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Chapter Text

June 5, 1996

Draco loved his birthday. A whole day dedicated to him and the occasion of his birth. This auspicious day meant bountiful gifts from his parents, adulation from his friends, and well-wishes from the rest of his housemates. Pansy had hinted at giving him more than just a handsy snog this year, too. 

Sixteen would be a good year for Draco. 

It started well enough. True to his predictions, he awoke to a plentiful pile of presents at the foot of his bed. The pile even included his secret favourite gift: a package of Jelly Slugs.

His mother hated that Draco liked Jelly Slugs. “Common,” she deemed them. She probably hated the way they’d stained his teeth and lips, the corners of his mouth, as a child. Artificial coloring bleeding onto perfect, unblemished porcelain, requiring her to produce her wand for face-cleansing charms to ensure her young son presented a pristine countenance. 

An appearance of purity. 

Draco wondered why she still sent the detested candies at all. He tore the wrappings off the rest of his presents, satisfied to have received an excellent haul of new quidditch apparel, eagle-feather quills, several sets of dress robes, goblin-made cufflinks, and a seemingly unending supply of confections and cakes made by the house-elves of Malfoy Manor.

He’d bring some of the edible treats down to breakfast in the Great Hall, just to display for all that his family’s parcels and mail didn’t require the same sort of scrutiny as perhaps those students from lesser families. No, Umbridge let all his post (and most of the post for students of Slytherin) come through without having been manhandled or even inspected now that she had full control of the school. 

Sitting at his House table, Draco ran a finger along the little badge on his robes signifying his exalted place in Hogwarts as a member of the Inquisitorial Squad. A tiny piece of metal that ensured, finally, he could hold some sway over Potter and his gang of sycophants.

He cast a haughty glance over at the Gryffindor table. These days, most of the older students of that House sat huddled together, trading hushed whispers and anxious glances. Morons. 

They had no idea the power they’d be up against, the might that would crush their hopes and dreams and squeeze the self-righteousness from their souls. A good amount of them would probably die if they didn’t come to their senses and fall in line. But that was always the way for the type of proselytising simpletons that valued things like misguided courage over the more sensible path to glory to be found with those of the right blood and the proper outlook for the future of the magical world. 

Pansy called his attention back as she slid closer on the bench and dropped a hand to his upper thigh beneath the table. She leaned in and whispered a rather salacious promise in his ear for later tonight in the dormitories after the day’s O.W.L. exams. 

Draco smirked wickedly at her and nodded. 

Yes, 16 would be a very good year for Draco. 

June 4, 1997

Draco would come of age tomorrow.

Seventeen. A man. A full-grown wizard in the eyes of the law. The Wizengamot could charge and try him as a legal adult and he could face real time in Azkaban for his crimes. His unforgivable crimes.

No. He shouldn’t think like that. He shouldn’t let thoughts of failure or capture seep into his brain. He would succeed. Draco would finally mend the Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Hidden Things. He’d come so close in his recent attempts, teetering on the brink of a breakthrough with the magic required to repair the object. 

But Draco felt the desperation, the wild panic that fogged his brain and made it difficult to think, to just fucking think while he cast spell after spell, while he recited incantation after incantation, as he swished and twirled his wand in precise movements. Something inside his chest would inevitably seize, and his lungs would refuse to cooperate, breath coming in short spurts or not at all. He’d sink to the floor of the cluttered room and brace his head between his knees, haunted by visions of his mother and father on the receiving end of torture, or the sinister sound of a too-large snake slithering along the halls of his family home, or of a hissing voice in his ear warning him to not become a failure, like his father. 

There was little glory to be found in servitude after all. A soul sold and for what? Greed and ambition coiled into a rope, fashioned into a noose, tightening more and more each day around his neck. He could buy himself a stay of execution by performing the dastardly act on another, but first he needed to be able to just fucking think . 

Draco got to his feet shakily, then winced and clutched at his sternum. He undid the top few buttons of his white Oxford and rubbed a hand against his recently healed injuries.

Scars that stretched all along his chest. Ugly, angry lines of red had now become a bright pink puckering of pale skin. They’d at least been cleared from his face and these would eventually fade to whitened tissue, assured Madame Pomfrey, but would never fully disappear. 

More permanent marks on his body. Still more degradation to his skin that he did not ask for: one ugly mark from the Dark Lord and the rest a smattering of cursed streaks from the Chosen One. His body now a literal landscape of their battle. What a fucking parallel. How fucking poetic. His entire physical existence displayed the utter lack of control that Draco held over his own pathetic fate.

Even Snape couldn’t do a thing to remove the chest scars. Fucking thanks for nothing old man. He should have just let Draco die on that disgusting bathroom floor. A failure and a coward, incapable of saving himself, incapable of saving anyone. 

Draco stalked out of the Room, unsuccessful in his task yet again. Exhaustion threatened to overtake him as he trudged back to the dungeons but thinking the tiredness would lead to actual sleep was a fool’s dream. Exhaustion born of wretchedness often only led to fitful nights of gazing at the canopy of his four-poster. If he did manage to succumb to slumber, his dream world consisted of generally unpleasant scenarios involving death and destruction: either his own at the hands of the Dark Lord or innocent faces struck down by Draco’s Hawthorn wand. Nightmares that required him to cast a strong Silencing Charm around his bed curtains every night. Recently he’d also needed to quickly Vanish his own sick upon waking. He thought he could handle it. He thought his Occlumency skills could subdue enough of the nightly terrors. 

He needed to just fucking sleep. A single night of peace, consecutive hours strung together in blissful repose and he could awaken refreshed, ready to tackle his task. Pepper-Up Potion tasted like shit and had all but lost its efficacy for him. Calming Draughts were much the same. Magical methods that had once allowed him to pass through his days with a mostly clear mind could no longer assist him. 

Draco needed a real, proper night’s rest. Just one. 

His heavy footfalls made it to the dungeons and would eventually lead him to his standard-issue Hogwarts mattress. Draco had even had silk sheets sent from the Manor but alas, they could not stem his nightly tossing and turning. 

Dinner must have concluded recently, Draco surmised, given the number of students lingering in the Common Room still. He passed Pansy and Daphne and though both girls called out to him, he ignored them. He did that more often than not in recent weeks. Theo sat in the corner armchair, the one tucked away from the group that Draco would need to pass to access the hall with his dormitory. 

Draco walked briskly past his housemate, even as he heard him ask anxiously, “All right Draco?”

He didn’t reply, leaving Theo’s question unanswered. From the adjacent armchair, Draco heard Blaise’s low voice instead: “Leave it, Theo. You’ve tried enough times.”

The Sixth Year Boys’ dorms were thankfully empty; Crabbe and Goyle probably remained in the Great Hall, gorging on extra helpings of trifle without a care in the world. Easier to be the type of minions that only required standing guard or flexing a muscle or two. 

No one in his life could understand the concept of existing as a pawn disguised as a weapon. No one could know the lengths he’d gone to, to complete a doomed mission. He’d been fed the lie of “this is a great honour, young Draco,” and he’d foolishly and willingly believed it. 

Murderer.

He’d only just yanked his pajama top over his head when the door opened again. Theo entered, Blaise not far behind as the constant shadow to his friend. But while Theo looked excitable, Blaise looked hesitant and wary. Protective.

“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” stated Theo without preamble. 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I’m aware.”

“It’s a pretty important one,” declared Theo. 

In a normal year of a normal life, he might have crowed about this, but instead Draco shrugged and climbed into his bed, the last one in the room, against the wall. Theo’s bed sat next to his and had since their first year at school. 

A tall, gangly boy, but not one who used his height as an advantage, Theo constantly folded himself: into chairs, the edges of rooms or crowds, but if one were to look him full in the face they’d be trapped in an intense stare. The strong gaze of someone far too observant for their age. There existed a perceptiveness in Theo that often made Draco feel exposed to the other boy, even when no verbal conversation occurred between them. Too expressive, the eyes of Theodore Nott. He’d make a terrible Occlumens, wagered Draco, but perhaps a decent Legilimens. 

Theo sat heavily on his own bed and faced Draco, clearly intent on continuing to make statements in his general direction. Blaise followed, as he always did, and took his place right at Theo’s side, so close their legs pressed firmly against each other. Pillars of mutual support.

Theo once again threw out the refrain Draco knew he would: “I can help you.”

“No one can help me.”

They’d conducted this circular conversation too often in recent weeks. 

“I can help you sleep,” Theo intoned in a hushed voice. Blaise shot Theo a sideways glance, his mouth twisted in a frown. They were all alone in the dorms, but Blaise looked as if he wanted to chastise the other boy for making such an offering aloud. 

Draco narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Whatever game his odd housemate was playing, he’d not fall for it. His sleeping habits (or lack thereof) were no one’s business. 

Theo took Draco’s silence as permission to keep talking. “You’re not sleeping, are you?” 

“I fail to see how that is any concern of yours,” hissed Draco indignantly.

Theo shrugged, nonplussed by Draco’s flare of anger. 

“You’ve hid it well most of the year, I’ll grant you that,” said Theo. “But it’s caught up to you, hasn’t it? Your Glamours don’t work as well as they used to, mate. You’ve got bruises under your eyes most days, you barely eat when you bother to show up at all for meals, you skip lessons and when you do attend you—”

“Enough!” Draco barked. He got to his feet to tower over the seated pair. “Don’t you dare presume you know anything about me. You can sit there and throw out baseless accusations when you have no idea, none at all about what’s going on out there, outside the walls. And soon even here won’t be safe, don’t you get it? You should, with your father.” He pointed at Theo. 

“So I don’t want to hear any more of this fucking concern over me skipping fucking Transfiguration or not eating enough porridge because none of it fucking matters. Do you get that? All of this—this—school shite is inconsequential. You don’t have a fucking clue, either of you. Me not sleeping is the very least of my concerns right now… the things I’ve done, the things I’ll yet do… and if I don’t I’ll—”

He cut himself abruptly with a harsh intake of air. Draco hastily put up his mental walls and retreated into his Occlumency and back to his bed. His body felt heavier than ever as he sank back onto his mattress. The pairs of eyes staring back at him, impassive Blaise and pitying Theo, made something uncomfortable twist in his gut, but he’d at least successfully cooled the fires of his anger.

“You’re right Draco,” Theo conceded softly. “I don’t know what you’ve been handling, but I do know you’re alone.”

Draco did not reply, stuffing down his discomfort, locking away the urge to sob at Theo’s harsh truth. Wallowing in misery would get him nowhere. In fact, it might get him killed. 

“I won’t ask any questions, I swear. I just want to help you in the one way I can,” Theo offered.

“Why?” Draco asked tonelessly. 

“Consider it a birthday gift. We were friends once, you know.”

If Draco allowed any emotion to surface at that pronouncement it might have been shame. Of all his housemates, he’d known Theo the longest, and pre-Hogwarts, might have given him the designation of “closest friend” if Draco were the sentimental sort, or the type of person to need friends. But when Father sent him off to school at age 11, he’d given Draco clear instructions to seek out the more influential, more powerful students of Slytherin and reserved, odd Theo did not fit the bill. 

But Theo had seemingly found a bond with Blaise over the years, and so Draco brushed aside any guilt at essentially severing ties with a true friend and surrounding himself with Crabbe and Goyle as he rose in popularity among his own house. 

And this year should have been Draco’s year to sit firmly at the top of the social hierarchy. Especially with the way the winds blew outside the castle walls and especially with the way Draco found himself a key part of the cause. The only student to carry the honour branded on his forearm. 

But with that honour came the increasing crush of an impossible responsibility. Draco learned quickly that if he wanted to succeed at his task, if he wanted to restore glory to his family’s name he’d first need to suppress and subdue every useless emotion within him. 

“You’ve a natural talent for it,” his Aunt Bellatrix had praised him when she’d taught him the basics of Occlumency last summer. “One can never be too prepared. You must always be ready to protect your mind against those who would seek to intrude and use your own thoughts against you.”

While his aunt probably referred to Snape or Dumbledore in this instance, Draco knew it to also be a careful warning about appearing in the presence of the Dark Lord. Draco had always been serious in his academic pursuits and he treated Occlumency just the same. He’d learned how to break down, separate, and then file away different bits and pieces of himself, shoving them into corners of his mind to perhaps be accessed again at a later time. 

He dutifully emptied his mind every night before bed. But well, Occlumency could only get him so far when he knew the horrors that awaited him behind his closed eyelids.

In his waking hours he struggled with the act of existing, resulting in that embarrassing meltdown in front of that pathetic ghost in the bathroom right before Potter almost killed him. 

Pomfrey had already given him enough Dreamless Sleep Potion this term, any more reliance on that and he’d become addicted. Another weight around his neck he didn’t need. Perhaps if he let Theo help him in this one instance, Draco would finally be able to clear his mind again, be able to properly strategise, be able to focus on that last missing piece of spellwork to complete the Cabinet repairs. 

He really needed to sleep. 

“How can you help?” Draco asked.

“I can influence dreams.”

All three let that statement reverberate around the room. Blaise’s hand clenched at his side. He looked coiled to spring, almost as if he wanted to physically take the words Theo had said and stuff them back inside, never to be heard. 

“I don’t understand,” Draco finally replied. “What do you mean you can influence dreams?”

“I have a sort of… let’s call it an ability,” said Theo and this time Blaise let out a frustrated exhale and glared at the floor. If anything, Blaise’s display of emotion only made Draco more intrigued by Theo’s ridiculous and vague statements. Maybe Theo was just trying to wind him up, but the outburst from Blaise hinted at something more in play. 

“I can harness a particular emotion or sensation in a person and ensure an overall emotional tone is consistently felt while in a dream state,” clarified Theo. 

Draco snorted, his incredulity pulling him straight out of his commitment to empty his mind for the time being. 

“You’re mental.”

“He’s not,” Blaise snapped. 

Draco raised a brow in response. “So what, I just… lie here and you point your wand at me and implant a nice dream about quidditch or something?” he sneered at Theo. 

Theo remained his usual steady, unbothered self. 

“It doesn’t work like that. I need to focus on a particular feeling.”

“Right, well I’m going to need you to elaborate if you have any hope of convincing me you’re not an absolute nutter,” said Draco.

Of course, Theo’s pitch was all bollocks anyway, but it couldn’t hurt to hear his explanation of his self-delusion.

“Calm, for example,” began Theo. “I’d harness a sense of calm and then send that concentrated feeling to you. You might dream of flying or just lounging on a sofa in a library for all I know. I’d control the emotional tone, but your brain would be responsible for conjuring the corresponding dream state.”

Draco sized Theo up, looking for any hint of foul play, any sign of a cruel prank. He found neither. 

“An unnerving boy,” Lucius had once called Theo. Narcissa had tutted and gently chastised her husband. “He’s a bit strange, dear, but he means no harm.”

“Let’s say I believe you,” said a skeptical Draco. “This ability, how do you have it?”

“Inherited,” said Theo. “From my mother’s line. Her mother and great aunt both had it, so she claims.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like this,” said Draco warily. 

Theo shrugged. “My mother felt it best I keep this power to myself.”

“And you will tell no one,” warned Blaise suddenly, his eyes flashing in Draco’s direction. “Especially the crowd you now run round with,” he glared at Draco’s covered left forearm. 

“I hardly think the Dark Lord is much interested in parlour tricks from a charlatan,” drawled Draco. “Your theatrics are safe with me,” he continued with an eye roll. “The Dark Lord is skilled enough in reading and manipulating people’s thoughts all on his own.”

“It’s sensation based, not thought based,” corrected Theo. “Think of it more as an empathic ability as opposed to mental, like Legilimency. I’m only giving you the theme and tone. The rest is up to your subconscious.”

“Lovely,” clipped Draco. “I fail to see why that’s got Blaise’s knickers in a twist or why your mother told you to keep it to yourself.”

An eerie shadow passed over Theo’s face.

“I could do fear. Or pain. Or madness,” said Theo in a soft, caressing voice. A wizard confident in his ability to instill these concepts in others. An ominous list of things that sent a shiver down Draco’s spine.

“If I so chose,” he continued in that same chilling lilt, “I could have your worst fears play out behind your sleeping eyes. I could force visions of torture to dance around your brain, and though you’d be perfectly, physically safe, we both know that’s not the sort of thing one forgets easily. How it feels to be a prisoner beneath a wand as it casts Crucio after Crucio. Or maybe your concept of torture is watching someone else get hurt while you look on helplessly? Perhaps those sorts of emotions mess with your waking state. Maybe I eventually have you experience insanity every night. If you felt mad every time you went to sleep, just how stable do you think you’d be upon waking?”

Draco met the unwavering eyes of his former friend, unnerved more than usual at their strangely earnest gleam. 

“Thoughts and ideas are one thing. You can dismiss them with logic. But emotions?” Theo kept his unsettling stare on Draco. “Dangerous things, emotions. Wouldn’t you say Draco?”

Deadly, he’d say. The right twist of a knife in the chest, the precise prod of a wand at your innermost workings, a manipulation of all your secret desires and wants that could render you into nothing more than clay to be re-shaped into a something else entirely for the sinister needs of someone else, to serve their dark whims. 

Something evil. A monster. The farcical notion of choice that died away with your own screams or those of your mother’s from a wand made of Yew. 

“Your father doesn’t know,” Draco stated. 

“No,” Theo answered simply. “He does not.”

“They’d use him,” said Blaise coldly. “You know they would. Turn him into a weapon or worse.”

Draco had seen Blaise hacked off before, adolescent boys and all, but he’d never seen the other boy this furious. He looked ready to rush Draco, to draw his wand and threaten him within an inch of his life if he dared let Theo come to harm in any way. A kind of loyalty Draco wasn’t accustomed to amongst his classmates, but one he recognised in himself. In the way he’d do anything for his mother, for her life. For someone he loved. 

“And have you done this—this dream thing before?” asked Draco, not interested in Blaise’s overt dramatic display of protectiveness.

“I have,” Theo promptly replied, demeanour now oddly cheery. “On myself, of course, and my mother and ah—” he stuttered to a halt but slid his eyes in the direction of Blaise. “Only on people who’ve asked me. Actually that last bit’s a tiny lie, I did once make Crabbe feel humiliation in dream state, but he’d been a prick to Blaise that day and I thought it was justified.”

Draco still thought both of them to be full of shite, but he really didn’t have anything to lose and fucking gods, the temptation to indulge in a sleep-aid became far too strong. 

“So how do you want to do this?”

Theo clapped his hands together and Blaise got up and stalked over to the door, peering around outside. 

“You’re already dressed for bed, no time like the present.”

“It’s not even half-eight,” objected Draco, but his own body knew that to be a feeble excuse. 

“No one will wonder why you’ve gone to bed early, the way you’ve been looking these days. I’ll pull your hangings and cast a Silencing Charm.”

Part of him wanted to interrogate Theo further, to be absolutely sure that he wasn’t about to be the victim of a silly prank or worse, a trap. This was reckless, Draco knew it, and he could hear his father’s voice in his head warning him off this course of action. 

But he was so tired. So fucking tired. The lack of sleep wreaked havoc across his senses, now dulled and fogged from his near constant state of suffering.

Part of him felt an additional stab of misery. Theo had absolutely nothing to gain from this and Blaise even less. An actual, genuine token of kindness from another person. When was the last time someone had shown any concern or care for Draco’s well-being? Who else besides that stupid ghost noticed he was drowning? Falling and tumbling beneath the crushing tide of expectations, fear, and panic, and a pitiful dearth of sleep couldn’t keep him afloat, couldn’t bring him to shore. He swung between mania and exhaustion and the sudden swell of hysteria within him sped up his breathing. 

He’d almost killed two students already. He’d need to kill their headmaster soon.

Murderer.

Sleep. He needed to fucking sleep. A slave to nothing but the state of his subconscious.

He controlled his breathing and waved a hand in acquiescence towards Theo. “Fine, whatever. Do your weird dream thing, Nott, and we can all have a laugh over it in the morning.”

“What would you like to feel in your dream? What would help you feel rested?”

Draco sighed, already feeling too tired to debate further about the ridiculousness of this entire situation. His mind only half empty tonight as it instead buzzed with questions and arguments both for and against this chosen course of lunacy. 

“You pick. I really don’t care nor do I think this will even work.”

It should have felt strange to try and fall asleep with the lamps still lit, his curtains hanging open, and two other people watching him. 

Theo thought it over for a minute, canting his head side to side. “All right, I’ve got it. Your early birthday gift.” 

He raised his Sycamore wand with a dragon heartstring core and pointed it at Draco, who recoiled on instinct. Theo kept it steady and waited for Draco to relax.

“Are you just going to do that until I fall asleep? That’s creepy, Theo.”

He lowered the wand and Blaise took up his guard duty by the door. Draco cast his gaze above him and forced his eyes closed. 

“I just need to channel my magic to your skin,” said Theo. “You’ll start to feel sleepy soon.”

Draco felt the tip of a wand pressed against the skin of his hand. 

No one in the room made a voluntary sound. Quiet inhales and exhales of breath while Draco stared into the blackness, again finding the situation strange for its utter lack of strangeness. He admitted silently to himself that it made him relax, that two people waited for him to drift off and he had no cause to fear dark intentions from them.

Succumbing to the enchanting lull of sleep, he finally slipped into the drowsy state where one had but a few seconds of awareness before the envelopment of blank darkness. In this blip of time, Draco heard a word leave Theo’s lips.

The word tried to make itself known to Draco, but sleep had finally claimed him and he missed it. 

“Laetitia."

Chapter Text

The lazy drowsiness. That type of sated, relaxed state where one simply relished in the pleasant fact of existence. The solid, insistent knowledge of the flesh and bone home of the body, keeping one intact and whole, brought a soothing comfort.

The fact acknowledged by one’s self that you had a self, that you did endure corporeally, and felt the structure of the bed beneath you, as the mind lagged just a beat behind, sparking slowly to life, still content to linger in the cloud-like realm of subconscious activity. The oddly aware state of the in-between: to identify that your consciousness had been one way, but was now in the midst of transition to another state entirely.

A strangeness, this universal human experience of the fleeting caress of the dream state, progressing to the recognition of emerging from said state and onto the starkness of reality.

Brilliant, that ability of the mind to pinpoint that you had dreamed, but now, would leave that plane and enter one you knew to be the truth.

Maybe in that ephemeral space you regretted leaving behind the dream world and dreaded the re-entry.

Or if you are Draco, you remembered all the happiness that awaited you.

A warm, perfectly soft bed supported his prone form as Draco blinked awake. The silk sheets had slid down to his torso, his legs clad in silk pajama bottoms. Wrapped in smooth luxury, he stretched languorously, shedding the last vestiges of a good night’s sleep and opening his eyes wide to welcome the stream of golden sunlight through the curtains. A glorious morning greeted him.

Perfect for the festivities to occur later. In honour of him, of course.

Draco rolled onto his side to find the space next to him empty. His hand reached out and groped along the other side of the bed anyway, for the body that should be there.

He frowned petulantly. She’d promised him a very exciting morning in bed. It was his birthday after all and she always did spoil him on his birthday. Spoiled him every day, truthfully.

Happiness reigned supreme in his life.

He sighed and laid back against his pillow, feeling blissfully well-rested. Draco supposed letting him have a lie-in was a gift in and of itself.

Because not only had Draco expected at least her presence, surely the third occupant of the household would have wanted to disrupt his sleep by now?

Stray noises filtered down the hall from the room below. Joyful sounds of domesticity. The shifting of pans. The cracking of eggs. The sizzling of bacon. The excited babble of a child. The scrape of a chair against the floor.

Ah, so they meant to surprise him then; perhaps with breakfast in bed.

Draco roused himself completely and threw on a t-shirt over his bare chest. He crept quietly down the hall and down the stairs, carefully approaching the doorway of the spacious kitchen. An eat-in kitchen for this home. One where they both cooked and ate together most meals. No need for the stuffy propriety of formal dining rooms or long tables that created physical and figurative distance between families.

More sounds as he moved closer. Two voices. His favourite two voices.

The first, sweet and melodic, attempted and failed to be stern. Wonderful a mother though she may be, their son had her quite wrapped around his little finger. Draco could privately admit he was much the same.

Snippets of normalcy. Stability.

The other voice, excited and rapid, chattered away about all his various plans and schemes. Just like Draco, he wanted the constant and full attention of the woman trying to cook their breakfast. Surely no task was as important as what he had to tell her?

A playful and light scene unfolded before him as Draco inched closer, keen to stay hidden lest he disturb this lovely atmosphere. This picturesque vision of a mother and son.

“And Mummy look, look, are you looking?”

“Yes love, but I’ve got to pay attention to the stove, too. Do you want me to burn Daddy’s birthday breakfast?”

“Okay. But can you look at my stickers?”

“Are those the stickers Grandpa gave you?”

“Yes they are the best! It’s dragons for me. For me and Daddy.”

The child sat back down at the kitchen table, his feet dangling a comical height from the ground. “Daddy will like them?” The boy suddenly asked, apprehensive, his intent to impress Draco the clear goal.

“’Course he will, love. Have you finished with it?”

“NO!” And with that panicked proclamation the young boy gathered a round object to his chest, jumped down from the chair and bolted for the opposite door into the sitting room.

A well-loved and carefree child.

The only sounds now were his wife’s soft chuckles and the crackle of the frying bacon. Draco leaned against the door jamb and watched her for a few moments. A woman confident in her beauty. She’d shoved her hair out of the way of cooking into an impossible situation atop her head, wand poking through the middle of it. She wore one of his t-shirts, absurdly long on her smaller frame, over a pair of polka-dotted pajama bottoms.

Silly and casual. Relaxed.

Draco crept closer until he stood just behind her. Just as he reached for her waist to make her jump, she huffed out a knowing laugh, having already suspected his presence.

“You didn’t see his present for you, did you? He’s determined to surprise you.”

Draco smirked and snaked both of his arms around her middle, burying his face in the crook of her neck, relishing in her familiarity and warm, golden skin.

“Mmm, I’m already holding my present though.”

More sweet laughter. A common sound in their household.

“Going to unwrap me? Right here in the kitchen?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

His bold hands wandered up the hem of the shirt.

“Draco…” she warned but amusement and want tinged her admonishment. Pushing his luck further, he dropped open-mouthed kisses to her neck and pressed himself firmly against her backside.

“It’s my birthday,” he whispered as he kissed up to her ear. “And you had the audacity to look this fucking good in my shirt and these hideous bottoms.”

“Scorpius is in the next room,” she whispered back. “The second he hears you’re awake he’s going to come sprinting in here.”

“Mmm,” replied Draco and nipped her earlobe. “You should be quiet then.” She sucked in a harsh breath as he ground his hips into her. She turned her head to finally capture his lips in a deep kiss.

Eager and enthusiastic as always to taste and be tasted.

Draco indulged her for a few blissful minutes before dropping his hands and stepping away from her entirely.

“Wouldn’t want you to burn my birthday breakfast,” he said with a smirk and sauntered back from her.

“Oh you horrendous tease!” She snapped a tea towel at him, but he laughed and dodged it.

“Now, now, it’s my birthday.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the stove, turning off the heat and levitating plates over to fill up with eggs and bacon.

“Yes, I think I’ve heard,” she grumbled, but affectionately.

She pulled open the oven door and bent over to remove a tray of freshly baked croissants.

“Could you stay like that just a moment longer? It’s my favourite view,” he leered at her. She straightened up and rolled her eyes, carefully transferring the hot pastries to a basket on their large kitchen table.

Suddenly, a tiny, platinum-haired tornado whirled into the room, looking wide-eyed at Draco from the threshold.

“Daddy!”

The wild newcomer rushed to Draco’s side and latched both arms around one of Draco’s legs.

“It’s your birthday! Presents now?”

Draco chuckled and pried his son off him, only to sit in the nearest kitchen chair and pull the boy into his lap.

“After you’ve eaten this lovely breakfast Mummy made.”

“Bacon is best. Mummy makes it best.”

“She does,” agreed Draco, and both wizards earned a beatific smile from the witch. She levitated full plates in front of them and one for herself as the little family of three settled in for breakfast. Draco carefully sipped his freshly-poured tea, mindful of the hyperactive child in danger of knocking it right out of his hands as he chattered and gestured excitedly.

Divine and satisfying in the routine of it all.

Draco kept his son in his grasp as they ate. He had no idea how much more time he’d get with the boy at this phase, so small and affectionate; still willing to cuddle up with both his parents and still enamoured with them.

Scorpius had inherited his hair and his eyes. Sweet and sincere in his temperament. “Like you were as a child,” Draco’s mother had once commented.  

His wife disappeared behind the Prophet, tutting every now and then over something that caught her ire or throwing out random lines of an article to Draco to solicit his opinion on the matter.

Banter and patter flowed easily between them, even when they disagreed. A marriage of matched intellects.

Their son listened intently when either of his parents spoke or else filled the silence with his own musings on the events to come for the rest of the day.

“Grandma and Grandpa and Grandmother and Grandfather come today, they said. They promised.”

“Yes, you’ll see them later,” Draco reassured him and ruffled his son’s fine hair. “What time is everyone due to arrive?”

“Your parents will be here for lunch and then everyone else for dinner, though I think you can expect a few eager friends around afternoon tea,” she replied.

But Scorpius could only contain himself for so long and this boring adult-talk of schedules pushed him right over the edge of patience.

“Presents now? Please?”

Draco wrapped his arms tightly around the child and then leaned down to stage-whisper. “I don’t know Scorpius. Do you think I’ve been good this year? Do you think Mummy will let me have a present or two?”

His wife winked at Draco and pretended to think hard. “Hmm… let’s see. I think Daddy worked very hard to be good this year. What do you think, Scorpius?”

“Yes!” squealed the boy and Draco blew a raspberry against his cheek, causing Scorpius to thrash about in a fit of giggles.

The genuine sound of giddiness. A sound he cherished from his child.

Draco planted him onto his feet and shooed him away. “Go on then, I’m in need of gifts.”

