaise cleared his throat. “I’m handling Shafiq, Rowle, Bones, and Montague.” 

Hermione knew how daunting this task was. There was a lot of corruption internally, and they had only so much time to prepare. Although the odds were stacked against them, she knew there were still bright spots. She folded her hands on the desk. “There are currently ten vacancies that weren’t filled after the war. Fawley, Gaunt, Gamp, McKinnon, Peverell, Rosier, Yaxley, Carrow, Crouch— and Lestrange.”“You forgot Potter.” Theo shot Harry a scathing look. “That seat has been empty since the first war.”

Harry scowled at him. “As of yesterday, the Potter seat has been claimed.”

“Good shit, He Who Can’t Die,” Theo said with a smirk.

“So,” Hermione continued. “We need you to talk to the rest. You work alongside them, so we figured you would be the best person to approach the subject. Some families we’ve had little to no contact with, like Doge, Marshbanks, Smith, and so on.” 

Theo let out a low whistle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can try. But I’ll tell you right now, some of these families are going to be a hard no from the start.” 

“We know,” Blaise said firmly. “Even though ten seats are empty, we still need twenty-six votes to win. We can’t risk bringing this to trial if there isn’t a chance of winning.”

He gave a nod. “I’ll do what I can.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. There was something she’d been meaning to ask him, but was nervous about upsetting him. “Theo?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yeah?” 

She exhaled slowly. “When the Aurors came for you after the war… was there anyone in particular who pushed for your arrest?”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. 

He shifted in his seat, eyes darting between them. “Well, Head Auror Dawlish was pretty keen for my arrest. But honestly? Almost everyone I encountered was. The whole Auror department threw the whole book at me, but nothing stuck. I wasn’t involved in the final battle, I wasn’t marked, and I hated my father.” His voice dropped. “Honestly, I was afraid they’d start making up charges. It wasn’t until the Minister stepped in that they finally backed off.”

Hermione looked at Harry, stomach sinking. “Head Auror Dawlish is now Warden Dawlish. He took the position not long after the trials were over.” 

“Kingsley helped you?” Harry asked, raising a brow. “Because I was beginning to—” 

“He did,” Theo cut in. “He even apologized. Said he’d been too busy trying to straighten out the rest of Wizarding Britain to step in before.”

“Well, that makes me feel a little better.”

“Don’t be so quick to count him on our side,” Narcissa warned. “A lot has happened these past few years. There’s still been a lot he’s ignored. Power changes people.”

“She’s right,” Blaise agreed. “We need to be careful. Especially when it comes to the Minister.” 

“Well, I can’t say for sure if the Minister is corrupt, but I can tell you,” Theo looked at Harry, expression serious, “is that your boss, Gawain Robards? Is. There was some pretty shady shite that took place after the war ended. Robards stepped down, Dawlish stepped up. Then once the trials were over, Dawlish stepped down and Robards stepped back up. They swapped positions more than Bellatrix did in the Dark Lord’s bed.” 

“Theodore!”

“Sorry, Mrs.Malfoy.” He ducked his head, at least having the good sense to look embarrassed. “Sort of forgot you were here,” he admitted under his breath.

Hermione’s stomach rolled at the thought. The last thing she wanted to think about was Bellatrix and Voldemort in any way. “Besides swapping positions,” she said, cringing, “what makes you say Robards is corrupt?”

“Some of the cases he brings to the floor are…unfair. It seems like the decision is made ahead of time, or the punishment far outweighs the crime.” 

“I can’t prove it,” he continued, “but I’m convinced he’s taking bribe money too. He just bought a summer villa in France. You’re gonna tell me that the Head Auror position pays enough to afford a second home in France? Piss off. That’s a load of rubbish if you ask me.”

“It definitely doesn’t pay that well,” Harry said.

“All I’m saying is— be careful with Robards. As soon as he finds out about all of this, you’re fucked.” 

“Noted.”

Narcissa stood from her seat. “Well, I for one need to be getting some rest. I’m getting a bit too old for these late nights. I’ll begin work in the morning on my part. Mind if I use your Floo?” 

“Of course,” Blaise said smoothly, rising from his seat. “I’ll walk you out.”

Hermione said her goodbyes to everyone as she packed up for the night. Worry gnawed at her after everything they’d discussed. If the Head of the Auror department were involved, it would complicate matters even more. The small voice in her head was telling her that Robards wasn’t the one they were looking for. 

All she knew was that they had one week to get everything in order. 

Before the fallout started.

Chapter Text

“Oi! ‘Mione!” 

Turning, she spotted a familiar head of messy red hair barreling through the Ministry Atrium towards her. She shook her head as Ron came to a skidding halt next to her, doubling over as he tried to catch his breath. 

“Ron?” she asked, raising a brow at him. “What on earth are you doing?” 

“I’ve—been—looking—” He sucked in lungfuls of air between each word. “For you.” 

“I’ve gathered that,” she said, a small laugh slipping out. “What’s the matter?”

He managed to catch his breath enough to stand straight again, finally. He ran a hand through his hair and adjusted his robes. “Harry told me you were meeting my brother this morning.”

“I am…” she said slowly, brows pinched together.

“I wanted to come with you. Percy can be…” he paused, mouth turning downward. “Complicated.”

She glanced down at her watch. Ten minutes. She had ten minutes before her meeting with Percy to discuss the motion she was bringing to the Wizengamot. She honestly couldn’t fathom why Harry had told Ron. Percy and Ron’s relationship since the war had been tentative at best. Fred’s death had brought the family back together, but Ron had never quite forgiven his brother for siding with the Ministry during the war. So she wasn’t sure if bringing him along was a good idea.

“Ron—” she hesitated, treading carefully. “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea. It’s extremely crucial for me to get Percy’s support, and I can’t… I can’t risk anything jeopardizing that.” 

His face fell, and she immediately regretted her words. His face flushed, and he scuffed his shoe against the marble floor, eyes fixed downward. “Look, ‘Mione— I know I haven’t been involved much in this case, but I want to be. Harry told me more about what’s going on at Azkaban, and although I think most of those tossers deserve to rot—” he finally looked up, tone solemn. “But that? No one deserves to go through what they’re doing in there.”

She mulled over his words, searching his face to gauge how serious he was. If Ron could manage to keep his temper in check, Percy might be more open to siding with her. However, if he managed to piss him off instead, things could go sideways. Quickly. She also knew that he didn’t know the real reason why she’d been hired to look into the prison in the first place, and had no idea how he would react when he found out that Malfoy was her client.

He caught her hesitation right away.

“Please, ‘Mione,” he begged, seeing the hesitation in her expression. “Let me help you. I promise I won’t interfere.”

She let out a frustrated sound, grabbing his wrist and pulling him to the side before casting a quick Muffliato. A quick scan around the room confirmed no one seemed to be watching them. “Ron…” she said slowly, keeping her voice low despite the silencing spell. “I’ve been hired to represent a specific client— a client you do not like.”

He stared at her for a moment, shifting back and forth on his feet, then let out a nervous laugh as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean— as long as it’s not Lucius Malfoy, then I’m alright.”

“It’s Draco Malfoy.” 

Ron’s eyes went wide, and he actually took a step back from her. Bracing herself, she inhaled deeply and waited, expecting his anger. But it never came. Instead, his face twisted in confusion.

“Merlin’s sake, ‘Mione,” he said, shaking his head. “You had me worried there for a second. The way you were acting… I thought you were representing his father or someone like Alecto Carrow. Bloody hell. I told you a few months ago when we were working on the files that I thought ten years was a bit much.”

She bit her lip, her shoulders dropping a bit in relief. “Thank you, Ron.”

“Besides, it’s not like you’re trying to date the ferret,” he said with a laugh. “You’re just trying to get him out. Which is the right thing to do, I might add.”

The comment stirred something in her chest, and she felt defensive. It irritated her that Ron would imply that it would be so problematic for her to date Malfoy. Of course, she wasn’t trying to date him— he’d been locked away for years, and was in no condition to even be thinking of romance. Admittedly, she knew part of the irritation was a small part of her that was excited at the idea of them being together. 

She shoved the thoughts from her mind instantly. 

“Right,” she said, finally. “Look, if you’re going to come with me, then we need to get going now or we’ll be late.”

He gave her a short nod. “Let’s go.” 

They stepped into one of the lifts and made their way down to level ten. Percy had told her he’d be spending most of his day down in his office near the courtrooms, since he was needed in the chambers later in the afternoon. Her stomach turned with every step as she played the conversation over and over in her head. They needed Percy’s support, but she also needed to be careful not to reveal too much information.

“It’s just over here,” Ron muttered as he steered her in the right direction, sensing her discomfort. They stopped outside of one of the doors labeled Percy Weasley, Wizengamot Member.

He knocked twice.

“It’s open!” 

Hermione pushed the door open, catching Percy sitting at his desk, scribbling away at a bit of correspondence he was finishing up. Without looking, he motioned for them to take a seat. She waited patiently for him to finish while Ron huffed in irritation next to her.

The sound caught his brother’s attention, and Percy looked up, eyes going wide when he realized Hermione wasn’t the only one sitting across from him. 

Percy’s head snapped up, his eyes going wide as he took in both Ron and Hermione sitting across from him. “Uh, uh— hello, Hermione,” he greeted, straightening his glasses. “...Ron.”

“Hi, Percy. Sorry, we’re a bit late.”

His eyes cut to Ron quickly, then back to Hermione, giving her an awkward smile as he stacked the parchment in front of him neatly. “I’d only been expecting you today…”

“Ron decided to tag along,” she said casually, giving him a friendly smile. “Hope that’s alright.” 

Ron scoffed next to her and she shot him a scathing glare as he rolled his eyes.

Noticing her look, Ron relaxed in his seat. “What, is it a crime to want to see my brother?” 

A tinge of pink laced Percy’s cheeks. “Well, then whatever it is you need to speak with me about must be important for you to put up with my presence.”

“Come now,” Ron huffed. “Don’t be like that.” 

Well, this is going swimmingly. Brilliant.

What in the world had possessed her to think that bringing Ron along was a good idea? She’d known better. This meeting was going to be a wash before it even began. She’d fail at getting Malfoy out, and could kiss the idea of getting any kind of reform for Azkaban goodbye. 

All of this would have been for nothing. 

But before she could let herself spiral any further, Ron surprised her. 

“Look, I know things between us have been… rough,” he said cautiously. “The war, losing Fred—it broke all of us in different ways, and we’re all grieving differently. Mum can’t bring herself to smile anymore. Dad tries, but you can tell the sadness is still there. George buries himself in the shop. Charlie’s gone more than he’s home. Bill and Ginny have their own families now. And me—” He exhaled sharply. “I’ve spent years being angry at you instead of remembering we’re family. That’s on me.”

Hermione blinked, eyes wide, lips parted. That might be the most self-aware thing he’d ever said. Maybe he was finally growing up and moving on. 

There had been a chip on his shoulder after the war, and it had been the primary reason for their breakup. She couldn’t work on herself and him at the same time. So, they’d decided they were better off as friends, even though their friendship had always been slightly strained. She and Harry had sought help after the war, but Ron had pretended like his problems didn’t exist. 

“I always thought you blamed me for what happened to Fred,” Percy whispered. “It’s the primary reason I’d kept my distance.” 

“You fought alongside us. In the end, you made the right decision,” Ron said. “Mum misses you, Percy, and when you’re there, you aren’t really there—and I think that hurts her.” 

Percy cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “I’ll be home for dinner Sunday.” 

“Bring Penelope with you. We should get to know her more.” 

“I will.” He gave a rare, earnest smile and seemed to relax a bit. “How can I help you, Hermione?”

“I’m bringing a case to the Wizengamot that I would like your support in.” 

“Hermione, you know I can’t know the details of a case before it’s presented.”

“Percy—” Ron said, giving his brother a leveling stare. “This is important.” 

He held Ron’s gaze for a moment, then looked back and forth between the two of them. Something in his brother’s expression was clearly convincing, because he didn’t argue further, just waved his wand to silence the office. “Alright then. Let’s hear it.”

An hour later, Hermione and Ron exited Percy’s office with big smiles. Not only had he agreed to support them, he’d also offered to help persuade some of the others, including those who might be more difficult. 

She felt better about the trial now, especially after yesterday’s conversation with Eugene Abbot and Wentworth Macmillan. They’d both been reluctant to hear anything regarding Azkaban’s reform. So much so, that she’d had to backtrack and avoid bringing up her case at all. Percy’s help was a step in the direction they needed to go, and she felt a small bit of relief.

Ron bumped her shoulder playfully. “See,” he said with a grin. “I’m not a total wanker.”

She rolled her eyes, but bumped him back. “I never said you were.”

He pressed the button to bring them back up the Atrium once they were back in the lift, then turned to her. “I know I haven’t been a great friend lately… but I am working on things,” he admitted. 

She caught the way the tips of his ears went red, and bit back the smile threatening to break through. For all of Ron’s faults, deep down he really was a good guy. “What changed?”

“Honestly?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Cho and I broke up three months ago.”

“What?” she exclaimed. “I thought you both were happy? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Don’t get mad!” he said quickly. “I didn't tell Harry either.” The lift doors opened, and they stepped out together. “We got to the point where we just weren’t communicating well. She was mad at me constantly. Said we needed a break,” he said. “It was only after, that I realized I was the one not communicating with her. Or any of my family or friends. Mum was always cross with me—Bill told me I was mucking my life up. So I made the decision to fix things before it was too late.”

“I’m happy for you, Ron,” she said softly. “Truly, I am. Well, not happy that you broke up, of course,” she quickly corrected. “I know how much you loved her. I am happy that you’re making an effort. You always were a bit dense when it came to women.”

He groaned. “For the love of Godric, ‘Mione. Please tell me you aren’t bringing up our disastrous two-month-long relationship from when we were teenagers? I was eighteen—you can’t hold that against me.”

“That was only a few years ago.” 

“A lot has changed these past few years. Not all for the better,” he mumbled. 

“Are you going to try to win her back? I know Cho loves you.” 

His hand slipped into his pocket, glancing at the floor as they walked. “Yeah. I am. I still carry around the ring I was planning on giving her.”

“Oh, Ron.” Her heart ached. She felt bad for her friend. No matter how disastrous their relationship was, he was still her friend. “I believe in you.” 

“Thanks, ‘Mione,” he said, smiling. “I don’t deserve your friendship.” 

“Honestly, if you could get your head out of your arse, you would,” she teased. 

“I’m trying. Promise.” They started walking towards the Floo, and he stopped short. “Is that Harry?” 

Scanning through the crowd, she smiled when her eyes finally landed on him. “Looks like. He was supposed to meet with Kingsley this morning.”

“Oi! Harry!” he shouted. 

Stopping, Harry turned to face them and offered a bright smile. He waited for them to catch up, and the three of them tucked themselves into a quiet corner. Hermione whispered a quiet Muffliato. “How did it go with Kingsley?”

The anger in his voice was so heavy that she took a step back. 

“He said he’ll listen to your argument. Apparently, he knows there are problems with Azkaban. He’s just too busy to address them. His words.”

“Too busy to address them? What in Merlin’s name does that mean?” 

“I don’t bloody know,” he said, dragging a hair through his hair. “All he said is that the Wizarding World was left in such a state after the war that things have fallen through the cracks. After an hour-long conversation, he agreed to support you—as long as you’re the one to bring it to the forefront. He doesn’t have the time.”

“So, people are suffering in horrid—and, honestly, cruel conditions because he doesn't have the time?” Her voice went up an octave as the disbelief twisted into anger. “Seriously? He wants me to clean up this mess for him?”

“You kind of already are…” Ron murmured. 

“Oh shut up, Ron,” she snapped. She turned to Harry. “You’re serious?”

“Quite,” he said regretfully. “At least he will support your efforts.”  

She sighed. “I guess.”

“How did it go with Percy?” he asked, trying to shift their attention to the next thing.

He looked just as exhausted as she was. She felt a flicker of guilt in her gut for yelling at him.

“Swell, actually. He agreed to help us. Even to talk to some of the others to get their support.” 

“Really? I’m surprised.”

“Ron was actually quite helpful. Gave a heartfelt and touching speech to mend the divide,” Hermione praised. “I don’t think I could have done it without him.” 

“He did? Now, that I’m shocked to hear.”

“Oh, piss off,” Ron scowled, his ears turning red again. “I’m not that bloody useless.” 

She shook her head at them. “Honestly.” 

***

30th June, 1997

Hogwarts was in complete and utter chaos. 

The halls were crowded with younger students running in search of safety, the older students were locked in duels with Death Eaters—colored sparks flying in all directions. And she was running through it all, trying to find Harry after the crowds had separated her from him and Ron. She’d lost track of the others, but needed to get to McGonagall to deliver a message from Professor Flitwick.