The boy bounded from the room then swiftly returned with a helmet. He reverently set the item down onto the table in front of his father and stepped back quickly, looking up to Draco and awaiting his approval. Draco examined the item curiously. It was protective headwear, clearly designed for a child to wear, and he could see that his son had covered the whole of it in Muggle stickers of dragons.

“Do you want to tell Daddy more about his gift?” prompted his wife.

Scorpius puffed out his little chest and looked quite serious. “This is my helmet. Mummy said I have to wear it with you.”

Puzzled, Draco looked to his wife for an explanation. She smirked, raised her wand and summoned a wrapped package into the room. A package of suspicious length.

His hands trembled as he undid the ribbon and let the paper fall away to reveal a miniature version of his own broom. Small enough for a child to ride. His child.

“Is this… is this really…?” Draco swallowed once and met his wife’s mirthful gaze. “Love… you’re sure?”

She leaned forward and pecked his cheek. “He needs to learn from the best, don’t you think?”

Scorpius finally lost the battle with his composure. “Oh please please please can we go on it now? Please? I’m safe, look!”

And with that declaration he shoved the helmet onto his head. Draco chuckled, removed it, and turned it around so it faced the correct way.

“See my stickers? There’s six stickers!”

“Very good, Scorpius. Do you think you can pick out your best flying kit all by yourself?”

“Yes!” he shouted and ran off.

“Walk please, darling!” called his wife after their child’s running form.

A boisterous and unburdened child.

Alone again, Draco immediately pulled his wife onto his lap, drawing her into a slow kiss of gratitude. He’d dreamed of this moment for far too long, from the moment he’d first held his son: the day he’d teach him to fly. Nothing had made Draco happier as a child, and he couldn’t wait to experience his son’s first thrill of flight. He’d eagerly anticipated the way the boy’s eyes would light up in wonder as he took to the air.

His wife had been reluctant to allow Scorpius near a broomstick, despite Draco’s assurances that he could teach the boy safely.

A sacred bonding milestone between a father and son. The perfect birthday gift.

“What made you change your mind?” Draco asked her.

“Have you seen your face when you want something? I don’t know who’s harder to resist, you or Scorpius. It’s most unfair.”

Draco grinned wickedly, all too aware of the ways he could cajole his wife into things, break down her walls of resistance with a sly pout or a deft manoeuvre of his fingers. His demeanour flipped to serious and he grabbed at her hand.

“I won’t let him get hurt, I swear it.”

She stroked a tender finger down the side of his face.

Calm and reassuring. Always steadfast in her love for him.

“Do you think I’d have let this happen if I didn’t have complete faith in you?” She laughed and nuzzled the side of his face with her own. “I trust you to safely teach our son to fly, Draco.”

Trust. Uninhibited trust in him. In his ability as a father.

The sprawling back lands of his home stretched on in an unending sea of well-manicured green lawn. Tall, swaying trees lined the land, providing the right amount of protection for their private estate.

Wide and open and free. But secure. Their own kingdom. An idyllic setting to raise a family properly.

Crouching down in front of Scorpius so as to be at eye level, Draco buckled the helmet beneath his chin. He first taught the boy how to properly grip the handle. An inquisitive and obedient learner, the child hung on Draco’s every word, gazing from his father to the broom in his hands with rapt, wide-eyed attention.

Draco extracted promises and oaths from Scorpius about respecting the broom and how he was never to use it without a parent present. Even if the brooms made for this age group could only hover several feet off the ground, Draco would take no chances with his young son.

Family was his entire world. He’d do anything to ensure their safety. He protected his own.

The broom floated and Draco hoisted Scorpius to sit astride it. He’d teach him how to properly mount on his own soon. But first, he wanted to get the boy used to the sensation of flight. Draco summoned his own broom and, keeping a steady hand on Scorpius, hovered just beside him.

His wife watched anxiously from the verandah, sitting with his parents. Scorpius threw them an exuberant wave.

Draco then steered both brooms together, not five feet off the ground, in a long, slow lap around their lands. Scorpius wore a look of deep concentration at first, keeping in mind everything Draco had taught him about how to control his speed, how to turn, and how to brake, even as Draco never took his hand away from the smaller broom’s handle.

Eventually, seeing that Scorpius had the basics down, Draco dismounted his own broom to stand beside his son. A hand on the tail kept the child broom at the height of Draco’s chest. Draco instructed Scorpius to gently fly in a straight line, turn around and then fly right back to him. He counted down for the boy then let go.

His son flew off, steady and true, and then turned with only a bit of jerky movement and completed the route back to an anxious Draco. He brought the broom to a stuttering stop and Draco immediately grabbed the handle to bring it to a complete halt.

Scorpius looked up into his father’s face in awe. “I flew,” he breathed and Draco grinned.

A surreal moment in his life and his son’s life. One Draco knew he’d never forget.

Draco let him go a few more times before guiding Scorpius back towards the house.

“Mummy I did it! Mummy did you see?”

She nodded emphatically and then passed off the animated boy to his doting grandparents.

Draco’s parents positively adored their grandson. The closeness of their family was a constant source of comfort to him.

“Scorpius worships you, you know,” observed his wife quietly. “He kept telling me this morning he couldn’t wait to fly like you. Couldn’t wait to be just like you.”

“He’s a natural,” enthused Draco, pleased in this first showing of his son’s abilities on a broom.

The day sped by in a blur of enjoyment, as days spent with loved ones often did.

His friends and hers, faces sliding in and out of focus, all wearing grins and speaking in friendly, jovial tones, offering Draco congratulations and birthday wishes. His parents and hers chatting over cups of tea on the verandah. Other little boys and girls running round the gardens with Scorpius, their high-pitched squeals and giggles sounding through the air.

A home that knew nothing but peace.

The hazy sun of impending summer eventually set and the insects of early evening made their entrance and added their contributions to the aural tapestry of Draco’s outdoor birthday celebration. His wife was a constant comforting presence by his side. She laughed often, pressed her lips to his cheek periodically, squeezed his arm or hand, bestowed the sort of natural casual physical affection that defined their marriage.

Lightness and ease. Serenity found in the strength of her love for him.

A whir of pleasant experiences swirled around him.

Scorpius bragging loudly to the other children about his flying lesson with Draco.

Sharing a brandy with his father.

Smoking cigars with a group of male friends.

Sneaking behind some shrubbery to snog his wife.

Hoisting his giggling son onto his shoulders.

Blowing out the candles on a decadent birthday cake.

Boasting about his son’s natural talents on a broom.

His mother hugging him goodbye and whispering “I’m so proud of you.”

When all the guests had left, Draco carried his son to his bedroom. The young boy slumped against his father’s chest, tuckered out from all the excitement of the afternoon. Draco lowered Scorpius into bed and pulled the covers up snugly around his sleeping form. He leaned down and kissed his son’s forehead.

“Love you Daddy,” murmured Scorpius sleepily in his sweet little toddler voice. Draco swept his fingers gently through the soft, white-blond locks. “I love you Scorpius.”

His wife observed the standard, nightly exchange between father and son with a bright smile from the doorway.

Now, he read a book propped up in the bed he shared with his wife. She’d been reading too, but had disappeared into the adjoining room a few moments ago.

“Happy birthday darling.”

Draco looked up as she emerged from the ensuite bathroom dressed in black. Tiny scraps of black. Expensive-looking scraps to be sure, as he only clothed her in the finest fabrics when she didn’t insist on wearing her hideous pajamas.

She crossed the room confidently with a mischievous smile, tugged the book from his hands and climbed atop him to perch astride his hips. She took Draco’s hands and placed them at the thin straps at her shoulders, inviting him to reveal even more of her body.

He pulled both straps down and reached behind her to unclasp the hook of her lingerie. The fabric slid down her arms and chest, as Draco moved his palms to her breasts.

She writhed against him and then bunched his shirt and yanked upward, encouraging him to join her in this state of bare skin.

Shared vulnerability in their intimacy. They never hid from one another.

He flipped them over and divested them both of the rest of the nuisance of clothing and then pressed inside her. She stroked up and down his back as he moved in and out, murmuring words of praise and adoration into his ear. His lips never left some part of her face or neck all the while, bestowing her with the appreciative reverence due to a wife such as her.

A mutual offering of bliss and satisfaction. A passion developed over many years together, they knew each other better than anyone. Draco would know her body blind, his hands and lips had mapped every inch of her skin. Yet each round of lovemaking felt new, a re-discovery of being joined together as one, of gasping each other’s names.

After, bodies tucked into one another, an instinctual curl into him, ignited that sense of belonging. Her to him. Him to her. Both to this life they’d built together.

He ran a hand through her soft, voluminous curls.

She suddenly turned her face up and bit her lip. “I was thinking—”

“Always dangerous with you—”

“—that I want to give you your gift now, but unfortunately it’s not here yet.”

Draco rolled his eyes. Today had been gift enough. Scorpius was gift enough.

Hermione was gift enough.

“I suppose you’ll just have to make it up to me in other ways,” he playfully drawled. “Can I have a hint then? When’s it due to arrive?”

She let out an anxious exhale. “Some months yet,” she whispered and her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. She took his hand and placed it on her lower abdomen. Only now that he knew to look for it did Draco notice the slight roundness of her stomach.

Draco splayed his fingers along her body, shocked that he’d get to experience this cataclysmic expansion of his whole heart for a second time. The first time had almost been too much for him, but now he’d be so fortunate as to anticipate the arrival of his child again.

“You’re… love you’re sure? You’re—”

Joy. Radiant, bountiful, unending, pure fucking joy.

“Do you doubt my spellwork? Or that of the healer?” she teased.

Draco took her face in his hands and pressed a firm kiss to her lips.

He voiced his one and only concern. “Do you think Scorpius will be happy?”

“I think he’ll enjoy bossing someone else around in addition to you and me,” she said with a laugh. Her expression turned soft and understanding, “You always said you hated being an only child.”

Whole. Content. A family of four. A sibling for his child. A child who would not know the loneliness he had often felt.

Draco pulled his wife close to embrace her tightly, hoping to impart his unending gratitude that she would once again bestow him the honour of fatherhood.

“My mother is going to be insufferable, you realise. Especially if it’s a girl this time.”

She let out a tinkling laugh. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

When her laughter died away, she put a firm hand on his chest and pushed him onto his back and resumed her position in his arms.

Appreciated and cherished. How they always made each other feel.

“I love you, Draco,” she said. She said it often.

He drifted off to sleep with his wife in his arms, their child in her womb, and their son just down the hall.

The process of entering the dream world was one Draco did not fear. He had faith he would slumber soundly tonight.

Happy. He only felt happy.

Chapter Text

June 5, 1997

Darkness. 

Perhaps the sun hadn’t yet risen, and despite the assumed early hour, Draco felt unnaturally well-rested. Hermione had quite thoroughly knocked him out last night between his birthday shag and then that glorious news of her pregnancy. Merlin, it would be nice to have a daughter this time. 

He wondered what had woken him so early. His body felt cold, and he realised with disappointment that she no longer slept in his hold. 

Draco sighed and rolled to his side, groping along the silk sheets, reaching for the other occupant of the bed. 

He found none. 

He sat up quickly in his bed.

His four-poster bed with the curtains drawn.

His four-poster bed with the curtains drawn in the dormitories at Hogwarts.

No wife to be found, no joy to be had, just a doomed mission and a guaranteed future of either death or assassination. 

Draco had been ordered to commit the murder of Albus Dumbledore. But it wouldn’t be his first kill. 

Because right now he was going to murder Theodore fucking Nott.

Draco violently ripped open his hangings and glared at the bed next to his. That traitorous arse was going to pay for his indecent prank. Putting images like that in Draco’s brain, making him conjure up such utter ridiculousness, oh he’d make Nott pay for that error. Thought he could make a fool of him, did he? Thought he’d put lewd illusions of Granger—Merlin’s bollocks, of all the fucking girls, the bushy-haired Mudblood?—and think Draco wouldn’t retaliate? 

Chest heaving in rage, he took the two steps in between the beds and yanked open the velvet hangings hiding that unrepentant peddler of dragon-shite. Wand in hand, Draco prepared to cast every insidious curse short of an Unforgivable.

He stopped cold at the sight in front of him. 

Theo’s weedy form was folded per his usual physical habits, but this time into the body of Blaise, curled snugly around him. Draco could only stare as he lowered his wand, shocked momentarily at both the intimate position and that Theo had made it so easy for Draco to find them this way. No privacy spells or wards in place.

It was also shocking in that there was nothing salacious about it at all. Draco observed the innocent peace of two people intertwined in a display of pure and absolute trust. 

Something harsh and raw, like a wound not properly tended to, ached just inside Draco’s chest. A clawing, festering feeling of bitter envy that swelled to an almost unmanageable crescendo. 

Here was a picture of mutual vulnerability, a surrender to necessary sanctuary found in the arms of someone beloved. Someone worth protecting. 

Draco had just known this feeling in a dream. But Theo knew it in real life. The jealousy pulsed angrily again. To have tasted that life so briefly, so wonderfully, only for it to have all been one euphoric, transient mirage. 

He’d never felt so content upon waking. 

No doubt disturbed by Draco standing over him letting the low light of morning into his face, Theo blinked slowly awake. He yawned, shifting carefully in Blaise’s arms, scratching his chest over his pajama top and then carding a hand through his own pillow-mussed hair. 

Theo noticed Draco standing at his bedside and his mouth unfurled in a lazy, pleased grin.

“You’re up early, forgot to set your other gift out.”

With that pronouncement, he moved out of Blaise’s hold and Draco heard him rifling through his trunk at the foot of the bed. Draco’s eyes clocked the way Blaise slept on, but his arm reached out, one hand flexing for a body no longer beside him. An empty spot meant to be filled. A slight pang in Draco’s chest at having experienced that same sensation moments ago, that instinctual search for someone meant to be lying next to you. 

Theo pulled Draco from his spiralling thoughts by shoving a box under his nose. An all-too familiar package of sweets. Draco accepted the present with a confused frown, and then glanced at the pile of birthday presents he had yet to unwrap awaiting him at the end of his own bed. The Jelly Slugs that should have been there were already clutched in his hand.

The pieces clicked into place for Draco, the mystery of the birthday sweets finally solved. “You give me these? Every year?”

“Yeah mate. They’re your favourite. Happy birthday.”

The fight left Draco at the sincerity of Theo’s matter-of-fact statement. All these years, and not only did Theo still remember Draco’s favourite childhood sweet, but ensured he received a box at least on his birthday. 

Normally, it’d be dangerous to assume a fellow housemate didn’t harbour an ulterior motive, but Draco now wondered if Theo hadn’t let him see Blaise in his bed on purpose. An exchange of leverage. The language of trust between Slytherins. 

Not that Draco presently had a cause to do so, but he’d not use this information about Blaise against Theo. If this was how he sought comfort, then so be it. Cling to that hope any way you can, he wanted to miserably warn him. 

“Good dream?” prompted Theo. 

“Don’t you know?” Draco tossed back, wondering now if he’d own up to messing about with Draco’s mind while he slept.

But Theo shook his head. “No. I told you, I just nudge the right feelings and emotions to the surface. I can’t see into your brain or anything. Your dreams are your own.”

“Uh, right.” 

He wouldn’t be able to voice it aloud anyway. It’d be considered blasphemy. As it should. 

Draco opened the rest of his birthday gifts. His mother had sent the traditional coming-of-age gift: a goblin-made wristwatch. His namesake constellation was engraved on the back of the silver watch face. Draco traced a finger along the pattern that comprised the star version of “the dragon.”

“It’s dragons for me. For me and Daddy.”

Draco shoved the voice of an excited child into a far-flung corner of his mind.

Theo prodded him eagerly once more, clearly pleased that Draco seemed calm. “So, it was good then? You slept well?”

“Yeah…” Draco trailed off and stared down at the watch in his hand. “Yeah it was good. Really good.” 

Bacon, eggs, and freshly baked croissants. Draco loaded his plate at the breakfast table, eager to fill his empty and rumbling stomach for once. He hadn’t felt this hungry and confident in his ability to keep food down in so long. 

He looked up, halfway through chewing his fourth slice of bacon, to see several of his housemates’ surprised eyes on him. They hastily all looked away, with the exception of Theo who stared knowingly from just across the table. 

Draco resolved to slow down a bit from gorging himself and took his time with the rest of his food. It felt so wonderful to enjoy breakfast; to savour the first meal of the day that would energise him enough to concentrate in the hours ahead. 

His clear head and settled stomach allowed Draco to observe the quiet scene just in front of him. Blaise and Theo sat next to one another on the bench just as they always did, but now given last night’s and this morning’s context for their closeness, Draco noticed the subtle tells. The hints of something so far beyond friendship, in the way each boy anticipated the other’s needs. 

Theo silently sliding the sugar bowl closer to Blaise’s refilled tea cup. 

Blaise wordlessly doling extra eggs onto Theo’s plate.

Theo snatching a strawberry off Blaise’s plate. Blaise batting his hand away when he went for another. 

A silent duet of companionship. The sentimentality of it all, not to mention the futility of it all, should have disgusted Draco. Instead, something akin to wistfulness rose within him. 

Pansy and Daphne trilled “Happy birthday Draco!” pulling him from his reverie. He shot them a signature smirk and a wave. Several others clapped him on the back as they passed by, delivering well-wishes and Draco revelled in the normalcy. 

A good night’s sleep, a hearty breakfast that he would immediately supplement with a few Jelly Slugs, and Draco felt ready to take on the world. On his way out of the Great Hall, he gave Crabbe instructions for acting as look-out that night while Draco worked in the Room of Hidden Things. 

He could solve any problem feeling this clear-headed, this light inside. Just one good night’s rest and he’d been rejuvenated, regained his confidence in his cunning and spellwork. 

He occluded away the specific details of the dream. No need to dwell on something silly and out of his control. Theo had promised a peaceful night and he’d delivered, and that’s all that mattered to Draco. He need not think any more on how his subconscious could have betrayed him in such a way by conjuring up that version of himself with that version of Gra— her. 

He stood panting in front of the open door of the Vanishing Cabinet. The mended Vanishing Cabinet. The test bird had flown out seconds ago, alive and eager to escape the passageway. Draco clutched his wand in one hand, the door in the other, and grinned ear to ear. 

All week after his birthday he’d worked diligently on his task, bolstered by several nights in a row of quality sleep. No more dreams like the one Theo claimed to have influenced, but flashes of similar motifs. Not a single nightmare.

And now those hours spent in rest had allowed Draco to realise his success. He’d done it! Him, the youngest one in the inner circle, the one the other, crueller followers liked to mock, liked to jeer at him about his father’s failure… Draco would show them all up when he completed the mission in full. 

Flushed with excitement, Draco dismissed Crabbe from guard duty, rushed to the Owlery and summoned his eagle owl. He penned a brief letter addressed to his mother, though he knew other eyes would see it first, informing her that he’d just completed a very important class project; one he’d been working on all year. Perhaps his mother would like to meet him in Hogsmeade soon? Could she send back the date that worked best for her? 

Sending off the coded letter, Draco hustled back to the Room of Hidden Things. The Cabinet had worked once, but best to double-check his method, just in case. Hoping he hadn’t been too hasty in writing home with the good results, Draco conjured a bird and performed the ritual with the Cabinet just as he had earlier. 

It still worked. 

Draco let out a loud triumphant laugh. Laughing and laughing until it turned hysterical. He couldn’t stop the hearty guffaws bubbling out of his throat and he clutched onto the door for support as he gasped for air. Merlin, when was the last time he’d felt this happy outside of that dream?

Just as suddenly as he’d been moved to laughter, Draco’s gulps of breath turned to ones rooted in panic. In the blind euphoria of completing this crucial step of his plan he’d quite forgotten exactly why he’d been performing this repair job in the first place.

Then he remembered.

Murderer. 

Shaking and choking for his lungs to work properly, he sank to the floor. Draco braced his head between his knees and rocked his body back and forth. 

The dream… the dream. It wilted, withered, then died. 

Never to happen.

The alternate glimpse of a life lived happily burned across his vision and Draco jumped up to his feet. Panting and looking around wildly, he grabbed the first thing he could reach and threw it as hard as he could across the room. Something in the distance shattered and a few other things might have tumbled or fallen and then Draco could not stop. 

Books, dented quaffles, candlesticks, glass jars, remnants of desks, chair legs, torn pillows, inkwells, crystal balls, tea cups, mirrors, Draco tore through the aisles grabbing desperately at items that could suffer at his hands. He pitched it all violently, this way and that, relishing in the chorus of smashing glass or china, wood breaking against stone, stone crashing into wood, ruining it, destroying it, making a mess of it all, fucking up everything beyond repair…

Just like he’d done to his own life. 

All gone. All ruined. Death warrant signed. Future obliterated. 

He yelled. He screamed. He let out a blood-curdling roar and finally dropped down to the floor in a sheen of sweat and tears. 

Hopeless. Afraid. Alone. Miserable. Terrified. Unsalvageable. Unworthy. 

Unforgivable. 

“Scorpius worships you, you know… he couldn’t wait to fly like you. Couldn’t wait to be just like you.”

What kind of child would want a father like Draco? What kind of woman would tie herself to him? What kind of future awaited a foot soldier in the army of the Dark Lord?

The images broke past the floodgates in his mind. A son, a wife, a happy home… all of it out of reach now. 

Before long, he’d be an assassin or he’d be dead. 

Draco sat on the floor surrounded by shards of discarded items and artefacts and wept for the man he’d never get to become.

He’d slept poorly. But he woke determined anyway. Determined to remember why mourning such a vision was not only futile, but distasteful. He’d rejected and buried and hidden the fact of the woman who’d been by his side, been in his bed in the dream, and now inspired a frustrating biological response upon waking. 

But he focused on it now. On why that stupid fucking dream needed to be expunged from his brain along with any positive thoughts associated with such images.

Draco glared across the Great Hall from his usual spot at the Slytherin table during breakfast. 

Granger. He watched her shake her completely unmanageable hair off her shoulders and tuck into a bowl of porridge, chatting animatedly with the She-Weasel. 

Stupid, ugly, Mudblood.

Fine, not stupid. He could concede she possessed more than a modicum of intelligence. In her academic pursuits only, of course. If she knew what was good for her, she’d not hang around Potter and the Weasel. That sort of behaviour would only get her killed eventually, showing a complete lack of self-preservation skills. 

She was too loud, Granger, with her hand in the air and her prissy voice shrieking facts or self-righteousness constantly. She’d be snuffed out for it. Though perhaps she needed to be loud for her dimwitted compatriots to understand anything she said. Draco wondered if he were to engage in any intellectual repartee with her whether the banter would flow as easily as it had in his dream.

Not exactly ugly either. 

She’d fixed her teeth a few years back and carried herself with more grace and confidence than someone raised by Muggles should. She had aesthetically pleasing facial features, he supposed, as long as she didn’t open her swotty mouth to blather out a shrill stream of grating nonsense. The rest of her could be considered attractive, if one were to regard her with an objective eye. She’d certainly looked fetching enough in that little black number in his dream.

He slammed his Occlumency walls into place.

Perhaps not ugly at all. 

Still a Mudblood though. 

And a loud one at that.

He noticed her in the hallways between classes. A satchel bulging with books as she cut through crowds with a determined step. Excuse me, I am going somewhere, her stride seemed to say. 

He noticed her in the classes they shared. Even when she wasn’t speedily answering questions from professors, her bright-eyed attention to learning spoke for her: I will soak up all this knowledge and contribute something to the world.

He noticed her in the library. She’d spread her belongings all over the table with no care for her personal possessions but took the utmost care with the books she pored over. I care about my education and I care about my friends and I care and care and care even if I get nothing in return. It rolled off her in rippling waves of sincere compassion. 

He’d felt that care in his dream. How would she react to him at this moment? If he were to approach her little study sanctuary? She’d probably huff her hair out of her face and dismiss him with something pithy that would make his lip curl and a slur spew from his mouth. 

Draco once again tucked away the lingering yet foreign sensation from his dream. Of when Hermione Granger had cared about him. 

As Draco waited for the return owl over the following days, his mind wandered down a curious path. Perhaps the Cabinet, all the planning, had simply been a test? 

Wild thoughts flew through his mind of the return owl bearing news of congratulations on a job well done. “Thank you for your service Draco, the adults will take it from here.”

He let that naïve hope buoy him for a few days. He told himself he’d succeeded, he’d saved himself, saved his parents. Task complete, test passed, loyalty to the cause proved. This ignorance afforded him some more nights of deep sleep.

The owl bearing a reply to his triumphant letter found him at breakfast. The bird dropped its message right onto Draco’s full plate of another hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and a warm croissant. 

It contained stilted salutations from his mother and an assurance that an impromptu visit from her could be arranged at a moment’s notice. Translation: they were ready the second he sent word that the castle was unprotected. He took out the charmed coin. He’d have to Imperius Rosmerta again. She’d need to notify him of Dumbledore’s next nighttime stroll into Hogsmeade. 

Murderer.

Draco hastily stuffed the letter in his robes and stood; food abandoned and appetite vanished. He considered it a victory that his shaking legs made it all the way back to his dorm. He only enjoyed about two minutes of solo hysteria in the form of sitting numbly on his bed and absently tearing the letter into pieces upon pieces. A stream of torn parchment floated to the stone floor. 

Theo appeared, a slouching figure that seemed to curl around the doorframe of any room he entered. Blaise followed, the solid, looming presence to the oddly off-kilter Theo. 

“Something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it?” Theo barged his way into Draco’s melancholy just like he’d barged his way into Draco’s psyche. 

Draco had reached his limit of outside influences toying with his mind: his aunt in an attempt to toughen him up, the Dark Lord in an attempt to test his loyalty, and now Theo with his dream magic. 

Not even bothering to draw his wand, Draco shot off the bed and charged at Theo. He grabbed the taller boy by the front of his robes and slammed him against the wall.

“What did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?”

Blaise might have shouted in protest, but Draco heard nothing but his own laboured breathing and the blood pounding in his ears.

Theo’s eyes only widened a fraction at Draco’s face contorted in rage, demanding an explanation. Draco felt Blaise’s hand on his shoulder, ready to rip him away, but Theo called him off with a shake of his head.

“I did what I said I would. I helped you sleep. Pleasantly so, it would seem.”

That unfailingly measured tone only further incensed Draco.

“Not good enough,” he snarled. “I need specifics. Why her?”

“Her?”

“Yes, her!”

Draco ripped himself away from Theo and staggered back to his bed. 

“Don’t you know what you’ve done to me? Don’t you know how fucked I am? And I can’t have it! I can’t have what you showed me, ever! Fuck, it’s all just—”

He whirled away, turned his back to the others as he choked on the words, the air, his failings.

“It was cruel. What you did, Theo. Truly fucked up.”

“I wanted you to have a good birthday, that’s all.”

Draco controlled his breathing and only spoke again when he could be sure his tone lacked any semblance of sentiment. “The last word of your incantation… what exactly did you try to cast?”

“Happiness. I wanted you to dream of being happy. I wanted you to see how to be happy.”

He’d only just mastered himself when Theo’s revelation barrelled into him. 

Happiness. No longer an option for Draco. Rage at Theo morphed into a strain of vindictiveness as Draco turned around. A calculating coolness commanded his voice now.

“This power of yours seems quite influential. Some might say it’s my duty to inform the Dark Lord, to give him an edge in this coming war.”

Blaise drew his wand. 

Draco advanced slowly, taking out his own. A wild thought born of panic surged forward. Maybe if he gave this information to the Dark Lord he wouldn’t have to murder the old man and his parents would be safe. He could avoid his own damnation by dooming another. He could present an ingenious little tool for torture in Theo’s ability. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” murmured Blaise. “Is this what you’ve learned from your new friends? Using others to build yourself up? It’s pathetic.”

“Jealous, Blaise?” Draco sneered. “Some of us have been trusted with tasks of actual importance. I don’t think a Slug Club membership will serve you well in the real world.”

“You’re in over your head. And I won’t let you drag Theo down with you.”

“You wouldn’t know as you’re not exactly Sacred Twenty-Eight are you? We have a duty, Zabini, to serve our families and uphold their values and that is the way of the Dark Lord. But I suppose someone from your background wouldn’t quite understand.”

“If you go running with this to your master, understand that I will kill you.”

“Blaise!” Theo cut in sharply. 

Blaise held Draco’s stare, daring him to act. His dark eyes were wild, but his hand was steady. Draco had no doubt that Blaise would try to cut him down should he make an attempt on Theo. His gaze spoke of the deepest kind of love: a person willing to murder, willing to bear a stain upon his soul if it meant the safety of Theo. He’d stand in front of any wand, commit any heinous act, rend himself in two with sins of an unspeakable nature if it meant protecting Theo.

And didn’t it just break Draco apart a little to recognise their sameness in the moment. 

Draco lowered his wand and backed away. As quickly as his temptation to betray Theo had surfaced, it dissipated. The fight left Draco as he realised the futility of his threat. The Dark Lord did not accept bargains, anyway. You did as he asked or you met his wrath. 

Theo held up a placating hand in Draco’s direction. A hand that had placed a box of Jelly Slugs at the end of Draco’s bed every year on his birthday. Just how low had he sunk that he’d really consider dooming someone like Theo to the life of a sinister puppet?

“Draco, I don’t know what went on in your dream. I truly do not. But what I do know,” he sidestepped carefully around Blaise, giving the other boy a quick squeeze of his hand, “is that you’re suffering. I tried to help but… perhaps I was wrong to have interfered. If there’s another way to help I could—”

“No.”

Draco did need to ask once more. Just to be sure. “You didn’t… you didn’t choose her? What I saw, it—it wasn’t on purpose?”

Theo shook his head. “I’m sorry you’ve had to learn to distrust others, Draco. I really am. I swear on my magic that I have no idea what happened in your dream. And you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’d appreciate the kindness of your silence in return.”

“Make him take an Unbreakable Vow,” Blaise demanded.

“I won’t say anything,” said Draco flatly. Though he’d be missing class by now, Draco sank back on his bed and turned onto his side.

“None of this matters anyway,” he murmured. 

The body fell over the tower ledge, but the curse that had sent Albus Dumbledore to his death had not left Draco’s wand. 

Noise roared all around him. Screams, spells, curses, explosions, it all flew around him in one symphony of chaos and hell. The fury of war. 

Whizzing hexes, dodging bodies, crashing bits of castle walls, shouts of pain or cries for help. 

Snape hustled him along, keeping a firm grip on his arm. Draco, in shock, unsure if his legs even worked anymore and wondered if Snape had cast a Locomotor spell on his body. He kept moving, kept going forward, strung along by adrenaline and despair.

Snape told him not to turn back, told him to keep going and shoved him forward. But he looked back. Just once.

He saw her. Through the haze of smoke as a school turned into a battleground, he saw her. 

She stood, wand raised, voice crying out as she volleyed back a curse, parried a hex, fought and defended herself and those around her. On the opposite side of battle lines from Draco. 

She was magnificent. A force of fiery nature, expertly wielding her magic, throwing curse after curse at her adversaries. She’d die to defend her friends, her school, her home. A death he might have just inadvertently caused. 

He couldn’t picture her lifeless. Not when she seemed so alive, so bright, in the throes of battle. 

Attack and defend, attack and defend. 

Her hair flew about her head, streaming behind her like a banner of war, a model of proud courage. 

Would he ever see her this way again? This warrior woman, fierce in the defence of her cause? Possibly. And he might be the one on the other end of her wand. Would she hesitate? If they met again, he in his Death Eater mask and she in her sense of justice as armour… would she cut him down? Her opponent in this war, a war determined for them before birth. Would she give him a chance at mercy, as Dumbledore had? Would he take it? Would she meet him as a boy she knew from school or an evil force to be eradicated? Although, now with Dumbledore gone, would his side land an easy victory? Would they meet again as prisoner and captor? 

He at least knew the one way in which they’d never meet again. 

Before it blinkered out of existence, Draco took one extended moment, a moment suspended on something much like that limbo state of the mind and body as it surrenders to dreams. He let himself imagine it for just one more moment. 

That he made it out alive. That his parents made it out alive. That he earned the love and trust of a good woman. That she’d given him a beautiful son and couldn’t wait to give him another child. That he was happy.

Then Draco’s dream died. Dead like the body lying crumpled at the base of the Astronomy Tower. 

The next few months of his life flew by in a whirl of pain, shame, guilt, more pain, regret, pain again, and complete and utter mind-bending rounds of terror. The darkest recesses of his mind could never have dreamt up such unfathomable awfulness. The kind of soul-shattering violence and gore that one would have to then file away into a thought corner, never to be revisited lest he risk a mental and physical unravelling. 

Each day felt like a test. And that test, if failed, came with a price. Perhaps today’s price was a Crucio. Or you’d have to Crucio someone else. Or watch your mother and father writhe and scream on the floor. Or a woman eaten by a giant snake on your dining room table.

Victory for the cause claimed (with control of the Ministry and Hogwarts), but no celebrations followed. Unless you counted the jeering from some of the more despicable recruits as victims were paraded in front of the Dark Lord or his followers for sport. The victims were both magical and Muggle, though after the first, Draco stopped noting their blood status. They’d scream and die the same anyway.

He’d never been more relieved to go back to Hogwarts. The Carrows generally left him alone. Snape kept him at a distance. Not that he’d been friendly with Draco, or with any one student, but a cordiality—a hint of a thaw—had always lurked in their conversations and interactions. A professor and a favoured pupil dynamic that Draco didn’t realise he associated so positively with his schooling until now.

Now, the headmaster and favourite disciple of the Dark Lord kept himself to himself. He hid away in the headmaster’s office, no doubt receiving daily missives on the running of the school and educational plans for the next generation of dark servants. 

Occlumency. Draco’s only refuge. Ridding one’s mind of the daily crush of trauma. Of witnessing a first year Crucio’ed. Of seeing a young girl hung by her ankles as “detention.” Of seeing Imperio used in the most humiliating ways in classes. Of seeing how the openly defiant were publicly tortured. Of seeing tears and blood and hearing screams and cries in halls that used to only know the normal sounds of students laughing, chatting, and learning. 

He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t sleep at the Manor and he couldn’t sleep at Hogwarts either. Aside from the horrifying real-life scenes, he feared he’d fall into his trap of hope when he closed his eyes at night. Those tempting visions that would dance across his mind. 

A home. A family. Safe and loved and cherished and happy. He’d take any future at this rate.

Theo noticed. Of course he noticed. 

“I could help again,” he suggested one night in their dorm. Crabbe and Goyle were absent, but they liked to take advantage of being allowed any curfew they wanted and helping the Carrows round up rebellious students. 

“No,” said Draco harshly. “I’m at risk enough with the first one. No more dreams.”

“Finally realised you were in over your head, eh?” offered Blaise in that disaffected monotone. The accusation rankled Draco. Blaise could sit there in all his miserable haughtiness, but he didn’t know the burden of a sacred family name, of a legacy laid out from before you were born. 

And Theo, whose mother had died when he was 10, didn’t know that pressure either. His father, a brutish, cruel man, contented himself with worshipping the Dark Lord, seemed to think his “failure” of a son required no further parenting. No love lost between father and son of the Nott line. 

“I did it for my parents. For my mother,” Draco said in a hollow voice. The excuse he would make for himself and, if he made it out of this mess alive, one he’d have to repeat over and over. “Wouldn’t you, if it were yours?” he appealed to Blaise. “Haven’t you tried to keep her safe?”

“My mother?” Blaise snorted. “My mother fucked off to Italy. Donated enough gold to the cause to get You-Know-Who off her back then swanned off.”

“Why didn’t you go with her?”

“Not without Theo.”

Blaise’s reply came as an instinct. Theo did not react to this pronouncement at all. Because the truth, the absolute certainty of such a statement seemed to be unsurprising. A fact of the universe, the two of them, together. 

“And she still went? But… but you’re her son.” Draco could not fathom such an action. Narcissa had probably had the opportunity to run, at some point. Draco wondered if his father even suggested it as an option for her. But here she remained while her home was invaded and her family cowed.

“No,” Blaise replied. “I’m an inconvenience. It’s all I’ve ever been.”

“It’s not.” Theo accompanied his quiet disagreement with an intertwining of his fingers with Blaise’s. 

Draco looked away and drew his curtains. He couldn’t stomach the open affection. The willingness to cling to another person that spoke of such earnest, true devotion. 

He rolled on his side and allowed himself a few minutes of a ghost of a memory. A bright burst of that feeling scorched through his being before he made himself snuff it out with Occlumency. 

You can be happy. There’s a way to be happy. You’ve seen it, you’ve felt it. It’s fine, it’ll be fine, you’ll make it there.

Chapter Text

June 5, 1998

Draco hated his birthday. 

He sat in a chair. Chained to it, to be accurate. Oh, the sight he must make to the court and bystanders. The pale Malfoy heir in his best robes (Mother insisted) hauled into the Ministry from his stint of house arrest to answer for his crimes. 

Curiously, though neither his lawyer nor Draco had asked, an intriguing group of witnesses showed up to testify. On his behalf.

McGonagall spoke. 

“Coerced.” 

“Forced.” 

“Under duress.”

“Bigoted yes, not a murderer.” 

“Raised by Lucius Malfoy.”

“Azkaban is not the answer here.”

“He was a child. He was used.”

“You want a scapegoat and you’ve already locked up his father.”

Potter spoke:

“Brainwashed.”

“No, we were never considered friends.”

“I never used the word ‘brave.’”

“Just making the point that others tortured willingly. He didn’t.”

“Didn’t murder Albus Dumbledore.”

“Didn’t murder anyone.” 

Weasley spoke:

“Didn’t identify us.” 

She spoke:

“What choice did he really have?”

“Voldemort threatened both his life and his mother’s life.”

“Was a minor when he took the Mark and again, under duress.” 

“Deserves a second chance. We should be prioritizing rehabilitation over revenge here.”

Draco did not speak for most of his own defence. He’d been advised to keep silent unless asked a direct question and only then to give the briefest answer possible.

So he answered “yes” or “no” depending on the question. He delivered a concise speech on his regrets, on his fears for his own life and his mother’s life. Though he meant every contrite word, he wanted to say more. So much more. Especially to her. 

Because they had met again. 

She’d writhed and twitched on his drawing room floor covered in blood, sweat, and dirt. He’d stood some feet away and looked anywhere but at her.

He still avoided looking at her. 

At the end of the whole charade, the court handed down a laughably lenient sentence. Probation for two years, monthly wand checks and interviews with a parole Auror, and a paltry (for a Malfoy) fine. 

The eventual summation of Draco Malfoy: a pathetic, misguided, naïve boy. Got in too deep and couldn’t seek help. Tragic, really, but not much of a threat. The courts and hungry mobs had bigger fish to fry. 

He’d been master of the Elder Wand for the better part of a year until Potter disarmed him. Potter had wielded Draco’s own Hawthorn wand to fell the Dark Lord.

How fucking poetic. 

May 2, 1999

Mother had made him attend the so-called “Victory Gala” held in the Ministry atrium. He’d heard rumours that some government committee requested to hold it on Hogwarts grounds; that ridiculous idea somehow gained enough steam until Potter himself had stepped in to kill it. Dancing and drinking and speech-making on the very spot where many had bled, suffered, or died only one year ago? How merry. 

Mother held her head high and clutched Draco’s arm most of the evening, perhaps hoping some of the goodwill afforded to her for saving Potter’s life might then be extended to her son. 

Draco wore a barely suppressed scowl and downed as much free champagne as possible. Cheap swill, of course. Mother would probably mentally catalogue every gauche detail of the event and report it all to Father at their next monthly family reunion in Azkaban. She always injected far too much levity into these visits, as if Father was generously giving them time together between business trips as opposed to serving a several-years sentence in a high-security prison.

“We should volunteer the Manor next year,” his mother whispered, her critical eye roving over the bland trays of hors d'oeuvres: wilting vegetables and stale-looking crostini. 

Draco frowned, polished off his glass, and immediately snagged another from a passing tray. 

“I hardly think that would be appropriate,” he murmured. “What with all the prisoners and torture and what not.”

Narcissa pretended as if Draco hadn’t mentioned the second bit. 

“We could even open up the gardens if the weather cooperates. And if we held it in the main ballroom, we could receive guests in the Floos in the adjacent parlour, no need to traipse through the whole first floor.”

“Yes, no need to pass the drawing room or entrance to the cellar.”

She once again chose to ignore his surly commentary. Narcissa chose to ignore many things these days. She still went to every charity function, every gala, visited any shop or restaurant no matter the public opinion on her presence. Draco hated the stares and glares they received from the masses, but accompanied her when he could. Attempting to protect her still. Trying once again to succeed where Lucius continually failed. 

“We’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Draco,” she would say. “Your father is paying his dues and we helped end this war. I’ll act as I please.”

It inspired admiration and exasperation in equal measure. 

Draco cast a bored and slightly intoxicated gaze around the room. It landed on a large group of people with red hair. He’d seen a few of them throw incredulous glares at himself and Narcissa for daring to exist, but otherwise seemed content to keep their distance and their silence for the duration of the gala. 

Then he saw Granger. 

It shouldn’t have hurt. Draco shouldn’t have felt a thing at all. He had no sane cause to watch her hold onto Weasley’s arm and experience a sharp prick of envy. She looked rather lovely in her formal robes, a far cry from the waif of a thing he’d seen in the Room of Hidden Things during the battle. But she did not really resemble the woman in his dream either. 

The dream that never left, the dream that liked to murmur to Draco in the night, the dream that spoke in a honeyed, lilting voice about a future of a happy life, now poured sinister thoughts into his head. 

Thoughts of his many failings, of his cursed surname and how the combination of the two meant he had no hope of achieving what Weasley had fallen into through blind fucking luck. 

Every time Draco closed his eyes he hoped to go back. Hoped his dream would be a kind respite from the occupation of his family home and now his nightmares’ grip of his subconscious. He spurned every offer of Dreamless Sleep Potion from his mother or the house-elves. He put up stronger Silencing Charms around his bedchambers instead to ward their ears against his shouts. 

Sometimes his dream-state rewarded him. Some nights he fell back into a distorted version of Theo’s creation. Possibly because during his waking hours, filled with nothing but idle indolence in his family’s home, he had nothing to distract him from drifting to the fantasy realm in his conscious state either. His fixation during the day could sometimes force a return trip to that impossible existence.

Draco finished his glass and grabbed another. Narcissa tutted softly but made no comment. They’d already had a screaming row over his drinking habits some months ago, Draco named the victor by virtue of bringing her to tears while he laid blame at her feet for his ruined adolescence. She apologised and they never spoke of it again, nor did she mention his self-destructive tendencies. Draco simply became better at hiding them.

On their way to their departure Floo that evening, Draco and his mother passed the world’s most famous foursome. Potter gave an awkward bob of his head and a half-wave; She-Weasel inclined her head politely; the Weasel King averted his gaze.

Granger offered a tight, close-lipped smile of public propriety. A beautiful pantomime of civility. 

Narcissa smiled her most charming smile and trilled “Good evening.” 

Draco had no idea what his own face bothered to do. 

He saw his mother home, waited until she retired to her chambers, then immediately went to Pansy’s. She would want to drink with him tonight. Over a bottle of disturbingly expensive scotch, Draco told her about the gala; about which pureblood families now felt comfortable enough in their avoidance of post-war retributive justice to once again rub elbows with Ministry elite. 

Pansy hadn’t been so lucky. She may not have received an Azkaban sentence, but her family’s manor held her prisoner all the same. 

“I can’t leave,” she whispered miserably, tugging on the ends of her black hair. “Mother and I… we can’t show our faces. All because I—”

Draco didn’t need her to finish her tearful sentence. All because I was a stupid, scared, naïve girl, willing to offer up Harry Potter to the Dark Lord.

They traded the bottle back and forth, not even bothering to summon tumblers. Then, per the influence of copious amounts of alcohol, started trading memories and fears too. 

I don’t want to end up like my father.

I hate being shut in all the time with my mother.

I received 18 Howlers today.

What will I do now?

What other options do I have?

My mother keeps trying to line up suitors for me and I want to scream. 

One or both of them might have cried at some point and then per their habit of the last few months, fell into her feather-soft bed in a tangle of limbs born of their mutual loneliness. 

Draco woke in the morning with a pounding head and a regretful Pansy reminding him, once again, that “we can’t keep doing this, Draco.”

He pretended not to hear her.

June 5, 1999

Draco really hated his birthday.

He’d started drinking on May 2nd and hadn’t stopped since. Days-long benders where he didn’t leave his chambers, supplementing his liquid diet with the meals that magically appeared three times a day. 

And all the while, Draco warred with himself. At night, or at this rate, whenever he closed his eyes, he begged and pleaded with his mind to let him have just another taste, just one more fleeting glimpse of that happy scene. 

He’d wake eventually, unsatisfied with his slumber and then subsequently ashamed of his desperate thoughts and wishes. He sometimes tried to picture Granger’s adult life in contrast with his own pathetic state of reclusiveness. Did she cook breakfast for Weasley? Did their parents all get along? Would she soon bear Weasley a child and raise it in a safe, loving home? He pictured the woman from his dream wearing a different oversized shirt at a different stove receiving affection from a different man and wanted to be sick.

Because that’s what he was: sick. 

No rational person would beg their dreams to show them visions of a woman and a life he could never know. No sane human would then become so disappointed and enraged upon waking that they’d have to grab the nearest bottle of firewhisky to cope for the remainder of the day. 

Draco tried everything to rid himself of the memory of the dream: he researched different potions, ones that would make him forgetful or numb, but these options carried dangers of screwing with his mind in other ways. 

He invested in a Pensieve, which didn’t work. His wand pulled out different wisps from his memories of little stray threads of his thoughts about the dream, but couldn’t seem to extract the dream itself. 

Self-Obliviation was unfortunately not a realistic option. But self-destruction always had a seat at the table. 

He’d had more than enough to drink by then, and Floo’ed to Pansy, hoping she’d be willing to continue his solo birthday celebration. 

He found her hunched over her writing desk, quill moving furiously along parchment and a stack of books tied neatly with string.

“What’s all this?”

“What does it look like? I’m writing a letter and sending off some books.”

“To whom?”

“None of your business.”

Pansy rolled up the letter and sealed it. As she turned to face him, even through his sheen of drunkenness, Draco could see how wan and withdrawn she looked. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked hollowly.

“It’s my birthday.”

“So? Go celebrate with your mother or Blaise and Theo.”

“You’re my friend too, Pansy—”

“Oh? Oh am I? You only come here for one reason, Draco, and it’s to dump your problems all over me and then crawl into my bed—”

“As if you weren’t willing to have me,” he sneered.

“Of course I was, I haven’t got anyone!” she yelled. As she shot out of her chair and advanced on him, Draco noticed even more tell-tale signs of Pansy’s own unravelling. Lank hair that almost reached her shoulders as opposed to her usual sharp bob, purple beneath her eyes she hadn’t bothered to Glamour, and an unpainted mouth twisted in a grimace of wretchedness. 

“Theo and Blaise are too busy with their studies, no one else visits, I’m trapped here, and you only show up when you need something. I’m done, Draco,” she hugged her arms around her middle, providing the comfort for herself that Draco failed to give. 

“This is Seventh Year all over again,” she whispered, dejected.

“How do you mean?”

Another hollow laugh. An unnatural sound from the vivacious and headstrong girl he’d known all his life. Bitterness did not suit Pansy. 

“Back then… you were all too eager to accept that role of brooding outcast, you pushed away anyone that would have tried to help you. But did you really think you were alone in your suffering? You’re not that special,” she spat, tears brimming in her eyes. 

“Pansy I’m sorry, I didn’t know—"

“Just go,” she choked out.  

“Happy birthday darling,” trilled the ghost of a voice. 

He had no idea how much time had passed since he left an irate Pansy. Draco’s ignorance of the passage of time also extended to the amount of alcohol he’d since imbibed.

“I love you Draco,” cooed the voice again.

Draco glared at the package of Jelly Slugs that had arrived for him this morning. Fucking Theo. That stupid tosser had doomed Draco in such a hilariously pathetic fashion.  

The great heir of two sacred lines, reduced to a hermit, drinking his life away and haunted by a fucking dream. It had reached a level of obsession that disturbed Draco on more than one occasion. He’d stopped receiving the Prophet, for fear of seeing her picture. He declined his mother’s requests that he accompany her shopping or to lunch for fear of happening upon her in public again. He ignored Blaise and Theo’s pub invitations for the same reason. He thought more about her breakfast habits or tea preferences than he should. 

Each cycle of derangement conducted in his mind ended in the same devastating conclusion: he did not know her at all. 

Fucking Theo. 

Well if Draco had to suffer years of mental anguish because of Theo’s mysterious power, then that arse deserved to hear just how much of a “gift” his dream thing had been.

Floo’ing in all his intoxicated glory to Theo’s manor resulted in a dizzy, inelegant stumbling into a study. An occupied study. Blaise sat behind a stately desk, textbooks and parchments in neat stacks on either side; a fort of Blaise’s healer studies. 

He looked up with a frown at Draco’s dishevelled form. When was the last time Draco had bothered to change his robes? Comb his hair? Eat a proper meal?

“Draco, what's wrong? It’s late and—”

“Where’s Theo?”

“Bed. He has work in the morning.”

“Well get him up, this is all his fault!”

Blaise stood and came swiftly around the desk, cutting off Draco’s determined path towards the door. 

“Draco, calm down, you’re drunk and—”

“YOUR BOYFRIEND TURNED ME INTO A BLOODY LUNATIC AND I WANT HIM TO ANSWER FOR IT!”

Blaise could physically block the way to the bedroom all he liked but Draco could yell loud enough to summon Theo.

“I’m here, Draco.”

Like the creeping tendril of a Venomous Tentacula, Theo slid around the open doorway and into the parlour.

“Why hello Unspeakable Nott, how kind of you to join,” sneered Draco, then staggered to his left and plopped ungracefully into an armchair. 

Theo waited him out in silence. Blaise conjured a glass of water and summoned a vial of Sober-Up potion, Draco downing both without bothering to thank him. 

“Why her?” Draco mumbled at the floor then whipped his head up to demand of Theo, “WHY HER?”

“Is this still about that dream from Sixth Year? I told you before, I have absolutely no idea who you’re talking about.”

“I’ve done—done—it all! Every—any—blasted thing to—to take it out of me—I even bought a damn Pensieve—"

“Well it wasn’t a real memory, so of course that didn’t work.”

“Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I know it can never happen?”

He shot up from the chair and advanced on Theo.

“Obliviate me! Do it! Take this—this torture—this madness, take it back, I refuse it! Obliviate me!”

Theo shook his head in a calm refusal. “I’m not practiced in the art of memory modification, nor would I risk it on you.” 

Draco raked his hands through his pale locks, desperate for a reprieve and feeling like his options had run out. “How do I forget? Please, tell me… just make me forget them.”

“Them?”

“Her… and a child. We had a child. We were… I was… happy. And it can’t ever possibly happen.”

He’d seemed to finally affect Theo. Draco’s frenzied eyes begged his friend to perform some sort of miracle, but Theo’s face only reflected a perturbed furrow of his brows and a worried frown. 

“Draco… I’m sorry. I don’t have as much control of the parameters as you think I do. I certainly wouldn’t have done it if I knew you’d react like this. I just cast ‘happiness’ and thought maybe you’d dream of winning the Quidditch Cup or something. It’s not future-telling in any way.”

The apology, while welcome, could not soothe Draco’s suffering. 

Blaise cleared his throat to break the uneasy silence left in the wake of Draco’s confession and Theo’s remorse. 

“Theo’s already said he can’t help you, but perhaps I can.”

“You’re not qualified,” hedged Draco, reluctant to be a psychological test case. 

“No, I’m not a practicing Mind Healer yet , but I’ve had some training in talking patients through dream interpretation. You said you’re willing to try anything, right?”

A fair point. 

“You will tell no one,” warned Draco. 

“As I told you in Sixth Year,” Blaise countered. “The same goes for you. Not a word about Theo’s ability.”

Blaise sat in the armchair across from Draco and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

“Tell me about it then. Theo said he cast ‘happiness’ but you keep mentioning some witch and—"

“Granger. It was Granger.”

Blaise gave one long blink and then shifted his posture to sit back in his seat, as if he needed to physically readjust so he could mentally retain the information provided by Draco. 

Theo, still leaning against the door jamb, made no comment. 

“Granger,” Blaise repeated neutrally. “All right then. Take me through the dream, as much as you can remember.”

Draco recounted it moment by moment, dredging up the delusion from the pit of his soul and the secret hiding places he’d crafted in his mind that only he could revisit. He spared no detail, finding it easier to unload this long-carried albatross the more he spoke. 

Blaise didn’t interrupt, giving Draco the opportunity to recall every imagined facet. 

When Draco finished, Blaise leaned forward again, his keen eyes alight with an idea. “I want you to try and recall some more specifics from the dream.”

“But I just told you every little detail,” argued Draco. 

“Not exactly,” said Blaise. “You said it was your birthday, how old were you turning?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“How old was your son?”

“Four? Maybe 5?”

“Where did you live?”

“It was… a big house? I think? Somewhere with a lot of land.”

“Not your manor?”

“No, definitely not. It was more open, but also less… grand? There was lots of sunlight and a cozy sort of kitchen with a table. Lots of lawn in the back.”

“Wiltshire?”

“I… maybe?”

“Did you still have your Mark?”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“How did your parents react to Granger?”

“They got along. Her parents were there too.”

“What did they look like?”

“I can’t… I don’t know. I’ve never seen them before in real life, but I just knew they were my in-… I mean her parents.”

“A pair of Muggles taking tea with your parents? And they all got along swimmingly?”

“Yes, they seemed familiar with one another. I can’t recall specifics, just that they were friendly and chatting.”

“You said there was a crowd of people, who was there?”

“I can’t make out their faces. But I knew them as friends.”

“That’s dream logic,” supplied Theo. Blaise silenced him with a quelling look and then resumed the interrogation.  

“Why didn’t Granger want your son to fly?”

“I… I don’t know. It was just a fact. She wouldn’t allow me to teach him to fly before that morning.”

“You said you and Granger discussed articles in the paper. What did you chat about?”

A dull throbbing developed in his temples as he wracked his brain to try and recall anything specific and felt more foolish by the second with his lacking responses.

“I’ve no idea. It was just another fact of our—of my—life. A habit, or routine or something where she’d read the paper and want to discuss things with me.”

“Dream logic,” Theo asserted again. “You were obeying the rules of your dream universe, that’s all. It makes sense while there, but when you wake up and have a proper think, it doesn’t make sense at all.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow at Theo. “Mind if I actually continue with my method?”

Theo threw his hands up in surrender and gave Blaise a lopsided grin. One of those smiles couples seemed to reserve for only each other.

“What did it feel like to fuck her?”

Draco pursed his lips in offense. “Are you this crude with real patients? Good, obviously.”

“Anything notable from that encounter? What did she look like naked?”

“She looked like an attractive, naked woman for fuck’s sake. It was… a shag. A good shag with a beautiful woman.”

“How far along was she into her pregnancy?”

“No idea,” said Draco bitterly. “Look, you’ve made your point. I can’t let go of something I should and none of what I dreamed even makes sense.”

Blaise shook his head in disagreement.

“Again, I’m not a full Mind Healer yet mate, but I think it makes perfect sense.”

Draco stared back in disbelief. Which part of his delusions made any sense?

“You were wretched in our Sixth Year, you know that?” continued Blaise. “As for why Granger, well that’s fairly simple, I reckon. Your brain filled in a partner for you but just used a familiar face and some of her known qualities. Your dream gave you a smart, kind, attractive wife and Granger ticks all those boxes.”

“But,” Draco interjected. “I’d never thought of her that way before.”

Blaise shrugged. “Perhaps not consciously, but you always were a rather logical person and maybe even at school some part of you must have realised that all the blood purity ideologies were utter bullshit. Objectively, she’s a good match if one does not put stock in your family’s backwards rhetoric.”

Draco sighed, a thousand regrets chained to his soul, trailing after him with their cumbersome and ever-present weight.

“Now, think for a moment about what a future with Hermione Granger would signify at that point in your life. It meant you survived your task, survived the war, then earned the love of someone so good, so pure, that it meant you’d been able to turn your whole sodding life around.”

He leaned closer to Draco, earnest in this analysis of Draco’s hopes and fear. “And think about why that felt so good. You didn’t dream of a world where the Dark Lord ruled and you lorded over Muggleborns and blood traitors. You didn’t dream of being your father with a pureblood heiress on your arm and a strained relationship with your child. You had a healthy marriage, a sweet kid who worshipped you for the right reasons, a group of friends, and a family. You had a genuine connection with your own child in a home that prioritised quality time together over wealth and status. Draco, I don’t think it’s too much of a leap to say you simply envisioned the ultimate future you would have wanted for yourself at a time in your life when you didn’t think you even had a chance at any future. Your concept of happiness was one of a safe, loving home as an adult. Antithesis in almost every way to the way you yourself were brought up, but still with room in your life for a relationship with your parents.”

Draco wanted to tell Blaise that his summary was disturbing for the resounding clarity, the starkness of sense presented against Draco’s own murky mentality. Instead he could only sigh and tip his head back against the chair, a non-verbal surrender to his friend’s accurate assessment. 

“Do you want me to keep going? Because to be honest if we have to delve into why you wanted nothing more than to teach your son how to fly, we might be here awhile.”

Draco huffed out a harsh laugh. “Oh? You don’t want to unpack all my issues with the way my father raised me?”

Blaise scooted back in his chair with a low chuckle. “All your Lucius baggage will have to wait until I’ve got my license I think. But look at you having some self-awareness.”

Talking everything through and the accompanying relief of finally allowing himself to give a voice to his secret fear, Draco felt some of the anxiety ebb. But identifying the source of his torment did not bring him any closer to ridding himself of it. He couldn’t unsee it. 

“What do I do with this? Please,” Draco turned to his other friend. “Please Theo… take it back.”

“Can’t,” clipped Theo. “But as for what you can do… you certainly don’t spend your days moping about and getting sloshed. My dreams aren’t peeks into a future, they’re all emotion based, from what I can tell. It’s just potential, Draco. It merely revealed a deeper truth about yourself and what you truly wanted in life. Nothing prophetic about it at all.”

“It’s in your hands now,” added Blaise. “What do you want to do about it? Because this,” he gestured a hand in Draco’s direction and general air of unkemptness, “is clearly not working for you. The way I see it, you’ve got a choice: continue on as you are, a miserable drunk, haunted by a dream until you’re branded insane. Or, clean up your act and become the man who could potentially secure the future you saw. And maybe it wouldn’t be that exact future or with that exact witch, but fuck Draco, don’t you even want to try?”

On that rhetorical end line, he stood and clapped Draco on the shoulder and stopped to peck Theo’s lips before departing. “Don’t stay up too late, please.”

Theo stared thoughtfully at Blaise’s retreating form.

“He’s upset with me.”

“What for?”

“I received the go-ahead for my private research project in the Department of Mysteries.”

“And? Shouldn’t he be proud?”

“Did you know Blaise has a wand made of Cedar?”

Gods, sometimes conversing with Theo was like trying to get a straight answer out of a centaur.

“No.”

“It’s a special wand-wood. According to Ollivander’s text, the carrier usually has strength of character and unusual loyalty. The Cedar wand finds its perfect home where there is perspicacity and perception. The wielder makes for a frightening adversary when challenged, especially if harm is done to those of whom they are fond.”

Draco nodded absently, having already seen firsthand the manifestation of Blaise’s willingness to defend Theo. The prickly weed of envy sprouted through the soil of his heart. 

“I don’t want to keep spiralling, Theo. Is it just me? Am I so… weak, as to be so affected by a dream?”

“You were never weak, Draco. Just misguided.”

Draco let Theo’s quiet kindness hang in the air between them for a moment, relishing in the soft sound of friendship. 

“Do you mind if I ask… what would you do for your mother?”