As if that wasn’t enough, her heart felt stuck in her throat ever since her conversation with Neville. He’d informed her that it was Malfoy. 

He had let them into the castle. 

He was the one responsible for everything happening right now.

He was a Death Eater.

Her chest was heaving as she stopped near the entrance to the Great Hall. People were still running past, but the sound of their steps and the commands they were shouting out, was muffled. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing, as she tried to catch her breath.

She had been blind. Merlin, she had been so blind. How had she missed all the signs? 

He’d looked so sickly. Distracted. Haunted. 

And she’d ignored it all.

Hermione forced herself to move again. 

She needed to find McGonagall. Needed to find Harry to make sure he was ok. She needed—

A set of strong arms tanked her into a darkened alcove before she could take more than a few steps, and a hand clamped over her mouth, muffling the scream she’d tried to let out. She started thrashing in their hold, kicking her legs and fighting to break free.

“Granger. Stop.”

Her body went still, even though her heart was still pounding in her chest. She knew that voice. Knew it well. The hand dropped away, but before she could speak, he cut her off.

“Silence,” he warned.

“I know that little bitch ran this way. She couldn’t have gotten far.” 

She tried to steady her breathing and her heart rate. Relaxing into Malfoy’s hold as the sound of boots stormed past where they were, and straight into the direction she’d been going.

“You going to finish her off this time? Stupid Mudblood needs to pay for what happened at the Ministry.” 

She sucked in a breath through her nose, then stilled.

Dolohov.

The footsteps had stopped right in front of where Malfoy had hidden both of them, and she could see two masked figures. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t see his face— she would never forget that voice.

“The Dark Lord wants her alive,” Dolohov hissed. “But I have other plans for her first.” 

Malfoy’s arms tightened around her waist, pulling her closer as the other man let out a dark laugh.

“Long as you let me have some fun, I won’t tell.”  

“What are you two idiots doing?” 

“Severus,” Dolohov muttered, caught off guard. “We weren’t expecting you back so soon.” 

“You need to leave the castle now,” Snape told them, his voice sharp. “The mission was successful.”

The other wizard spoke up. “But—” 

“Now,” he repeated. “The Dark Lord is expecting us.” 

Their footsteps receded, and the second they were out of earshot, she felt Malfoy’s breath warm against her ear. 

“When I let go,” he whispered, “you will stay put. Promise me you will not move from this spot, and that you’ll stay quiet.”

She tried to twist around, but he only tightened his hold. “Promise me, Granger.”

After she nodded, he finally let go of her and moved out into the hallway where Snape was still standing.

“There you are,” Snape sneered. “We have to go. Now.” 

Malfoy didn’t say another word, just disappeared with Snape in the direction of the main entrance. She waited until she knew they were gone before she stepped out carefully, and bumped into someone who was sprinting past. She turned and saw Harry stumble before he took off again.

“Harry!” she called out. “Harry!”

But he was already gone. 

*** 

Draco’s hand shook as he reached forward, carving another line into the wall. He scraped his nail against the stone. Up and down. Over and over. Until the stone gave way. 

He no longer knew if his count was even accurate. He had no idea how many days he’d been behind bars. What he did know— was that she hadn’t come back.

He was alone.

Completely. Utterly. Maddeningly. Alone.

You’re not alone. I’m always here with you. 

The voice inside his head was no longer his. It was hers. Every time doubt filled his mind, she was there. Whispering sweet words of encouragement or chastising him for thinking so negatively. Sometimes, he’d even do it intentionally. Just to hear her speak. He knew it wasn’t logical, or healthy, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

He missed her. 

I’m right here. 

“No, you're not,” he said. He wasn’t sure if he’d said that out loud or just to himself. 

I promised you I would get you out. I’m coming for you, Draco.

It was as if she were sitting in the cell with him. He could feel her presence. And if he closed his eyes, he could picture her curls falling around her face. He could smell the honeysuckle from her shampoo and the mint on her breath.

“She doesn’t call me Draco. You aren’t real.” 

She could call you Draco. All you have to do is let her. 

“You aren’t real,” he pleaded, tugging at his hair. “You aren’t her.” 

I’m real to you. 

“No!” He yelled, tucking his head between his knees and rocking back and forth. “Stay out of my head!”

Is that what you want? 

He could hear the concern in her voice brushing against his skin like the softest caress. 

You want me to go? 

“No,” he choked out. “I want you to be. But you’re not. You’re just—you’re just an apparition from my imagination. You haunt me in my dreams— even when I’m awake.” 

He could feel the phantom caress of a hand against his cheek. 

I’m here right now. 

“Prisoner 457392.” 

Dazed, Draco lifted his head slowly, looking over to the bars. He realized his hand was still stretched out, reaching for someone who wasn’t there. In the low lighting, he could roughly make out the figure of someone on the other side of his cell. Not her. A guard. 

“Prisoner 457392. You are hereby being obtained from Azkaban prison to be taken to a Ministry holding cell until trial. Please stand and face the wall.” 

No. Not a guard. An Auror. An Auror had come to retrieve him?

Panic seized him, memories surfacing from the last encounter he’d had with them. His heart was racing, the edges of his vision blurring as the key rattled in the lock. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

They were here to kill him. 

He was going to die. 

It was the only thought circling through his mind when the wizard stepped into his cell. Draco scrambled backwards quickly, pressing himself against the wall, his cheek pressed against the cold stone. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

“Prisoner 457392. Stand up.” 

Drip. Drip. Drip.  

“No, please—please don’t,” he begged, raising his hands to cover his face. “Please.” 

“I’m going to need some assistance with this one,” the Auror called over his shoulder. “Hawthorn! Get over here.” 

He was trembling, mind racing as they stepped into his cell. He watched them move closer, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe. And as soon as a hand closed around his arm, he lost it. There was no more rational thought left. He had to fight. He had to get free. 

“DON'T TOUCH ME!” he bellowed, thrashing against the person holding him. “NO!” 

“Shit! Hold him down.” 

“NO!”

“Fuck. Help me—” 

Draco kept lashing out. His arms and legs flailing as he tried to break out of the man’s hold.

“Someone stun him!” 

“Now!” 

***

Wake up, Draco. 

You’re safe now.

Wake up. 

His eyes snapped open, but he immediately shut them again after the unnaturally bright lights assaulted his vision, and curled into a ball. He had no idea where he was, but it was warm. Warmer than he’d been in years. The familiar damp chill of his cell was absent, so he knew he wasn’t in Azkaban.

Well, at least he wasn’t in his cell in Azkaban.

Draco tried to quiet his mind to remember anything that would help him figure out where he’d been taken, but there was shouting around him.

“Your men stunned him,” a familiar voice shouted. “He is still unconscious, Harry!” 

“What were they supposed to do? He lost his shite when they entered his cell. It was for both his safety and the safety of my men.” 

Another familiar voice, even though he hadn’t heard it in years. Potter. That voice belonged to Potter. And the other…was her.

“He isn’t a threat, Harry! He shouldn’t be stunned like some—some—” Her voice faltered as she struggled to come up with a word. “Some— animal!” 

There was a heavy sigh, followed by a beat of silence.

“I know, ‘Mione. Please trust me when I say—I know. I’m trying, ok? We successfully retrieved the ten prisoners you requested. The five willing to testify are Flint, Goyle, Pucey, Avery, and Malfoy. All have been bathed, shaved, given clean clothing, and haircuts. They will be safe here until the trial date. I have only the best of my team on guard.” 

Keeping his eyes closed, Draco reached back with an unsteady hand. His long, matted hair was now cropped short, and it felt foreign against his fingers as he smoothed them over the shorter strands.

His skin prickled, raw from being scrubbed from the grime he’d been covered in, and the smell of warm spice lingered. 

Granger sighed, and he could hear how tired she was.

“I know, Harry. I didn’t mean to shout at you. I’m just—” 

“Tired,” Harry finished for her. “You need to go home and get some rest.” 

Slowly, Draco opened his eyes and blinked. Still squinting, he tried to take in every detail he could of his surroundings, allowing his brain to try to piece together where he could be.  

He took in his surroundings, carefully absorbing each detail and allowing his brain to register where he was. Clean cot, sparse room, no window, metal bars…

Ministry holding. 

“Not till I speak with my client, and I can’t do that while he is stunned.” 

Client? What did she mean, client? 

“I can’t imagine he’ll be stunned for much longer,” Harry admitted. “Honestly, I’m surprised he was out this long. The healers said he was in pretty bad shape when we brought him in. Speak with him—then go home and rest.”

“I will.”

There was a long pause, and Draco strained to try to hear more, but there was only the sound of shuffling followed by footsteps fading into the distance. He opened his eyes fully…

And landed on Granger. Who was standing in front of the bars. 

“You’re awake,” she whispered, her mouth pulling into a tight frown. “How much of that did you hear?” 

He shrugged, not wanting to answer. That’s when he noticed that there was almost no pain in his joints, just some minor stiffness. Someone had taken the time to heal him.

“Are you alright?” she asked, stepping closer to the bars and wrapping her hands around them. “I’m sorry—it’s another cell, but it was the best I could do.” 

“Why—” he tried to swallow, his voice hoarse from the lack of use. “Why am I here?” 

“I promised you I would get you out. That’s what I’m trying to do.” 

He swayed a bit on his feet as he stood, slowly moving to stand in front of her, his hands wrapping around the metal. Then he slid down until he was seated on the floor. 

“Why?”

Granger didn’t answer at first, just slid down to sit on the ground too, leaning her back against them just like she’d done when she would visit him in his cell. 

Granger mimicked his movements, slowly sliding down the bars. She leaned her back against them, much like she did in his Azkaban cell. But unlike before, he could now see her. All of her. He shifted until they were back to back. 

“I was hired to represent you,” she whispered. “I’m a solicitor.” 

“Who hired—?” 

“Your mother.” 

His eyes fell shut again, and he basked in the warmth radiating from her. Each time she shifted, he felt it like a small spark against his skin. 

He didn’t want to think of his mother. He wanted to focus on this. On her. 

“She wants to see you,” Granger continued when he didn’t answer. 

“No!” 

Her back went stiff against his, and he instantly regretted how harsh it had sounded. He kept his voice to a whisper when he repeated himself. “No.”  

“Why? She misses you. It was all I could do to keep her from showing up here—” 

“I don’t want her to see,” he interrupted. 

Salazar, he didn’t even want Granger to see him like this. But here she was. 

I told you I would come.

“Malfoy…” 

Let me in. Let me help you.

“Granger?” 

“Hmm?”

He sucked in a lungful of air and exhaled slowly. His voice still wavered, but it didn’t stop him.

“Are…are you real?” 

Warm skin brushed against his. Looking down, he saw her hand reaching through the bars between them, lacing her fingers with his. 

“Very,” she said quietly. 

Closing his eyes, Draco let his head fall back against the cold bars. Her curls brushed his neck, her hand still holding his.

The simple warmth of it silenced the chaos in his head. 

And Draco let himself breathe.

Chapter Text

Breathe, just breathe.

That’s what she kept telling herself as she paced in front of the Wizengamot chamber doors, swinging her arms and shaking out her hands to try to steady herself. Her body was buzzing with nervous energy, and nothing was working. She’d tried deep breathing exercises, reciting her speech under her breath— even Occluding. None of it helped. 

She just couldn’t clear her mind.

Hermione had argued before the Wizengamot countless times before, but today felt different. It wasn’t only Malfoy’s life that she held in her hands. It was all of them.

Adrian Pucey. Marcus Flint. Gregory Goyle. James Avery.

Younger wizards who had received sentences harsher than their charges should’ve warranted. And if she were successful with Malfoy’s case— she’d be successful with theirs too. 

You are intelligent. You are confident. You are prepared. 

Countless hours had been dedicated to winning this case, and she was running on fumes at this point,  knowing that Blaise and Harry were too. They’d prepared as much as they possibly could have. They had witness statements, photographs, medical records, and memories collected from the prisoners. If that wasn’t enough to convince the council of the corruption inside Azkaban… she didn’t know what would.

She just needed to present her argument with facts, precision, and clarity.

But no matter how many times she’d rehearsed, or how much logic she’d based this case on, she couldn’t fully quiet that voice of doubt in her mind. It had only been getting louder with every hour that passed, and it was harder and harder to ignore. Dawlish and Robards were the two biggest obstacles that worried her the most. Outliers. Unknown. Unpredictable. It caused her stomach to turn thinking about either of them destroying her case.

Harry had managed to uncover more evidence of corruption for them to use. But despite all of that, they still hadn’t managed to find the “head” of the operation. They still had no idea who was pulling all of the strings. Whoever it was, they had continued to remain elusive, but Hermione and Blaise knew they couldn’t delay much longer and had decided to move forward with the trials anyway.

Too many prisoners were suddenly dying, falling extremely ill, and vanishing mysteriously.

When Blaise went to interview Flint one final time, the wizard was so emaciated that he couldn’t speak. Malfoy’s condition wasn’t much better. She had been horrified to see how much he had deteriorated in the six weeks she hadn’t been able to get in to see him. Not just physically, either, his mental state had been just as concerning. He seemed out of it when they spoke, with a distant look in his eyes and hollow answers. She sometimes wondered if he even knew who he was talking to. 

If they’d waited any longer, there was a very real possibility that he and the others wouldn’t still be alive.

Since he’d been brought to holding, Hermione sometimes sat nearby, just out of view. Often, he cried out in his sleep, plagued by nightmares that she couldn’t help him with. And if he were awake— he’d frequently mutter to himself. Almost as if he was having a conversation with someone who wasn’t there. 

It broke her heart every time.

She should have pushed harder against the Warden for more interviews per day. Should have stayed up later to cram in more work. Should have tried to see him more often. The list went on, and her guilt stacked higher with every self-punishing doubt. 

She was going to be sick. 

Breathe, just breathe.

“Hermione?” 

She stopped in her tracks, her head snapping up in time to see Blaise. He was crossing the hall toward her, dressed immaculately, hair freshly cut, the light catching on his polished shoes. To anyone else, he would’ve looked calm— but she knew him. As a business partner and a friend, she could tell by the small lines of tension in his face and the concern in his eyes that he was stressed too. 

“Hi,” she whispered. 

He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she leaned into the touch, letting his presence steady her. 

“Good gods, Granger. You need to breathe.”

He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, and she offered him a tired smile. 

“I’ve been trying,” she murmured.

“Look,” he said gently. “We have a little over an hour before the proceedings start. Pacing back and forth in front of the doors isn’t doing you any favors.” 

“I know,” she huffed. “I just—” 

“Everything is moving as it should,” he cut in. “You are the brightest witch I know. Salazar, if you only knew how I see you. You’re more than just my friend and business partner—you’re the sister I always wanted.” 

“Thanks for the distraction, Blaise,” she said with a slight chuckle. She knew what he was attempting to do, and she was thankful for it. “But I know for a fact you’ve never wanted siblings. You told me years ago that being an only child was a huge blessing.”

“That was for other reasons,” he murmured. “And besides, that was before I knew how great it could be having a sibling.” 

“Thanks, Blaise. You would be a pretty awesome brother.” 

“What do you mean, would?” he teased, grinning. 

Rolling her eyes, she leaned into him. “Oh, hush.”

The playful moment dissipated, and she felt a shift in his demeanor. Glancing up, she saw a look cross his face that made her tense. 

“What are your plans until…” his voice trailed off as uncertainty washed over him.

“Well, now that you’ve stopped me from pacing, I guess I should go and see him.” 

“Hermione…” Blaise hesitated. “I’ve just left holding and he—he’s not…good,” he admitted, swallowing against the break in his voice. 

Her heart seized. “What do you mean?” 

He gave her a look, taking her hand in his, and the pity in his expression made her stomach turn.

“You know his mental health is…fragile.”

“Blaise,” she warned. “I know he’s struggling, but—” 

“Hermione,” he said quietly, stopping her again. “He doesn’t want to do this—he wants to die.” 

The words hit her hard. Blood roared in her ears, her throat tight as she tried to process what he’d said. 

And then she was running.

She hadn’t even realized it until she was halfway down the hallway, her shoes pounding against the floor in time with her heart. Blaise called after her, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Her legs and lungs burned as she rounded the corner and stopped when she made it to the double doors to the holding area.

“Hermione Granger,” she said, breathlessly. “Here to see her client, Draco Malfoy.”

The two Aurors exchanged a glance before they unlocked the doors.With a quick nod in thanks, she straightened up her robes and stepped inside. She tried to slow down her breathing, but her mind was racing, and the anxiousness still lingered. She had no idea what state she was about to find Malfoy in. 

She only prayed she wasn’t too late. 

Approaching his cell, she hesitated at the bars. He sat at the back of his cell, leaning against the wall, blonde hair brushing his knuckles as he rested his head in his hands. He must’ve heard her because he shifted, grey eyes locking with hers when he lifted his head.