“Safety,” replied Theo bluntly. “She wanted to dream of safety. She’d dream of me and her on an island somewhere, far away from my father… from everything. Sometimes she dreamed of being a bird. Sometimes she was a child again, playing in the family garden. She kept a dream diary, I found it after she died.”

“And for Blaise?”

Theo hesitated, and peered over his shoulder, but they were still alone. “Loved,” he finally admitted. “Blaise just wanted to feel loved.”

“When was the last time you had to use your ability for him?”

“Beginning of Sixth Year.”

“Why did you stop?”

Theo smiled. A wistful expression of one’s most pleasant memory. “He said the dreams no longer compared to reality.”

The little weed of envy gained a few inches in height. 

To know such enduring love. To live boldly in that love in spite of the expectations upon them from society. Draco needed to be set to rights if he wanted any hope of securing that for himself.

“I know I sound insane. I just need a way forward… how do I move past this?”

“You were pretty handy at Occlumency, block it out.”

He felt like an addict being given a simple out and not taking it. When his thoughts turned too dark, when reality seemed too bleak, when the sounds of his night terrors pierced the silence of his bedchambers, he’d fallen into the dream. A wondrous respite, to see such scenes of happiness involving him, real or not. 

Draco still couldn’t give up the defence of holding onto the illusion, despite the urgent need to escape its malevolent clutches. “I know I’ve got to stop but it’s the only thing… the only thing I have that’s good. The only happy thought.”

Theo shook his head. “Draco, that just isn’t true. You have your mother, your family home, your freedom, your health, and if you pulled your head out of your arse every once in a while, you’d see that you have friends, too.”

As Blaise had minutes earlier, so now Theo struck him dumb with simple truths. What was standing in his way now? There were no deadly ultimatums over his head, no wars to fight, no threats of capture or imprisonment. 

If Theo and Blaise could thrive in a world that would often rather pretend two wizards in love was a thing that didn’t exist at best and was something to root out at worst, then Draco could get over the public perception of the Malfoy family too. Rebuild his reputation in the way his two friends had, on their way in promising careers, while Draco existed in this sad imitation of life. He needed a sharp change or he’d sink into madness. All too familiar with his extended family’s propensity for insanity, he’d rather not go down that path. 

The dream had shown him some revelations, but he’d enslaved himself to nothing more than a pretty facsimile. If he wanted anything resembling that glimpse of happiness, he’d have to earn it somehow.  

When he returned home, Draco vanished every bottle of alcohol in sight. 

Chapter Text

June 5, 2003

Draco felt cautiously optimistic about his birthday.

“Theo should be along soon,” said Blaise.

“It’s fine, we can wait to order,” Draco reassured him and waved the server off for the third time.

“Of course,” agreed the demure voice to his right.

Silence fell again and Draco ignored the twinge of awkward discomfort. He’d hoped that increasing the amount of time spent with his friends in the company of his girlfriend might work to also bring them all closer together. Or at least, to the point where conversations felt less forced.

Letting out a rushing exhale of relief, Draco spotted his gangly friend in his Unspeakable robes ambling towards their table.

“Happy birthday!”

Theo gave Draco a hearty handshake, and presented him with a wrapped box.

“You really didn’t have to bring these,” chuckled Draco.

“It’s tradition, mate,” countered Theo and he bestowed a quick kiss on Blaise’s lips. In his periphery, Draco thought he saw Astoria stiffen.

“Hello Astoria, you look lovely as always.”

“Thank you, Theodore. What’s the tradition?” She gestured a dainty hand at the wrapped box.

“Jelly Slugs. They’re his favourite.”

“Oh.”

Not, “Oh I didn’t know that about you!”

Not, “Oh, I should have known that!”

Not, “Oh, Draco, why didn’t you tell me? That’s so sweet Theo!”

Just, “Oh.”

They’d been dating for almost a year. Since the celebration of some little pureblood’s graduation from Hogwarts the previous summer. Daphne and Madam Greengrass had been chatting with Draco and Narcissa when Astoria approached for introductions. Draco couldn’t remember which of the women had introduced them and then introduced the idea of Draco escorting Astoria to some upcoming gala and Draco had agreed because she was pretty and nice.

Almost a year later and Astoria kept up both her beauty in Draco’s eyes and her amiable demeanour.

So, still pretty and nice.

Which was why he’d brought her to this informal gathering with his friends: a non-controlled environment. No stuffy dress robes and ballrooms, just a birthday lunch with his closest friends. Except Pansy. She’d declined, again, when Draco informed her the restaurant was in Diagon.  

He’d hoped to witness Astoria coming out of her debutante shell a bit more, but thus far the only break in the façade he’d witnessed was the brief downturn of her mouth as Theo approached their table.

It could have been because they’d been sitting at this table for 20 minutes waiting for Theo to arrive. Or it could have been Theo and Blaise’s intertwined hands resting atop the table.

Draco always admired this about the pair: quietly defiant in their love where Draco would have thrown a tantrum at every perceived slight cast their way in public. They attended events together like any other couple and firmly corrected every “well-meaning” elder who thought it their place to ask when these two “confirmed bachelors” would find themselves a nice witch to settle down with and produce heirs.

Blaise, ever more delicate in these situations than he needed to be, would usually say, “Theo and I are quite content together,” or something gorgeously saccharine like, “Theo is the perfect life partner for me, thank you.”

Theo unfailingly offered the blunt response of, “We’re gay.”

Draco had almost spat out his champagne on a snort of laughter the first time he heard it.

Astoria never laughed at that one.

She didn’t laugh much today either. She shifted a lot in her chair, an odd movement for someone of her pedigree. Little twitches and fidgets when Blaise would kiss the back of Theo’s hand after a compliment or when Theo slung his arm around the back of Blaise’s chair while they waited for a course.

Blaise and Draco kept the conversation moving today, and Draco thought Theo looked a bit more haggard than usual.

“Work all right Theo? Your research project still thriving?”

Something flashed across Theo’s face. A shadow that took Draco by surprise. He may be an enigmatic sort, but still an open book even if the words remained undecipherable.

“I’m thinking of moving on to other work,” Theo replied cryptically. With nothing else to be said about his Unspeakable research, they talked about Blaise’s healing instead.

Draco’s initial cautious optimism about the day held, but barely.

Birthday sex after an intimate dinner in his new home was a nice way to cap off the day.

Nice. Like Astoria. They fucked and it felt nice. Draco couldn’t pinpoint why he couldn’t be more grateful for having the privilege of shagging a gorgeous woman semi-regularly.

She seemed content to clutch his arm at galas. She supported all his charitable endeavours. She said the right things to his mother. She kissed him and touched him and made him feel desired.

But she looked uncomfortable when Draco woke up shaking and sweating, when she deigned to stay the night. She called for a house-elf if he screamed in his sleep. She deftly steered the course of conversation when he brought up his father. She looked unnerved when Draco said things like, “I was afraid of disappointing my family, and it led to some of the most regrettable actions. I wish I could have done things differently.”

Conversational threads that might have led to confessional unburdening of past sins stayed buried instead. Theo and Blaise assumed this role instead, but Draco couldn’t help but wonder whether the person who sometimes shared his bed, and seemed to be angling to share his name, might one day serve this function?

He’d tried asking her about her experiences, tried to find common ground on this insane, generation-defining trauma. But that line of questioning merely met more blinks, stares, and puzzled statements. “But we were safe. My family wasn’t bothered.”

He stopped bringing up the war.

As she redressed and prepared to take her leave, Draco took a risk, and gave in to the temptation to introduce something incendiary into the air between them.

“Do my friends bother you?”

“Bother me?”

“You seemed uncomfortable today.”

Astoria said nothing to his statement.

“Is it because they’re together or because they don’t hide it?”

A confrontational question that Draco tried to voice in the most non-confrontational tone he could muster. They seemed to play this game of causing the least offense possible when discussing anything remotely intriguing. Draco hadn’t realised how stifling that felt until this moment.

She finished clasping her robes and stared at him pensively. “It’s simply… unorthodox and rather pointless don’t you think? They can’t have heirs. Their families wouldn’t approve.”

Astoria phrased her answer the way she’d most likely been trained to phrase such an answer. One that made her horrid opinion quite plain without sounding rude.

“But they are each other’s family. Have been since before the war. Surely you can understand that?”

She blinked at him. She’d definitely comprehended the words from Draco’s mouth, but he could see now that the gulf between understanding and accepting could not be breached by Astoria.

When he’d escorted her to the Floo so they could exchange stilted goodbyes, Draco couldn’t tell if she was angry with him. Had he ever seen her angry?

Astoria barely tolerating the presence of Blaise and Theo wouldn’t help promote her from “dating” to “betrothed.” Despite the fact that Narcissa enjoyed the concept of this match becoming permanent, with whole-hearted support from Lucius, Draco thought it might be best to bring things to an end.

Sorry Mother, sorry Father, he tried.

Inscribe it on his gravestone: Here lies Draco Malfoy. He tried.

“Hello Father.”

“Draco.”

Narcissa generally did most of the talking during these visits.

Some do-gooder law firm outside the Ministry had kicked up a fuss about prisoners’ rights last year, and so now as long as Draco and Narcissa surrendered their wands for the visit, Lucius did not need to be chained to a chair behind a magical barrier.

Instead, they sat at a sterile table in a sterile room and Narcissa filled all the depressing silence with inane chatter. Or at least, it sounded inane to Draco’s ears, but he could see the way his father drank down every little detail, every speck of attention from his wife, every crumb of normal life outside Azkaban’s walls.

“And how have you been keeping your time lately Draco?”

Attention now paid to Draco by his father conjured a tiny thrill of satisfaction, though he knew this type of relationship might have been perhaps more satisfying had it not taken a prison sentence to reach this point.

Per usual, Draco filled him in on the various charities they’d tied their names to, and how Blaise and Theo were progressing in their respective careers. Lucius’s lip curled at the mention of their “plebeian” professions but he made no derogatory comments about their relationship.

He’d made that mistake a year ago and Draco cut him down so quickly with a quip about being locked away and therefore unworthy to have an opinion at all that Narcissa had to jump in to keep the peace. And so Lucius kept his views about Draco’s friends to himself.

“You’re enjoying your new home?” asked Lucius.

“I am.”

“Good. Excellent practice for when you marry and take over the running of the Manor. On that front, I take it things are still progressing nicely with Miss Greengrass?”

“Yes, Astoria will accompany me to the St. Mungo’s gala next weekend.”

He’d take her to the gala and then break things off, but Lucius could hear about that at next month’s visit.

“I look forward to meeting the young lady soon.”

Draco once asked Astoria if she’d like to accompany him on a visit to his father, as it would require both Lucius and Draco to fill out a Ministry form. But she’d declined.

“She looks forward to meeting you as well.”

Lucius gave an approving nod. The sort of reaction that younger Draco coveted more than anything. His father doled them out several times a visit. Things would be strained for the foreseeable future, but Draco held onto a shred of hope that upon his release things might look different at home.

Narcissa gave her husband an indulgent smile. “How are you feeling dear? Have you been sleeping? Eating regularly? We’ll have to get everything ready for your welcome home dinner in a few months so you must tell me which dishes to have prepared.”

Even through a prison sentence, she tried to dote on him.

“Oh it will be so nice to have everyone home again,” enthused Narcissa, as if she and Draco had also been away. It also conveniently ignored the fact that Draco lived in his own, separate home now.

Draco wondered if his father’s return would act like a Time-Turner for the Malfoy family, at least within the walls of the Manor. They could return to the brief respite of a peaceful familial life afforded to them during Draco’s childhood and early adolescence.

As Draco and his mother said their goodbyes until next month with Lucius, another prisoner escorted by two guards passed by them. The prisoner’s face looked vaguely familiar to Draco, but the frame was all wrong; like a portrait of a person that didn’t quite match their true likeness, but was recognisable all the same. The young convict still had the broad features and wide shoulders, but had lost a significant amount of weight.

Where Lucius had looked more or less the same, the slimmer man barely resembled the thick-muscled youth from Draco’s past.

“Goyle?”

A slow blink of the man’s eyes as he looked at Draco. Another slow blink that triggered recognition.

“Malfoy?”

Draco stared into the gaunt face of his former friend, unsure of how to conduct a social nicety in a prison corridor, as one conversational participant would soon be locked in a cell and the other would return to an opulent manor home.

Goyle gave another baleful blink and offered a peculiar statement. “If you see Pansy, tell her ‘thanks.’ I haven’t been able to send post for a bit.”

The guards gave a gruff “move along now,” and Narcissa swept Draco down the hall with her. Draco only half-listened to his mother’s excited chattering about all her schemes and plans for his father’s release. A strange emotion rose within him that he’d not felt before in association with Goyle: guilt.

Lucius Malfoy came home sooner than expected.

Draco had just finished dinner when his mother’s Patronus appeared in front of him. The black heron spoke quickly, almost out of breath: “Draco come home now, it’s your father.”

He Floo’ed immediately into the drawing room to find a strange collection of people in addition to his mother. Three Aurors; two he recognised and one he did not.

Harry Potter and Angelina Johnson stood stiffly in their official uniforms just behind a well-built, gruff looking older wizard.

But Narcissa didn’t bother with introductions or explanations as she fell into Draco’s arms crying and shaking. He couldn’t quite make out her words but thought he heard, “he’s gone, he’s gone, Draco…”

The unfamiliar Auror cleared his throat and stepped forward.

“Mr. Malfoy, I’m Gawain Robards, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. As we have just informed your mother, your father, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, was killed at Azkaban prison earlier this evening.”

“Killed?” Draco echoed blankly.

“We’re still gathering facts for the formal investigation. As my reporting Aurors,” he gestured behind himself to Potter and Johnson, “were notified of an incident at the prison, it appears one of the guards in your father’s block performed The Killing Curse, unprovoked. We’ll release his body to you once the forensic healers have finished their work.”

Draco gently deposited his sobbing mother into an armchair and stared numbly back at Robards. The older man talked through some procedure or other but Draco couldn’t quite hear anything besides an odd buzzing in his ears.

He thought Johnson might have brought his mother a cup of tea. He thought Potter might have stoically reported on some of the case details and offered condolences to both him and his mother. Robards took his leave first and Draco might have shaken his hand and accepted some official stack of parchment. Draco thought he should speak or cry or scream but his body seemed to have disconnected from any and all neural pathways and didn’t think he could do much of anything.

Mights and Shoulds and Coulds chased in an endless furious loop of frantic confusion around Draco’s mind.

Potter and Johnson remained behind after Robards departed and suddenly Draco wanted to laugh.

Good one, Potter, but I’m in no mood.

He felt his mother’s hand squeezing his but she couldn’t seem to manage any words. Which left Draco to compartmentalise enough to first pose a string of monotone questions and suppress the urge to give in to an inappropriate emotional reaction to his father’s death.

Not death. Murder.

His father had been murdered, Potter said. Potter spat out some self-righteous speech about how this wasn’t proper justice, how he and Johnson planned to launch a thorough investigation into the inner workings of Azkaban and how they’d had suspicions about some nefariousness going on there.

And Draco stood there in silence, once again fighting the urge to laugh.

Draco had never experienced Potter being incensed on the Malfoy family’s behalf. Surely he’d entered some alternate dimension. Things seemed to happen around him in a whirl of moments. The hazy passage of time and events were akin to the sensation of the dream he hadn’t thought about for a long time now.

Theo, if this is one of your dream things, I swear to Merlin I will have my revenge this time.

He’d have to question the validity of reality later, because his mother continued to weep and if this were real life, then Draco was now head of the family and must act accordingly.

“Potter I—"

“—Robards found the guard, apparently his wife had been murdered by a Death Eater, but that was Macnair and he’s dead, so why he’d go after your father—it doesn’t make any sense—”

“Potter—”

“Don’t you think it’s a conflict of interest to have victims or spouses of victims overseeing the prisoners? This is exactly what Hermione and Sterling have been warning people about—”

“Potter!”

The immortal git finally stopped pacing and running hands through his ever-unkempt hair to pay Draco attention.

“This is all rather—look could you just—could you just tell us which one of these papers you need me to sign so we can bring my father—my father’s body home.”

Potter looked like he wanted to say more but thankfully Johnson sprang into action and pulled the parchment from his hand to find the one he needed first.

“I’m sorry, Malfoy. I really am. Mrs. Malfoy, I’m sorry, I know he—” Potter’s offering of remorse at Lucius Malfoy’s death trailed off into the awkward nothing of a statement that had no elegant endpoint.  

Johnson said something kind to his mother and then to him that Draco’s numb mind did not retain. They promised to keep him and Narcissa apprised of any developments in the case.

They left the Malfoys to contemplate their new reality as a family of two.

They laid Lucius to rest in the family plot at the far end of the Manor’s grounds.

Astoria stood by his side all through the funeral and Draco clutched her hand like the lifeline and support he needed and wanted. It seemed like neither.

Blurred faces of people dressed in black robes shuffled up to him in an endless stream of offered condolences and grim expressions. Whether they meant their words of comfort or pitying looks, Draco neither knew nor cared.

He only briefly appreciated the presence of Blaise, Theo, and Pansy; Draco particularly grateful that Pansy ventured out of her home and self-imposed seclusion to show him support today.

When Draco finally disembarked the horrifying carousel of the day of grieving a man who’d somehow managed to give Draco everything and still left him lacking, he again experienced a brief moment of wanting to let out a loud laugh.

Because he suddenly remembered that Theo’s dream had featured a very much alive Lucius. But the real Lucius now lay buried six feet under next to the rest of his forebears, leaving Narcissa a widow.

And why the fuck couldn’t Draco feel anything?

His father was dead and Draco was alive and wasn’t that the natural order of things? Children buried their parents as a rite of passage, but surely they had a sense of something other than: now fucking what?

This wasn’t going to plan. Draco’s life wasn’t going to plan. Lucius should have come home, his parents should be happy together, Draco would then find a wife, they’d host a lavish wedding, take a few years for themselves then perhaps welcome a child or two for his parents to spoil and…

Now fucking what?

Potter kept sending him these bloody owls with urgent messages at all fucking hours and Draco felt fucking nothing.

He’d shored up every financial matter that concerned his father’s will, cancelled appearances at several upcoming galas, arranged the whole funeral, made sure his mother ate regular meals—because that’s what adult children did upon the passing of a parent—and now he’d been left with an empty stretch of life before him.

So he did not need Potter and his bothersome owls trying to rope Draco into some society-saving mission. He’d been a few quill strokes away on several occasions from telling Potter where he could shove his hero-complex.

Some irate guard had murdered Lucius Malfoy in a misguided attempt to seek retribution for a dead wife. Hardly shocking. They’d caught the man responsible; he’d now serve time in Azkaban. Done. One less thing for Draco to handle.

That Harry Potter experienced more outrage over Draco’s father’s demise should have inspired something other than apathy. But Draco couldn’t bring himself to care.

The Malfoys had served their sentences, donated to reputable causes, stayed out of politics, avoided scandal and yet that had not been enough for their world. Perhaps Lucius deserved to pay with his life for some of his actions and perhaps Draco deserved to be left with a gaping maw of creeping nothingness.

Pride had not felled the Malfoy family, but rather the futility of an honest effort.

And speaking of futility: Draco had one more unpleasant task to perform once every last mourner had left Malfoy Manor after paying respects to Lucius.

He dealt the death blow to the current stone around his neck as he escorted Astoria to the Floo.

“Astoria, thank you for being with me today but… I don’t think I can see you anymore.”

His statement met a tilt of her head and a brief flutter of her long lashes.

“You wish to end our courtship?”

Fucking Salazar.

“Yes. Apologies for having wasted your time.”

He should start a betting pool with Blaise and Theo for how long until some betrothal announcement appeared in the Daily Prophet featuring Astoria and some other rich, boring pureblood.

Draco fetched a bottle of Pansy’s favorite Merlot from the Manor cellar and decided to deliver his gratitude in person.

He found her at her writing desk, surrounded by neat stacks of parchment and legal books.

“I come bearing wine and you look like you’re studying for NEWTs.”

“I’ve been doing research for Greg’s parole hearing.”

“Greg? As in Goyle?”

“Yes. Greg.”

Draco had buried his father today, ended a long-term relationship, and now happened upon his hermit of a friend conducting an advocacy campaign for an old schoolmate.

“I’ll be honest Pansy, this might be the strangest thing I’ve experienced today, which should tell you something.”

Goyle’s vacant expression and shrunken form surfaced to the forefront of his mind. “Is there uhh… well can I help you somehow?”

Pansy turned towards him and he saw a gleam in her blue eyes. Through his fog of performative humanity during the burial, he’d not noticed but he saw it now. Her hair once again sharp and well-cut, rosiness to her cheekbones, and a determined glint he hadn’t seen since Hogwarts.

“Have you heard of this Mandell and Associates firm? They’re making a big push for some Prisoners’ Rights Act. If you testified for them… I don’t know, it could help sway the courts. Or if you threw your name behind it publicly, maybe. I told Granger I’d ask you and she thought it was a good idea.”

“Did you say Granger?”

“Yes, I’ve been writing to her and she’s come by a few times.”

“Hermione Granger?”

“Yes, I wrote to the firm when I discovered my letters weren’t being delivered to Greg. And they can’t put me on the visitation list to see him because I’m not a blood relative or a spouse. He hasn’t got anyone, Draco.”

Like me, went unsaid, but Draco felt the slice of guilt all the same.

“Anyway, the firm is trying to launch an outside investigation of the prison given what happened to your father and Granger thinks this could be a backdoor way in to get this Act passed and make some reforms.”

He rifled through some of the parchment on her writing desk. Studies from both magical and Muggle scholarly journals, trial transcripts, and letters from a legal team.

“This is what you’ve been working on? Alone?”

“Not quite alone, Granger’s been a big help. Did you know there was a big discrepancy in the sentences handed down after the war for the same crimes? I’m having Granger look into whether Greg’s sentencing was above-board and see if we can’t move up his parole hearing date.”

Draco actually did know that. Especially since Lucius was to spend a laughably short time away for all his willful wrong-doing. But when you turn over enough Death Eater names and testify against everyone and can afford a top-notch legal team with plenty of blackmail material on certain members of the Wizengamot, then you end up with quite the short stint. Not that it mattered now.

But it did little to dilute the shock of seeing a studious Pansy and hearing her speak of Granger in a positive tone.

“You’re friends with Granger now?”

Pansy shot him a withering glare. “Hardly. She’s still so interfering and annoying, just with slightly less horrific hair nowadays.”

Draco grinned, delighted at seeing some of the old spark of Pansy’s personality shine through.

“But she cares. She actually cares,” Pansy let out a reluctant laugh. “She’s the most reliable person in my life right now.”

“Pansy, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t. It wasn’t meant as a dig, Draco. You’ve been mourning your father and busy securing your legacy with your perfect little heiress. Your eventual wedding will give your mother something to look forward to with your father gone.” Her face broke into a giddy smile. “Ooh I cannot wait to see Narcissa go into full wedding planning mode, she’ll be in her element.”

“I broke it off with Astoria. Just before I came over.”

Pansy blinked once then grinned. “Thank Merlin, she was so bloody boring.”

They laughed for a long while and Draco allowed that relief to rush out of him at finally indulging in the action of mirth when it felt more appropriate.

“What a day you’ve had. A funeral and a break-up.”

Draco sat heavily in an armchair. He could deal with all that later. Or never. Preferably the latter.

“Pansy I know things have been… tough for you since… since Hogwarts, but why this crusade? Why Goyle?”

He realised what Pansy now had that he did not: a purpose.

“You probably don’t remember much from Seventh Year, as you were often—elsewhere—but a lot of us were left to fend for ourselves. Greg didn’t have you ordering him around anymore and he sort of just let Vincent take over that role. But some nights I could tell he… anyway, we’d never talked much before but some nights he...”

She trailed off and collected herself.

“I just started sending him some books, that’s all. But some of the things he wrote back… Draco I’m really worried for him in there. I don’t think anyone would have dared mess with your father while he was imprisoned, but someone like Greg, with no family to check in on him…”

She frowned but assured Draco she didn’t need his immediate assistance and urged him to take some time to deal with his grief before jumping in to help her.

But the act of grieving could wait, in his opinion. A useless preoccupation that Draco could delay.

He returned to Malfoy Manor for the night in case his mother needed him around. Not that one would notice his absence in a home that size, but it didn’t sit right with him to leave her alone after today’s events.

Narcissa was in her favourite sitting room, the one she always liked to retire to after dinner. She stared down at a piece of parchment with wide, almost frightened eyes.

“Mother, what's wrong? I told you to let me skim the letters first for threats and—”

“It’s not a threat. It’s from my sister.”

It took longer than it should have to remember his mother was the youngest of three sisters.

“Are you all right?”

A question not often voiced in the halls or rooms of Malfoy Manor.

Narcissa didn’t answer but to hand him two letters.

“These are for you,” she said softly and left for her private quarters, the letter from her estranged sister clutched tightly in her fist.

He stared after her proud, retreating form, wondering what Andromeda Tonks had written to his mother.

He turned his attention to the two pieces of mail in his hand. The first letter had already been opened; an update from Potter on the investigation and trial of his father’s murderer. Auror Potter had scrawled a brief personal note at the bottom offering condolences that made Draco’s lip curl at both the abysmal penmanship and the unnecessary pity in the words.

The second letter contained neat, unfamiliar handwriting. The contents of the letter seemed to embody the sentiments of a person who’d written this while of two minds about both the purpose of the letter and the character of the recipient.

It was from her.

“Malfoy,

My personal feelings about your father and his life choices aside, please accept my condolences for your loss. Though we have not spoken in years, nor really spoken at all in the realm of cordiality, I felt compelled to write to you. I cannot imagine how you might be feeling at the moment.

I do hope you believe that I truly am sorry for your loss. Perhaps not for your father, personally, but I know he meant a lot to you, even if he did some rather detestable things. I’m not trying to be rude, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate any false words from me about the man, nor do I think you are the sort to subscribe to the hagiographic tendencies of the masses when it comes to the dead. I would hope you could at least have faith in me as a person who is sincere in her empathy for a peer.  

Harry can’t tell me much about the circumstances of his current investigation into Azkaban, but I have managed to at least secure him for a testimonial before the Wizengamot.

My law firm is building momentum behind a Prisoners’ Rights Act and given the recent tragic death of your father, I had hoped to recruit your assistance. I’m not sure if Pansy has mentioned, but we’ve been in contact for some months as I’m working on an appeal for a friend of hers.

If you have any interest in helping, please send me an owl. I think you could make a difference, if you’re willing.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger.”

Chapter Text

Draco gave himself a week to respond to her letter. He continued ignoring Potter’s owls. 

“Dear—”

No. Too weird.

“Hello—”

Still weird. 

“Granger—”

It mirrored her salutation. A good start. 

“Granger,

Thank you for your strangely worded sentiments on the passing of my father. If you’re worried you offended me, you didn’t. If I can believe anyone capable of sparing a decent thought when they should not, it would be you. 

I don’t know what you want from me. I’ve told Pansy I’d help her with Goyle’s case if she wanted, but besides footing the legal bill, and as it appears the cost of the help is not the issue at hand, I’m not sure what I can offer.

I suppose I can direct some gold towards this prisoners’ fund if that is your ultimate aim. I can have my solicitors send over my standard document for donation if you’d like to fill it out. I don’t know that my surname has quite the sway it used to with court members, or the public, for that matter.

Best of luck with your crusade. For what it’s worth, thank you for the kindness you’ve shown Pansy.  

Sincerely,

D.M.”

“Malfoy,

You’re welcome. And thank you, I suppose, for your strangely worded compliment on my ability to express compassion. 

I am not looking for your gold. You have something more valuable to offer beyond money. 

I think you’re wrong about the perception of your family. Public opinion is actually quite sympathetic towards you and your mother at the moment and I think we can take advantage of this. 

My employer has partnered with a few other human rights groups to build momentum behind a Prisoners’ Rights Act (I’ve attached a copy of the Bill, if you’re interested). 

We’ll be presenting testimony at a hearing in front of the Wizengamot at the end of the month and I think your presence could aid our cause. I’ll even draft your remarks for you.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger.”

“Granger,

I read through the proposed Bill you’ve sent. It’s ambitious, to say the least. 

I’ll draft my own remarks, thank you very much. Any words out of my mouth will be my own. Besides, you’d probably have me declare something grossly sentimental and I’ll not have any of your bleeding-heart tendencies associated with me. 

Sincerely,

D.M.”

“Malfoy,

Am I to assume that means you’ll appear before the court? You’re not officially associated with our firm as we’ve already selected our allotted witnesses, so you’ll be appearing as a private citizen. If you need public speaking training, I do have some contacts through work that I can share with you.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger.”

“Granger,

Do be serious. Any moron that requires formal training in reading off prepared notes is beyond help, professional or otherwise. I’ve included a copy of my statement. I think you’ll find it impeccably crafted.

-D.M.”

“Malfoy,

I can admit, this is quite good. I’ve annotated some sections where I think you could be more concise. You need to keep the focus on your personal tragedy, how rehabilitation and humane treatment of prisoners is good for the family unit instead of spending all these sentences complaining about Aurors who wear glasses. 

And could you please answer just one of Harry’s owls? Now that he knows we’re in contact I’m getting bothered by Floo, owl, and phone at all hours. 

-Hermione Granger.”

“Granger,

You’re telling me that not only has my silence irritated Potter but you as well? Sorry Granger, that’s too excellent an outcome, and I shan’t be changing my behaviour. 

I’ll take your suggestions for my speech under advisement.

Thank you,

D.M.”

“Malfoy,

Please find enclosed the schedule for the official hearing before the Wizengamot as well as the instructions for getting through security at the Ministry. Harry and Angelina will meet you in the Atrium. 

I appreciate your willingness to cooperate. 

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger.”

He’d engaged his Occlumency shields up until now. 

“The court will now hear testimony from Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy of Wiltshire.”