Despite being dressed in formal robes and his hair being styled— he looked haggard.

She could tell he was barely holding himself together. Red-rimmed eyes, creased in the corners from stress and lack of sleep, and the slight tremble in his jaw from clenching his teeth so tightly, giving him away. 

She couldn’t look away. And she wished, not for the first time, that she could stop his pain. Ever since she’d seen him in Azkaban for the first time, he’d always looked haunted. There had been a look of acceptance and defeat then, just that hollowness behind it all, but now he looked broken. 

The image of him like this burned itself into her soul, and she knew she’d never be able to rid herself of that image of him.

“Malfoy?” she whispered, dropping to her knees in front of his cell and gripping the bars so tightly her knuckles turned white.

He blinked once, like he was actually seeing her now. “Granger?” he rasped, pushing himself up and crouching down in front of her, placing his hands next to hers. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you before today,” she whispered. This was the closest they had been face-to-face, and the toll that Azkaban had taken on him was even clearer. “Blaise…”

His face hardened. “What did he say to you?”

She started to respond, but the words disappeared in her throat. His teeth were clenched, jaw tight in anger, but then it shifted. Sorrow taking its place.

“Granger,” he croaked, voice thick with emotion. “I’m done.” 

“You have to fight,” she pleaded. “Malfoy, we are so close— so close to your freedom.” 

He shut his eyes, resting his forehead against the bars between them and exhaled. “I—I can’t, Granger.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I can’t.”

“Don’t you want to be free?” she whispered, voice cracking. “Don’t you want to experience all the things we talked about? The grass beneath your feet? To feel warmth again? Safety?”

He shook his head, refusing to open his eyes at first, until he felt her hand move to wrap around his. She tightened her grip when a tremor ran through him.

“I need you to fight, Malfoy. Not just for yourself—but for the others in the same position. We’re fighting for so much more than just your freedom. What they’ve been doing in there to all of you… I don’t care what crimes someone may or may not have committed—they should never experience what you did. We’re fighting against the entire system. All that injustice and corruption needs to stop.”

His brows drew together, that uncertainty flickering in his eyes again. “What if I can’t?” he whispered. “What if I can’t exist outside of here?” 

“You can,” she said firmly. “And you will. I’ll—” she paused for a moment, wondering if she should make the promise she was about to make. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. Even after the trial. Even after the verdict—I’ll be by your side.”

“Why? Why do all of this?” 

Hermione bit her bottom lip. “Because, back then, I couldn’t help you.”

“I was horrible to you,” he said, averting his eyes. “I deserve to rot for all of it.”

“I watched you, Malfoy, all those years ago. Even through your pain, you challenged me. Meeting me headfirst at every turn, pushing me and forcing me to be stronger every day,” she admitted. “With everything that was going on in your life and in your home, you still managed to push through. And then I watched you change. Going from a cruel, bigoted prick to someone who willingly accepted me. Me. A Muggleborn. You became someone I considered a friend.” 

She almost wanted to say she considered him more than a friend, but bit her tongue. He’d never felt that way about her, she knew that, so she held her tongue. The last thing she wanted was to say something more than she should. Especially now.

“So no, Malfoy. You don’t deserve to rot in Azkaban, and you certainly don’t deserve to die. I’m going to fight for you today—just as hard as I did three and a half years ago. This time, however, I’m going to win.” 

His eyes widened at the confidence in her voice, mouth parting slightly in surprise. “I’m terrified,” he said quietly.

“So am I.” 

He let out a trembling breath, and she gave him another reassuring squeeze.

“But I thought you weren’t afraid of anything?” he scoffed, glancing away. “Gryffindor and all.” 

She felt the corner of her mouth twitch the tiniest bit. “I’m afraid of a lot of things,” she admitted. “The difference is that I stand up to my fears. I don’t let them control me—and you shouldn’t let them either. Fight with me, Malfoy. Fight for yourself.”

“I can try.”

“I will be with you every step of the way. When you feel unsure, you find me. I’ll be looking for you.”

He nodded, but Hermione still couldn’t get him to look her in the eyes again. But there was one more thing she needed to tell him. She felt the dread build inside— but she’d just told him about not letting fear be the one in control, so she spoke again. 

“Malfoy,” she breathed, “there’s something else you need to know. For your character witness, I submitted two memories— ones that I didn’t use last time.”

That got his attention, fear flashing across his face as he turned back to her. She could see the protest forming, but she silenced him with a shake of her head.

“Trust me. Fight with me, Malfoy. I’m right here.” 

Standing to leave, she glanced over her shoulder at him one more time. His voice stopped her.

“Nothing is more deceitful... than the appearance of humility.”

She recognized the quote immediately. Pride and Prejudice. 

A smile tugged at her lips. “You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure,” she quoted back.

He blinked at her, confusion at her choice in response. 

“I’ll see you in just a few.”

*** 

“You need to breathe,” Blaise reminded her, leaning over. 

Proceedings were about to begin, and Hermione’s leg bounced nervously under the table. He reached over, resting his hand on top of her knee, eyes warm and grounding as they waited for the Wizengamot to file in. It seemed to be taking longer than usual, each member taking their time, which only made her more nervous.

“I am breathing,” she hissed. 

Across the courtroom, Harry caught her eye from his family’s seat. He gave her a curt nod before whispering something to Theo, who grinned and laughed softly from the seat beside him. She knew her friend was nervous, too. It was his first trial as a member of the Wizengamot. Most of his previous experience had been in the courtroom as an Auror aside from his own trial, and when he spoke on behalf of Narcissa and Malfoy during theirs. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Potter in plum,” Blaise said in amusement.

“Me either.” 

Her gaze swept over the rest of the room, finding Ron seated next to Neville—and a very put-out-looking Pansy Parkinson. The witch was sitting straight in her seat, one leg crossed over the other, and a sharp look that could cut through the confidence of any wizard. Her black hair was cropped into a short bob, a pair of diamond earrings sparkling each time she turned her head, looking even more petite compared to Neville’s broad frame. 

“Why does Pansy look like she is going to Avada the next person to talk to her?” she asked under her breath, leaning closer to Blaise. 

“Because we didn’t tell her about Draco,” he replied. “She’s bloody livid.” 

“Ah.” She understood instantly, shifting to sit straighter in her chair. “That would do it.” 

Blaise smirked, opening the file in front of him. “When all of this is over, we are going to have a lot of explaining to do…. and groveling. And gifts.” 

“Honestly,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Pansy needs to get over it. We couldn’t tell her. Not without risking Malfoy’s safety—and the others. If word had gotten out about what we were doing…”

“You know that and I know that,” he agreed, sliding two pieces of parchment in front of her. “But do you want to be the one to tell Pansy that?” 

“I—well, umm—no,” she admitted. 

His smirk deepened. “That’s what I thought,” he replied. He turned, glancing over the room just as she had. “Narcissa is here.” 

She shifted, turning to look over her shoulder. Mrs. Malfoy made her way through the rows of seats and walked towards the middle row amongst the other seats. She’d warned her of Malfoy’s hesitation to see her, and thankfully, she’d taken Hermione’s words to heart, sitting just out of view of the witness stand.

“I’m glad she’s on the council," she said, turning back in her seat to face the front. “I’m worried how he will react.”

“Me too,” Blaise muttered. 

Kingsley Shacklebolt was the last member to take his seat, dressed in the same plum as the rest of the council, that signature gold hoop in his ear glinting as he gave her a quick nod.

Blaise let out a low whistle. “I still can’t believe you got the Minister to show. I know he’s a seat holder, but he hardly attends any of the meetings since he became Minister.” 

“He promised Harry he would. I’m just glad he showed.” 

A throat cleared next to her, and she turned, Warden Dawlish shooting her a menacing smile from next to his solicitor at the other table. She bristled, turning away to stare directly ahead, refusing to give him any attention. She needed to focus. 

To stay on task.

Breathe, just breathe.

“All rise for the honorable Chief Warlock, Tiberious Ogden,” Kingsley announced, his voice amplified. 

The entire room stood as the Chief entered. The older wizard’s blue eyes swept over the faces of the courtroom before landing on Hermione. He took his seat with a huff.

“Sit,” he commanded. 

The sound of robes and papers shuffling about echoed through the chamber as the room settled. Ogden raised his gavel, slamming it down once. 

“We are here today to listen to the proceedings of Prisoner 457392. Malfoy, Draco Lucius, against Azkaban.” He paused, adjusting his spectacles. “Warden Dawlish is here on behalf of Azkaban and is represented by his solicitor, Marcus Brown. Prisoner 457392 is represented by his solicitors, Blaise Zabini and Hermione Zabini-Granger.” 

“It’s Hermione Granger,” she corrected. “Mr. Zabini and I are business partners—not married.” 

“Apologies,” Ogden grumbled. “It says here you work for the firm Zabini & Granger. I assumed—” 

Her eyes narrowed at the wizard. “It’s fine,” she said, even though it wasn’t. He seemed to be attempting to intimidate her. It wasn’t working. 

“Like I said,” he continued. “Prisoner 457392 is being represented by his solicitors, Blaise Zabini and Hermione Granger. Before we bring up the prisoner, we will hear opening addresses from both sides. I will remind the court to remain impartial during the proceedings. If you have a question, please refrain from asking until the appropriate time. Any questions?” 

A low murmur rippled through the room as everyone whispered amongst themselves.

“Mr. Zabini. Miss Granger. Please rise and present your opening address.” 

Standing, Hermione ran a hand down the front of her robes, palms sweating as she faced the council.

Breathe, just breathe.

“Members of the Wizengamot. I stand before you today to present evidence that Azkaban has been keeping its prisoners in cruel and inhumane conditions. For the past 1,278 days, my client has been subject to both intense physical and psychological torture, denied food, basic hygiene amenities, and has not been given access to medical care.” 

“After the fall of Voldemort, the Ministry decided that Azkaban needed an overhaul. Dementors were removed, new leadership was installed, and an on-site medical treatment facility was established. These changes were designed to make Azkaban a more humane and safe environment for the prisoners.” She paused, focusing on Kingsley. “The evidence we will present to you today will prove that not only has the staff and leadership within Azkaban been torturing its prisoners—they’ve also been running illegal experiments on them.”

She caught the way his eyes widened for a split second before he adjusted back to composed indifference.

“My partner,” she said, gesturing to Blaise behind her, “and I stand before you to bring to light the unjust and unlawful treatment of Draco Malfoy—and many other prisoners. We do not find that their sentences match the crimes for which they were found guilty, and we ask that the Wizengamot not only grant a stay on my client’s sentence but also conduct an immediate review and overhaul of the prison. Thank you.”

Her legs felt shaky, but she kept her steps steady as she made her way back to her seat. Blaise shot her a quick, reassuring smile before turning his attention forward again.

“Alright then, thank you, Miss Granger,” Ogden said. “Mr. Brown, please rise and present your opening address.” 

Marcus Brown was a tall, lanky wizard with sandy blonde hair and dull brown eyes. He stood, black robes flowing around him as he leaned forward to flip through the file in front of him, squaring his chest as he straightened again to address the room.

“Prestigious members of the Wizengamot,” he began. “It is true that after the war, Azkaban was left in shambles and vulnerable. The Dementors defected, leadership had either been killed or had resigned—no one wanted to take the job. But Warden Dawlish, at the time Head Auror, stepped up to take on the responsibility.”

“Under his leadership, Azkaban thrived. Prisoners were given access to clean drinking water, three meals a day, and, as Miss Granger so kindly pointed out, on-site medical care.” 

“Over the years, my client has been tasked with overseeing the prisoners, maintaining order amongst them while also gathering vital information that they could provide. Azkaban, as you all know, is home to some of the most dangerous and notorious criminals known—Prisoner 457392 being no exception. Today, you will hear arguments to prove that he deserves to be in Azkaban and to have his sentence extended. Not only has he been violent with guards daily, but his mental health has deteriorated. As you all know, his aunt Bellatrix Lestrange suffered from the same affliction. I will present evidence to prove that not only is Azkaban the safest environment to handle these witches and wizards— but that it is functioning better than it ever has in over 200 years of existence. Thank you.”

Brown took his seat again, a knowing look shared with Dawlish. The Warden’s smirk returned as he shot daggers in her direction.

Clearing his throat, the Chief Warlock turned to face her. “I’m assuming you have a list of witnesses and character references you wish to call.” 

“We do,” Blaise replied. 

“Bring the list forward,” he sighed, waving his hand dismissively. 

Hermione frowned, bringing the list over to the clerk’s desk. Blaise had already submitted the list, so she wasn’t sure why Ogden was asking for the document again. The clerk, a short, toad-like woman who reminded her vaguely of Umbridge, took the parchment from her hands, and Hermione turned to face the court again.

“Besides the list of witnesses, we have also submitted memories, documented evidence of medical reports, and statements. I would like it noted on the record that it shows all are accounted for.”

The court clerk made a soft humming noise, glancing through the papers in front of her. A few moments passed before she raised her head, turning to Ogden. “Everything seems to be in order, sir.”

Hermione held her breath as she sat. 

“If everything is in order, we shall proceed. Guards—please bring up Prisoner 457392.” 

A cage rose slowly from beneath the floor, the loud grinding sound echoing through the chamber. The first thing she saw was the familiar blonde hair as Malfoy came into full view. He kept his head bowed, eyes cast downward, his wrists and ankles shackled with thick chains that rattled with every slight shift.

The grinding finally stopped as the cage came to a halt, and she saw him flinch. He looked up finally, stormy grey eyes searching until he found her. The tension in his body loosened just slightly when their eyes connected, but the underlying fear remained.

Blaise stood from his seat to address the chairs. “We would like to request that our client not be present for the entirety of the trial.”

“Denied. Prisoner 457392 will remain present,” Ogden stated, voice firm. “Mr. Zabini, Miss Granger—please call your first witness.” 

Fuck.

Hermione had been planning on Malfoy being far from the trial for as much as possible, knowing how much stress it would put him under. There was no way in hell he’d be able to sit through this.

She shared a sidelong glance with Blaise, who tilted his chin slightly in encouragement. 

She stood. Exhaled. 

“We call our first witness, Azkaban Guard Dennis Creevy, to the Wizengamot floor.” 

Chapter Text

“We call our first witness, Azkaban Guard Dennis Creevy, to the Wizengamot floor.” 

The chamber doors opened, and Hermione watched as Dennis walked down the center aisle. He paused just before the partition, waiting for one of the Aurors to let him through before slowly moving towards the witness box. He stepped up to the podium, just to the left of Malfoy, and then took his seat. She could tell how uncomfortable he was by the way he hastily straightened his robes.

The Chief Warlock’s gaze landed on Dennis, his expression clearly bored, and he sighed heavily. The scratching of the clerk’s quill filled the brief silence before she indicated she was ready to begin. 

“The floor is yours.” 

Blaise had agreed to handle whatever questioning was thrown at Dennis. His lack of familiarity, they knew, would work in their favor in the effort to appear more impartial. The two wizards had been in different years and different houses while at Hogwarts, and so they’d never interacted with each other. 

Hermione looked from Dennis to Malfoy, silently trying to reassure them that everything would be okay. Her gaze lingered longer on Malfoy. He was shackled to a cage, displayed openly in a room full of people all focused on him, and the broken, haunted expression on his face made her quietly wonder if what she was doing was worth it. His declaration this morning of not wanting to live hadn’t been new. He’d expressed those feelings to her before, but she’d always chalked it up to his fear and being locked away for so long. 

But seeing him now? It made it all the more real.

Blaise rose from the desk smoothly, rounding the edge of it to stand closer to Dennis.

“For the record, could you please state your name and occupation?” he asked calmly.

“Dennis Creevy. Azkaban guard.” 

“And how long have you worked for Azkaban, Mr. Creevy?” 

“A little over one year,” he answered, clearing his throat. 

Blaise’s steps were even as he paced slowly in front of the podium. “Please explain to the Wizengamot exactly what duties that entails.” 

“I-it depends on the day,” he stammered. “Usually I’m assigned to rounds—which means I walk the different floors to check in on the prisoners. Or I’m assigned to stand guard at specific cells. And some days…” he swallowed hard, fidgeting nervously. “Some days I’m on prisoner transport. So I move them where they need to go for the day.

Come on, Dennis. Hold yourself together. 

He was stammering too much, and honestly, she couldn’t blame him. She knew firsthand how nerve-racking it was to be in that box. Not only because of the attention fixed on you in there, but also because of the pressure it caused. Everything said would be dissected. Questioned. Challenged. And regardless of how many times he’d rehearsed the questions with Blaise, it was still stressful. 

“During your year of employment at Azkaban, did you ever come into contact with Prisoner 457392—also known as Draco Malfoy?” 

“Yes,” Dennis answered, his voice wavering again. “Many times.”

“And what condition would you say he was in during those interactions?” 

“Emaciated. Beaten. Tortured.”

“Please elaborate,” Blaise encouraged. 

“The first time I’d ever encountered him, he was severely underweight and malnourished. The guards had recently beaten him, and he clearly hadn’t been seen by a healer or given any medical care,” he said. “But when I brought this to the attention of my superiors— I was told that all prisoners had received the necessary and proper care already, and that there was no need for my concern.”  

“Was there ever a time when you witnessed Prisoner 457392 receive medical treatment?” 

Dennis shifted in his seat and nodded.“Six months ago, when I was doing rounds. I stopped at Prisoner 457392’s cell and found him lying there on his cot, moments from death. I unlocked his cell and levitated him down to the healer.”

“And was he given the proper care?”

“The healer fixed his life-threatening wounds. But they did nothing for the pain or the external injuries.”

Hermione’s chest tightened, immediately looking back at Malfoy. His eyes were fixated on the floor, but he’d visibly flinched at Dennis’s statement. She tried to get him to look at her so he would know she was right there with him, but was unsuccessful. 

“I checked Prisoner 457392’s medical file. There was no mention of a visit to the healers. Could you explain that?” 

“There wouldn’t be,” he said grimly. “Healers are instructed not to keep records of the prisoner’s health.” 

“Why is that?” 

“I don’t know.”

“During any of your rounds, did you ever come across any of the other prisoners being mistreated?”

“Every single day,” Dennis said, his voice carrying confidently across the room. It was like a fire had been lit inside of him. “I documented every single incident, and I even kept photographic evidence of it too.”

With a flick of his wand, Blaise summoned a stack of folders. The pile was fifty high, and levitated them all in front of the Wizengamot for them to study.  

“Please take a moment to review the evidence,” he commanded.

Hermione watched every member take one of the folders, opening them to read through the files she and Blaise had compiled. Time ticked by in silence, and Malfoy squirmed in his seat. Nearly ten minutes had gone by before he finally realized that her attention was on him. His head snapped up— his grey eyes locking with hers.

The storm behind them made her breath catch in her throat, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she inhaled slowly and poured every bit of strength and support she had into him, hoping it would be enough. She knew he needed her to be strong for him through this, and she wasn’t going to let him down.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Greengrass said aloud. “But none of these photos are moving.” 

Dennis’s jaw set before he exhaled. “That’s because they are Muggle photographs.” 

“How are we supposed to see what is actually going on in the moment if they don’t move?” 

“Honestly, Alistar,” Narcissa called out from her seat above. “If you can’t see the condition of the prisoners from the still shots, then perhaps you should have your spectacles adjusted.”

Malfoy went completely still at the sound of his mother’s voice. Trembling slightly, he turned to peer over his shoulder at her. Realizing her mistake, she sat just as still, eyes wide in horror. The color had drained from her face as she saw her son for the first time in nearly four years.

Blaise had continued to question Dennis, but it was now background noise to her. Her focus was entirely on the scene unfolding before her. Neither of the Malfoys broke eye contact for what seemed to be an eternity, until Narcissa brushed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand and turned back to resume watching the trial.

Malfoy didn’t move for another minute, but when he turned around again, his eyes went back to hers before darting away again. She would’ve given anything to be able to go over to him and offer him some sort of comfort, but for the moment, all she could do was sit.

It was only when she heard Blaise say he had no further questions that she realized she had been tuned out for quite some time. Dennis, who over the past hour had grown more comfortable, was now a bundle of nerves again as Blaise took his seat and Mr. Brown began to question him.

“Mr. Creevy,” he began. “How is it that you were able to sneak a camera into Azkaban? Correct me if I’m wrong, but cameras—including Muggle ones—are quite large.” 

“Film cameras, both Muggle and magical, are. But I used a small digital camera, sir.” 

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Brown said, clasping his hands behind his back, the tension in his shoulders easing as if Dennis’s answer was exactly what he wanted to hear. “A digital camera. And those photos are processed on… oh, what do the Muggles call them? Computers?”

Dennis hesitated. “They can be.”

“Muggles alter their photos, correct? Remove blemishes, improve the lighting… making themselves appear better than they actually are?” He stopped in front of the podium. “Could the same be said about making someone in a photo look worse?” 

“Well, um—yes. Yes, I suppose you could…” he said. “But these are unedited.”

“But how could we tell? Without it being a magical photo, how can you guarantee that they are unaltered?” 

“There are tests you can run to ensure the authenticity of the—” 

“Did you run them?” Brown pressed. “Did you provide us with evidence of the photos' authenticity?” 

Dennis hesitated, caught off guard. “I—”

“We will provide that for you,” Blaise cut in.

Brown’s composure faltered for a moment, clearly vexed by the interruption. But he pivoted quickly back to Dennis. “You mentioned that you transported prisoners back and forth, I recall?” 

“Yes, I did.” 

Hermione was fully tuned in again, no longer distracted by Malfoy and his mother as she forced herself to focus on the questioning.

“Did you take into account that the Ministry authorizes Azkaban to question all prisoners by any means necessary, to acquire information they request? As you know, many of the prisoners are former Death Eaters. The information they hold can be vital.” 

“I—” 

“Did you also consider,” he interrupted, “that guards are permitted to subdue violent prisoners with whatever force they need to.”

“Yes. But most of the time, they weren’t doing anything wr—” 

“Is it true, Mr. Creevey,” Brown cut in again, sharply, “that you were recently fired from Azkaban?” 

Hermione’s head snapped towards Dennis. Fired? Her stomach dropped. She had no idea he’d been fired. 

Shit.

Dennis swallowed hard. “I was informed this morning that I no longer hold my position.”

“Would you consider yourself disgruntled, then? Testifying against the prison because you lost your job?” 

“I was scheduled to testify, long before I was fired.” 

“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Creevey. Do you consider yourself disgruntled?”

“No, I don—” 

“Why should the council trust your testimony? I don’t see the names of any other guards listed to verify your statements. What I do see,” he continued, lifting a sheet of parchment, “is that you were fired for unlawfully providing aid to a prisoner without authorization from the Warden. To me, it seems like perhaps these claims you’re making are out of revenge.”

“I gave him a sandwich! It’s not like I was smuggling weapons to him!” Dennis cried out in protest. “He was starving to death! You consider me feeding him a crime?” 

“Your testimony cannot be used base—” 

“I’ll swear under Veritaserum! I’ll offer my memories for a pensieve. Do whatever you need to do to validate my statements! Because everything I told you is one hundred percent true.”

“Mr. Brown,” Chief Warlock Ogden finally interrupted, finally stepping in. “Mr. Creevy has been on the roster for a week. I’d find it extremely improbable that his termination today would have been his motivation to speak on any of the alleged events prior.”

Although the words he said should have felt like a small relief, it looked as though it was painful for him to say. Hermione’s eyes narrowed, studying the older wizard. He still exuded an air of disinterest, as if he already knew what the outcome would be, and this was simply a formality for appearances. 

“I’m simply making the case that someone could question the validity of his claims based on the termination,” he said smoothly. “It’s possible that Mr. Creevy could be embellishing his statements out of anger.”

Hermione stood, placing her hands on the table and leaning forward. “If I may,” she interjected, keeping her breathing even, “Our witness submitted every piece of evidence we provided long before his termination. All of which is clearly documented and dated.”

Brown turned to face her, eyes flashing and voice filled with thinly veiled malice. “Evidence, yes. Statements—no.” 

She met his gaze with a scathing look of her own, but the moment she opened her mouth to speak, a gentle hand on her back stopped her. She looked over at Blaise, who shook his head ever so slightly, and forced herself to breathe. 

“Chief Ogden, if we could, we would like to request a fifteen-minute recess for a Ministry official to retrieve the memories Mr. Creevy is offering to present.”

“Granted.” 

Hell broke loose around them as everyone cleared the room, but Hermione kept her focus on Malfoy. 

*** 

Mrs. Hermione Zabini-Granger. 

The name replayed in his mind relentlessly.

Mrs. Hermione Zabini-Granger. 

She’d corrected the pompous, old wizard. Her voice was clipped, formal, and precise. Hadn’t entertained the Chief Warlock for even a moment.

But he couldn’t unhear it.

He could make out the strong, sharp sound of her voice as she delivered the opening statements, Blaise’s familiar calm tone as questions were asked— and another low voice. The solicitor. What was his name? Bowen? Brown? Did it even matter?

Mrs. Hermione Zabini-Granger. 

He couldn’t stop replaying it. 

He was surprised by how much the possibility of her being married bothered him. It hadn’t crossed his mind even once during all the months she’d visited him. Now, he sat here trying to listen to the trial, and instead, he was wondering what the rest of her life was like. Was she married? Did she have children? Was it Weaslebee?

His blood boiled under his skin when the memory of the two of them during the Battle of Hogwarts came to the front of his mind. He’d watched from afar as the ginger git had kissed her haphazardly, fumbling with his hands. It was as awkward to watch as it was disgusting. 

“Could you please state your name?”

He had known she’d had feelings for the prick during sixth year. The desire to throttle Weasley was even stronger after he caught her crying over him one night in the library. He remembered that her cheeks had been splotchy— her eyes slightly puffy and red-rimmed, as he’d held her face in his hands. She’d pretended nothing was wrong, but he knew it was an obvious lie.

“Adrian Pucey.”

Draco vaguely registered the name. Adrian. He shut his eyes tightly, feeling lightheaded. He didn’t want to hear Adrian’s testimony. He felt like he was going to pass out. 

He didn’t want to be here. Salazar, he didn’t want to be here. 

He turned, heart stilling when two steady brown eyes were already focused on him. She was here. She was with him.

“During your sentence in Azkaban, have you had any contact with the other prisoners?”

It should’ve brought him more comfort than it did, but he shut his eyes tightly and tried to tune out the sound of her voice. It normally centered him, it had for so long, but she was asking questions he didn’t want to hear for answers he didn’t want to know.

“I’d be dragged out of my cell to some room. And my memories—my memories, they—they used them against me.” 

He tried to recite the five exceptions to Gamp’s Law. Food cannot be conjured. Transfigured items cannot—

“Mrs. Jones, you are a medi-witch for Azkaban prison, correct?” 

His mother. He’d seen his mother. 

He thought he’d never see her again. She’d looked thinner than he remembered. Sadder. And just as frightened as he was. 

He knew it was his fault. Her pain, her stress— it was all because of him.

“Although I wasn’t privy to the full scope of the program or given access to all of the information about it, I was designated with the task of administering different serums to different prisoners. Some created psychosis, others broke through mental barriers they’d erected in their mind. I was on a team of healers who were all working on creating a potion that could dissolve Occlumency walls. Prisoners—such as Prisoner 457392—had such strong defences that everything we tried never worked.”

He had the bitter urge to laugh.

That bitch was the reason why his mind was such a muddled-up mess! The reason he couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t sort out his own fucking mind. 

They’d torn away his Occlumency— and without his magic, he had no way to rebuild.

Shut up, shut up!

“And you had no idea why you were asked to do those things?”

“No. Only that it was ordered by the Warden.”  

His chest felt tight, and he couldn’t breathe. He needed to get himself under control, but the harder he tried, the more he couldn’t focus. His hand instinctively moved to grasp his chest, but the metal cuffs stopped him. It was a sharp reminder. 

Breathe, Malfoy. Stay with me. I’m right here. 

The words felt like she was whispering them into his mind, encouraging him. Logically, he knew that wasn’t the case— but it was real to him. 

Granger was real. She was right in front of him.

Keep your eyes on her.  Only on her.

“Healer Abbott, you were tasked with treating the ten prisoners retrieved from Azkaban prison on the 3rd of February, 2002. Could you please describe to us the condition each prisoner was in when you first treated them?”

He could answer that question— near death. At least, that’s what it felt like at the time. 

Why did he have to sit here though this? What was going to happen when it was his turn to speak? 

“Sure. All ten prisoners were severely underweight. When I ran a diagnostic scan, it revealed elevated cortisol levels, indicating heightened stress. All prisoners were dangerously low on basic vitamins, minerals, and the necessary nutrition to function. Two prisoners, Prisoner 457386 and 457389, were in the early stages of organ failure and required extensive healing and potions before they could be cleared for Ministry questioning. All showed signs of previous injuries that had not healed properly.”

“In your professional opinion, what would cause such deterioration in a human body?” 

"Severe neglect. Abuse.”

Draco prayed for the nightmare to end, pleading to any of the gods to listen and stop his suffering. It was one thing to experience it and another thing to hear it spoken about by everyone else. His mother was in the crowd…his friends…

He was just tired. 

Merlin, he was so fucking tired. 

It just didn’t stop.

“Auror Smith, when you executed the search of Azkaban, what evidence did you collect?” 

“Did you find anything regarding correspondence with the prisoners?” 

“How many letters would you say were withheld from the prisoners?” 

So many questions. Too many. His head was spinning again. 

Keep your eyes on her. Only on her. Only on Granger.

Why was it so loud?

“We will resume tomorrow at 9 a.m. Please lower the prisoner back to the holding cells.”

Then he was moving. The ground beneath his feet shook, rattling the chains on his wrists and ankles as the cage lowered into the ground slowly.

Sleep.

He wanted to sleep.

Everything felt heavy.

Another moment later, and he was dragged into a cell. Not the dirty, damp place he’d been for so long, but the clean one with an actual cot.

He never thought he’d miss that godforsaken dripping.

He was dropped onto the mattress, head hitting the bed. Then nothing.

“Malfoy.” 

“Malfoy.”

“Malfoy.”

He blinked until the blurriness cleared and everything came back into focus. Granger was standing on the other side of the bars. The sight he was getting far too used to. 

Her curls were pulled back into a tight bun at the base of her neck, exposing two diamond studs in her ears. She looked tired too, concern etched in her expression. 

“Are you ok?” she whispered, her brows furrowed with concern. “You’ve been staring off for quite some time.” 

“No,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. 

He wasn’t ok.

“I know it’s been a rough three days. Having to sit through all that,” she bit her bottom lip. “But today is the last day. Only the Warden, your testimony and my memories remain.” 

Three days? The trial had been going on for three days? 

He only remembered the one. 

How had he lost so much time? What had happened? What had he missed? 

You’re weak.

Evil. 

You’re nothing. 

“I don’t think I can,” he admitted, swaying slightly on his feet. Moving closer, he braced himself against the bars. “I—” 

“Here,” she said, shoving a small vial through. “Drink this.” 

His shaky hand reached for the vial, their fingers brushing for a second before he pulled back. He tipped the potion back, swallowing it with a shiver. His mind went quiet almost instantly.

“Calming draught,” she mumbled, pulling her hand back through the bars and letting it rest by her side. “Today is a big day.” 

You did nothing to help her. 

You stood there like a coward. 

Shutting his eyes tightly, he kept pushing away the negative voice clawing at him. “Are we—” he swallowed, “winning?” 

“It’s too early to say for sure, but I think so. The defence is flimsy at best,” she said honestly. He opened his eyes when she cleared her throat quietly. “Look—I won’t lie to you and say today will be easy. It won’t be. But I promise you, I’m right here. I’ll be handling your questions, so just look at me and answer honestly.”

He could only nod, the calming draught keeping him steady.

“There are only two memories left, and they’re mine. Once those have been viewed, I’ll question you. Then the Wizengamot will discuss and vote.”

He stayed silent, nodding again.

“No matter what happens today, just know I’m here. There’s a contingency plan in case things go sideways.” She smiled at him and it lit up her face as she leaned in closer and it tugged at his heart. “Be with me today, Malfoy. Fight by my side.” 

“I never could be so happy as you. ‘Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your happiness,” he quoted softly.

“You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of danger security for happiness,” she replied, finishing the line. 

***

A memory rippled in the pensieve, the memory projected for the room to see. The potion in his system forced him to watch as a much younger version of himself in the hospital wing of Hogwarts, chest still bandaged from the curse Potter had cast. Granger stood by his bedside as he thrashed and writhed in his sleep, watching quietly.

“I’m sorry,” the younger Draco murmured. “I didn’t want to.” 

Young Granger’s brows furrowed, pinching together in confusion. “Didn’t want to what?” 

“No, please—don’t make me.” 

“I don’t want to die.” 

“He made me.” 

He finally looked away, shutting his eyes to block out the projection. He hadn’t known she’d visited him that night, watching as the nightmares plagued him in his sleep. They hadn’t even been speaking to each other when he’d been attacked by Potter. He’d successfully pushed her away— or so he thought. 

He never would’ve believed that she’d visited him in the infirmary. 

Now he felt foolish. 

Granger stood from her seat as the memory faded, moving to stand in the center of the room, her voice confident as she addressed the crowd.

“The last memory I would like to share with you is from the Battle of Hogwarts. I’ll warn you now, parts of this may be disturbing.”