Draco focused on nothing but the clicking of his shoes as he approached the podium at the front of the chamber. Then he concentrated on the feel of the smooth, polished wood as he gripped the sides of the stand. The last time he’d been in this courtroom (on his fucking 18th birthday, no less), he’d been chained to a chair and awaiting his fate as a fallen foot soldier; a disposable ne’er-do-well.

Now, Draco faced the haughty, wizened faces above as the sole living male representative of the Malfoy family. He stood tall and proud and hoped his contribution in the form of a grieving son seeking a legitimate avenue to pursue recompense for his and his mother’s loss would be deemed worthwhile.

He’d play the part today and that should be more than enough to satisfy the curiosity of the press, the meddlesome tendencies of Potter and Granger, and his promise to Pansy. His friend had owled him this morning to wish him luck, thank him, and warn Draco if he did not destroy this paper trail of sappiness she’d break into his home and do it herself. 

Narcissa had fussed over his robes before he left and said she was proud of him. She once again declined to accompany him and informed him she’d be spending the day entertaining her sister.

Draco performed one final inhale and exhale then launched into a measured, confident delivery of his prepared remarks. 

“Esteemed witches and wizards of the Wizengamot. I appear before you today as a son who lost a father to preventable circumstances. I harbour no illusions about the type of man my father was before his imprisonment. What I do know is that he dutifully served his sentence, as determined by this very court. 

My father was denied the chance to return home after paying his debt to society. He left behind a wife and son who were denied the chance to rebuild their family life in peace. I would not wish this sorrow upon any other person, this denial of a happy reunion.

He was denied that chance because no official procedure exists for oversight of guard rotations. There are no mandatory official records kept for shift hours of guards. There is no official background check procedure for hiring the witches and wizards that we entrust to guard Azkaban. There is no official reporting mechanism for incidents at the prison. 

This Act would go a long way in preventing further tragedies like the murder of my father by a person charged with his care that should never have been given the responsibility. 

Our society must be able to have faith in our sacred institutions: in our educational system, in our government, our laws, and yes, our prison system. 

Otherwise, we find ourselves at risk of a self-perpetuating cycle of vigilante justice. Otherwise, we will find ourselves with a mistreated prisoner population that turns not to rehabilitation upon freedom, but recidivism. 

The other individuals testifying today can speak more to the other tenets of this sorely needed reform. They will speak and present evidence for why one of the pillars of a successful and just society must be the humane treatment of prisoners. I ask that you carefully consider their words as they detail the benefits of an incarcerated population that does not experience abuse or torture. 

I ask that the court vote in favor of this Prisoners’ Rights Act. To move our world forward, we must be willing to conduct self-examination and, when necessary, perform the course correction that will set the stage for continued peace.

Thank you for your time.”

Draco stepped back and inclined his head respectfully at the court seated above on their raised benches. He would have much preferred a parting smirk and a two-finger salute, but thought it might undermine his prior eloquence. 

“The Wizengamot will now hear testimony from Auror Harry James Potter.”

Draco did, however, indulge in a smirk at a passing Potter.

Good luck following that, Scar-Head.

Draco took a seat in the gallery next to Angelina Johnson, per her instructions upon his arrival that morning.

“Not bad Malfoy,” she whispered as he sat down.

“How much longer am I required to hang around?”

Johnson shrugged. “Hermione will do her bit after Harry. Then there’s a recess for lunch. You can go then I suppose, the afternoon hearing will be former prisoners and the activist groups.”

Draco sat back in his seat, luxuriating in the comfort of having performed his duty and eagerly anticipating leaving this airless chamber. 

He’d planned to adopt the detached air of a man befitting his station in life, resigned out of common courtesy to remain seated and listen to a hackneyed, over-emotional speech given by the Saviour of the wizarding world. 

But didn’t Potter go and surprise him. 

The normally barely intelligible git had come prepared with not only research citations, but actual case studies of the treatment of prisoners. Not just any case examples: Sirius Black (thrown to Dementors with no trial), Rubeus Hagrid (locked away for a false accusation), Stan Shunpike (same story but for even less of a crime), and the more risqué choice of Bartemious Crouch, Jr. (an embarrassing example of lax security and oversight if you’re the Ministry, in Draco’s opinion). 

It would have had more of an effect on Draco if Potter possessed any sort of proper comportment of his limbs when delivering a speech this important. Merlin, Draco was tempted to magically affix those dumb glasses to the moron’s face so he would stop fussing with them and pushing them up his irritating nose every five minutes. 

“Didn’t think Potter had it in him,” Draco drawled under his breath as Potter wrapped up his plea with a reminder of how easily a disenfranchised group could be swayed by the disturbing ideals spouted by Lord Voldemort. Draco, along with most of the chamber, shivered involuntarily at the confident way Potter stated the name. 

“Oh, Hermione wrote all that. He’s just the face,” said Johnson with a wry grin. 

Granger.

Draco finally saw her then, seated next to an older, austere wizard in sleek, tailored professional black robes. Not the kind of day-wear found in any shop, no, a man of Draco’s upbringing recognized custom tailoring and expensive fabric even from a distance. Sterling Mandell’s hair shone as silver as his given name, a neat and precise haircut for a neat and precise man. 

Draco had noticed his distinct, sharply dressed presence at high-profile charity galas over the past few years, but their paths had never personally crossed. His reputation as a cutthroat barrister preceded him, but outside of his courtroom successes, not much was known of his personal life. 

Draco’s eye fell upon Granger then, as she rose gracefully and gave Potter an encouraging smile. 

“The Wizengamot will now hear testimony from Ms. Hermione Jean Granger as a representative with Mandell & Associates.”

Potter made his way to Draco and Johnson in the gallery and to Draco’s great annoyance, sat on his opposite side. Caged in by the Auror partners, he’d not be leaving here anytime soon. Fantastic. 

Then Granger took a fortifying breath and addressed the court. 

She pitched Draco back in time and he saw her in battle again; ruthless and efficient. 

Attack and defend. Attack and defend. 

Smarter than everyone in the room and she fucking knew it. Draco now understood why a reputably discerning man like Sterling Mandell wanted her at his firm, in his corner. 

Granger did not look like the woman in his dream. Nor the woman he’d noticed at the Ministry gala years ago. She appeared closer to the girl he’d seen on one of the worst nights of his life, with Snape steering him through a school turned into a warzone.

She stood, chin raised, voice ringing out as she volleyed back a rebuttal, parried a dissent, fought for and defended this bill. On the same side of battle lines as Draco, this time.

She was magnificent. A force of fiery nature, expertly wielding her words, throwing argument after argument at her adversaries. 

So alive, so bright, in the throes of battle. Attack and defend, attack and defend. 

Her hair cascaded down her shoulders, cloaking her like the laurels of a decorated veteran, a model of proud heroism. 

A warrior woman, fierce in the defence of her cause.

“Bloody brilliant, isn’t she?” whispered Potter, unnecessarily. “Do you know she once told Rufus Scrimgeour to his face that she wouldn’t want a career in magical law because she wanted to do something good with her life? The cheek, honestly,” Potter chuckled. “But here she is anyway.”

“Overachieving per usual,” Draco muttered. 

He hadn’t seen her in a few years. In person anyway. He’d seen her in his mind’s eye often enough, or rather a version of her, he supposed. And perhaps he’d seen that version a few times during his morning showers. Or late nights alone in his bed. Or even while buried inside Astoria.

Granger wrapped up and though silence echoed in her wake, Draco knew if court protocol allowed for it, she would have finished to thunderous applause. 

“You and your partner have me quite at your mercy,” grumbled Draco, now that his mind was no longer elsewhere. “Care to inform me of the true nature of your desperate bids for my attention? If you weren’t married to Weaselette I’d think you were quite enamoured with me.”

Potter didn’t rise to the bait, but at least Johnson let out an amused snort. 

He let out a long sigh. “I’m so bloody tired, Malfoy. Of having to still keep fighting for the most basic of rights for people. It’s maddening. Merlin knows how Hermione does it.”

“Granger is a different breed from the rest of us.”

Both Potter and Johnson made strangled, throat-clearing noises of disbelief. 

“Don’t tell me you still believe all that blood purity rot,” said Potter incredulously.

“Relax Potter, not what I meant. If you spent a few extra precious seconds thinking on my words, you’ll realise I meant it as a compliment.” 

“Ah,” said Potter. “Well, she is that, I suppose. She cares, actually cares, about improving things.”

Pansy described Granger in a similar manner. 

“Lovely,” sneered Draco. “Still waiting for you to explain what this has got to do with me. My father’s death, while tragic, was hardly a conspiracy. Some nutter who shouldn’t have held a position of power killed him. That’s it. I’ve got no vendetta to execute, he’s locked away now, and that’s that.”

Potter didn’t appear to have heard him. “I have it on decent authority that this Act will get passed. And when it does, we’ll have our opening.”

“Opening?”

Potter exchanged a glance with Johnson, who took out her wand and performed a rather impressive non-verbal Muffliato Charm around them. 

“Angelina and I have had some… inklings of a cover-up going on at Azkaban. Reports that don’t quite add up, prisoner statements that don’t make sense. The Department of Mysteries was involved for a bit and well… it’s all rather… suspicious.”

“For fuck’s sake Potter, how many times and ways can I say that I do not care. Speak plainly: what has this got to do with me?”

“All I can say for now is that Hermione will be in touch.”

“Don’t care.”

Potter levelled him with an intense stare of bright green. “Do you care about repaying a life debt?”

“Hmm interesting coming from someone who tried to murder me in Sixth Year.”

“I testified for you. As did Hermione.”

“Ah, I see. You think I owe the lot of you. I paid my dues, Potter, my whole family did, and look where it got my father. So, you’ll have to forgive me if I bow out now. Not to worry, the Malfoy family will continue to bankroll St. Mungo’s, all the war relief efforts, even this advocacy fund Granger wants set up. Just let us hand out our unending wealth in peace, it’s all this world ever wanted from me and mine anyway.”

“You’re wrong, Malfoy,” Potter stood and Johnson did the same. “You did a good thing today. You could do more, if you wanted. Just think on it.”

The two Aurors left Draco to stare unseeing at the stone walls of the courtroom and wonder about the path his life had taken that he’d seriously consider that cryptic offer.

Boredom and curiosity. 

Nothing more than restless boredom and idle curiosity brought Draco to accept a meeting invitation to the offices of Mandell & Associates.

Pansy was busy being a shut-in and learning legal theory. 

Blaise was full-up with his caseload of patients.

Theo was wrapped up in… whatever Theo spent his time working on in the Department of Mysteries. 

Narcissa was preoccupied with her newfound relationship with Andromeda. Aunt Andromeda, Draco reminded himself. 

Which left Draco with an abundance of spare time and nothing and no one to distract him.

Except for an owl from Hermione Granger containing a most intriguing request.

Would Draco be willing to meet her at her firm’s office to discuss his involvement in the newly established prisoners’ advocate initiative? 

His involvement. Worded like a foregone conclusion.

One of the tenets of the recently passed Prisoners’ Rights Act had included the installation of a pool of do-gooders who would oversee prison conditions, make sure everyone was properly fed and watered and probably loads of other basic life amenities so that the dregs of humanity would be treated more like people as opposed to animals.

And Draco did. Not. Fucking. Care. 

He only agreed to this meeting because of the boredom. And to satisfy his curiosity. The second it proved to be a waste of his time, Draco eagerly anticipated the Howler he’d be sending Potter’s way. 

Draco expected the sleek, modern design of the law offices, as he Floo’ed into a spacious room decorated in cool metals, neutral colors, and tasteful flourishes of potted plants, abstract art, and various vases. It reeked of a new world touch bankrolled by old world money. 

Unexpectedly, he had not Floo’ed into Granger’s office. 

Because Granger did not greet him when he dusted off and straightened his robes. Instead, Draco found himself staring into the cold, blue eyes of Sterling Mandell. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” he held a hand out for a quick, decisive handshake. 

“Mr. Mandell.”

“Please, call me Sterling. Shall I have tea or coffee brought in for you?”

“Neither, thank you.”

Everything about the statuesque, grey-haired man seemed chiseled; a person whittled to a fine point. From the severe sleekness of his coiffure to the sharp edges of the facial features to the crisp, charcoal three-piece suit, Sterling presented someone not so much based in flesh and blood, but rather in stone and ice. 

Draco took in his surroundings while he waited to hear the reason for this meeting. He noticed a complete lack of personal effects: no photographs, no mementos, no framed degrees, awards, or accolades on the walls. The office of a man who neither wanted nor needed any sentimental distractions while preoccupied with work. The only hint at humanity—as opposed to a sentient legal filing—glinted at Draco from the fourth finger of Sterling’s left hand in the form of a platinum wedding band.

“You’ll be working with Miss Granger on her advocate initiative, correct?”

“That remains to be seen, as I’ve yet to meet with her.”

Sterling offered neither an apology nor an explanation for Granger’s absence.

“Do Muggleborns bother you?”

“No more than any other sector of humankind.”

If the older wizard accepted Draco’s truthful statement as such, he gave no visible signal.

“I’m Muggleborn,” intoned Sterling. “I remember your father from Hogwarts. We were in the same year, you know.”

He’d had too many people try to use the name of his father as a form of provocation in recent years to get worked up about it now. Draco said nothing to this reveal, unaware of the man’s background and surprised at both pieces of information.

“Ravenclaw,” supplied Sterling. 

“Sorry?”

“I can see it written on your forehead. I was in Ravenclaw. It does endlessly amuse me to have people assume Slytherin before learning of my heritage. But that particular quadrant of the school population does not have a monopoly on the traits it boasts of its students. A poorly conceived system, sorting children on perceived strengths and weaknesses. Then again, the wizarding world and the Muggle world do share more, culturally, than magical folk care to admit. Humans do love to divide arbitrarily based on rather inconsequential variances of biology, temperament, sexuality, so on and so forth.”

Draco couldn’t tamp down his curiosity this time. “Were you an Order member?”

“No,” came the decisive reply. “I left a world that made it clear it did not want me. I had a lucrative career awaiting me in the Muggle world, so no, I left instead. I let the rest of you sort it out and once the benevolent government here decided I qualified as a wizard instead of vermin, I decided to make my grand return.”

Sterling leaned back in his chair. “I handle all manner of lawsuits, though fraud is my specialty. Corporate lawsuits with Galleon values so large it’d make a man’s head spin, well,” he inclined his head towards Draco, “most men. Perhaps not a Malfoy. But while my line of work brought me in plenty of gold, Hermione Granger brought me something Galleons could not buy: an excellent reputation. Therefore, I let her do as she likes, and she’s damn good at it, even if I find many of her crusades far too idealistic. So, I’m asking you now if you have a problem working with Muggleborns because if you muck up her career or her work in any way, I will personally see to it that you are ruined, socially and politically speaking. Though she has less refined friends, as I’m sure you know, who would delight in the cruder, physical forms of retribution.”

Draco couldn’t think of anything less threatening than Granger’s moronic social circle, but the first part of the warning hit its mark.

“I hardly think it will come to that. As I’ve said before, it still remains to be seen whether I work with her at all.”

Sterling surveyed him neutrally again. Draco had never seen the man perform in the courtroom, but could imagine him as the type of barrister who was very good at getting a witness to divulge far more than they’d want to before they knew what was happening. 

He gave off the distinct air of being constantly disappointed in the intellectual capacity of his conversation partner, but would neither verbally confirm nor deny this, preferring to let you sit and stew about all your faults and failings. 

“She’s keen to have your help with this. Now as I’ve said, I knew your father. I do know of your mother, but I do not know you. You gave a pretty speech at the hearing; one that played very well with both the court and the press. I do not care if you meant any of it. But I do care if you damage either her career or reputation.”

“Noted.”

“Now, have I sufficiently enraged you enough for you to storm out of here in a huff? Or may I escort you to Hermione’s office where she’ll properly catch you up on her new project?”

Draco heard the actual question underlying the spoken ones: which parent do you take after more? 

“Lead the way.”

The top of Granger’s hair greeted Draco as he entered her office.

“My owl said 10.”

“Take it up with your employer then.”

She looked up from her work with an exasperated huff.

“Oh, for the love of… my apologies, I’ll speak to Sterling later. He’s rather protective of his employees, but he shouldn’t have ambushed you like that.”

The warrior did not greet him. Today, Draco found the polished yet preoccupied solicitor. Neat robes, and an attempt at neat hair but it seemed she’d never truly conquered those curls. They suited her now, as opposed to overwhelming her. A successful, fetching young woman with a corner office with walls boasting her many personal accolades, including an Order of Merlin, First Class. 

She stood and came around her desk, leaned back against it, and wrung her hands anxiously. 

“I hope he didn’t say anything too untoward. He can be a bit sharp with new people.”

She let out a nervous little laugh. “My dad calls him ‘The Jaw.’”

When Draco didn’t react, she rambled on. “You know, because of his bone structure and Mandell sounds sort of like mandible? And my father’s a dentist… anyway, it’s not actually that funny, but you know,” she shrugged. “Dad humour and all that.”

Though he recognised her attempt at an ice-breaker between two adults who’d never shared a civil conversation in person, did she really think he could relate? 

Draco had no more time for attempts at politeness. Or at least, he’d like Granger to think that. 

“According to your letter, you’d like my assistance with this advocate programme.”

“In a way.” She gestured for him to sit and returned to her desk chair.

“It’s more of a simple cover story. To everyone else, it will appear that you’re interested in donating to our programme to help your name, and so you’re overseeing this prisoners’ advocate programme during the launch period. And to honour your father’s memory after his murder. People will believe it, too.”

After the oddly circuitous interrogation by Sterling and the infuriating lack of information from Potter, the forthrightness of Granger was a welcome change. 

“And why am I really here Granger? You and Potter seem to have it all figured out and now you’ve roped me into some scheme of yours.”

“You’re here to help me interview a specific subset of prisoners. Harry can’t waltz into Azkaban too often or he’d arouse suspicion. And I highly doubt he’d get honest answers. The inmates don’t trust him and they trust other Aurors even less. But with this new Act we got pushed through, we will actually have access to these people. We need information only you could potentially provide if you accompany me. And, to be honest, I thought you might like to help. Do some good.”

“What gave you that impression?”

She deflected an elaboration with a shrug. “Harry and I don’t know who we can trust right now, outside of Angelina and Sterling.”

“Yet you trust me?”

She sized him up. “I trust that you will do anything for the people you love. I trust that you have matured enough to take this seriously. And I trust that you would not actively cause harm during this… less than above-board investigation.”

Draco said nothing. He felt an odd combination of indignant and flattered. 

“Word gets around. I see your aunt regularly, you know. I hear she’s been reconnecting with you and your mother.”

Draco said nothing. Again. Did it unnerve her for Draco to be this silent while she made sweeping judgements about his character? Did Granger anticipate a tantrum? A scathing, surly denial?

She kept talking as if she did. 

“You could have sued the prison. You could have brought them so low with just the barest of lawsuits. But you didn’t.”

“Your point?”

“You’re not what I expected.”

“What did you expect? The same boy from Hogwarts?”

Granger canted her head side to side. “Not quite. As I’ve said, word gets around, and you seem to have progressed from your former… lifestyle. Whether or not it’s all an act will probably reveal itself shortly.”

“I’m sorry for it.”

It fell out of his mouth, dropped into the space between them, and made a slow advance towards her. Did she consider it a creeping tendril of harm, to be cut down by her? Or a hesitant olive branch to be welcomed?

She made no move towards either rejection or acceptance. 

Draco elaborated. Poorly. 

“What I did…. or didn’t do… or… right, well. Sorry. I’m sorry for it all.”

“I gathered.”

“No, really, I am sorry.”

She let out the long-suffering sigh of a disillusioned adult thrice her age. 

“I’m sick of it, Malfoy, please just save it, honestly. Do you know how many apologies I’ve received since it all ended? Empty words, most of them, in my opinion. I’d rather see repentant actions, personally. Ministry bureaucrats and politicians are sorry I had to go on the run because of the Muggleborn Registration Act? Well then pass laws that make sure it doesn’t happen again. Actions over words.”

She didn’t seem to lump him in with the adults and others in power who’d failed her. Who’d failed them all.

“All the same, my sentiments remain true.”

“Do you still believe in… it?”

“No. But I won’t deny I did once. Or at least, thought I did.”

She nodded and gave a small, tight smile. His honesty appreciated, forgiveness granted, limited trust initiated; something of a détente now constructed between them.

“Like I said, actions over words. I won’t deny your apology was rather welcome given how we personally knew one another for years, but all the same. I believe you’ve come a long way if you’re here and willing to take up this project with me. And I’ll believe it fully if we’re able to work together on this without old insults coming out of your mouth and you show me how you’ve changed.”

He set his mouth in a resigned line. “Tell me more about your investigation.”

“The role of the advocates is to listen to real complaints and also to connect inmates with social work or counsellors. Help them make a life plan for when they’re eventually released. Unfortunately, many of them are either former Death Eaters or sympathisers who won’t often talk to these people because of preconceived prejudices or ingrained stigma against asking for this type of assistance. But I think if you attend the interviews with me, they’ll at least speak with you. Not all of them have the vaults you do. I think you’ll find more Gaunts than Malfoys locked in Azkaban.” 

“I don’t understand the metaphor.”

“These people aren’t returning to manors or even stable home environments. They’ll need jobs. or at the very least, access to mental health and community support resources once free.”

“What’s this got to do with Potter?”

“Harry has a hunch, and as positively infuriating as this is to admit, his hunches often turn out to be something more. You’ve just got to get them talking, that’s all. Those younger ones will see you as a peer and they’re the ones we have reason to believe are experiencing something not quite right. It’s rather unheard of for the DoM to be involved with Azkaban.”

“Pretty sure many of them see me as a traitor to ‘the cause.’”

“Perhaps some do. Though I think you’ll find more envy your position.”

“So now what? We’ll just pop to Azkaban and demand to speak to everyone?”

“No,” she said tartly. “First you’re going to familiarise yourself with case files. Then you’ll read through de-identified psychological evaluations.”

She waved a vague hand over to the far corner of the office and a handsome cherry desk piled high with parchments.

“Must I do this here?”

“Yes, those files do not leave this office. So, I suppose this is a logical time to ask if you still wish to be involved. Harry, Angelina, and I want to root out corruption and we think you’re our best shot at a foot in the door to investigate. But I’ve made my case, and I’m done trying to convince you. If you can’t or won’t commit to this, then you’re free to leave and neither I nor Harry will bother you further.”

He could leave right now. He could return home to his empty house and pretend he never heard any of this. 

And do what with the rest of his days? Part of him argued back. Watch every other person in his life find fulfillment in their respective careers, hobbies, and loved ones? 

“If you really need me so desperately, I suppose I could be of assistance,” he drawled while making a show of checking his wristwatch. 

She surprised him with a snort of laughter. His eyes jerked to her, and she deployed yet another surprise.

“You were a serious student, when you weren’t being horrible. You achieved an impressive number of OWLs and NEWTs.”

He batted away the reaction he wanted to give that compliment. He thought it might have been the urge to smile. 

“And how shall my academic achievements be best put towards the mundane task you’ve saddled me with?”

“Look for patterns. Anything that strikes you as odd. Not complaints about the food or missing the comforts of home. Any mentions of abuse by guards will be obvious, but some of the more subtle tells of suspicious activity will tell us more. Denials of certain privileges like visitors or letters, but without a disciplinary reason recorded for such a denial. Instances of repeat visits to the infirmary. You’ll pass along files that we deem above board to the actual advocates. We need you to focus on the ones that contain any mentions of time unaccounted for, and any whisper of a DoM official.”

Though Draco didn’t exactly share Granger’s naïve optimism that they’d simply find a way to dismantle a system rife with abuse and neglect, he could at least internally admit it was an admirable quality of hers. 

“Say we do find something,” said Draco. “Say we uncover some horrific web of corruption. What then?”

She looked at him straight-on, and if the chilling stare from Sterling earlier had frozen him, Granger’s eyes burned so hot and bright they blasted the lingering ice apart and rendered the sharp shards into harmless droplets. 

If he were the target of such righteous passion, he might have cause for fear. But this look she reserved for the intangible evil he’d just agreed to help her fight. An alluring, up-close view of a fervent, relentless Granger. 

“We destroy it.”

Chapter Text

At Hogwarts, Draco could admit he’d often wondered what it was like to be part of Potter’s little gang. 

He didn’t think it involved this much research and paperwork. 

He did think it would involve a swotty little overlord. 

Because gods if Granger wasn’t still so fucking annoying. 

Everything had to be done by the book. Everything had to be checked not once, not twice, but thrice. Every affidavit, every statement, every bit of research or evidence copied in triplicate. 

She had the audacity to give him a Merlin-damned schedule. Like he worked for her or something. Three days per week he’d Floo directly to her office and fold himself behind his designated research desk and read through the mountain of prison paperwork.

However, the more meticulous and studious side of Draco could appreciate this quality in Granger. Instead of barrelling into the prison, wands raised, demanding answers (Potter’s chosen course of action if he had his way, Draco guessed), Granger would have everything done above board. On parchment at least. He’d remembered a fair few times at school when she’d employed her more cunning and cutthroat side to achieve her end goal. He wondered if Marietta Edgecombe still had the pustules on her forehead.

She made a show of introducing Draco to the little cadre of advocates and legal aides employed by the firm, giving him a far-too flattering introduction as a major benefactor behind the initiative and so interested in being hands-on he’d be personally working with her to ensure it got off the ground.

She had him greet every one of these bleeding-heart minions and Draco promptly forgot all of their names and faces. 

Draco knew she had her own cases to work on in addition to this clandestine project, and so quelled the urge to interrupt her every few minutes. She had a rather important court appearance in the upcoming months—the parole eligibility hearing for Gregory Goyle. 

Draco silently congratulated himself on this quiet peace that reigned in her office in the name of civility. He read through delivery reports, infirmary reports, redacted psychological evaluations, medical and potions supply lists, visitor logs, disciplinary records. Draco combed through them all separately; he’d begin cross-referencing once he had a better idea of how the information was organised and where he could sense discrepancies. 

After two weeks of practically breathing down his neck and making sure he knew how to perform a simple Duplication Charm on any relevant notes, Draco finally snapped. 

“Did you want to do this yourself?”

“I’m just making sure you have a proper organisational flow of the information.”

“It is organised Granger, if one knows how to read.”

“And have you made sure to—?”

“Yes, and if you ask me one more time whether I’ve made sure to keep the reports separated by type, I won’t think twice about throwing a Slicing Hex at your hair.”

She didn’t respond to his childish threat but to narrow her eyes.

“This needs to be done right, Malfoy and I—”

“So trust me to do it right then! Actions over words, isn’t that what you said on the first day?”

Spitting her own words back at her successfully shut her up. Draco filed away that observation.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and let him carry on without interruption after that. 

She would clear her throat and inquire about his tea preferences at exactly two points during the day and lunch at exactly 12:45. 

Perhaps not so annoying. 

Perhaps more than a little pleasing to the eye.

The Weasel stopped by in the beginning of his working relationship with Granger. They flipped each other off a few times behind her back. He’d loudly ask Granger if she felt safe and tried to get her to take early lunches. She always huffily waved off his concern and said she didn’t need a minder and that Malfoy behaved himself. 

“We’re not at Hogwarts anymore Ronald, leave him be. He’s been perfectly tolerable,” he heard her whisper-argue at a volume he clearly wasn’t meant to hear. Draco had smirked at the Weasel as he’d taken this leave. 

Eventually he’d begrudgingly said “Malfoy,” in greeting. Mostly he ignored Draco entirely once he’d determined him a non-threat to Granger’s well-being and that suited Draco just fine.

As it had after his father’s death, the dream caused by Theo reared its shimmering, hazy head. The Granger in this office would never be that version of Granger. Not that she ever was, but Weasley made damn sure it wouldn’t happen. 

But while Draco used to wonder a lot about that woman in his dream, he now found he only harboured a burning curiosity for the attractive woman he shared a workspace with thrice a week. 

Questions he couldn’t ask constantly lingered on the tip of his tongue: 

“What’s making you sigh like that?”

“Why do you always ask if I want tea or lunch?”

“What do you do outside of this office that seems to comprise your whole world?”

“Did you really mean all those kind things you said about me to the legal peons or was that all puffery for our real work?”

“How come Weasley no longer drops by? Did you scold him for being an overbearing cretin?”

Towards the end of Draco’s required time for the day, she’d put aside her own, paid work, and ask him to summarise his findings for the day. 

The first time it happened, Draco didn’t know how to handle her full attention. He’d expected Granger to lay down her quill and snappily demand he deliver a report. 

Instead, Draco faced a keen pair of eyes, focused on nothing but him, eager to hear of his contribution.

“What did you find today?”

He didn’t have much for the first few weeks while they waited for the proper clearance to grant visitation access to Azkaban and set a schedule. 

But he dedicated a good amount of brain space outside the hours in Granger’s physical presence turning over possible motives and connections in his mind. What should they even be looking for in that daunting pile of parchment? 

His other adult activities continued to be so dull that his mind had no choice but to be occupied by his conversations with Granger. Because when he wasn’t employing his cover as “overly attentive benefactor,” Draco’s hobbies outside of this little covert operation were: tie up loose ends with his father’s death, ensure the Manor didn’t fall into ill-repair with him residing elsewhere, and attend charity galas. 

Hardly anything as mentally stimulating as the hours he spent in a legal office, embroiled in a clandestine investigation and trying to ignore how loud one woman sounded in his head even when she didn’t speak.

He heard the tinkling of feminine laughter coming from his mother’s favoured parlour. An odd sound, Narcissa’s laugh; not because the laugh itself was odd, but rather the oddness resided in how often it occurred these days. 

The cause for the new frequency of this sound bouncing off the richly panelled walls of Malfoy Manor sat at her side. Andromeda popped round a few times a week resulting in the aforementioned laughter and fewer requests from his mother for Draco to join her for either dinner or tea. 

His cautious steps led him to a further hesitant state of facing his aunt. She always regarded him with a warm curiosity, while Narcissa seemed to suffer from a tense excitement at every banal interaction between aunt and nephew. 