Once again, the memory she selected swirled in the pensieve, the new image displayed to the courtroom. 

Granger was running through the hall, dodging people and rubble as she shot spells over her shoulder. A Death Eater was on her heels, chasing after her. The face finally showed in the image and it was someone he knew all too well.

Dolohov. 

“Stupify!” she shouted, turning to finally face him. 

“Diffindo!” Dolohov bellowed, the spell ricocheting off the Protego she’d thrown up just in time.

“Bombarda!” 

“Flipendo!”

Both spells were cast simultaneously, but Dolohov’s hit. It sent her flying backwards, slamming into the wall, the sickening sound of her head cracking against the stone echoing throughout the room. Blood pooled quickly under her when her body crumpled to the floor. 

“Stupid bitch,” Dolohov spat, kicking her with his boot. “You’re mine now.” 

He leaned down, arm outstretched— but his hand never reached her.

“Avada Kadavra,” a woman called out. 

There was a flash of green light, the curse landing in the center of his back, and he fell forward. His body landed on top of Granger’s, unmoving. 

A figure in Death Eater robes stepped into view, the mask still hiding her face, but the voice still unmistakably female.

“Oh bloody fucking hell,” she muttered under her breath. Waving her wand, Dolohov’s body lifted off of Granger, landing somewhere to the right. She was half-concious on the floor, the bleeding slower, but still too much. “He’s going to kill me.”

He watched the scene continue in front of him.

He knew that voice. He knew her. He just couldn’t remember— 

“What the fuck did you do?”

Draco looked up as the younger version of him barreled down the hall, his mask on, black robes flowing behind him. His body was tense, the anger clear in every step. “What the fuck did you do to her?” he screamed out again, shoving the witch. 

She stumbled half a step, but caught herself. “What did I do? I just saved her bloody life!” she screamed, shoving him back. “Now. Shut the fuck up and help me.”

The witch pointed to where Granger’s body still laid still. 

He didn’t move at first until she swatted at him, levitating her body from the ground.

“Go open that door,” she commanded. 

He finally moved, unlocking the classroom and shoving the door open. They carried Granger inside, Draco’s arm sweeping across the professor’s desk to clear it before they set her down carefully.

The witch’s wand and her lips never stopped moving as worked quickly, muttering healing spells. He watched in horror as her body twitched in front of him.

“A—”

She looked up quickly, eyes sharp. 

“Say my name and watch what happens,” she hissed. “She’s conscious, you prick.” Her hand slipped into her pocket, pulling out a vial. “Now—quit sitting on your hands and help me. If you want her to live, you do exactly as I say.”

“Is she going to die?” 

“If you don’t help me, she will! We can’t afford for her to die. Now move.” 

The memory continued, and he watched as he took her head in his hands to hold her still as the potion was poured down her throat. The two moved fluidly around each other. The only sounds Granger’s soft groans, their hushed voices as they muttered spells, and the sound of their boots shuffling against the floor. 

Another potion was administered before the witch turned to him suddenly. “You need to leave.”

“But—” 

“Leave. Go on—get out of here.” 

“I can’t—”

“Go!” 

With one last glance at Granger, he turned and exited the classroom, the door shutting firmly behind him as he took off running. 

Granger finally stirred. She squinted, her hands raising to her face, as things came back into focus. Her eyes went wide in fear.

“What—what happened?” she asked, her voice cracking. 

“Speak of this to no one. Now go.” 

The entire chamber remained silent as the scene faded out. 

“I’ve never shared that memory before. But tell me,” she turned, looking at each member of the Wizengamot, “does that look like the actions of someone who is evil?”

“Why didn’t you?” a male voice called down. “Why didn’t you show it before?”

She looked up, expression still calm, voice still confident. “Because for years, I was unsure if that was Mal—Mr. Malfoy,” she corrected, catching her error. “Until I had access to his memories, I couldn’t be certain. Still to this day, I have no idea who the woman is who helped me. All I know, is that if whoever it was hadn’t stepped in— I would’ve died against that wall. Or worse.”

***

Hermione took a steadying breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly as she approached the witness stand. The Warden sat still, hands folded in his lap, and thin brown hair slicked back. He seemed unbothered, smug, his eyes locked on her.

“Warden Dawlish,” she began, coming to a stop right in front of him. “How long have you been in charge of Azkaban?” 

Malfoy flinched, and she caught the motion out of the corner of her eyes. She turned just enough to see the way his knuckles were white around the bars.

“It will be four years this June.” 

Reluctantly, she returned her attention back to the Dawlish. Sweat had started to bead across his brow, despite his relaxed posture. It was the only crack in his otherwise calm facade. 

“Why did you take the position of Warden?” she asked, her brows furrowing. “Seems like more of a demotion to go from Head Auror to Warden.” 

His lips curled into a smirk. “I don’t view it that way. After the war, the Ministry was in shambles. We were trying to regain control and fix the mess left behind. Azkaban was left defenseless—lacking just as much restructure as the rest of our world did. So, I took it upon myself to step up and do what needed to be done.”

“And what exactly was that, Warden Dawlish?” 

His gaze sharpened and he shifted slight. “Order amongst the prisoners had to be established. There was no system setup for the amount of Death Eaters who were being senenced— and how we would get the information from them about where the remaining Death Eaters could be.”

“And this system you set up—that required you to beat prisoners within an inch of their lives? Starve them? Deny them medical care?” She shook her head, pacing in short steps. “I fail to see how such cruel and inhuman conditions were the best way to gather the information you were searching for.”

“I was authorized by the Ministry to use whatever means necessary to get the information they needed.”

With a flick of her wand, she summoned a piece of parchment from her table. She plucked it out of the air, her voice steady as she read aloud. 

“It says here, that the Ministry of Magic of the United Kingdom, does not condone the use of physical violence, Unforgivables, starvation, and other means of torture on prisoners.” 

“Except during times of war,” he countered smoothly. 

“We aren’t at war, Warden Dawlish. We haven’t been since the 2nd of May, 1998.” 

Dawlish smiled, his lips pulling into a menacing grin. “Miss Granger, you seem to be under the impression that Azkaban was torturing their prisoners when that simply wasn’t the case.” 

“Starvation, physical assault, improper use of Ligilimency, failure to provide adequate medical care—the list goes on.” 

“My staff has provided records showing prisoners received medical care, clean water, three square meals—”

“That’s a lie!” Malfoy shouted from his cage, face flushed in anger as he stared at the Warden.”

“Silence!” Ogden thundered “Prisoner 457392 will remain silent while questioning is taking place.” 

Dawlish’s smile remained in place, leaning back. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Miss Granger—but I’m not on trial here. You’re here to argue about the length of Prisoner 457392’s sentence.” 

“And the unjust conditions and treatment within the prison.” 

“You’ve failed to bring up Prisoner 457392 once.”

“I was getting there,” she said, the words laced with venom. “If you would allow me to continue—”

“Miss Granger,” Ogden interrupted, looking at her over his spectacles. “Please move this along.” 

“Yes, Chief Warlock.” Hermione centered herself, turning back to Dawlish. “Over the course of his,” she paused, collecting herself, “stay at Azkaban—Mr. Malfoy was subject to extreme levels of starvation, beatings, and had his mind manipulated. You just finished telling the council about the wonderful system you set up. Tell me, does any of that seem fair or humane?”

“Prisoner 457392 was a particularly unruly prisoner. He often fought with the guards, resisted treatment, and refused medical care.” 

“When Healer Abbott examined the prisoners, all showed severe neglect and starvation. Mr. Malfoy included.” 

“If a prisoner refuses to eat what is provided, we cannot force them to,” Dawlish replied. “That’s on them.”

“Moldy bread and murky water? I’d imagine anyone would be hard pressed to consume that,” she countered. 

“Like I said,” he clipped out, “if Prisoner 457392 refused to eat—that was his decision to make.” 

“He was also subject to severely invasive mind manipulation—”

“Simple legilimency, Miss Granger.” 

She was fuming inside at the fact that he’d interrupted her. 

“Adrian Pucey reported extreme pain from what you now claim as simple legilimency, Warden Dawlish. The others did as well.”

“Many of the prisoners are skilled Occlumens. It was imperative that we retrieve information we needed regarding the Death Eaters who were still on the run.” 

“Mr. Malfoy was freshly eighteen at the time of his arrest. He spent the year leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts at Hogwarts. How much could he possibly know? Records show Voldemort didn’t utilize him much.” 

“Prisoner 457392’s home was used as a base of operations during the war. The possibility of him harboring some level of knowledge was high.” 

“And in the three and a half years Mr. Malfoy was in Azkaban—you didn’t find anything?”

“Prisoner 457392 is a skilled Occlumens. We had to… develop alternative means to breakthrough the walls he’d built. See what he was hiding.” 

Hermione’s eyes cut to Malfoy, who was visibly shaking. 

“I take it you were able to break through?” 

“Yes.”

“And did you find anything to support your assumption that Mr. Malfoy knew where these other Death Eaters were?”

He pursed his lips. “No. But there were some very interesting things he was hiding.”

“Like what?”  

Smirking, Dawlish crossed his arms. “You would know more than me, Miss Granger.”

Malfoy’s chains rattled, the sound so sudden her head turned quickly towards him. He shook his head violently, his whole body trembling. 

Dawlish cleared his throat. “Prisoner 457392 was removed from our custody before we could fully uncover what we needed. When he returns,” he smirked, “we will continue our search.” 

Hermione’s blood boiled at the casual way Dawlish referred to torturing Malfoy. Her wand hand twitched slightly with the urge to hex him repeatedly. Twelve came to mind instantly, but she managed to restrain herself.

“Miss Granger,” Ogden said, causing her attention to turn to him. “Shall we move this along. Mr. Brown still needs to cross-examine." 

“No further questions,” she bit out, returning to her seat. 

“You did brilliantly," Blaise murmured, leaning over to her.

“Wasn’t enough,” she whispered back. 

Mr. Brown’s cross-examination was light. The questions were easy. Attempting to paint Azkaban— and the Warden’s efforts— in a good light. Dawlish still kept his answers short and direct. As if the entire trial was nothing but a ridiculous waste of time.

Hermione seethed from her seat.  

When Mr. Brown finished, Ogden stood, dismissing everyone for a break. “We’ll reconvene in half an hour for Prisoner 457392 to be questioned.”

***

Malfoy’s anxiety had only gotten worse during the recess. His leg was bouncing, his nerves palpable.

They were almost finished. He just needed to make it through a few more questions, and then they could be done with the entire ordeal. 

“Mr. Malfoy, could you please describe what happened to you when you were removed for your cell for—” she paused, lip curling in disdain at the Warden, “—questioning, as Mr. Brown so politely put it.”

Unlike the other witnesses, Malfoy was questioned by both sides simultaneously since he was the one on trial. He was noticibly calmer when she was the one questioning him than he was when Mr. Brown was. 

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “They…they would take me to a room,” he said quietly, voice wavering. “The guards would strap me to a table, and then the healer would enter my mind, tearing through my memories— making me relive them. But she’d twist them up, change them.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, her eyes never leaving his. 

“I could hear her voice in the memories. Telling me… what I did wrong… or twisting someone’s words. Sometimes, the memories were completely different from how they actually happened.” 

“She altered your memories?” Hermione pressed. 

“She would try to,” Malfoy admitted. “It didn’t always work.” 

“If she altered your memories, Mr. Malfoy, then how do you know what is real and what is not?” Mr. Brown asked. 

“I know what happened,” he replied. His voice sounding more confident than she knew he felt. 

“No further questions,” Granger said, turning to return to her seat. 

The Chief Warlock nodded, turning to the other solicitor. “Mr. Brown?” 

“None.” 

Ogden cleared his throat. “Deliberation will commence. Guards, please return Prisoner 457392 to the holding area. Spectators, please proceed to the hall until the deliberations have finished. You will be called back in for the vote.” 

A low grumble broke out in the crowd as people made their way towards the doors. Blaise packed his things methodically, his hand resting against her lower back as he guided her out into the hall. Her breathing was shallow, the adrenaline buzzing through her as everything caught up.

It was over. The hardest part was over.

Now all they had to do was wait. 

As soon as they were past the doors, she sagged against the wall, tipping her head back and trying to steady her breathing. 

“You did brilliantly,” Blaise commented. “Bloody brilliant.” 

She offered him a tired smile. The past four days had been grueling, and she had gotten very little sleep. 

“You didn’t do half bad yourself.” 

“Now all we do is wait.” 

And they did. 

They sat on one of the benches, for what seemed like an eternity. She had no real idea of how much time had actually passed, but she was losing feeling in her legs. She wanted so badly to go check on Malfoy, but she couldn’t without running the risk of missing the vote.

As tired as she was, she couldn’t give up. 

They had to win. They just had to. 

The door to the Wizengamot opened, and the clerk stepped out. “It’s time.”

Hermione inhaled and stood.  

Chapter Text

His body lurched forward, chains jingling from the movement as the lift began to rise. He didn’t grab for the bars in front of him, too focused on trying to breathe. He needed to stay aware of what was going on around him. He couldn’t afford to lose another three days.

Not when his life was hanging in the balance.

No matter what the verdict was, he knew that she had tried, and he was beyond grateful for that in itself. Granger had fought for him fiercely and relentlessly— a force to be reckoned with. Powerful. She commanded the room with every word and refused to back down through it all. Even now, he could feel her presence surrounding him. He’d never known anyone like her— and he never would.

The cage lurched again, the metal grinding to a halt, and he blinked against the bright lights in the room. Spectators had started to filter in slowly. 

Everything was overwhelming, and he was drowning beneath it all. 

The noise. The pain. The grief.

Block it all out.

He tried. Shut his eyes tightly, trying to focus on his Occlumency— and failed. Not a single brick or wall, or door. His magic was gone, and so were all of his defenses. The noise grew louder, frustration building inside him, panic tugging at his nerves. 

The healer was right. He was failing— just like he had at everything else. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but it weighed heavily on his soul and his mind. No matter how much he tried to silence the thoughts, they always came back.

He was nothing. A failure. A coward. 

He should have done more, but he didn’t, and he deserved to rot in Azkaban for it. 

The questions that now swirled in his mind gave him pause. 

Did he deserve to live? Did he want to? 

If he were to answer at that moment, he would say no. He wasn’t worthy.

Suddenly, Granger came into view, as if she’d known he was spiraling internally. He knew she couldn’t hear his thoughts, but he couldn’t help wondering if somehow she could. She had a knack for knowing exactly when he was at his lowest and trying to pull him out of it. She was there, staring at him with such genuine concern that it caught him off guard. 

Draco looked away. He couldn’t bear it, her seeing him like this. Not here, at his lowest, in front of a room of people casting judgment on him. He chanced a glance at her again, and sure enough, she was still there. Poised just the same. 

Just like she promised she would be. 

Look at me.

The voice in his mind was so loud he flinched. But he listened, looking over at Granger sitting proudly next to Blaise. Calm. Confident. Her long curls were pulled back, and a few strands that had worked their way loose now framed her face. Her nose was brushed with those freckles he’d always adored, her lips that same soft pink.

It felt like he was seeing her for the first time in years. 

Those countless times she’d snuck into Azkaban didn’t matter. Until now, he hadn’t truly seen her— not with this much clarity.  

He took a breath, but the air burned in his lungs. All he felt was the pain of every decision and every mistake. They all came crashing down like a wave over top of him, pressing down until all he felt was sorrow, unlike Granger, whose eyes were filled with so much hope. 

Chief Ogden started speaking again, but he couldn’t make out what he was saying. Quite frankly, he didn’t care. He cared about her— and that’s where his thoughts were focused, where they belonged.

Malfoy! You need to listen.

He snapped to attention, the Wizengamot and the rest of the courtroom coming into view as if he’d been in a trance. Blinking as the room came back into focus, he could see Theo sitting next to Potter up in the second row. One of the Weasleys was there— though for the life of him, he couldn’t remember which one. Daphne’s father sat in the front, next to an elderly witch he didn’t recognize. 

Too many faces. Too many people held his fate in their hands.

“Witches and wizards of the Wizengamot,” Ogden bellowed, his voice magically amplified. “After much deliberation, it is time to cast your votes. I would like to remind each and every one of you—what is at stake here.” 

Someone scoffed, and Draco turned his head to see Blaise shaking his, and Granger’s expression filled with fury.

“It is the duty of the Wizengamot to vote on what is best for our world, and for the community as a whole.” 

He didn’t think it possible, but her eyes burned with even more hatred, and he was sure that if she’d had access to her wand, the man would be hexed on the spot.

“That being said,” Ogden continued, “all those opposed to the motion?” 

The chamber was silent, but Draco didn’t dare to look around the room. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see who was voting either way. 

It didn’t matter. He was either going to be hauled back to Azkaban… or walk free.

“And all those for?” 

He heard a sharp inhale, and a pregnant silence fell across the room again. His hands were trembling, and his heart was pounding hard.

A sharp crack broke through the silence as the gavel came down against the wooden desk. 

“The vote is in favor.”

For a moment, he thought he’d heard wrong. Chaos erupted around him— people shouting, screaming, cheering. But the ringing in his ears was louder, and his stomach churned, nausea hitting him suddenly.

He had to have heard that wrong…

“Silence,” Ogden thundered. The gavel cracked loudly three more times. “Silence!” 

The room finally settled, going unnaturally quiet. 

Draco swallowed, sweat clinging to the back of his neck as he slowly opened his eyes. Granger was already looking at him with a wide, radiant smile. That’s when it finally hit him. She’d done it. They’d won.

They’d won.

“The motion regarding Prisoner 457392 may have passed, but a decision needs to be made regarding what is to happen now,” Ogden said through his teeth, voice tight. “He is not allowed to be released without someone claiming responsibility for him. Until then, he remains under Azkaban’s care.”

“He will come home,” his mother said, standing from her seat.

“Impossible,” Ogden snapped, turning to face her. “Decree 697 states that no convicted Death Eater can reside under the care of a witch or wizard with previous affiliations to the dark side from either war.”

“I was pardoned of all wrongdoings during the war,” she countered. “My son should be returned to my care.” 

“It is impossible.” 

“I will take responsibility.” 

Draco’s head snapped up. Granger was standing, chin lifted and shoulders squared. 

“I will take responsibility for my client.” 

“Miss Granger,” Ogden looked over his spectacles at her. “You understand the scope of what that entails? Your client is a convicted Death Eater. By taking responsibility for him, you also assume the responsibility for any crimes committed by him—should there be any.”

“I do,” she replied. 

Huffing, he pulled out a piece of parchment, quill scratching across it as he signed. “Very well.”

“What of the others?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“The others,” she pressed. “By the Wizengamot admitting that Draco Malfoy was unjustly sentenced for his crimes, the same goes for the four others—Adrian Pucey, Marcus Flint, Gregory Goy—”

“Enough!” he barked. “This trial was only for Prisoner 457392. If the others wish to have their sentences shortened, they will need to file a separate motion—”

“Actually,” the one Weasley sibling cut in, standing from his seat. “Miss Granger is correct. Another trial would be redundant. The Wizengamot has already decided that the use of Unforgivables—except the killing curse—traditionally holds a three-year sentence.”

“They will need to file—” 

“All of them have served three and a half years,” Granger said. “Not a single one of them has a murder charge on their record. None.”

Draco looked over at Ogden in shock. The old man was flustered now, face splotchy and flushed red as his eyes narrowed at the two.

“Fine,” he spat. “If you can find housing fo—” 

“I’ll take Adrian Pucey!” Blaise said, standing from his seat. 

“I’ll take Gregory Goyle,” Theo announced, standing as well.

“You cannot take—” 

“I was never marked, never tried, and never convicted. You cannot tie me to the Dark Lord in any way,” Theo hissed. “So, I repeat—I will take Gregory Goyle.” 

“I—” Ogden faltered, shaking his head. 

“We will take Marcus Flint.” 

Draco knew that voice. He turned, and there she was— Pansy Parkinson. Standing firmly with her hand clasped in Longbottom’s. 

He blinked.

“You cannot tie me to anything either, so don’t even try,” she said coolly.

“And I will take James Avery.” 

Daphne stood up on the other side of Pansy.

“Absolutely not!” Mr. Greengrass shouted, jumping to his feet and glaring down at his daughter.

Once again, the chamber broke out in chaos. People argued back and forth about whether or not what was happening at the moment was legal. He tried to drown it out, but it was impossible.

As the room debated loudly, Granger sat down in her seat again, and she crossed her arms, a smug look on her face.

“And what of Azkaban?” Blaise asked, voice rising above the rest of the noise. It went quiet as all eyes turned to him. “Warden Dawlish should be charged for the crimes committed against the prisoners." 

“The Warden was not on trial today,” Ogden answered. “A separate motion would have to be filed with the courts.”  

“The Auror Department will launch a full investigation,” Weasley declared. “I will personally be putting in a motion with them.” 

Ogden looked murderous. “Guards, please lower Prisoner 457392 back down to holding, where he will await release. Miss Granger, please see the clerk's desk for further instructions. Court is adjourned.”

Five hours later, the lock to Draco’s cell clicked open. Potter stepped inside, clearing his throat and shifting awkwardly.

“Malfoy.” 

“Potter.”

“I’m here to officially release you from Ministry custody and into—” he hesitated, pushing his glasses up his nose, “into Hermione’s—” 

“I’m aware,” he whispered. As happy as he was to finally be free of Azkaban, because he was, the thought of living with Granger was a separate type of fear. There would be no way to hide from her.

“Malfoy,” Potter warned. “I know you’ve been through a lot. But if you harm her in any way—there is nowhere on this earth you could hide from me.”

“I would never,” he said quickly, taken aback by the hostility in Potter’s voice. “I–I—”

“Besides my wife and son, I love Hermione more than anything else. She means more to me…” he took a breath, composing himself. “I owe her everything. So, I do not take her safety lightly.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said again. “I—”

“There is going to be a lot of heat on Hermione right now. There are people who are angry about today’s verdict, and although we have protective wards around her cottage, you’ll need to lay low for a while.”

Draco nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed against the tightness in it. His palms were sweating, fear prickling down his spine at the realization. What was he doing? He couldn’t stay with her. She’d be in danger because of him. He couldn’t put her in that kind of position…

“Hermione has retrieved your wand. A tracking spell has been placed on it. We will know if you use any… questionable spells,” he explained, looking uncomfortable.

“I won’t,” Draco promised. “I’m not—like that.”

“Good. Hermione’s in the hall. We should get going.” 

Granger greeted him as they stepped out of holding. His legs shook slightly, barely supporting his weight as he walked with her and Potter. He focused on one step at a time, letting Potter lead the way through the empty halls of the Ministry. He knew it had to be late. There was no way that they’d release him with a bunch of people still lingering around.

“Are you alright?” Granger whispered as they entered the lift. 

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “No.” 

The lift started, and her hand reached out to touch his arm when he jumped suddenly.

“I’ve got you,” she said softly. “We did it, Malfoy. You’re free.” 

“Free…” he repeated, his brows furrowing. 

He didn’t feel free. 

The doors opened to the main atrium, and they headed towards the Floos, steps echoing against the marble floors. 

“My cottage isn’t much,” she admitted, eyes cast downward. “I just moved in and I haven’t fully unpacked.”

“Anything is better than where I was,” he mumbled. 

She continued, rambling on about things he barely heard and spewing out apologies for things that were out of her control. His breathing was coming in shorter bursts, his chest tightening as panic started to take root. 

He couldn’t do this. He wanted to— no, needed to get back to his cell.

His cell was familiar. This was too much. Too open. 

They were almost to the Floo when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He tried to focus long enough to look around. His eyes scanned over the room, but all he saw was Granger and Potter in front of him. 

He could’ve sworn he saw something…

A voice came out of nowhere.

“You made a mistake, you stupid bitch!” 

A figure appeared out of the shadows, wand raised.

“Sectumsempra!” 

Draco was overtop of Granger in an instant, knocking her to the ground to shield her from the spell. His breath hitched as they landed, pain radiating down his back. It felt like someone had poured water on top of him, the warmth spreading through his clothes, pooling on the ground around them. He felt dizzy, vision blurring as he tried to breathe again.

Someone was screaming.

Granger.

“Malfoy.” 

“Malfoy!” 

“Draco!” 

The world went black. 

***

5th June, 1997

“For God’s sake, Hermione—will you please stop?” Harry called after her. 

It was just dark, and she’d just started her rounds for the evening. Dinner was long over, and she’d managed to avoid her friends for the better part of the last two weeks. Exams were coming up fast, only two months away, and she still hadn’t forgiven Harry for the spell he’d used on Malfoy in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

She hadn’t stopped speaking to him, but it was impossible to hide the irritation she felt. She couldn’t believe that he’d hidden that book instead of turning it in to Snape— like she’d told him to do. All so he could maintain the illusion that he was good at potions. The book was clearly dangerous, but still, he refused to admit it.

“Hermione! Stop!” 

She halted, turning sharply to face her friend. He jogged up to her, moonlight filtering through the windows and illuminating the corridor around them. He stopped next to her, catching his breath as he ran a hand through his unruly hair.

“I’m doing patrols, Harry,” she clipped out. “What do you need?”  Even she flinched slightly at her tone, so she inhaled through her nose to collect herself a bit and tried again. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit stressed with exams coming up.” 

“‘Mione—” He shifted from foot to foot. “Look—I know you're still mad at me. You hardly speak to me unless I’m the one to start.” 

“Harry…”

“I know I fucked up, ok? I know it. But with everything going on with Dumbledore, Quidditch, our classes, Voldemort, and then Malfoy—”

“You almost killed him, Harry. If Snape hadn't been there—he could have died!” 

“I know that,” he snapped. “I know. I fucked up. But I also know something is going on with Malfoy, Hermione. I feel it in my bones.” 

“Stop. Just stop.” She couldn’t stand to hear another thing about this theory around Malfoy being a Death Eater. He was sixteen. Well, seventeen. “Harry, you have more important things to be worrying about.” 

“I know I do!” He threw his hands in the air. “And I need to know you will be by my side!” 

“Harry,” her tone softened. “I’m always by your side. Just because I’m cross with you, doesn’t mean that I’m not there or that I don’t support you.”

“I’m just—” he exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. “I’m just stressed. Terribly stressed, ‘Mione. There’s so much going on. I have no idea what’s going to happen next year, and…”

Hermione took a step closer, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a tight hug. “I know. And I’m right here.” She pulled back, his green eyes locked on hers as she gave his arms a light squeeze. “I need to finish my rounds, but we can talk more when I’m back at the common room.”

He nodded slowly. “Alright,” he said quietly, stepping back. “Thanks, ‘Mione. I don’t think I could do this without you.”

She watched him disappear back down the corridor, and a heaviness settled in her heart. She knew that ignoring him wasn’t helping anything. He was under so much pressure, and she couldn’t imagine being in his shoes. If she were being honest, she wasn’t sure she could handle the type of pressure he was under if their situation were reversed. He was only sixteen and had the fate of their world resting on his shoulders.

She’d started walking again, but barely made it five steps when a noise startled her.

“Bravo, Granger. I didn’t know I was such a point of conflict between you and Potter.” 

Malfoy was sitting in the alcove, legs tucked up on the seat, and his head resting against the windowpane. He’d spoken to her, but his gaze never left the window. She could see the shadows under his eyes, his face thinner, jaw sharper.

“Don’t start, Malfoy,” she huffed. “I’m not in the mood.” 

“What are you in the mood for, Granger?” He asked, finally turning to face her. “Cozying up to Potter now that the Weasel rejected you twice? I have to admit, Potter is at least a slight upgrade to that ginger git.”

How dare he… 

She exhaled sharply. “No, we aren’t doing this. You aren’t going to go back to treating me like shite just because you’re in a foul mood. Talk to me or don’t talk to me—I don’t care. But what you aren’t going to do is disrespect me.” 

He let out a dry laugh, turning to look out the window again. “Potter has a funny way of showing remorse, doesn’t he? I was only released from the infirmary a couple of weeks ago, and he’s already commenting on how untrustworthy I am,” he scoffed. “You’d think almost killing me would’ve earned me some sympathy from him.”

“Trust me, I lit into him for that. It was reckless and irresponsible,” she said quickly. “I hardly spoke to him for days after!”

“Worried about me, Granger?” he taunted.  

“Don’t flatter yourself. Harry told me what happened—that he’d found you crying in the bathroom, and about the spell you started to—”

“I wasn’t crying.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupted, moving closer. “It doesn’t matter what you were doing, or who attacked first. It happened. And Harry is paying the consequences for his actions.” 

“If you ask me, he got off easy,” Malfoy muttered. “Then again, The Boy Who Lived always does.” 

“And I agree with you.” 

His head turned, grey eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You do?” 

“Yes. Harry gets away with far more than he should,” she admitted. “But he’s also under immense pressure. Pressure you wouldn’t understand.” 

His expression darkened, voice low. “Don’t talk to me about pressure,” he sneered.

She froze, not because of the way his demeanor changed, but because of the hopelessness she could see behind it all. Immediately, she regretted her words, wishing she could take them back.

“Malfoy…”

“Don’t, Granger. Just—don’t.” 

“You should talk to someone,” she whispered. “If you’re in trouble—”

“Spare me the lecture.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not in trouble.” 

“But you are,” she said carefully. “You’re losing weight, you’re clearly not sleeping—you’ve fallen behind in almost every subject. I know you’re in trouble, I just don’t know what kind.”

“Drop it,” he warned, swinging his legs over the bench and leaning forward on his hands. “No one can help me. I’m beyond that now.”

“No one is beyond help, Malfoy. Even you.” 

He scoffed, his head dropping forward. “You can’t fix everything, Granger.” 

She slipped her hand into her pocket, palming the small package there, then placed the small box next to him on the bench, ignoring the way he flinched slightly and murmuring an engorgement charm.

“Happy Birthday, Malfoy.”

He didn’t say anything, but she felt his eyes on her as she walked away.

***

Numbness settled over her as she sat motionless beside Malfoy’s bed at St. Mungo’s. Hermione was still attempting to process all of the day’s events, but everything was blurred together now.

Winning the trial. 

Malfoy being free. 

Retrieving him from his cell. 

Malfoy shielding her from the curse.

He’d saved her life. Let himself get hit with the curse meant to kill her before she could even react. Thankfully, Harry had been right there, otherwise… 

She’d Scourgified the blood off of her and changed clothes, but it hadn’t helped. She could still feel it on her skin, the smell of copper still lingering in her mind, the way the image of him bleeding out on the floor was. It would be burned in her mind forever, and so would the sight of him now.

Even as thin as he still was, his long frame engulfed the bed as he lay face down. Arms hanging over the sides, his back covered in bandages. His head was turned on the pillow, and she could see the side of his face, blonde hair falling forward over his eyes. She had to resist the urge to brush it back. 

Her heart ached for him, knowing he’d be left with another set of scars to mirror the ones across his chest. He looked even worse than before. His shoulders and ribs were visible through the bandages, and his pale expression made him look closer to death than life, but there wasn’t a single bloody thing she could do about it.

The healers had confirmed he would be ok, the scars would be the only thing left behind. But he still hadn’t woken up, and it was nearing three in the morning. She refused to leave because he needed to know that someone was here for him, and she had to thank him for what he’d done.

The doors to the ward swung open, startling her. Harry was there, still dressed in his Wizengamot robes, and looking completely spent from the day. He took off his glasses, cleaning the lenses on his sleeve.

“Has he woken?” 

She shook her head.“The healer said he would wake when he was ready.” 

He dropped into the chair next to her, slipping his glasses back on. “You should really go get some sleep, ‘Mione.”

“I can’t leave him like this,” she murmured, leaning against his shoulder. “He’s only here because of me.”

“No, he’s here because some psycho tried to attack you at the Ministry.”

Guilt washed over her in droves. “Still… the curse was meant for me.” 

“The person was completely bonkers, ‘Mione. Mad about the war and the fact that you’d worked to free Malfoy and the others. If anything, Malfoy’s here because of me and my team,” he said. “We should’ve cleared the area better.”

“It’s not your fault, Harry. At least he is ok—or I guess I should say will be.” She bit her bottom lip, her stomach churning with worry. “Did you inform Narcissa?” 

“Yes. She got clearance a few minutes ago to visit. She’s beside herself, as you can imagine.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Lit into me pretty good, I can’t lie.” 

“She’s worried about her son. Of course, she lit into you over security concerns,” she sighed. “Don’t act so surprised—this is Narcissa Malfoy we’re talking about.”

“Very funny,” he muttered. “Look, I need to get going before Narcissa arrives, but we have Aurors stationed at the door, and your cottage has now been put under the Fidelius Charm. I’m putting some of my team at your office too—not up for debate,” he said firmly. “Even though you’ll be working from home for a while, Blaise needs the security as well. We aren’t overreacting.”

“What about Robards?” she asked. “He lofted some hefty threats after the trial ended.”

She recalled the way he’d reacted after they’d thought back to after Malfoy had been lowered back into holding. Robards had shouted that it wasn’t over, and that she was messing with things she didn’t understand, ending the one-sided conversation with a threat that she was about to find out what would happen because of what she’d done. 

“Out of everyone, he’s the one I worry about the most. He holds a lot of power.”

“He did,” Harry agreed. “And that’s why he isn’t involved in this. Kingsley approved of the Auror detail that I’d hand-picked—Robards can’t say a damned thing.” He stood, looking down at her. “I drew the line against putting Aurors at your house because of the Fidelius—but don’t get me wrong, ‘Mione. I will put them there if I deem it necessary.”