“Hello Draco,” said Andromeda, as if he would bolt at the sound of his name.

“Hello,” he replied. He kept it brief with this new regular presence in his mother’s life, unsure of how to establish a relationship with someone he should have two decades’ worth of memories with already. 

“Hello dear. To what do I owe this visit?” asked Narcissa.

“I only stopped by to see if you needed any help with some of those artifacts from the chamber below the drawing room. And to grab some documents from Father’s study.”

“Did you oversee your new advocacy project today?”

“I did.”

“And how is Hermione?” piped up Andromeda.

“Hermione?” asked his mother and raised a brow. 

Draco wasn’t sure how to answer his aunt’s question. How truthful should he be here? Bossy, prissy, irritating, so fucking loud, and for all her frustratingly brilliant traits, also happened to be rather winsome and inspiring? 

“She’s um, ambitious, I suppose. She is very passionate about her work.”

“Yes, I find her a rather admirable young woman,” Andromeda said carefully. The air grew stilted, thick with all the missing years between sisters, lost to a pointless war and complications of family pride. 

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Draco offered, rescuing the room from perhaps a conversation they’d either not yet had or avoided having. “I only came by to… well I’ll just see to Father’s study. I’ll leave you to your evening.”

He didn’t hear any laughter on his way out.

Draco received an anxious visitor in the form of Blaise when he returned home from another day of life as a common working stiff.

“Firewhisky?” Draco greeted upon seeing the other man seated in an armchair and bouncing a knee in agitation.

“If you’ll join me.”

Blaise did not immediately reveal his reason for the impromptu evening intrusion. Apparently, he needed to work up to this task by imbibing liquid courage and then irritating Draco.

“Pansy says you’re working with Granger now.”

“Temporarily. I haven’t been by to see Pansy in a bit, how is she?”

“She’s better now. This thing with Greg has been good for her.”

“If a bit out of nowhere. I didn’t think they had much in common.”

Blaise shot him a puzzled look. “You know, for having him almost joined at your side for years, it’s a wonder how you never really knew Greg at all.”

“Why are you actually here?”

“Are we not going to discuss this sudden cordial Granger association?”

“Not sure what we’d need to discuss. I’m well over my little meltdown from years ago, thank you.”

Blaise gave him a searching, sincere look that made bile rise in his throat.

“Do you need a friend or–?”

“I don’t need a bloody Mind Healer, and if I did, I wouldn’t use you.”

“Thank you.”

“Please. It’s because we’re friends, not because I doubt your skills as a quack.”

“Lovely. Such confidence in my abilities.”

“So did you actually come here to just drink my liquor and regret your career choice?”

Blaise fiddled with the tumbler. 

“I’m worried about Theo. He’s not been himself. Acting odd.”

“All Theo ever does is act odd. It’s his perpetual state of existence.”

“Ha bloody ha. He’s more… withdrawn. He doesn’t… confide in me like he used to.”

Draco hated the feeling of needing to dispense advice. But alas, it was an unfortunate side effect of having friends. 

“Look I know you’re one of those nauseating couples who share literally everything. But he’s an Unspeakable. What do you think he’s not telling you?”

Blaise stared forlornly into his drink. “I don’t know but something is going on and not only is it bothering him, I think he’s… afraid. He has this look. The one he’d have at school when he knew he’d be going home. To his father. And fuck, how do I help him? If he’s in trouble and he won’t tell me, how do I help him?”

The prickling envy. Draco hadn’t felt it in a while, but it emerged now; brought on by that open desperation in Blaise’s eyes: How do I help the one person I love more than anything? 

How did one come to earn such devotion?

“Look, I’m… I’m a pretty terrible person to ask, if I’m being honest. But, if I were Theo, and I felt stuck, if I felt like I had run out of options… backed so far into a corner and the only way out was a truly terrible act… then I suppose what would help is knowing I had a safe place to land… when it all inevitably fell apart.”

Blaise tilted his head in concern, but Draco cut in before he could give voice to something sentimental and shove it in Draco’s ungrateful direction.

“I’m sure whatever’s on his mind he’ll eventually give some cryptic, convoluted explanation that only you can decipher.”

That didn’t stop Blaise from being kind anyway. 

“You’re not, you know.”

“Not what?”

“A terrible person.”

Draco instigated an immediate subject change. “So, this charity event thing at the Avery estate. You’ll both be there right?”

“Absolutely. Is this the one for orphans?”

“I thought it was the one for dragons?”

“Maybe we’re both right and it’s orphaned dragons.”

“Doubtful, it’s never that exciting,” Draco sighed. “Well, I’ll observe Theo if you want and let you know if I think he’s being... less Theo, I suppose.”

After Blaise had left, Draco poured himself another glass and wondered at how he seemed to constantly miss the stray threads of those unravelling around him. He couldn’t piece together Pansy, his mother, and now he’d add Theo to the list. Just like this fruitless endeavour of Potter and Granger, Draco existed in a constant state of staring at a puzzle with too many pieces and no defined border.

He’d already seen the insistent speculation in the Daily Prophet about when the world at-large could expect an engagement announcement for Granger and Weasley. The gossip columns this morning were simply adamant that the pair had definitely declared their intent to wed, and had included a blurry photo of Granger with a pair of gloves on, claiming it a tactic to hide her ring finger from public view. 

Draco kept stealing covert glances at her hand all day, but had yet to actually see her finger to confirm if it did indeed have some gaudy, tacky bauble adorning it.

“Can I help you with something?”

Draco smirked and leaned back in his chair. 

“Are congratulations in order?”

“What?”

Draco held up his own hand and tapped on his ring finger.

“Oh, that ridiculous article. No, of course not.”

The decisive and huffy way she’d dismissed the thought surprised him. As well as the notion that she apparently considered the idea of an engagement to her long-time boyfriend “ridiculous.”

He lowered his gaze to his research instead when a tentative question broke the silence. 

“It’s strange isn’t it?”

Draco merely stared back up in reply. 

“Not strange just…” She looked conflicted at how to define just how exactly this milestone perplexed her. “Strange in thinking about being married, I suppose. As a concept. And at this age.”

He shrugged. “I don’t think it’s strange.”

She fiddled with her quill. 

“Well either way, that article is completely false. I’m not engaged.”

He had no idea why he asked in the first place. He had no idea why she felt she had to answer him at all. Draco returned to his work, but Granger spoke up again.

“May I interrupt you for a minute before you leave for the day?”

“It’s your office Granger.”

She came round her desk and stood to lean against the front. 

“I’ve heard from Azkaban and the Ministry this morning. We can begin our in-person interviews next week.”

Draco frowned and rubbed the back of his neck, wondering why she’d saved this reveal for the final minutes of their time together. “That’s good news I suppose. But we’ve yet to find anything relevant and…”

He gestured a hand over the pile of inconclusiveness on his desk.

“And it means we’ll be flying a bit blind,” she finished. 

“We won’t know which questions will get us the answers we need.”

“Exactly,” she agreed grimly. “I was thinking the best course of action, provided we don’t have any working theories before the visit, is to develop a script of questions. We’ll ask the same ones of each inmate and at least that way have something that looks like a proper survey for reference.”

Draco nodded thoughtfully and returned to the document in front of him. If they could just find something, some thread to pull, then they wouldn’t be wasting their time next week and he’d be one step closer to repaying Potter this favor. 

“There’s one other thing I wanted to address,” piped up Granger.

“Yes?”

“Will you be all right when we visit the prison?”

“Of course, Granger, why ever not?”

“I wasn’t sure if you… well you must have some unpleasant memories of visiting your father there.”

She’d get one warning. 

“I said I’d be fine.”

She blew right past it. 

“I’d understand, you know, if you were uncomfortable. Especially after… after he was murdered there. You don’t need to be embarrassed if it’s too much. I’d understand.”

Draco stood and leaned forward, resting his palms on the hard, wooden surface. 

“You’d understand?” he repeated hollowly. 

The desk beneath his hands was not enough to keep him there. Especially with the pity lurking in her eyes, the nervousness in her stance, the mere thought that she had any concept of his past suffering and how it might affect him now. 

Before he could control himself, he strode to where she stood. Closer than he should. Especially when he felt that burning beneath his skin that boiled over then erupted in a disproportionate fury he hadn’t felt towards her, towards anyone, in so long.

“You’d understand?” He spat again when she said nothing to his initial echo. “What is there for you to understand? You don’t know, how could you fucking know? What it was like to have him as a father? What it was like to visit him? How could you even begin to understand how it felt to lose a parent? Don’t talk about what you don’t understand. You always did think you know everything,” he finished in a sneer. 

He expected her to cower. To whisper out a hurried and embarrassed apology. 

But he’d attacked her and so she’d defend herself.

“Excuse me? I don’t know what it’s like to… ?”

She stared up at him, just as challenging, just as angry. He’d inspired a fury within her too, it would seem.

“Do you know what I did to my own parents before the war? I had to Obliviate them, had to completely wipe my existence from their minds. So yes, Malfoy, I know that feeling of losing a parent. I didn’t even say goodbye, just took their memories and made sure they were happy and safe. I never thought I’d live long enough to see them again. And when I did? It took three different specialists to restore their memories. So don’t you dare tell me I can’t relate. I almost lost both.”

“Have them back now, don’t you?” he retaliated harshly. “My father is gone, he’s dead, and I can’t ever—”

His breath hitched. Suddenly, his anger at Granger decided to take its leave of his voice, the room, the universe. 

The great swamp of Nothing he’d mired in for months inverted itself. It spat him out and hurled him straight into a freefall of Everything. 

Hurt. Betrayed. Confused. Shocked. Remorseful. Exhausted. Sad. Properly fucking sad. 

A crushing, clenching sensation in his chest. That powerful, sneaking punch of a feeling. 

Grief, he thought, he identified, once he let the swirling emotions coalesce into the Something he’d been avoiding.

He staggered back from her and sat in one of the plush seats in front of her desk. After a beat, she sat in the one next to him. 

“I think there’s probably nothing worse than carrying around regret,” she said, a simple and soft acknowledgment of a terrible ache. “Especially when it concerns unsaid things.”

“Tell me what it’s like.”

“What?”

“Always being right.”

She let out a weak chuckle. It sounded of a despondency, of the shared sadness of letting lingering guilt fester into something consumptive and chronic, and it propelled Draco to lean forward and rest his forearms on his knees. 

It then propelled something far too honest out of his mouth. 

“I was optimistic, I suppose, before it happened. Before he was murdered. Those last few times I visited… things were better. There was a… a thaw, I guess I’d say. He seemed more humble, more human. Like perhaps he was more willing to try. I don’t know what our relationship would have looked like, but I was robbed of it. And maybe he… maybe he deserved it.”

“Oh, Draco—I mean, Malfoy, I—”

“Draco is fine,” he cut in. Eager to accept both her goodwill as well as his given name from her. Not the way he’d heard her say it in his dream, but just as alluring, if not more so, to hear it now. Imbued with a softness, a tentative caressing of the two syllables that spoke of care. Not just pity for a fellow human on the verge of a breakdown, but a legitimate concern for someone she held in some regard. 

It made him throw out another confession.

“I haven’t known how to feel about it all.”

“There’s no right way,” she said simply. “Though I find talking about it is as good a start as any.”

Another one couldn’t hurt to divulge.

“My mother seems to think having me immediately fill his role as head of the family is good for me. Or maybe it’s good for her. She can retire from society as a widow and I must make the requisite appearances at every charity function ensuring our name remains well-regarded.”

“What do you want to do?”

“No bloody clue,” he confessed again and straightened up to run a hand through his hair. “But to address your initial concern, I promise I can handle the prison visits.”

He’d hit his emotional honesty limit for the day. He’d also reached his tolerance for prolonged eye contact.

Draco blinked and looked at his watch. “It’s rather late isn’t it?”

“Oh! Yes, I suppose it is. Sorry to have kept you.”

“It’s fine, I wanted to look through the supplies reports from last year once more anyway.”

When he returned home that night and retired to bed, Draco stared at the curtains of his four-poster, wondering what had made him unfurl like that in front of Granger. He’d had plenty of people in his life try to get him to open up about his father. Theo and Pansy, some of his closest friends since childhood. Blaise, an actual, licensed Mind Healer. Even his own mother had made a few stilted attempts. But he’d rebuffed them all. 

Maybe Granger made sense because they’d known the same horrors. They’d fought the same fight, cared enough to risk their very souls for those around them, and now felt left with nothing but a confusing feeling of: now fucking what? 

As he rolled over and tried to sleep, Draco realised he hadn’t asked himself that question once since he’d started working with Granger. 

This, this having a purpose. It felt good. 

Draco found himself staying later and later in her office, desperate to find some logical reason for their need to uncover a wrong-doing. 

Granger also stayed late, though he didn’t expect anything less of a workaholic like her. 

Draco swallowed all the personal questions for that, too:

“How can you be so dedicated to this job?”

“Doesn’t Weasel miss your presence?”

“Are you enjoying this too? Should I be enjoying this at all?”

“Is it strange that we make a good team?”

Wizards and witches mingled all around them in the grand ballroom of the Avery Estate, but a quick scan of the crowd told a different tale. 

“I feel overdressed,” complained Theo. 

“More like unfashionable,” countered Blaise. 

“The next time we have to get all gussied up for potions research, I’m wearing a suit instead.”

“I thought this night was for orphans?”

“I heard dragons,” Draco asserted.

“I’m sure we’re all right and it’s orphaned dragons with lofty aspirations of researching potions.”

The trio wore their nicest sets of custom dress robes, yet the majority of the attendees tonight had opted for Muggle style formalwear. 

“Seems to be the new trend. Mind you, I think it’d do wonders for our physiques. What say you Draco? Should we join the masses as they further blend our two cultures into one?” asked Theo.

“I’m perfectly comfortable in my dress robes,” said Draco curtly. 

“I think it’s a rather nice shift. Wondrous to see it on a pureblood property.”

“The younger Avery married a half-blood,” explained Blaise.

“Interesting. Speaking of interesting, not that it does anything for me, but Draco surely you can appreciate the female form and how these dresses seem to accentuate it.”

Draco snorted into his firewhisky. “Theo, I will pay you many Galleons to hear you say that to a woman tonight.”

“Granger has a nice female form.”

“And you would know this how?”

“Because she’s just arrived in all her divine femininity,” noted Blaise.

Draco whipped his head towards the estate entrance.

Theo’s blunt statement proved correct. 

She’d arrived with Sterling and Draco couldn’t help the curiosity about both their respective romantic partners being absent. Her employer guided her gamely down the staircase, snagged glasses of champagne for the both of them, then with a quiet word in her ear, set her loose upon the room of potential benefactors. 

He expected something entirely different from Granger. He anticipated an awkward, nervous thing. Surrounded by wealth and trying desperately to fit in, to prove herself, like she used to do at school. She’d vie for the attention of everyone around her to notice her brilliance, to put her stamp on the world. So fucking loud in her opinions, her answers in class, her assertions of how to right an injustice. 

Now her loudness manifested in an entirely different manner. When Draco regarded her from a distance, he saw an attractive woman, in command of her beauty and wit. She knew how to bend a room to her will, she would not be cowed by any person at this event no matter their status, net worth, or lineage. One had to prove themselves to Hermione Granger, not the other way round.

Draco watched group after group of people approach her, and he wondered if she had any idea of the power she wielded. A cunning woman like her, she had to know, yet to an outsider she accomplished it all with such an impressively artless air. Draco noted the perfect posture, the humble smile, and when the din of conversation around him reached lower volumes at various points, he heard the familiar prim, carrying affect: “Actually, I think you’ll find the statistics are rather shocking. It’s a simple matter of resource allocation and it’s within the power of the Wizengamot to restore balance. My firm recently embarked on an endeavour to—"

“Well, this is intriguing,” piped up Theo. Blaise shot him a look of fond exasperation. 

“Care to elaborate?” asked Draco, less fond.

“Not particularly. Whether it becomes more or less intriguing will reveal itself shortly.”

Draco shot him a blank stare.

“She’s spotted you and I think would like to say hello.”

Draco resisted the urge to again whip his head in her direction and instead took a measured sip from his glass and performed a slow half-turn. 

She approached in all her self-possessed grace, wearing a black silk gown with the subtle gleams of gold jewelry shining at her wrists, neck, and ears. Pansy, were she present, would probably have some quip at the ready about Granger dressing far too modestly for a woman of her career trajectory and current social standing. But Draco had already mentally agreed with Theo’s original assessment. Her gown spoke of refinement and a not insignificant number of Galleons, yet the understated silhouette meant one noticed the woman, not the garment. 

What the hell could Weasley possibly be busy with tonight?

“Hello, Draco.”

Granger spoke confidently as a general rule of thumb, but his given name she hesitantly offered the air, as if unsure the two syllables formed a name at all, but rather some obscure concept she’d yet to grasp.

“Good evening, Granger.”

Her hesitant smile at him turned into a more genial one when she spotted the other two wizards. 

“Hello Blaise, Theodore.”

“Theo, please.”

“More drinks?” inquired Blaise. Theo and Draco nodded but Granger politely declined. Blaise pecked Theo’s cheek before heading towards the bar. 

Granger turned to Theo with a bright smile. “How long have you two been together?”

“Since Fifth Year.”

“That’s lovely, congratulations.”

“Thank you, we’re very happy.”

“Yes, yes, everyone in a 100-kilometre radius is aware of your happiness,” said Draco wryly. 

Granger let out a light laugh.

“Is Ronald not escorting you this evening?” asked Theo, snuffing out her laugh.

“No,” Granger said flatly and offered no explanation for her boyfriend’s absence. She expertly took the focus off her relationship by asking a returning Blaise about his work. 

“Congratulations to you as well, I read your paper on the intersection between neuroscience and psychology as it pertains to dream states in magical beings. I was particularly impressed with the amount of Muggle journals you cited. Most of your contemporaries don’t bother.”

“Their loss, really,” replied Blaise. “They’re missing out on so much ground work already there.”

“Well, if you ever need any Muggle scholarly journal recommendations, I’m happy to provide some.”

“Interested in dreams, Hermione?”

It was Theo who spoke. Theo who deployed his penetrating stare on Granger. Theo who then shifted it to Draco, then back to Granger again. Theo who seemed to actively want to die by Draco’s hand tonight. 

“Not particularly,” she said. “Though I enjoyed Blaise’s paper on the subject. I think you covered it quite well enough for my taste. Are you planning on publishing anything else?”

“I have some case studies on trauma and recovery.”

“That would certainly be a welcome addition to the field considering recent events,” she enthused, then blanched, perhaps remembering her present company.

“A war will do that,” stated Theo, increasing the discomfort level of the conversation by ten-fold. 

“Ah yes, I suppose so,” replied a disarmed Granger. The first time that night Draco had seen her flustered. 

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few more groups I’m hoping to speak with before the night’s out. Enjoy the rest of your evening. I’ll see you Monday, Draco.”

Theo had that stupid, singular stare that attempted to convey some great meaning and he directed it at Draco as Granger took her leave.

Draco rolled his eyes. Yes, the woman was gorgeous, but not only was she unavailable for Weasel reasons, she was perpetually unavailable to Draco regardless of the Weasel association.

He had strange, disruptive dreams that night: of his father waltzing around the Manor’s ballroom with his mother, of house elves playing violins, and a surreal third act of Granger locked in a cell in Azkaban.

Disruptive enough that he almost called a house-elf for a few drops of Dreamless Sleep when the idea slammed into him.

Dreamless Sleep potion. Or rather, an almost complete lack of its use during a several month period for many of the prisoners.

It was a controlled substance and monitored very carefully, especially at Azkaban. Draco knew of the detailed logs kept on medicinal potions, he’d seen the reports with his own eyes. Though many prisoners had it noted in their medical charts that they’d experienced trouble sleeping or severe insomnia, the Dreamless Sleep supply remained untouched for a significant length of time. 

It might not be much, but something was better than nothing. 

Draco woke the next morning to a very curious story just opposite the society pages of the Sunday Prophet. The orphaned dragons’ potions research party not being a particularly notorious affair, gossip reigned supreme instead. 

Namely, one bit of gossip.

A black and white moving photograph of Ron Weasley with a suitcase and levitating boxes, moving out of the home he shared with Hermione Granger. 

Chapter Text

Draco dithered in front of his Floo. Was there a point to him even going in today if Granger would be absent? He could at least just drop by to see if his theory lined up with the notes he’d scribbled down in the middle of the night.

She’d probably be out the whole week. He wondered if she’d put some kind of charm on the documents on Draco’s desk so he’d be unable to take them home with him.

But all of this worrying and alternate plan-concocting proved to be wasted time.

Granger sat behind her desk, same as any other day he’d arrived in her presence, already diligently working to undo some gross miscarriage of justice.

“Good morning,” she said.

Draco stepped out of the fire and moved no further. Surely not even Granger could be this dedicated to her career?

“Granger… what are you doing here?”

“Working.”

The flat, dismissive tone might have worked on someone with less of an understanding of packing raging depression into a too-small suitcase, convincing yourself that it fit inside, and stowing that overflowing luggage out of sight and foolishly hoping it never saw the light of day.

“Why?”

She finally looked up at him and he clocked it then: the hollow eyes, the lack of colour in her face. No jewelry today and no makeup either. She’d dragged herself here for the distraction but Draco knew the telltale signs of someone dangling on the precipice of destructive dysfunction.

“This is my place of employment, and as I enjoy being gainfully employed, I must show up here and earn money in exchange for my skills.”

“Why haven’t you taken any time off?”

“Whatever for?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you seriously going to play this game right now?”

“What game?”

“The one where you pretend you’re astonishingly stupid.”

“Did you just call me—?"

“Because you’re not stupid. Not even close.”

He’d hacked her right off, he could see it. Simmering, percolating, just beneath the surface, Granger wanted to brandish her wand and shriek hexes his way.

Draco told himself he needed to push her for the investigation. He’d sat on this information all fucking night and for them to move forward he needed Granger at her best, not pining over some worthless weasel.

“You shouldn’t be here today. You’ll not do your clients or our project any favours if you’re compromised.”

“How dare you suggest… how dare you accuse me of unprofessionalism.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“Just because I am a woman—”

“I must have missed the part where I noted your gender.”

“—does not mean I am so weak as to let my personal life interfere with my career and—”

“Merlin forbid you admit to being human.”

“—and I don’t need time away! How dare you presume to know anything about my life—”

“Tell me then.”

Her mouth dropped open. An undignified reaction to his surprising demand, and for a split second she teetered on the verge of compliance before she retreated into her shell of avoidance once more.

“I’m fine.”

He could see by the clench in her jaw she’d dig her stubborn heels in and resist unless confronted head-on. He suspected that she’d only been subjected to a gentle coaxing until now. A blunt instrument would prod this along more effectively.

“You can sit there in all your self-righteousness and pretend you exist on some higher plane of the universe where the ending of a relationship doesn’t affect you. Or, you can admit you feel terrible and go home. Have a cry into one of his family’s hideous sweaters before you light it on fire and move on with your life.”

“Don’t be cruel.”

“I’m not cruel, just honest. Your little act of nonchalance might fool your dim-witted friends, but if you’re going to sit there and work on legal briefs and put on this charade of being okay, then I’m leaving and not returning until you’ve dealt with your shit.”

“And what would you know of it?” She tossed back, hiding behind her dodge of a question.

“What would I know of burying unpleasant things and never speaking of them until forced, and then having it tumble out of me at an embarrassing time in front of another person? Why, nothing at all.”

Some redness finally appeared on her cheeks. “I know how to be discreet, but how do I know you won’t go running your mouth to the Prophet the second I bring up… bring up Ron.”

“Ah, we’re getting closer now. You’ll deflect your own pain by seeking to insult me.”

Her eyes flashed. “It’s not like you haven’t done that before. I seem to recall you once delighted in cozying up to Rita Skeeter to disparage Harry all during Fourth Year. I’d be naïve to think someone like you wouldn’t betray the tiny bit of trust I’ve instilled in you.”

“We’re almost there, Granger, just a bit more. Did you want to call me a Death Eater next? Remind me that I’m responsible for Dumbledore’s death?”

Confusion usurped her indignation.

“No, you were a child and you were used.” 

He’d of course thought it before, steeped in bitterness and unkind thoughts about how the world and the adults in charge had let him down, but to have it acknowledged aloud? And by Hermione Granger? And not because she’d felt obligated to lay it on thick for the public, or veer to dramatics for a courtroom performance like perhaps she had at his trial. But a quiet truth, just for him.

She may have temporarily disarmed him, but he needed her to achieve total catharsis or he’d be stuck with this wooden facsimile all day. 

“Nice try, but we’re discussing your transgressions today, not mine. So, what’ll it be Granger? Can you admit even you need a day or two to lick your wounds? Or are you so unkind to yourself that you’ll ignore your own misery until it bleeds into other aspects of your life and you implode in a way that hinders your ability to perform to your usual standards? This happens to include myself and my valuable time, might I add.”

“Oh you would make this all about you!” She finally shot to her feet and Draco suppressed a grin.

“My relationship came to an end. Mine. And yet here I… And I… And I can’t talk about it with anyone! Harry and Ginny want me to talk about it and I can’t!”

Her eyes widened before she squeezed them shut and rubbed her temples. Granger centered herself and continued calmly, staring down at her hands, the realization finally hitting home. She had no one else with whom she could share this.

“I hate putting Harry in the middle and as much as I love Ginny, I’d hate for her to feel like she’s betraying her brother. And those two they don’t…”

Another steadying inhale and exhale. The quiet sound of her bringing down the barriers. She’d held it all in for too long, and it didn’t matter that Draco stood there in her office, didn’t matter that he knew her at all. She just needed another person to hear her.

“Can you imagine being a quidditch star and your spouse is an Auror? Two of the busiest careers I can think of with insane schedules and travel and long nights and dangerous situations and weekend work… and yet… gods, you should see them together,” she said wistfully.

“They’re secure when they’re apart because they know the other will always, always be waiting for them. A war couldn’t dull their feelings. And here I am… I saw Ron almost every day and we still couldn’t make it work.”

Draco didn’t need to ask her to elaborate. He quietly took a seat behind his own desk and let her reach the zenith of her unspooling.

He should tune this out, he should not listen. He’d achieved his goal of speeding up her grieving process and he should not pay any mind to her dramatic backstory. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t transfixed. Draco told himself it was nothing more than curiosity.

“But Ron doesn’t understand, he doesn’t get why I feel this drive to keep going, to keep fixing what was left from the old ways. He’s too entrenched in the comfort of a mostly stable society, and he doesn’t see how these things are cyclical. If we turn a blind eye one too many times, if we sweep things under the rug instead of confronting our issues head on, then we’re doomed to repeat everything. Maybe nothing as drastic as Voldemort, but do we really want another inept government head like Fudge? See how easily we fell last time due to weak leadership? Don’t get me wrong, Kingsley’s doing a fine job and he’s made so many improvements, but we’ve got to work up from the court level so that his successor can build on the work we’ve done instead of sweeping it aside.”

Did Weasley get this spiel when they broke up? Or perhaps he’d interrupted her, unable to withstand a Granger rant about social justice mid-break up. He wondered what the final straw had been. Draco had always felt them ill-suited, Granger and Weasley, and he wondered what had finally torn them apart. Was it her time away from home? Was she too successful and he resented her? He didn’t see either of them as the type to cheat.

Draco stayed silent, letting her carry on as rambling grave-digger so she could finally bury her deceased relationship all on her own.

“Ron just… he doesn’t get it. Ending Voldemort was only the beginning, there’s so much work left to do. Ginny understands how Harry and I will probably never stop, but Ron… he just wants it to be over. And that’s valid, of course, he has every right to want to live easily, especially after what we went through but I… I can’t do that.”

Draco wanted to chime in here with a droll, “Of course, Granger, any man who doesn’t know that about you is a feckless idiot,” but didn’t think his offering would be appreciated.

“But that’s what he wanted, he wanted a wedding now, and then kids immediately. He wanted it right away, he wanted it all now now now , always on his time and never mind how I felt about it.”

That statement prompted an interjection from him however. “Have a schedule and a timeline? Why am I not surprised?”

“Hardly,” she replied, tartly. “I simply asked for a few years he wasn’t willing to give.”

“I see.”

“And it’s more than that, it’s about what I want too! I don’t want children right now, for goodness’ sake. I want a family, I really do, just in a few years when my career is slightly less hectic and I can take the time and feel more settled. But of course I would have been the one to watch the children, and when I raised this point to Ron he just volunteered his mother to do it for us.” She wrinkled her nose. “So, I asked for time. I asked for a few years, that’s all. And I know, ‘comparison is the death of joy’—"

“That's morbid, is that a Muggle saying?”

“—but Harry and Ginny, I look at them and I see two people who’ve allowed themselves to chase their dreams separately and still make it work together. And why couldn’t we have that? Why couldn’t I—?”

Granger may have dismantled one wall, but her sharp inhale spoke of her slamming into another one. Draco had poked the fresh wound she’d sought to hastily patch without the proper care, and now she succumbed to the exposure of an open, raw ache.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she muttered brokenly and rushed out of the office.

In the half hour of solitude, Draco confirmed his theory with the requisite evidence found in the paperwork.

When Granger returned, she brought with her a pair of red-rimmed eyes and a resigned, exhausted countenance.

“It seems I’ll be taking the next few days off,” she said tonelessly. “Apologies for you coming in today. If you could,” she met his eyes anxiously, “if you could forget everything I said, I’d be most appreciative.”

Draco nodded once. She’d not brought up his strange meltdown about his father’s death, he’d not breathe a word about this. An exchange of leverage.

“I think I found the irregularity,” he offered as a segue to normalcy. “It’s the Dreamless Sleep prescription, or rather, a lack thereof, despite time spent in the infirmary. You already have Potter and Johnson checking on the guard logs so I focused on infirmary records, supplies, reports of behavioural issues, and denial of privileges without a corresponding disciplinary infraction.”

A tiny spark in her eyes. Enough to grow into a proper flame eventually, but Draco knew she’d need a bit of time.