“I know,” she replied. He meant well, and she knew Harry was just protective, but she still didn’t like the feeling of some of her freedom being taken away.

“I love you, ‘Mione. You’re my sister and my best friend. I could never live with myself if something happened to you.” 

“I love you too,” she whispered. “Thank you for everything.” 

She sat and watched Malfoy as he slept, Narcissa arriving not long after Harry had left. She’d been caught by surprise again, but stood from her seat to greet her. The closer she got, the more clearly she could see how his mother was feeling. Exhaustion was etched into every delicate feature, from the shadow under her eyes to the worry lines that had developed.

“How is he?” she asked, lowering herself into the seat Harry had vacated.

“He hasn’t woken, but the healers say he will make a full recovery.” 

Reaching out, Narcissa held her hand to her son’s forehead gently. Brushing the blonde hair from his eyes, the way Hermione had wished to do earlier. She caught the slightest tremble in her hand as she folded them in her lap.

“He’s so—” she choked on a small sob building in her throat. “Thin.”

She didn’t know the proper words to console Narcissa, but she wished she did. Instead, all she could do was sit there and rub her back gently in quiet support. The pain and heartbreak of everything Malfoy had been through was weighing heavily on the woman, and Hermione felt it too.

Time ticked by, and she had no idea of just how much of it had passed while Narcissa had sat there and cried. Finally, she took a few small breaths to steady herself, dabbing at the corners of her eyes to brush away any tears that remained. 

“Thank you for saving him,” she said softly.

Hermione sat up straighter in her chair. “He was the one to save me.”

The corner of her mouth pulled up into a tired smile as she took hold of Hermione’s hand, squeezing it in reassurance. 

“You saved each other.”

Chapter Text

“Happy birthday, my dragon!” 

His mother bent down to pick him up, placing him in her lap as she wrapped her arms around him and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. 

“How’s my little prince doing today?” 

“Good!” He exclaimed, squirming excitedly. “Do I get to open my presents yet?” 

She let out a gentle laugh, brushing his hair from his forehead. “Soon, my heart. You can open them at your party later on.”

“But I want to open them now,” he pouted, crossing his arms against his chest. 

She tightened her hold on him slightly, resting her cheek against his head. “Well,” she said quietly, “maybe—maybe, I’ll let you open just one early.”

“Yes!” he beamed, bouncing in her lap. “What is it? What did I get?” 

“Calm down, Draco. I’ll—” 

“You coddle him,” his father cut in, his voice cool and disapproving. 

“Lucius—” 

“Spoiling him rotten won’t teach him anything helpful,” he hissed. “It will do him no favors in life.”

“Today is his birthday,” his mother’s voice dropped, barely a whisper. 

“Come, son.” He held out his hand, beckoning Draco over. “There is something I want to show you.” 

Draco hesitated. “But… I get to open a present,” he argued.

“Now.”

Slowly, he slid from his mother’s lap, eyes cast downward as he made his way over. “Yes, father,” he murmured, taking his hand.

“Good boy.” 

“Lucius! He’s five!” his mother called out in a panic.

But his father ignored her, leading him out of the room without so much as a glance. His hand firm around Draco’s arm as he pulled him from the room, the door swinging shut behind them.

“I thought he would be awake by now.” 

“We’re doing everything we can. With how much damage the curse caused and with the state he was already in… his body needs the rest.”

“But you said the scans came out well? 

“Yes, they did. His mind needs to rest as well.”

“So you’re what? Reading to him?”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“I can’t believe we leave for Hogwarts in a couple weeks,” Theo said, leaning against the tree, eyes closed and face tilted towards the sky. 

“Father wanted to send me to Durmstrang,” Draco muttered, picking up a stone and tossing it into the lake beside them. The water rippled from the splash, catching the sunlight. “Mother wouldn’t allow it—but I’m not even sure I want to go to this stupid school.”

“Well—I, for one, am glad to be going. I can’t wait to get away.”

Draco glanced over at his friend. Theo was tall for his age, legs long and gangly, thin— too thin— either from the growth spurt he’d just gone through or his father’s lack of concern or care. Draco knew about what Theo’s home life was like. And as much as he hated it, there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do, except to offer him a place to stay when things got too bad.

“I know,” he finally replied, chucking another stone in the water. “I still think we would’ve been better off at Durmstrang.” 

Theo opened his eyes, turning to stare at him. “You want to be like your father that badly?”

“Of course,” he scoffed, standing and brushing off his trousers before his arms opened wide. He turned in a half circle. “All of this is going to be mine someday.” 

“That doesn’t mean you have to be just like him!” Theo snapped. “You can just be yourself, you know.”

“My father is a powerful wizard—I’m lucky to have him as an example to follow!” he shouted, temper rising faster than he could control it. “How dare you suggest otherwise. Just because your father is a piece of shite—doesn’t mean mine is.” 

Theo flinched, recoiling like he’d been slapped, and Draco immediately stilled. All the anger drained from him, immediately replaced by guilt as he looked at the hurt on Theo’s face. “Theo—mate, I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean—” he said quickly, throat tight as he tried to backtrack.

Theo pushed himself off the tree. “Yes, you did,” he said bitterly, moving towards the house. “You’re never sorry.”

Draco just watched him leave, the guilt rooting him to the ground.

“Still nothing” 

“He hasn’t woken.”

“Did they say why?” 

“Something to do with his mind. The healer said he needs to work through it himself.” 

“Are you ok?”

“Honestly? No.”

 “Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic?" Draco sneered, letting out an irritated huff. "And he’s supposed to be our teacher!” 

Crabbe and Goyle snickered next to him, both clapping him on the back for the quip. From across the grounds, Weasley’s face went bright red and Potter took a step forward.

But what he caught too late was Granger charging at him, eyes blazing and jaw set, as she reared her fist back.

And then— CRACK.

Her fist landed squarely with his nose, the pain searing through his face immediately, blood already starting to flow. He quickly grabbed hold of his nose, the pain rippling through him again as he tried to stop the blood from streaming down his face.

"Don’t you dare call Hagrid pathetic, you foul—you evil—"

"Hermione!" Weasley grabbed her arm just as she was about to hit him again.

"Get off, Ron!"

She shrugged him off, her wand already out and pointed directly at Draco’s face. 

He glanced at Crabbe and Goyle, who stood there uselessly, waiting for instruction from him and his temper flared.

“C’mon,” he muttered, his hand still covering his face and his lip turned up in a scowl as he turned away. 

Stupid Mudblood. I can’t believe she just hit me.

“You need to get that looked at, mate,” Crabbe grumbled next to him as they walked back up to the castle. He placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder, trying to get him to stop.

Draco knocked his hand away. “Piss off,” he snapped, storming up to the infirmary. 

“I’m growing increasingly concerned, Healer Abbott. He still hasn’t woken. Is this normal?”

“Like I said, Mrs. Malfoy. Your son needs time. If we wake him before he’s ready, it could do extensive damage.”

“But what if he doesn’t wake?”

“He will.”

“Draco! Theo!” Pansy called out from across the lawn. “Look this way!” 

Laughing, Theo slung an arm around Draco’s shoulder, both turning to face the camera. Still flushed, their hair untamed from the wind after flying around the Malfoy’s property. 

A bright flash went off, Pansy lowering the camera. “Got it!” she said triumphantly.

“We should take one with everybody,” Blaise suggested. “C’mon! We can—” 

“Draco.” 

His smile slipped from his face as he turned towards his father.

Lucius stood a few feet away. His long blonde hair was tied back neatly, his face expression stern and mouth set in a firm line. 

Draco jogged over quickly, knowing better than to make his father wait, combing his hand through his hair to smooth it down. Before he could ask what was going on, his father squeezed his shoulder firmly. 

“You’re needed inside,” he clipped out. “Now. There is someone I would like you to meet.” 

His father didn’t say anything else, just turned, the pressure to Draco’s shoulder pushing him towards the manor. Draco took one glance back at his friends.

Blaise, Theo, and Pansy all stood frozen in place, concerned looks on their faces. He faced forward again, unsure of what to expect, but with a sinking feeling in his chest.

“Anything?”

“No.”

“Malfoy! Are you even listening to me?” 

Something hit his shoulder hard. Turning his head, he saw Granger sitting next to him with a book in hand, poised to hit him again. 

“Oi! What the fuck, Granger?” He massaged his arm where she had smacked him. “Of course I’m bloody listening to you. Trust me—no one could ignore that shrill tone of yours.” 

“Alright, smart-arse. What rune are we translating then?” She leaned back in her seat, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. “I’m waiting.” 

“Harmony,” he said smoothly.

She rolled her eyes. “No. That was twenty minutes ago. We’ve moved on to whether or not this rune,” she said with a frustrated huff, tapping her finger to the page between them, “is chaos or remembrance.”

His brows furrowed. “Granger—those two runes look nothing alike. How could you possibly be confused as to which one—”

“Oh! So you can pay attention,” she said with a smirk. “Good to know.” 

He fought the grin tugging at his mouth. He loved antagonizing her. Lived for it. There was something about the way that she always bit back, never letting him get away with anything, that made his heart flutter.

“You translated that one wrong, by the way.” 

Her eyes darted to the parchment, scanning over the work before snapping her attention back to him.

“I did not!” She whacked him with the book again, scowling.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, rubbing his arm once more. “Anyone ever told you that you’re a menace? Bloody terrifying.” 

“Yes, actually. Ron tells me that almost every day.” 

“Ugh. Then I take my statement back. You’re about as terrifying as a fluffy bunny—not scary at all.” 

“Anyone tell you that you're a right prick?” 

He grinned, leaning back in his chair. “ You do. Every day, Granger. How could I forget?”

Her face flushed red. “I don’t even see you every day,” she hissed. “I—”

“What’s goin’ on here?” 

Pausing, Draco tore his eyes away from her. He hadn’t noticed Weasley approaching, Too caught up in their usual bickering to pay attention to anything else. His expression slipped back into his usual mask of indifference, lip curling into a sneer as he looked at the wizard. “Studying, clearly,” he drawled, rolling his eyes.

“I know it’s not something you do often, Weasel—but I thought even you would be able to recognize that by now.”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” he spat. 

“Ron, stop it!” 

“What are you doing with this prick, Hermione?” 

“Didn’t we just go over that?” Draco said, smirking at the way Weasley’s face started to go red.

“Ronald!” Granger hissed. “He is my partner. We’re working together.” 

Partner.

Draco rather liked the sound of that. A thrill running through him at the word. 

“Yes, Weasley. Granger and I are partners.” He made sure to emphasize it. Slow. Deliberate. Just to have the satisfaction of watching him squirm.

His face was fully red now, jaw tight as he clenched his fists at his sides. “Harry needs you,” he bit out. 

“Well, tell Harry I will be back in the common room after I’m finished with this,” she said calmly, gesturing to the books scattered across the table.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend you could be busy snogging?” Draco asked him, goading him further. “If you could even consider calling it that from that horrid display earlier. Bit pathetic really.”

“Malfoy—” she warned. “Stop. It.” 

“You don’t care about Hermione,” Weasley snapped. “You don’t even see her as a person, so don’t try to pretend that you do.” 

Draco’s jaw ticked at the insult, but before he could say anything, Granger’s hands slammed on the table.

“Enough! Both of you,” she said sharply, standing up abruptly. “Ron—tell Harry that I’ll be up when I’m finished. And you—” Her eyes were fierce as she glared at him. “Knock it off.”

Weasley mumbled something under his breath as he stormed away from them. Granger plopped back into her chair, clearly flustered, and buried her face in her hands. 

“Why do you always provoke him like that?” she mumbled.

“He makes it too easy.” 

“Well—I wish you wouldn’t.” 

“Four days. It’s been four days.”

“I know.”

“One day, Draco, you’ll have a son of your own, and will understand the decisions I have made.”

Draco glared at him, jaw tight, rage simmering under his skin. He hated his father. He’d let the Dark Lord into their home, let his mother be tortured, and let him be tasked with killing Dumbledore, which he’d failed at. He wanted to laugh in his father’s face. Every decision the man had made hadn’t done anything to protect them. It destroyed them.

“Doubtful,” he scoffed. 

“I’ve made a great many mistakes, son,” he admitted. “More than I can count. But everything I have done has been to keep you and your mother safe. You might not see it, but it’s the truth.” 

Draco’s temper flared hotter, his hands clenching into fists. 

“Mistakes?” he spat. “Involving yourself—this whole family—with the Dark Lord? Bringing him here? Letting yourself get arrested and locked up in Azkaban? Letting me, your only son, be marked and forced to commit murder—you call those mistakes?”

“Keep your voice down,” his father warned, voice lethal. 

“The lives you’ve taken are your burden,” he snarled, chest heaving. “Do not put your failures on my shoulders. Or mother’s. You made your choices, and now we’re suffering from them.”

Lucius turned away, crossing the room calmly and pouring himself a glass of Firewhiskey. He swirled it once, downing it in one gulp and staring at the now empty glass. 

“I’m trying to get us out of this mess alive, Draco,” he muttered. “All I need from you—is to just keep your head down and do as you're told.”

Draco exhaled, stomach twisting with bitterness and resentment. 

“We’re already marked for dead, Father,” he whispered cruelly. “Whether it’s by the Dark Lord, or the Order. Our blood will be on your hands. And when that happens because of your decisions—I hope you remember that. The only regret I have is that I won’t be able to see you suffer from it.”

He turned and stormed from the room, ignoring his father calling after him. Didn’t care.

He didn’t look back.

“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

"Well, Draco?” Lucius hissed out again. “Is it him? Is it Harry Potter?"

Draco stared. Frozen in horror as the words died in his throat. “I—I can’t…” he swallowed hard against the thick feeling in his throat. “I can’t be sure.”

His father scowled in frustration. “Surely that’s the girl Potter is always with– the Mudblood.” He pointed to Granger and then to Weasley, who struggled against his binds. “And the red-haired one. This must be them. Look at them—Look, Draco.”

He still didn’t speak, the terror still surging in his veins. The expression on his father’s face was manic. Desperate. 

But could he really do it? Could he confirm it was them? 

He knew. Knew without a doubt that it was them. And if he gave them up, his family would be forgiven by the Dark Lord. They’d be back in his good graces, and things would get at least a little easier. 

He stared down at his three former classmates. 

Something held him back. Something inside him told him to keep his mouth shut. .

“I can’t be sure,” Draco said weakly. “Maybe?”

Draco hadn’t realized that he’d shifted his stance until his mother’s hand gripped his wrist tightly. His heart was racing, and each time she screamed, he felt it in his chest.

He needed to do something. Anything. He couldn’t just stand here. 

This was wrong. This couldn’t be happening—

“It’s a fake!” Granger gasped out from the floor, her voice ragged and raw. “It’s not real— it’s not!”

“Liar,” Bella spat out, inches from Granger’s face. The curse struck her again, and her body thrashed beneath his aunt's. 

Her screams were so loud. So painfully loud. He felt each one at the core of his soul. Each one cutting deeper than the last. 

“Crucio.”

His aunt pulled out a knife. 

“Mr. Malfoy? Can you hear me?”

“Take all the time you need. We’ll be here when you wake.”

“I saw him lower his wand. Dumbledore offered to help him, and he lowered it. He wasn’t going to kill him.” 

“Thank you Mr. Potter,” Chief Ogden said with a nod. “Is there anything else you would like to add to the defense?” 

“Malfoy isn’t a bad person. Just a misguided one.” 

Draco, still stunned, as Potter stepped down from the witness stand and returned to his seat next to Granger. 

He hadn’t expected Potter to speak in his defense. And he certainly didn’t expect her to be here. Did she come to see him hauled off to Azkaban? Was this some sort of twisted satisfaction to see him pay for what he did?

“Is there anyone else who would like to speak on behalf of the accused?” Ogden asked, the question echoing through the chamber. “If not, we will move forward with a vote.”

“I would.” 

His head snapped up, eyed wide.

He knew that voice.

Granger. 

Draco stared, watching as her black dress robes trailed behind her as she approached the stand. She looked thinner, exhausted, and her eyes were still shadowed with the weight of everything they’d survived through during the war.

Fuck. 

“Miss Granger,” he said, his hand extending in invitation to speak, “please begin—whenever you are ready.” 

She nodded once, quickly, exhaling slowly. Then spoke.

“I attended school with Draco for six years before the war began. For most of that time, he was a proud, bigoted boy who spewed the same ideals of blood purity that he’d been taught by his parents. His father in particular.”

His breath hitched, quickly casting his eyes toward the floor. He knew what was next. Shame twisted in his gut, fear settling in as he prepared himself.