“Oh, that’s something at least.”

Draco glanced uneasily at the documents in his hand then stacked them neatly and put them aside. Maybe he could sneak back after she’d gone and do some more research, but Granger was most likely the type to ward her office.

Another instance of unnecessary alternate plan-making for him today.

“Draco… you can take them home with you. The reports you need. Not the originals, just any duplicates you’ve made, it’s fine.”

Not words of gratitude, but a show of good faith. A meaningful act over a perfunctory word.

“I’ll owl you my draft list of questions for the interviews now that I know how to frame them,” she murmured in a soft voice devoid of her usual enthusiasm.

But her sadness screamed at him. And if it washed over him it must be drowning her.

“I’ll see you Friday for the Azkaban visit,” she dismissed him and he walked to the fireplace. He hesitated with the powder in his hand, caught in the space between maintaining the status quo and nudging toward improvement. 

Draco didn’t know why he felt the need to say anything. He shouldn’t say anything.

“You’ll be all right, Granger. You always are,” Draco tossed over his shoulder before throwing down the powder and disappearing through green flames.

Draco knew better than to ask how she was feeling. Granger appeared more put-together than the barely functioning spectre that had existed in her place on Monday. But she was still a mess, even if she briskly ordered her interns and aides about with a practiced, firm composure.

Close proximity meant Draco could see her heart wasn’t quite mended. This was worse than a bad exam score or perhaps a telling-off from a professor. She’d been publicly outed as having split from her adolescent beau and the press were having a complete field day with the idea that these two young war heroes were human after all.

Ah, that pull to forget one’s humanness. Emotions, pesky things truly, often accompanied humanity. It was an easy lie to tell oneself and especially handy when practicing Occlumency. Granger had let herself sink into that trap because she considered herself far too busy to entertain the idea of weakness or wallow in misery. Lesser mortals than Hermione Granger had the luxury of heartache.

Besides, she needed to be a warrior today. She needed to be brilliant, per usual. She would bury herself in her trusty career because if there’s one thing she could count on in this world, it was herself.

Draco bit back a laugh as she rounded up the actual volunteers and handed them Portkeys to Azkaban. One more glance of pity from one of these plebeians and she’d probably forget to hand out return Portkeys and leave them stranded in the North Sea.

Draco hadn’t yet had a proper conversation with her, merely hung in the background while she completed her work and chivvied all the little advocates off to their destination. She’d be with Draco to handle a very specific prison population today: young men, 22-35 years old. The group Draco had flagged from his research with an interesting list of things in common besides their age and sex: former Death Eaters or sympathizers, time spent in the infirmary, no Dreamless Sleep dispensed, no visitors logged for some months, no post privileges, and time overlap with Ministry personnel visits.

Draco smoothed out the list of interview questions as they approached the foreboding prison, delivered there quite ironically by a broken brass key.

He hadn’t visited since his father’s death. Then, a son fulfilling his duty to a patriarch. Now, a man on some nebulous mission with a partner he never saw coming.

A partner who’d remained uncharacteristically silent during their entire walk from the drop point at the bottom of the stone steps.

Draco cast his eye over the dark water surrounding the island and then back up the long flight of weathered steps and felt the need to fill the stilted sea air. “Do you come here often?”

She looked up and surprised him with a wry smile.

“Does that line ever work?”

“Funny. I meant, does your work bring you out to the prison often?”

She shook her head, curls swishing in the biting wind. “It hadn’t until lately. I’ve mostly been doing pre-war law reversals, creature rights, dismantling discriminatory hiring practices, defending Muggleborns who hid during the war, that sort of thing. Until this year.”

“And now you’re representing Goyle?”

She hummed in the affirmative.

“Why?”

“Pansy asked if I would.”

“And that’s it? She asked and you agreed?”

“Not quite.”

Granger didn’t offer any more of an explanation and Draco took the hint to drop the subject.

What followed for the rest of the day was the world’s worst Hogwarts reunion: a perverse meet-up of old friends, enemies, and those that lingered in-between in an undeclared role. Lucius would have politely termed that last group “acquaintance,” when it really meant, “person I shall maintain speaking terms with so that they may one day prove useful to my aims.”

These were young men a few years above him at Hogwarts, and a few a year or two below him. Almost all of his old quidditch team. Men he remembered as boys, as peers. Withdrawn and twitchy, surly and thin, most of them. Reactions towards Granger’s presence swung between open contempt and fear.

They started off with Granger’s general scripted introductory questions.

“How would you say you’ve been treated thus far?”

“Have you received regular meals?”

“Have your visitation privileges ever been revoked?”

Then progressed to the questions aimed at drawing out different kinds of answers:

“Can you recall being visited by Department of Mysteries or Ministry personnel?”

“Have you ever asked for Dreamless Sleep and been denied?”

“Why did they deny you?”

The responses to these non-standard queries netted rather vague replies. Curiously, they lacked detail not from the prisoners’ intent to evade, but rather, they seemed confused by the questions, and when pressed to think up an answer, couldn’t quite manage one. It made for a most perplexing and frustratingly monotonous afternoon. Until the final inmate interview.

Marcus Flint strolled into the room with a barely repressed grin. An expression at odds with his rather hollow cheeks and physical circumstances of being restrained to a chair by a guard.

Draco could immediately tell that Flint was on to their little advocate and benefactor act. No one should appear that at ease in prison garb.

“Mr. Flint, I’m here on behalf of—"

“Ah, how quaint. Malfoy and the Mudblood.”

Granger might have been prepared to let the slur roll off her back, but Draco was not.

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

Flint’s grin only widened at Draco’s immediate verbal reaction to the profanity.

“It’s fine, Draco, let’s get on with it,” said Granger, tiredly.

Flint’s mouth curved upwards still, his eyes on Draco.

“Apologies… Miss Granger. Old habits die hard, you see. For some of us,” Flint inclined his head at her. “We’ve not all had the benefits of your new friend Draco here. He’s been out and about society, a changed man, living in his creature comforts. Some of us have had to pay for our crimes, and not just with gold.”

This interview needed to end before Draco hexed a captive man. Draco tried to snatch the list of questions from Granger but she briskly pulled them away. She ran through the standard ones at top speed, not allowing time for Flint to natter on or cut in with snide commentary.

When they reached the questions about infirmary visits, Draco observed the subtle shift in their subject’s demeanor. He weighed each answer before speaking, no longer eager to throw out pithy one-liners or thinly veiled barbs at Draco.

“Have you ever asked for Dreamless Sleep potion and been denied?”

Flint drummed his fingers against the cold metal of the table, the only real movement available to him under the circumstances. “Sometimes I’d have one of those days. You know, the ones where you just know sleep would be impossible without a little help. The oddest thing,” he drawled. “And then I’d be sent to the infirmary for some tests. Apparently there’d been a dragon pox outbreak on our block and so we were put into the quarantine block and denied visitors.”

“There’s no record of a dragon pox outbreak occurring in the last decade here,” stated Granger.

“It’s what I was told.”

Granger frowned, and Draco thought they might silently be in agreement. Flint knew something. But he was unfortunately too intelligent to just give away valuable information for nothing in return. Flint also knew Draco at least well enough to deduce he wasn’t here out of the goodness of his heart. And teamed up with Hermione Granger no less, it made for a most suspicious situation.

“Never been a good sleeper,” continued Flint in a breezy tone. “And certainly not a vivid dreamer. Perhaps if I had a better current sleeping arrangement I might find myself more… capable of answering these tiring questions.”

“We’re not here to test the quality of your pillow and mattress, Flint,” sneered Draco.

“I’m sure they’d not compare to your swanky new home. Has Granger helped you test your mattress?”

“We’re done here.”

“Draco, we need to finish our list.”

“Yes, Draco , I’ve not had the full advocate treatment. Most unfair,” chimed in Flint with a leer.

“You slimy piece of—"

“Wait outside,” Granger snapped at Draco, and he tossed another glare at Flint and swept into the hall.

When she joined him a few minutes later after he’d paced the length of the corridor non-stop, she looked none the worse for wear.

“He definitely knows something,” she said grimly.

“He’s contemptible.”

“Obviously, but if he was involved in something the Ministry wants hushed up, we’ll need to speak with him again.”

“He wants to use your programme to get a few extra perks in prison. And you want to help people like him,” Draco spat, disgusted.

“He knows something,” she repeated evenly. “While yes, he’s vile, we have to treat all the inmates the same. And if he can give us any useful information, we have to keep things civil. We have to be better than him.”

Draco stopped walking and frowned down at her.

“How do you stand it?”

Granger laughed, surprising him. “Flint? How do I handle someone stuck behind bars with no weapons but his disgusting words? I shrug and move on with my life. He’s the imprisoned one, not me. And he’s imprisoned for following the very ideals he spewed from his mouth. He’s only hurting himself with that nonsense. He has no power over me. I’m secure in knowing I’ll lead a life a thousand times more satisfying than the Marcus Flints of the world.”

She’d been that way at school too. When Draco was the pathetic one. She’d always shrugged off his taunts and insults with an unimaginable amount of grace.

He turned to face her, mouth working up to an overture he probably owed her every day. But she’d predicted his next words and shook her head with a small smile. “You’ve already shown me.”

He didn’t need to go to Granger’s office today. She’d eased up on her iron grip over the document copies, but the solitude of his home did not offer a setting of concentration, for some reason. He’d tried it, and yet, alone in one of his studies, his mind buzzed with a distracting hum. A noise of emptiness.

He couldn’t bounce ideas off the crystal decanters. The brocade curtains offered no witty repartee. The tapestries dating back to the 17th century were not quite the right sort of inspiring beauty. He’d even turned his desk round to face the windows overlooking his vast grounds. Lavish, yet lacking.

Granger’s office would have to do until they solved this thing and Draco could move on with his life. An inexplicably conducive atmosphere for compiling supporting evidence and confirming or denying theories.

But today, her office had not been the best choice.

Draco returned from the washroom to find a red-headed woman lounging in his chair, twirling his favourite quill, and Granger nowhere to be seen.

“Feet off my desk, if you please, this isn’t your hovel.”

“Your desk? This is Hermione’s office.”

“Yes, and that’s my desk.”

A nonplussed Ginny shrugged and vacated his chair. “I’d been saying for ages they need to get her a little intern to fetch her tea and do her filing. Congratulations Malfoy.”

“You’re in her office because?”

“I’m kidnapping her and taking her out to lunch.”

Draco checked his watch. “But it’s only just noon.”

“Very good Malfoy, that’s the time of day when people generally partake in the meal called lunch.”

“Granger doesn’t take lunch until 12:45 at the earliest.”

“Do you keep her schedule too? Would you like to be my assistant as well?”

“I’d rather be Crucio’ed. But Granger never takes lunch any earlier than quarter to one. Some peculiarity about the precise timing for concentration through the afternoon involving her tea.”

Granger walked in then, interrupting any more irritating conversation with the (admittedly) least irritating Weasley.

“Ginny! What are you doing here?”

“Interrogating your secretary. Quite mouthy, I’m afraid, you might want to get another in, even if he is easy on the eyes.”

“Ginny—”

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t antagonize the help. But I’m here to take you to lunch.”

Granger checked her watch in surprise. “Oh, but it’s only noon. I couldn’t possibly eat until 12:45 at the absolute earliest. Otherwise, my stomach starts rumbling soon after and I have to adjust my afternoon tea schedule.”

Ginny blinked at her then turned to stare at Draco.

“Huh.”

Draco smirked at her from behind Granger’s back.

“Surely you can make an exception? I haven’t had one-on-one time with you in ages,” pled Ginny.

Granger shifted her weight and Draco sensed her imminent caving to a friend’s pushy demand, despite her being rather adverse to the idea.

Draco did not want to deal with the aftermath of Granger’s sour mood for the rest of the afternoon once she’d returned from this superfluous outing. Yes, that was the reason he decided to engage in a rescue attempt.  

“Granger, we have a meeting with Sterling in twenty minutes. I don’t think he’d appreciate you cutting out for a social call,” he chimed in disdainfully.

To her credit, Granger’s expression only momentarily faltered before she caught on.

“Right, of course, I’d forgotten. Sorry Ginny, perhaps another time?”

The other woman looked crestfallen but thankfully accepted the ruse.

“All right, and I’ll owl ahead next time. That way Malfoy can put me on your calendar.”

She gave a cheeky wave in his scowling face and Floo’ed away.

Granger let out a relieved exhale.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “She would have been relentless if she’d gotten me alone.”

“Don’t care.”

“Thank you all the same.”

He deflected her unnecessary gratitude with a shrug and lost himself in his notes on their interview with Flint.

He felt himself on the precipice of a theory, probably a brilliant one, when Granger interrupted him.

“Would you mind looking over my transcript from a few of our interviews?”

“I’m sure whatever you’ve written is fine.”

“But I want to make sure this is absolutely correct. You’re a hard man to please, you know, and I—”

His brain could no longer process the rest of her sentence. It remained hung up on a particular claim she’d made.

A hard man to please? Him?

Wrong. So wrong.

Did she know how easy it would be for her to please him?

Disturbingly easy, pathetically so.

That night, he dreamt of the Granger he knew now. If Theo had been the one to have induced an emotional tone for it, Draco would say he’d cast scintillating. 

Chapter Text

“Would you mind if I practiced this aloud?”

Draco lifted his head at her question. 

“It’s your office.”

And he, again, didn’t technically need to be there. He could have just come and gone as he pleased; made copies of the reports he wanted for the day and returned to his own study at home. To the absolute crushing silence of his empty house. 

Weeks had slipped by in a haze of established routine, time progressing even if the investigation seemed to stall. 

But Draco would not equate “routine” with “boring.” 

No, “boring” he reserved for the monotonous hours cooped up in his own manor, or making the requisite, dull appearances at charity functions. 

Granger’s office offered a change of pace, and he concentrated better here, Draco reasoned. He could raise theories in real-time with her. 

And he could hear her work, too. She usually dedicated his days with her to the prisoner files, but with Goyle’s hearing fast approaching, she let Draco carry on solo while she prepped for court. 

Granger paced behind her desk, hands gesturing as she changed inflection to hit different notes of emphasis to an impassioned defence of their former schoolmate. 

“… a young man with no family left…”

“… all the bad influences in his life have been excised…”

“… by all accounts a model prisoner…”

“… has publicly renounced his role in the war, minor as it was, I remind the court…”

Draco cut in. “Has he?”

“Has he what?”

“Done that. Renounced his actions as a Death Eater.”

“Yes. During his initial trial.”

“Doesn’t appear to have helped him much.”

“Unfortunately not. I’m not sure his representation the first time round was all that concerned, to be honest,” she said with a frown. 

“You should say ‘publicly expressed remorse’ instead. It’s more emotional phrasing.”

“Good point.” She bent over her desk and jotted down the note.

Over the course of the afternoon, Granger’s rehearsal became less of a monologue and more of a workshop with Draco as an active participant.

Which was very much not the reason Draco was meant to be in Granger’s office. But if she didn’t want to point that out, then why should he?

And if at the end of the week her soft spoken question about his plans for Goyle’s hearing date didn’t have anything to do with their investigation, did it really matter?

“Will you be there?”

“I’ll keep Pansy calm, if you want.”

Pansy had already owled him to ask this favour, as her mother was loath to leave their manor for such a public, and likely press-heavy, event. 

“Well I mean… I’d like you there too I suppose,” Granger admitted with a blush dusting her cheeks.

She’d once mentioned Weasley never came to watch her. That it had “bored him.” 

Draco couldn’t imagine anything more igniting than watching this woman perform at the top of her game.

“Then I’ll be there.”

A few days prior, Draco had left a witch confident in her public speaking skills and convinced of her cause. 

Today he found a witch frantically wringing her hands and muttering under her breath as she paced a corridor off the courtroom. She could only throw Pansy a terse nod in greeting. Draco suspected Granger felt a rush of pressure to perform today, given her relationship—not quite friendship, yet—with Pansy. And if he knew one thing about Granger, it was that she hated letting any person down. 

Pansy shot him a look and darted her eyes towards Granger. Talk to her, you git, it clearly said.

He shooed her into the courtroom and tentatively approached the fidgeting Granger. He’d gotten so accustomed to seeing the coolly self-possessed version of her, or the fiery warrior, that this iteration of a mousy thing felt wrong.

“All right there?”

“Fine,” she insisted. “Just pre-performance jitters.”

Did he even have the right to suggest the idea that had entered his brain at half past three this morning? Probably not, but he’d come this far. 

“I uh…” Draco stepped closer to ensure they wouldn’t be overheard. “I had an idea. If you want to go the slightly theatrical route.”

“Oh?” She stared up at him. Open, vulnerable. And willing to be that way in front of him. 

“Do you trust me?”

“I do.” 

Draco stuttered to a halt for a second, not expecting her affirmation to fall so quickly, so easily from her lips. He’d thought he would need to convince her of his reliability. 

“Do you still have it?” he murmured and gestured at her covered arm. “Your… your scar?”

“Yes. I keep it Glamoured for events, but not when I’m in long-sleeves.”

“Roll up your sleeve as you begin your defence. Stand right next to Goyle.”

The emotional trump card they’d need. He couldn’t believe neither of them thought of this before.

Her eyes met his and he saw the abrupt shift in their gleam from nervous to defiant. 

She shook her hair back. Lifted her chin. This was Granger ready for battle. 

Good.

“Hermione, are you ready?” Sterling approached and gave Draco a curt nod. 

“Yes. Thank you, Draco. I’ll see you after.”

It wasn’t a question, he noted, as her employer steered her into the courtroom to plead her case to the parole committee of the Wizengamot. 

Draco found Pansy in the gallery sitting with her head held high, eyes front, and a noticeable amount of empty space around her. Whether the public gave her a wide berth out of disdain or if her own haughty posture warned them off, Draco couldn’t tell. 

But when he sat close beside his friend, he felt her shaking a bit. Putting a comforting arm around her would have resulted in either a snappy brush-off or a feeding of the gossip hounds no doubt observing their every move. 

Draco had many things he wanted to say to Pansy. Things she probably would hex him for even thinking.

You’re braver than me.

You’re a better friend than me.

You deserve someone who won’t disappoint you.

He said it all silently anyway; by taking her hand in his. She didn’t protest or sneer, but instead accepted the gesture for what it was: a recognition of her own vulnerability and an admission that she needed consolation. 

She had other tells as the hearing started. 

The shallow breaths came when the guards led in Goyle and chained him to a chair. 

The painfully tight squeezes to Draco’s fingers came when they read out the charges and initial sentencing. 

And Granger’s first interruption of the court scribe was scored by Pansy huffing out a little gasp.

“—let the record show that Gregory Goyle, should the appeal for parole be granted, will adjourn to his ancestral home in—”

“That’s incorrect,” piped up Granger. “The Goyle ancestral home is no longer a viable dwelling. Upon his release from Azkaban, Mr. Goyle has listed his new address as the Parkinson Estate in Oxfordshire.”

Draco shot a quizzical look at Pansy.

“He’s coming to live with you and your mother? Pansy… is there something you want to tell me?”

“No, it’s… it’s not like that. Not yet anyway. I… we…” She gulped a breath and toyed with the sleeve of her robe. “It’s hardly romantic Draco, I’m not one of those desperate women who nabs herself a prison boyfriend via owl. We’re friends and he needs a place to stay. We bonded over shared trauma and our shite fathers. And—”

Pansy looked down guiltily at the floor. 

“And?” he prompted.

“And being left behind.”

By you. She left it off the sentence. 

They didn’t speak as the hearing played out below. Draco watched as Granger delivered the arguments she’d meticulously crafted and then parroted at him for the better part of the week. While he’d been impressed in her office space at the lively way she could speak, in this setting, with a man’s fate on the line, she imbued her gift for rhetorical saviour into every phrase spoken.

Here, she made her words sing. 

The only reason to not agree with this woman would be for nefarious, bigoted, political aims. Draco watched her play and pluck the heartstrings of all who witnessed and when she ever-so-deliberately took her stance next to Goyle’s chair, Draco leaned forward in his seat. 

She pushed up one sleeve of her robe, then the other. She unbuttoned the cuffs of the blouse beneath without even pausing in her speech. As if it were the most natural act in the world, as if the room were a touch too warm today and she required this simple gesture to make herself a bit more comfortable.  She pushed up the fabric and rested her arm along the back of Goyle’s chair.

Mudblood. 

Not as stark and bright red as Draco remembered from the night he’d watched it carved into her arm, but a notable scar nonetheless.

And she wore it like a fucking badge of honour.

Go on, her posture said. Look me full in the face and tell me this doesn’t affect you. Tell me the sight of me defending this man doesn’t make your pompous heads spin.

Granger’s voice rose up from below, and then died away as she wrapped up with a resounding, “We’d do better to improve our citizens, not simply incarcerate them. Mr. Goyle is a prime example of someone with an actual future this court would seek to diminish by upholding a far-too harsh initial sentence. The parole committee would do well to reconcile why it saw fit to punish someone simply because they lacked the right connections or the requisite amount of influential gold in the aftermath of the war. I ask that you carefully review the written statement provided by my client expressing his earnest desire to make the most of life beyond Azkaban. Thank you for your time.”

The court members adjourned for deliberation. Pansy let out a slightly hysterical rushing exhale as murmurs broke out around them.

“She’s brilliant,” Pansy stated.

“I know.”

“Don’t tell her I said that.”

“Of course not.”

“You spend a lot of time with her.”

“I’ve been guilted into a cause. It’s temporary.”

“Do you think your mother will mind?”

“My mother knows I work with Granger.”

Pansy gave him an irritating, mischievous smile. “I meant: do you think your mother will mind that you look at her the way you should have looked at Astoria?”

Draco cast a startled look around then followed it up with a Muffliato.

“Don’t. You start a whisper like that and people will assume the worst of her break-up with Weasley.”

“Ah, so you care about her reputation then, is that it?”

Draco frowned and looked away. He certainly didn’t need this mockery, even if it might make Pansy temporarily forget her current anxiety. 

His friend surprised him then, by laying a hand on his arm.

“Draco, they’ve been broken up for a while. If that’s your concern.”

“And how I look or don’t look at Granger is no concern of yours.”

“You are an absolute paradox of a person. It’s a wonder how you exist.”

“You sound like Theo.”

“You’ve always been selfish—”

“Thank you?”

“But with this warped sense of nobility,” she concluded her character summary. “Granger’s hardly the type that needs protecting.”

“It doesn’t matter, Pansy, she—”

“Get out of your own way.”

Pansy dropped her hand and the subject, surveying the crowd. 

Her keen eyes zeroed in on Sterling speaking quietly with Hermione and Goyle. 

“Who’s the silver fox? That’s not Granger’s employer, is it?”

“That’s Sterling, yes.”

“Merlin. I’d throw Weasley over too if I worked with that sort of view every day.”

Draco scoffed. “He’s married. I think. And too old for her.”

Pansy shrugged and smirked. “I think many a witch our age wouldn’t care for either of those details.”

“Gross.”

His disgust was genuine, but privately decided he’d take this Pansy, this usual vibrant, gossipy, annoying Pansy over the morose, anxious and wan version he’d been stuck with for far too long now.

Pieces of his friend slid back into place as they waited for the verdict. She updated Draco on some new robes she’d ordered for her mother. She nattered away about the house elves’ cooking and the recent suggestions for improvement she’d given them. She whinged about a recent luncheon with Theo and Blaise during which they “looked pathetically in love and talked of nothing but Blaise’s research. It was hopelessly dull, Draco.”

When she ran out of things to nervously babble about, Draco observed Goyle for perhaps, one of the only times in his life. He’d always just been there, just existed in Draco’s orbit, with a defined purpose. The purpose had not been friendship by any stretch of the imagination. He’d been a burly brute Draco could rely upon to protect him whenever the urge to be a little shite struck. Which had been often. Draco had never considered this other person’s aspirations or feelings before. 

Today, he saw a young man. A scared, gaunt young man that Draco barely avoided becoming. Goyle’s slimmed down face suddenly found Draco in the crowd. His mouth turned down into a puzzled frown, as if he couldn’t understand the impetus behind Draco’s presence, but was ultimately pleased by it. Then his eyes landed on Pansy. 

Everything about Goyle softened. 

“And we’re not going to talk about the way he looks at you?”

“Fuck off Draco.”

It came out acerbic, but then she immediately tensed. The Wizengamot members were now being called upon to vote. 

“All those in favour of parole?”

Pansy let out a quiet whimper as more than half of the assembled court raised their hands in the air. 

“All those opposed?”

It wasn’t enough. Goyle was a free man.

Through the haze of chatter from the public, murmurings from the court, the banging of the gavel, and the sudden flashes of photography, Draco saw Granger, alight in triumph.

She smiled at Goyle. She smiled at Sterling. Then she turned her face his way and fucking beamed. 

Pansy was tugging him along down to the court floor, and despite her insistent pace, Draco felt as if he moved through nothing; a pull that drew his body towards Granger with no regard for the crush of people in the surrounding crowd.  

As they approached, Pansy released her grip to throw her arms around a startled Granger. 

“Thank you,” Draco heard the shaky whisper as Pansy then let her arms drop. She stepped back and surveyed Granger from head to toe.

“We’ll celebrate at my home. Draco go collect Blaise and Theo,” Pansy ordered imperiously. “Granger I suppose you should come along too, even if you are in those drab courtroom robes.”

Everyone seemed to exist at varying degrees of awkwardness. Pansy’s mother had ordered the elves to prepare far too much food and the impressive display in the massive dining room couldn’t possibly be consumed by this gathering of seven people. All doing their best to combat their own private form of discomfort.

Pansy’s mother fawned over everyone present (even Granger) and seemed to exist in the time period of entertaining her daughter’s school friends as children home on summer break.

Pansy couldn’t stop shooting anxious looks at Goyle every few minutes, as if afraid he might keel over right at the table.

To be fair, Goyle seemed several slow blinks away from passing out. Unsure of where to look, the poor man looked simultaneously exhausted and overwhelmed by having to socialise with so many people at once.

Blaise, per his general unflappable nature, attempted to maintain neutral, calm conversation that fell flat more often than not as everyone tried to ignore the odd reason for “celebrating.” Their friend was in prison and now, by the grace of a Muggleborn, found himself moving into Pansy’s home. 

It was hardly a jovial atmosphere nor the merry type of environment of a reunion. How did one reacquaint themselves with an old friend when you knew exactly where they’d been the past few years but felt that probably both you and they would very much like to avoid the topic of his previous accommodations altogether? 

Granger fidgeted more than usual in her stiff-backed chair, seated next to Draco. Her perpetual state of bewilderment over her inclusion at this luncheon blared despite her infrequent contributions to spoken conversation. When she wasn’t taking perfunctory small bites from her plate, she twisted her napkin in her lap. Her fingers wound and pulled at the fabric. 

Anxious fingers that begged to be grabbed. Stilled. Knuckles he could smooth over. 

An urge he should quell, a call he should ignore.

But despite this burning compulsion to calm her nerves for the second time today, Theo concerned Draco the most. 

Theo looked miserable.

Draco had filed away his observations of his friend to perhaps follow-up with Blaise at a later date, when a confrontation outside the washroom occurred instead.

He stepped into the hall only to almost run smack into Theo. 

“Draco, I need to ask you something.”

Up close, Theo’s appearance concerned Draco even more. The frantic eyes, the shadows beneath them, the gleam to their hue. Too familiar by half.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re all right? What I did to you… with the dream… you’re fine?”

That was not the question Draco expected.

“Theo, of course I am. That was years ago.”

“You’re not pursuing Hermione because of it?”

Draco scowled. “I’m not pursuing her at all.”

“I should have taken more care with you. You were vulnerable and we were kids but I… I know better now.”

“Theo what’s wrong? Blaise was worried about you.”

“Blaise worries too much. I’m fine now.”

“Now? That implies there was a period of time when you were not fine.”

“I’m handling it. I’ve handled it.”

“Theo, do you need—?”

The scraping noise of chairs moving from the dining room made Theo jump back. He looked Draco up and down and shook his head. 

“Ignore me, then. Just another bout of strangeness from me, you know, the usual,” Theo muttered briskly and stepped around Draco, closing the door to the washroom in his face.

Shaking off the odd confrontation, Draco made to rejoin the subdued party when he rounded the corner of the hall and collided with yet another person.

“Oof, sorry!”

“Do you always barrel around corners, Granger?”

His hands steadied her by the shoulders. He hadn’t yet released her. She hadn’t shrugged him off.

“I was just going to clean up and then make my excuses. I think Greg should probably go rest. The transition back home can be rough.”

“Er, I suppose.”

He really should remove his hands. Their existence on her body served no actual purpose since Granger was neither an infirm individual nor suffering from a bout of vertigo and could therefore stand just fine on her own. 

But she didn’t move either. She didn’t seem bothered in the least that his large hands spread in full over the curve of her shoulders, the tops of them comically encompassed by the span of his palms and long fingers. Parts of her moulded into him. Or perhaps it was the inverse. He had no way to know in that moment. His Black family signet ring on his left middle finger held court over her right shoulder. The Malfoy signet, his right ring finger, laid claim to her left shoulder.

“Thank you, by the way,” she offered abruptly.

“For what?”

“Showing up.”

“Awfully low bar you have there, Granger.”

“It meant a lot to Pansy.”

“She’ll never admit to that.”

“It meant a lot to me.”

“Why?”

She looked up at him with that sharp, quizzical face of hers. She apparently expected him to know the answer but for the life of him, Draco drew a blank. 

“It felt like I had someone supporting me.”

“Sterling was there.”

“He’s my boss, and while yes, he’s an excellent one, I still feel like I have to perform to high standards under his watch.”

“You have flocks of supporters in our world. Many in the gallery today.”

She gave a light shake of her head in disagreement. Some of her curls brushed against the tops of his hands, sweeping along his bare skin in a way that should tickle, not sear.

“They came to watch the so-called ‘brightest witch.’ But you… you don’t have lofty expectations of me,” she admitted. Her over-large eyes, that screaming gaze of hers, imparted her gratitude for this conclusion regarding his opinion of her. Her incorrect conclusion.