“That being said…I also watched him struggle during our sixth year. Not just with his beliefs, but with the mission he’d been assigned. He fell apart. Emotionally and physically—wasting away. He became thinner, quieter, haunted. Plagued by horrors he never spoke of, and carrying the weight of that mission with him for months.”

She paused, scanning the room.

“Malfoy— Draco,” she corrected, clearing her throat.“Draco and I were partnered in several classes for various assignments. Over the months, he changed. We weren’t friends—far from it, actually. But he’d stopped calling me names. I could tell his beliefs were shaken enough to start accepting me who for I am, and started treating me like a person.”

“Although, at the time, I didn’t know what brought on these changes—I realize now just how many signs I’d missed.” 

Draco didn’t dare to breathe. Heart pounding as she spoke. 

He couldn’t look at her. 

“On the 31st of March, 1998, Harry, Ron, and I were captured by snatchers and brought to Malfoy Manor,” she continued. “When asked to identify us, Draco Malfoy chose not to. He claimed that he was unsure of our identities. Now, not identifying Harry was a little more understandable, considering the fact that I had hit him with a stinging jinx right before we were caught. However, there was no mistaking who we were. Not by Draco—who had gone to school with us for years… but he hesitated. He stalled. And because of that, he bought us enough time to escape.”

Draco’s throat felt tight. She was telling a very different version from his memories of that night. She was painting him in a positive light when she shouldn’t be. 

He didn’t deserve it. Not her kindness. Not her defense.

“He didn’t have to do that. I can imagine it would’ve been a lot easier for him to turn us in and regain favor with Voldemort. Instead, the decision he made was a crucial part in ultimately allowing Harry the opportunity to defeat Voldemort.”

Her voice grew stronger, fiercer. 

“None of us should have ever been involved in this war. We were children. Dragged into a war we didn’t start, and forced to fight in a battle that cost the lives of many of us. We should have been doing normal things at our age—laughing, learning, enjoying time with friends, falling in love. Instead, we faced horrors most adults wouldn’t even want to experience. Overcame things that were nearly impossible. And I’m not just talking about myself, Harry, and Ron—or any of the other students who fought. Draco Malfoy did too. Forced to take the Dark Mark at sixteen, threatened with the safety of his mother. Living amongst Voldemort andhis followers. Witches and wizards who most adults feared.”

Granger took another breath, pausing to let that settle through the room. 

“Looking back, and knowing what I know now—I only see a frightened sixteen-year-old boy, given that mission as a death sentence, failed by those around him who should’ve protected him. Lucius Malfoy, his own father, put him in that position. His professors failed to acknowledge, or care, about the drastic changes in him—and I failed to press harder when I did notice what was happening to him. Those who fought in the war know how horrible it was. The death, the blood, the torture… that war was won on the backs of children and the loss of our innocence. So, what I ask of the Wizengamot, is to do what no one else did. To give Draco Malfoy a second chance at life, the way the rest of us were.”

She stood, eyes scanning over the faces of everyone in the room one last time. 

“Thank you.”

The silence in the chamber was deafening, and Draco was still afraid to breathe. 

He felt like he was burning in his own skin. His lungs ached. He felt sick to his stomach. 

Granger’s speech, as touching as it was, felt like a lie. None of it was true. 

He should be here.

He deserved to go to Azkaban. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Miss Granger, but weren't you tortured at Malfoy Manor?”  

She didn’t skip a beat.

“You are correct, Chief Warlock. I was. By Bellatrix Lestrange.” 

Ogden raised a brow. “And Draco Malfoy stood by and did nothing to help you.” 

“He would have been killed had he tried,” she said, meeting his gaze. “His aunt would have Avada’d him on the spot.”

He pursed his lips. “Yet, he didn’t even make an attempt.”

“We were surrounded by Death Eaters. He had no other support to help him if he had.”

“I would also like to point out,” he countered. “That you and your friends could have walked away from the war at any time.”

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” he continued, “had the same opportunity and chose not to do so.” 

She paused, a small grin spreading across her face.

“I’m so glad you brought that up.” 

“Mrs Malfoy, as I said, it would be detrimental to his health to move him. It’s ill-advised  for us to—-“

“It’s been almost a week! He still hasn’t woken.”

“He needs to wake naturally—when he is ready.”

“I need my son back.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Ogden announced loudly. “The Wizengamot finds you guilty of the crimes you were charged with, and hereby sentences you to ten years in Azkaban—with no chance of parole.” His gavel hit the podium, sharp and final. “Aurors, please escort Prisoner 457392—Draco Lucius Malfoy, to holding. He will remain there as he awaits transport to Azkaban. The court is adjourned.” 

“You really should rest.”

“The longer he remains asleep, the more worried I become. “

“Granger? What are you doing?”

She looked up from her parchment, eyes narrowed as she glared at him from across the library table. She already appeared irritated at him for some reason. 

“I’m writing to my parents.”

“Shouldn’t you be working on the assignment?” he said, feigning disapproval to mask the surprise that he actually felt at the fact that she wasn’t studying.

“I finished this assignment earlier in the week,” she scoffed. “You’re the one that’s behind.” 

He didn’t respond, silence settling between them as he turned his focus back to his assignment. He hadn’t gotten much further before something suddenly occurred to him.

“How do your parents get the post from you?” he asked.

“By owl,” she clipped out.

“Owls travel to Muggle homes?” 

The sudden crack of her quill slamming against the desk made him flinch. His eyes went wide at how furious she looked. 

“Of course they can receive a bloody owl, Malfoy. How else do you think I receive my birthday gifts each year? I do get post, you know.” 

“Yes, but…” he paused, frowning. “They can’t just waltz into Diagon Alley to hire an owl. So, how do th—”

“I write them first. That way they can send packages or letters back with the school owl.”

“Makes sense I guess,” Draco replied. “But how do Muggles send post to each other? Owls are magically trained—”

“They have their own system,” Granger interrupted. “It's called the Royal Mail. You can drop your post into a box, someone picks it up, and it’s sent out for delivery. It’s quite simple, really. And in my opinion—far more convenient than owl delivery.”

He stared at her, confusion still lingering. “But—”

“You really don’t know anything about Muggles, do you?” 

“Why would I?” 

“Because Muggles take up a far greater amount of the population than the wizarding community does!” she scowled, shuffling the parchments in front of her into a stack as she packed up. “If you actually knew how many Muggles there are in the world, you’d be embarrassed to open your mou—shit.” 

She was holding her finger out, a bead of red already forming as a small drop of blood dripped onto the table.

“Blast it—stupid paper cut,” she grumbled, fisting her hand in her robes to stop the bleeding.

Draco’s eyes remained glued to the small spot of red on the table, mind trying to process what he was seeing. 

It wasn’t…

“Surprised my blood is red, Malfoy?” she spat out bitterly. “We’re all the same.”

“I—” he blinked slowly, eyes finally lifting to hers. “I–I don’t—”

She swung her bag over her shoulder, the rest of her books stacked in her hands. 

“If you’d like to know more—the truth about us. Or me. Just ask.” 

He watched her walk away.

“He’s moving. Did you see that?”

“That’s a good sign… very good.”

***

He thrashed against the sheets, caught in the grip of some unseen torment. Malfoy was sprawled across his bed on his stomach, head turned to the side with his cheek pressed into the pillow like he’d been pinned there by the weight of whatever had him stuck in his own mind. His body was limp in exhaustion, body so full of worry and pain that even sleep hadn’t softened the way his brows pinched together.

Hermione’s gaze lingered on the dark ink etched just beneath the hairline at the nape of his neck. The numbers— 457392— were more like a brand than a tattoo. Stark. Permanent. A cruel reminder of where he’d been and what he’d endured. 

It looked foreign against his pale skin. Yet, in a different way, heartbreakingly fitting at the same time. As if the prison hadn’t just marked his body, but claimed something deeper. Something essential.

Seven days.

It had been seven days since they’d been attacked at the Ministry. A full week since they’d won his case, and he’d been released. Seven days of him laying in that hospital bed and still not waking. He’d been let free, only to be locked away again. 

This time, in his own mind. 

Every day that passed, Hermione only grew more worried. 

Hannah had insisted time and time again, that physically he was fine, and that his mind just needed the chance to heal. But she still couldn’t help wondering if something was wrong. He’d been so broken by Azkaban. 

Physically and psychologically. 

He’d been hardly recognizable, and even now it was like a shell of his former self. Like a ghost walking around in the body of someone she once knew.

What if it had been too much? After all the torture, starvation, and isolation.

What if that curse had been the final breaking point?

She knew he needed help, far more than she could provide him, and she’d already arranged with Hannah for a mind-healer to be on call for when he finally woke. As his primary healer, she’d been able to arrange several for her to interview. Hermione had selected one to start, but it would ultimately be up to him to decide. He’d have to feel comfortable with whoever it was, and that was something she couldn’t determine for him. 

She just hoped he would give it a chance.

Her other concern was whether or not he was truly alright with living with her. Everything had happened so fast during the trial. She didn’t have the opportunity to ask him— too focused on doing everything she could to get him out. There hadn’t been time to really stop and to think about how he might feel about it. Blaise was his friend. He might’ve preferred to be with him. Someone more familiar in a way that she wasn’t.

They hadn’t even had the chance to try to talk about it when she’d retrieved him from holding. 

Just rambled on about her cottage as she tried to gauge his reaction, pathetic attempt because Malfoy had remained unresponsive. He’d just floated out, almost in a catatonic state, as if he wasn’t even hearing her. 

Then the attack had happened, and he’d reacted instantly. 

Merlin. She didn’t know when things had become so complicated. All she’d been trying to do was free him. Never could she have predicted that he’d become her flatmate for the next five years. 

Five years.

That’s what the Wizengamot’s condition had been for their release, and five years was a long time to live with someone. 

She knew at least that she wasn’t alone in the situation. Blaise, Theo, Neville and Pansy, and even Daphne had all volunteered as well. After their release, all four of the others had been admitted to St. Mungo’s as well. Goyle, Pucey, Flint, and Avery had been in awful health as well. So much so, that everyone was equally afraid to bring them home before they were cared for here. Unlike Malfoy, at least, they had all been conscious. 

Blaise had let her know that the four of them would be released soon. He’d made preparations, and so she assumed everyone else had as well. 

The press… the press was a bloody nightmare. The Daily Prophet was ripping both her and Blaise to shreds. Rita Skeeter, in particular, had made it her personal mission to be especially cruel. Not that they were surprised. Every day there was a new article printed painting them in a harsh light. Especially Malfoy.

Today’s article was especially unflattering. Claiming that Hermione, according to an “undisclosed source”, had apparently accepted a marriage contract from Narcissa in exchange for freeing her son. Giving her “unrestricted access” access to the Malfoy family vaults. 

Load of rubbish that was. 

She let out a dry laugh and reached for her book. She didn’t know where Skeeter got these alleged sources, but she fully believed they didn’t exist. 

She’d just barely finished reading the article this morning when an owl had arrived from Narcissa. It had only one thing written: I’ll take care of it.

Hermione assumed that she was referring to the articles, but she wasn’t one hundred percent certain. The Malfoy family had power, that was no secret— she just wasn’t sure exactly how much.

Malfoy twitched, a low sound escaping his throat as he came to. Her head snapped up, pulled from her thoughts immediately, and her lips parted as his grey eyes met hers.

He was awake.

She held her breath, watching him as he blinked slowly. His gaze darted about the room, still disoriented and trying to make sense of everything around him.

“Where am I?” he croaked, voice raw and dry from being unused.

“You’re awake!” she gasped, leaning forward in her chair. Relief flooding through her. 

“Where am I?” he asked again, panic lacing his words. 

“St. Mungo’s,” she said in a rush. “You’re at St. Mungo’s.” 

“Why—why am I here?”

He tried to push himself up, but his muscles trembled from disuse and he collapsed back down. Groaning as his face hit the pillow again. “Where are my things? Why am I not in my cell?”

“Malfoy,” she said softly, keeping her tone steady despite the way her pulse was racing. “It’s alright. You’re free.”

He froze. 

She could see the panic in his eyes. His breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. 

“Free…?” he echoed, like he didn’t quite understand what she’d said.

“Yes. Free,” she whispered. “Do you remember what happened?”

He didn’t answer, rolling over onto his back with another groan and trying to sit up again. His arms shook again from the effort and without thinking, she reached forward to help steady him. But as soon as she made contact with him, he flinched. The movement sharp and automatic as he recoiled away from her. 

She drew back immediately. “Sorry,” she murmured, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry.”

“I remember—” he paused, tongue wetting his lips as he swallowed and closed his eyes. “I remember walking in the atrium at the Ministry… we were talking… I–I jumped in front of you. Then pain—so much pain.”

“You saved me.” 

His eyes snapped open, locking on hers.

The silence that fell between them was thick, awkward, both unsure of what to say. Her mind raced, trying to figure out what he was thinking in that moment. His face was blank again, giving her nothing to go off of. 

“Thank you,” she blurted out. “You took a curse for me,” she continued. “I don’t know what else to say. Just… thank you.”

He stared at her, brow creased but still didn’t say anything. His eyes lingered, studying her with a dazed, almost far away look like he was searching for something. 

“Are you alright?” she asked, shifting under the intensity of her stare.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.” It was barely a whisper, but his voice broke.

“I should call the healer in to take a look at you now that you’re awake. You remember Hannah Abbott? She was in our year. She took a look at you when you were in holding and—” 

“Why?” 

Her brow furrowed at the question. “Why Hannah? She is quite talented—” 

“No,” he interrupted, his voice stronger than she had heard in a while. “Why does everyone keep saving me?” 

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” she said slowly, her confusion deepening. “Why wouldn’t we? I just—we just fought so hard to free you. What would make you think we wouldn’t save you?”

He fell silent once more. Eyes widening, either in shock or fear, as he processed her words. Then he exhaled slowly, rolling his neck side to side. 

“I don’t want to be here,” he whispered, his eyes darting about the room. 

She didn’t know if he meant here as in the hospital, or here as in... 

She was afraid to ask, so she settled for a simpler question, hoping he would elaborate. 

“Why?” she asked cautiously.

His hands trembled, before he closed them into fists. “It’s—open. The space.” 

Of course.

Malfoy wasn’t used to such a big room. His cell in Azkaban had been small and dark. Here, he had an entire ward to himself, flooded with light. It was clearly overwhelming to him.

She took out her wand, casting a quick charm to close the shutters on the windows, the space immediately darkening. She dimmed the lights too, softening the space so it wasn’t as bright. 

“Better?” she asked. “I can’t do anything about the size of the room, but I can make it hopefully appear a bit smaller.” 

He relaxed a bit, seemingly satisfied as the tension started to ease away and he leaned back against the wall. He nodded just barely, shutting his eyes. “Yes. Better.”

There was another long beat of silence.

He opened one eye, looking at her. “Why are you here, Granger?” 

“Do you want me to leave?” she asked, startled.

“I would have told you to go if that is what I wanted,” he murmured. “I asked why you’re here.” 

Her mouth opened— then closed. She didn’t know how to answer that. What was she supposed to say?

That she felt responsible for him being here? That it was her responsibility as her solicitor? Neither sounded good. She didn’t want him to think she had just been sitting there out of duty. She also didn’t want him to think she’d only been there the entire week. She hadn’t, technically. She’d been back and forth between home, work, and then yes, of course, here with him. 

“I wanted to make sure you were alright,” she finally answered. 

“I’m alright,” he said bitterly, turning away from her. “You’re not obligated to stay.” 

The defeat and sadness in her voice caused her chest to ache. 

“I know,” she whispered. “I want to be here.” 

He shot her a skeptical look, then shook his head. “I heard you… or at least I think I heard you.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I could hear you sometimes. In between my memories. I recognized your voice.” 

She didn’t know what memories he was referring to. 

“Do you mean… while you were asleep? During the coma?” she asked. “I’m not sure—I don’t know what to call how you spent this last week.”

“Week? I’ve been out for a week?” 

“Yes,” she hesitated. “The healers said your mind needed time to rest.” 

His jaw ticked, thinking something over.

“I could hear you sometimes. It helped me to come back to myself.” 

She wondered what he’d heard. Hannah had assured her he couldn’t hear what was going on around him. So most of the time, whoever was here, hadn’t thought to worry about saying anything. 

Something had clearly gotten through. 

“I’m glad it helped,” she replied. 

He nodded stiffly before looking away. 

“Malfoy, I really should get Hannah and bring her in. She needs to know you’re up and moving.” 

“That’s fine.” 

She stood from her seat and made to leave. “I’ll be right back.” 

His hand reached out, gripping her wrist as she took the first step towards the door. She paused, surprised that he’d initiated the physical contact.

“Thank you, Granger,” he said slowly, like the words were hard to say. But as soon as he’d said them, he dropped her wrist again.

“You never need to thank me.” 

“But I do.”

She could still feel the ghost of his touch as she left.