“Wrong, Granger.” He finally dropped his hands. “You just always find a way to exceed them.”

He left her without uttering another word, foolish or otherwise.

Draco needed to get the fuck out of here before any more of these people ensnared him in uncomfortably enigmatic conversation (fucking Theo) or uncomfortably revealing conversation (Granger. Obviously.)

Alas, he needed to survive one more round of social torture.

“Congratulations,” he said to Goyle and shook his hand in farewell. 

“Thanks. Bit weird innit?”

“I suppose.”

“See you around then, since you’re still close with Pansy.”

“Right. Look Goyle—”

“I prefer Greg. If it’s all the same to you.”

“Right, Greg. Sorry.”

Silence. Draco had no idea how to enter, sustain, or exit conversation with this man. Someone he’d known since birth.

“We should talk. Sometime. If you’re up for it,” suggested Draco.

Goyle’s face brightened a bit. “Yeah all right mate. Thanks for coming today.”

It came out almost perfectly into a division of thirds when Draco and Granger could finally take stock of all their interviews with the prisoners: Men like Flint who seemed unbothered, a contingent who sounded afraid, and the last group who appeared almost wistful when pressed about their time spent in the quarantine wing of Azkaban.

They classified the three groups based on the types of responses to the question of, “How would you describe your time spent in medical lockdown?”

The inmates couldn’t account for the presence of personnel, as they just assumed they were visited by either healing staff or guards. Nothing stuck out to them, and certainly nothing involving the Department of Mysteries. 

They’d hit a dead end and Draco felt like tearing his hair out. 

“This is getting us nowhere Granger, we need a new strategy.”

She nodded and resumed her pacing in front of her desk. 

“What we know is we have a portion of the prison population who were sequestered for some months with no official accounting as for why. We know that during that time, not a single one was administered Dreamless Sleep despite repeated requests noted on the medical charts. And we saw a correlative uptick in visits by Ministry officials.”

“Yes and Potter and Johnson’s information has been entirely useless.”

She shot him a glare. “They have full time jobs at the Ministry, they can’t help much more without arousing suspicion. Not to mention Robards still isn’t pleased with Harry for testifying on the programme’s behalf. They’ve got to be careful not to ruffle any feathers.”

“Potter’s worried about ruffling feathers? Since when?”

“Since his job depends on it. Robards seems to be going for that ‘tough on post-war crime’ stance. I’m sure it’s political and will probably play well if he makes a run for Minister eventually. But it means, for now, Harry and Angelina have to tread carefully if we need more DMLE help down the road.”

“Then we need a new avenue.” Draco leaned back in his desk chair and absently twirled his quill. A memory struck from his time before his role in life as Granger’s co-investigator.

“The warden is a slimy little social climber. He once personally made my mother a cup of tea on a visit to my father.” 

“And?”

“Well I don’t think it would take much digging into his background to find something useful.”

She frowned. “You want to blackmail the warden?”

“Not what I said, just apply the right amount of pressure. Or financial incentive.”

“That’s called a bribe.”

She looked disappointed. It screamed at him. The way her mouth turned down, tugged into an expression that hollered for him to do better, to be better. 

“I’m trying to help how I can, sorry if that’s not good enough for you,” he sneered.

Granger rolled her eyes. “Leave your complexes out of this. We’re not blackmailing or bribing anyone, least of all the warden. I still think we can crack Flint.”

But on their next two visits to that odious man, no amount of rephrasing or verbal sorcery would get Flint to divulge any more information. 

“He just keeps bringing up his sleeping habits and trying to get a rise out of you,” Granger muttered irritably as they left yet another unsatisfying afternoon at Azkaban. 

“He’s being a prick because he knows he can. Because whatever happened here doesn’t seem to have affected him the way it affected others,” reasoned Draco. 

Granger lapsed into thoughtful silence as they waited for their Portkey to activate back to her office. Upon return, she rifled through some of the files on Draco’s desk. 

“What did you think of Ben Sinclair? He still seems downright terrified to even speak. Do you think he was one of the more severe cases of depression we flagged from the psych files?”

“I think he tried to off himself,” Draco stated bluntly.

She straightened up suddenly, startled at his morbid observation. “What makes you say that?”

“The only thing that I can talk about with him is quidditch. Anything else and he looks like he wants to vomit. Or cry. Or cry-vomit.”

“No need to be crude, I see your point.”

“Granger he almost faints every time we ask him about the isolation period.”

Draco held in the further observation that he probably knew exactly how Sinclair felt. The kid would crack under harsher questioning for sure, but did Draco really want to be the party responsible for causing a vulnerable person to mentally melt down? He knew Granger wouldn’t want that either, even if it might help them solve this silly mystery faster. No, Draco would rather not further disrupt the mental health of an already broken young man. 

He’d rather see someone a bit more despicable laid low.

“We need a pressure point for Flint. We can’t make him promises or ply him with comforts,” pitched Draco. 

“You want to intimidate him?”

“Not outright, just suggest that his non-cooperative attitude might not have the best consequence for his general well-being.”

“That was a lot of words to describe ‘threaten him.’”

He shot her a withering look and she held up a placating hand. “We’re supposed to be an advocacy programme, if you recall—”

“Yes, I’m aware, that’s why I have to read off those stupid pamphlets at every visit.”

“Which is very helpful, by the way.”

“Completely unappreciated by those filthy prisoners.”

“Probably because you speak about mental health services and community connections in the most demeaning way possible.”

“You said I was helping.”

“You are, you have more influence than you realise and fortunately for you, not many seem to pick up on your condescending tone.”

“I speak how I speak Granger.”

“Yes, well, genuine or not, you seem to be accidentally doing some good. The younger ones listen to you, you know. Now, what did you have in mind for Flint?”

She’d agreed to let Draco take the lead on interviewing Flint this time. Because she had confidence in him. Because she trusted him. Held him to some degree of positive regard.

He wondered if she’d still hold that opinion after today. 

Because he would need to be his father. A cliché Draco liked to think he’d successfully avoided (the short haircut for example, was a very conscious decision) but he’d unfortunately need to dip his toe in that persona for a bit. 

“Flint,” he greeted coolly. The other man stared at his own nails, bored of their presence and waiting for either Draco or Granger to run through their standard routine so he could interject with ludicrous requests for things like firewhisky or sex workers.

Draco didn’t bother with any other pleasantries or even the usual programme questions.

“How’s the wand-wood trade these days?”

Flint’s head jerked up at the abrupt question.

“Thinking of investing in my family’s business?”

“No, I can spot a failure when I see one.”

“Funny, I’ve never thought that to be a particular skill of yours.”

“Oh I assure you, I’m quite adept at predicting which industries seem to be on their way out.”

“Wands are always in demand.”

Draco continued as if Flint hadn’t spoken. “Some businesses fail gracefully, fold quietly. They cut their losses and move on to more lucrative ventures. While some less,” Draco leaned back in his uncomfortable, yet chain-free metal chair and looked down his nose at Flint, “reputable shall we say, try every desperate trick in the book to keep things afloat.”

Draco let his loaded statement hang in the air. He could hear Granger’s soft, quiet breathing beside him and wondered if she’d be able to tamp down her urge to chime in. 

Flint’s eyes flashed, but not in curiosity. He recognised the subtext of Draco’s statement. 

“Certain woods are so pricey,” continued Draco. “Particularly the more specialised ones. Acacia, for example.”

Flint stared back, challenging Draco to persevere in this meandering monologue with the implicit threat simmering just beneath the surface. 

“You know, it would be an awful shame if certain wandmakers were to become aware of some falsified reports of demand for quite a rare wand type that may or may not have briefly inflated the price and padded the pockets of a certain supplier. My, my, what would the Prophet make of such documents?”

“Except that would never happen as it’s not relevant to our mission here, right Draco?” broke in Granger. An unfortunate interruption uttered in a high-pitched, breathy warning.

“Oh, I’m not so certain of that Granger,” asserted Draco, calmly attempting to take back the reins. “Isn’t it our duty as concerned citizens to report unethical business practices to the proper authorities?”

“I knew your father would keep some sort of blackmail file,” Flint finally burst out.

Draco cocked his head to the side in mock thought. “I don’t recall mentioning my father, how odd that you would jump to him.”

The study of the late Lucius Malfoy was a literal treasure trove of extortion material on every single family of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Draco hadn’t searched very hard to find the leverage he’d need over Flint for today. His father had everything alphabetised by family name and then within a family’s file, categorised by type of offense. 

Such useful leverage too. Or it would have been if Granger weren’t so hellbent on self-righteous sabotage.

“Like father, like son,” spat Flint. “Our families have a long history of cooperation and yet it seems you’d sink so low as to spurn that, even as only one of us actually suffers for his crimes. You really think you can intimidate me like this?”

“No, of course not,” Granger jumped in again. “But um, what Draco is trying to say is if maybe you, um, could tell us something, maybe about the quarantine period? We’d be most grateful if you can recall anything suspicious from that time.”

Flint’s mood immediately flipped. His indignation crumbled away and a smirk curled his mouth into an unsettling expression. Granger had given the game away. 

“The only thing suspicious is this whole advocacy charade. You two are in over your heads and I don’t much fancy the threatening turn in this conversation.”

“We promise we’re not threatening you,” she pleaded.

“Let me handle this, Granger.”

“Yes, put your pet on a leash, Malfoy,” jeered Flint.

“Disrespect her again and I’ll see your family’s livelihood ruined you fucking prick.”

“Draco!”

“You know, I don’t feel up to these visits anymore. I think I’d like to withdraw from this little programme,” said Flint and called for the guard.

Draco watched helplessly as their one and only lead was taken back to his cell.

He turned furiously towards the reason for their failure that day. She merely lifted a challenging brow and strode past him. 

Neither said a word as they stalked through the depressing halls of Azkaban. Silence ruled the air as they signed out at the entrance and had their wands examined.

Their gazes were equally furious as they stared at one another and waited for the Portkey to activate. Two brewing rages forced to co-exist in close proximity as they awaited that tug behind their navels, each holding the end of a shoelace.

The second the Portkey landed them back in her office Draco rounded on her.

“What the fuck did you do that for?”

“Do not raise your voice at me! You said you wouldn’t threaten him!”

“And I didn’t. I merely suggested I had a bit of power over his financial prospects.”

“Which is a threat! Is that the Malfoy way of doing things? Is that who you want to be Draco?”

Draco’s head snapped back as if she’d slapped him. “You think I wanted to do that? You think I wanted to act like my father? This bloody case has left us no choice!”

“It most certainly has! I told you at the outset we have to be better than men like Flint. Stooping to his level will get us nowhere.”

“Gods, you can be so naïve.” 

She opened her mouth to argue back but Draco waved a dismissive hand in her face. “Actually, do you know what your problem is, Granger? You’re too much. Too loud, too open, too—too everything! How do you expect us to get to the bottom of anything with you stomping in there like a damned Erumpent and basically screaming our true intentions for all the world to hear?”

“Oh I’m sorry Malfoy, but sometimes one needs to improvise! Which is what I was doing! I was trying to help!”

“We should have stuck to our agreed-upon plan. My plan, if you recall.”

“Not everything always goes according to plan. You of all people should know that by now.”

“Exactly, so is it too much to ask that this one simple thing go my way? Just once? Because nothing else has!”

“Draco, what are you—?” 

Fuck not this again. Gods, she always did this; prodded and poked at the constant bruise of his fucked up life that never seemed to heal properly. 

“Can you understand that? Can your freakishly brilliant mind comprehend that? Every time, every fucking time, I commit to a plan, my life decides to implode in a spectacularly awful way. Do you think I planned to have this hideous brand on my skin? Do you think I planned to have that… that monster invade my home and wreck my family? Do you think I fucking planned to be thrust into any of that? Into any of this? Again, I had a fucking plan and my arrogant, foolish father had to go and ruin it!”

His breathing was too fast, his heartrate too elevated, and Granger was taking up too much space in his head, this room, fucking everywhere. Louder and louder and yet he was the one still verbally unravelling.

“I was supposed to welcome my father home and continue on with our quiet life, away from it all. I was supposed to let him and Mother run the Manor and deal with all the responsibilities that entails. I was supposed to finally be free to live my fucking life. But no, he just had to be murdered and now I’m stuck in this mission with you and Potter and I didn’t fucking plan for any of it!”

He whirled away from her and took a few calming breaths. He really had to stop doing this, unleashing all the pent-up frustration on her and forcing her to bear the brunt of his dissatisfying existence.

When he’d collected himself, Draco turned around, expecting an expression of hurt, an apology on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he found the provoked warrior. 

Granger marched right up to him and poked him in the chest.

“Oh you think you’re so special? Think you’re so misunderstood don’t you? ‘Poor Malfoy, his life didn’t pan out the way he wanted.’ Welcome to everyone else’s experience you conceited prat! Do you think I planned to be born into magic? Do you think I planned to have to fight in a bloody war for a world that would rather I die? Do you think I planned to have my relationship with Ron blow up in my face? No one plans for their life to fall apart, but for Merlin’s sake Draco, get it together! You’re not the only one who’s had to readjust everything because life refused to go according to your precious plan!”

Draco thought he’d sufficiently calmed down but the anger flared right back to life. 

She stood too close, she said things that hit too close. And gods he was so furious but he wanted her closer. 

But with that realisation, the anger took its leave of him. Gone like the space between their bodies. 

“Well,” he murmured. “Aren’t we the perfect pair of hapless control freaks?” 

It came out soft-spoken and self-deprecating and served as the right tool for slicing the tension. As it had seeped out of his voice, the ire left her expression too.

She laughed. Her breath puffed against his chin. “If that isn’t the most accurate thing you’ve ever said.”

“So what do we do now? Since things around us seem to never go,” his gaze flicked from her eyes to her mouth and back up again, “to plan.”

Like now. Working with Granger on this project was not part of the plan. Noticing the shape of her lips and the way they seemed so near was not part of the plan.

Enjoying her company, helping her mission, letting her draw him in, wanting her attention, approval, and her touch was never part of the fucking plan.

“We keep going,” Granger finally answered. “We regroup and we think our way through because giving up is never an option. Not for either of us.”

“And where does that leave us? All this regrouping and thinking and not giving up. What does that make us?”

She let out a determined exhale and stepped back from him. 

“Unstoppable.”

Chapter Text

Draco tried to dine with his mother a few nights a week, if only so she wouldn’t have to face one of their many over-large dining rooms alone too often. Though as of late, it seemed Draco’s presence came more as a welcome surprise rather than a necessity. 

She looked less the wan, solemn widow these days and Draco wondered which reason he had to thank for his mother finding her way again.

The break from carrying on with the society life charade? Or the loss of the burden of visiting an imprisoned husband? Or the newfound bond with Andromeda? Perhaps a freeing combination of all three life changes?

He could see glimpses of the smiling, doting maternal figure again. The personality that he’d sometimes thought she forced on their visits to his father took a more genuine turn now, many months after his death. 

She had a request when he arrived for dinner that evening. 

“Come visit your father with me?”

They’d done this walk a few times since Lucius’s burial on the family plot. A winding, meandering path of stone through the lush, blooming gardens behind the Manor. They stopped at several points along the leisurely stroll so his Mother could wax rhapsodic about the new varieties of roses she had imported. 

Draco nodded politely in all the right places and offered the due praise for the perfectly trimmed hedges that dotted the walking path. But his mind wouldn’t relinquish thoughts of a certain other witch. 

“Unstoppable,” Granger had called the pair of them. In pursuit of a goal, sure, but did she also ruminate on how that might apply to other things outside the sphere of an investigation?

He dismissed the train of thought as they came to their journey’s end at an ancient wrought iron gate. The Malfoy family plot dated back to the twelfth century and even with the meticulous upkeep over the centuries by elves and humans alike, many of the marble tombs and headstones were weathered with age; the names and dates crumbled away, no longer decipherable. Draco only knew them all from the well-maintained tapestries within the Manor’s halls as well as the personal history lessons doled out by Lucius during Draco’s childhood. 

The gate swung open upon their approach, allowing them entry through the wards. Verdant, youthful grass had sprung up all around the plot of his father. New life surrounding death. 

Narcissa knelt down briefly to pluck out a few objectionable weeds. She straightened and returned to Draco’s side, and they observed the obligatory silence required of living people visiting the dead. 

Narcissa let the quiet linger for a few minutes and as she let out a long exhale, Draco peered down at her. She smiled benignly at her husband’s resting place for a moment. A secret, knowing smile, as if she’d just shared a private joke or memory with Lucius. 

Her face resumed neutrality as she turned to Draco. 

“How is your project progressing with Miss Granger?”

“Fine.”

“Andromeda talks often of her.”

“And how does your end of that conversation generally go?”

“I can’t claim to know the young woman very well, or at all.”

“What is it that you would like to know about Hermione Granger?”

“You spend quite a bit of time with her.”

“In a professional setting.”

“You spend your personal hours working on this project as well.”

“Which house-elf do I need to free for being a traitor?”

Her lips twitched even as she raised an admonishing eyebrow. “Don’t deflect. My sister says she talks effusively of you and you’ve looked rather cheerful lately if I may say so.”

Draco shrugged, uncomfortably aware that parts of the real programme work weren’t so tiresome. On some visits, he’d managed to form a bit of a rapport with a few inmates, with spur-of-the-moment friendly conversations about quidditch or family members on the outside Draco saw at society events throughout the year. He’d learned how to segue the casual chatter to encourage them to talk about their own interests or plans for once they’d completed their sentences. Granger would beam at him with pride in these moments. 

“I’m glad to see you finding fulfillment,” offered his mother.

“Even if it means I spend time with a witch like Granger?”

Narcissa, unlike Astoria or other witches of a similar pedigree, would not cower from such a conversational topic if brought directly to her attention. 

“You’re a grown man, Draco, and as you’ve long known, there are no stipulations on your inheritance, marital or otherwise.”

“And what of your personal stipulations?”

Narcissa smoothed down her robes and stared out over the vast collection of his ancestors’ remains.

“Andromeda will not yet allow me to meet her grandson. I believe she will eventually relent.” 

She turned her face up to his, with unusually bright eyes. “I would hope darling, that you would have enough faith in me to know I do not make the same mistake twice.”

She moved away from him, intent on returning to the Manor.

“What do you think Father’s opinion would have been?” Draco abruptly asked, stilling her progress.

“Of?”

“The choices I’ve made. Ones I might make. Should an opportunity present itself.”

“He is not here, Draco. You shouldn’t live your life as if he’s standing over your shoulder.”

She squeezed his arm as she passed by him.

“Don’t stay out here too long.”

Draco was left with a peculiar prickle on the back of his neck; the feeling of a ghostly presence despite his rational mind asserting he was very much alone. 

Even in the eerie hush of a graveyard he heard her. Granger. 

“I think there’s probably nothing worse than carrying around regret… Especially when it concerns unsaid things.”

So loud. He heard her everywhere, felt her everywhere. This time he listened.

Draco stared down at the etched letters of his father’s name. He breathed in: a slow inhale of past beliefs, harmful rhetoric, lost innocence, and unconscionable decisions he’d probably make again. And then he breathed out: an exhale to banish the hurt, disappointment, and festering guilt.

This was not a place for answers. 

“I think you would have an awful lot to say, most of it probably horrible. But gods you know,” he let out a chuckle, “the arguments would have been highly entertaining.”

Draco heard nothing but the whistling of the wind; a rustling, dry noise. Almost like a familiar laugh.

He didn’t need to be in her office. But he did need to read.

Draco also needed to put some sound into the air other than her. Occluding never worked; he had to focus on the investigation and numbing his senses dulled his creative thinking as well. 

As quietly as possible, and with a few surreptitious glances at her, Draco read the transcripts to himself, hoping not to disturb her.

It worked. For a short time. 

“You don’t have to mutter under your breath, you know,” Granger piped up.

“Pardon?”

“You can read louder if you need to. I used to do that when I studied.”

“It won’t bother you?”

“No, it’s soothing. Your voice.”

“Is that right?”

Draco took a minute to rifle through the papers; an act to steady his racing thoughts and pulse. Because his mind now conjured phrases he’d much rather say, and not just to soothe her. 

He suddenly wanted to offer up all sorts of words and suggestions that might instead make her blush. Or gasp. Or beg or whine or moan. 

He could croon low words in her ear about hiking up her skirt. About bending her over her desk. About perching her atop his desk and spreading her legs so he could bring her off with his tongue.

Or, he could do none of that, he should do none of that, despite Pansy’s backhanded encouragement and his mother’s veiled approval. Granger might no longer be pining over the Weasel, but that didn’t make Draco a contender for her affection by any means. 

He refocused his attention on the visitors’ log. Some names (Ministry ones, he surmised) had been blacked out or stricken all together from the parchment. But what they hadn’t done away with, were the wand descriptions. Draco usually skimmed this part, but a particular wand wood caught his eye. 

Sycamore. Eleven inches. Dragon heartstring.

The same exact components of Theo’s wand. 

The pieces clicked into place at such a speed that Draco’s head spun. 

Theo’s abandoned research, the way the prisoners were sequestered last year, the inmates’ odd comments about dreams and sleeping, the way Theo seemed mired in guilt... 

An experiment gone wrong. 

Draco spent the weekend shut in at home, poring over every piece of parchment and foolishly hoping he could draw some other less horrible conclusion. But the more he studied the evidence right in front of him, the more certain he felt about his theory: there had been some sort of study done on these men by the Department of Mysteries, without their knowledge or consent, and presumably with the cooperation of the prison administrators. 

But who knew what, and when? How far-reaching was this conspiracy? 

Draco had a sickening hunch of the exact way Theo had been involved. But what should Draco even do with his suspicions? Confront his friend and pray he was wrong? Deliver the news to Granger and hope she didn’t immediately call in Potter to have Theo brought in for questioning? 

Blaise had even invited him round for dinner, but Draco offered a vague excuse, unsure how to face either of his friends at the moment.

Granger wasn’t as easy to avoid.

Another day that Draco did not need to be in Granger’s office. Another day where he showed up anyway. 

Today’s sitting at a desk and staring at parchment was entirely performative. He no longer had need of the paper evidence. The next step in confirming Potter’s suspicions and marshalling the Forces of Good to bring down some corrupt network of scandal would be to inform Granger of his findings.

But Draco couldn’t summon the will to divulge his suspicion just yet. He should keep looking for alternate explanations, other clues that might discount what could very well be a coincidence. Granger didn’t need to know everything for now.

She saved him from his internal battle with a welcome interruption.

“I was wondering if I could ask a small favour of you.”

“Depends. I reward you with the pleasure of my company several days a week. I’m not sure what else you would need from me that I’m not already giving you.”

She was supposed to roll her eyes and call him a prat. She was not supposed to blush and fidget and make Draco want to push his luck, and his flirting, further. 

“I know I, I mean we, Harry and me, that is, have asked a lot of you with this whole project. And as much as part of it is a cover, this initiative will live on after you leave. And to do that it needs more support.” 

Granger took a breath and then strode over to his desk with an embossed envelope. “Would you… would you have time to attend the firm’s annual benefit? It’s this Friday.”

“I attend them all the time, it’s no trouble.”

“I know but… well if you wouldn’t mind talking to a few people about the cause during the event? This is temporary for you, but I’d like to have a larger group of people to pick up where we leave off and if you’re seen as vocally supporting it—”

“I already said it’s no trouble.”

“You can bring a date if you like.”

“It’ll just be me.”

“Good,” she said, then appeared horrified and scrambled to recover. “I only meant ‘good’ because Ginny has a home match, so Harry can’t make it. I’ll also be solo and I think everyone else attending from work has a significant other, so you can keep me company. It’ll be good to speak to potential benefactors as a unit anyway.”

“Why not just attend with your boss? Seems like you two would make a good team here. The firm’s namesake and his star employee.”

She cocked her head to the side and let out an incredulous laugh. “Sterling won’t need a date for this particular gala.”

Draco frowned down at the invitation.

“It’s at the Shafiq Estate?”

She gave him a confused look. “Yes. Of course it is.”

“I’ve never been.”

Her expression flipped to mischievous amusement. “What do you know of Ali Shafiq?”

“Just the name. The surname is Sacred Twenty-Eight but I’ve never met them.”

Draco dug up a memory of studying the book listing all the ancient families, Lucius dismissing the Shafiq line as “enough gold, but not enough sense,” and younger Draco categorically filed them away as “not a connection worth making.”

None of the family had been involved with any Death Eater business as far as Draco could remember, and he wasn’t aware of any particular causes any of the current heirs championed. Come to think of it, he couldn’t name a single descendant past his own grandfather’s generation. 

“One more thing,” added Granger. “There’s a different sort of dress code. Muggle black tie.”

As he stood at the bottom of a marble staircase, having just descended into the ballroom below, Draco tugged at his bowtie and for the first time in a while, had a fond thought about Theo. Merlin, if he and Blaise could see him now, feeling more exposed than fashionable in a custom black-satin tuxedo. One of his elves had secured a Muggleborn tailor on short notice and so Draco could appear in expensive Muggle fashion for the evening but at least it was properly, magically tailored. 

The gala was already in full swing and Draco craned his neck around the packed ballroom in search of Granger. 

Just as he’d decided to try his luck at the large, back-lit bar on the opposite side of the parquet floor, a black-haired man approached him with a wide, knowing smile in the most ludicrous attire Draco had seen in some time.

Ludicrous was probably an overstatement, but Draco had never seen a fitted, scarlet suit with a bold, black pattern of thorned roses at such a prestigious party before. 

The man stopped in front of Draco, a glint in his dark eyes and Draco suspected this was his elusive host.

“Salazar strike me dead, a Malfoy on my property.”

“You must be Mr. Shafiq. Draco Malfoy.” 

Draco held his hand out confidently and though the older man smirked, he accepted the social gesture and looked Draco up and down.

“And dressed in a bespoke Muggle tux no less? My, my, what would our fathers have to say about this?”

Unsure of how to respond to someone who seemed to hold more information cards in his deck at the moment, Draco said nothing, but was rescued by a surprising saviour.

“Ali, leave the young man alone,” intoned Sterling reproachfully. 

“You’re no fun, I only just introduced myself and welcomed him to our home.”

Draco’s eyes immediately darted to Ali Shafiq’s hand and noted a matching wedding band to Sterling’s. 

“Thank you for coming tonight, your dedication to the prisoners’ programme is most appreciated,” said Sterling. Granger’s employer dressed crisply as usual, in a tux in a similar style to Draco’s. The subdued, icy counterpart to Shafiq’s sparkling, vivacious warmth. 

Before Shafiq could continue this interrogation for his own personal amusement, Sterling peered at a point over Draco’s shoulder.

“Ah, here’s Hermione.”

This was the loudest she’d ever been. A crashing, jarring, world-ending beating of a drum inside Draco’s mind reverberated at a level that should have melted his brain to nothing from the sheer volume of it. The incessant pounding of sound overloaded every system in his body. Gods, could anyone else hear her like he could? Did anyone else know this resonant torture?

She chose a burgundy gown tonight. A wine he could savour with his whole mouth. A full-bodied vintage he wanted to brush with his lips, just for a taste, before letting it settle onto his tongue for a moment then sliding down his throat to sate his thirst, but only briefly. He’d drink her down and beg for more, more, more. 

Distantly, he heard a teasing lilt from Shafiq. “Sterling, you really undersold the young Mr. Malfoy here. It’s been a few minutes in his company and he’s said all of ten words and yet I’m simply invested.”

“Don’t start,” came the exasperated reply. 

Granger spotted their group, shooting Sterling and his husband an exuberant smile. As her eyes moved to Draco her lips remained smiling but parted for a brief moment, taking in a rapid breath. 

She hadn’t dropped her gaze from him and so Draco had no choice but to keep his eyes up and not allow them to wander down her frame. 

But Shafiq did him a favour. 

“Hermione, you are an absolute vision. Indulge me with a spin.”

“Oh Ali, don’t be ridiculous,” she protested but accepted his insistently outstretched hand. He twirled her slowly and let out a low whistle. 

“Gorgeous as usual, good to see you love.” He pecked her cheek. 

Granger nodded at Sterling and accepted his proffered glass of champagne. 

She finally acknowledged Draco verbally. “Hello. I see you had no trouble securing Muggle attire.”

“Of course not, Granger.”

He felt like he should say something about her dress now. But he had no idea what would be appropriate in this situation, particularly with an audience of one man who might hex Draco if he said something untoward and the other who would probably take far too much delight in anything that strayed a notch above platonic.

The neckline of her dress plunged lower than he’d ever seen on her before and Draco’s height would afford him a generous view of her cleavage tonight. Office and courtroom attire for Granger was stylish, yet prim. Functional for a professional woman as busy as herself. Hardly dowdy, but certainly not the delectable sight before him of her shoulders and decolletage. Not to mention the swathe of the bare skin of her back he’d gotten to peek when Shafiq had spun her. 

The wizard had definitely done that on purpose. 

But before Draco could open his mouth and embarrass himself with either a remark that would be too revealing or one that would be too middling and cut at Granger’s confidence, Shafiq intervened. 

He slid to Draco’s side and took him by the elbow. 

“Let’s let these two handle the boring bit for now, and you can accompany your gracious host to the bar.”

“Oh, but I think Granger wanted me to—”

“Nonsense Draco darling, you’re looking dashing but far too parched and I’m determined to share the spoils of my liquor collection.”

He cast a worried look back at Granger but she gave him a reassuring shake of the head and Draco let himself be led away. Shafiq made several stops along their path to the bar with his arm wound through Draco’s, stopping here and there to greet a guest and heartily introduce him.

He steered him away from certain groups with scandalous whispers in Draco’s ear. “Oh, that’s Madam Zhao, do not stand too close or you’ll drown in her God-awful perfume… avoid Herberts unless you want your ear talked off about moss varieties… Sterling always insists we invite Robards, ah excuse me, that’s Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Gawain Robards to us plebeians. I’ll bet you 10 Galleons that at any time you walk by him tonight you’ll hear the phrase ‘strong justice needs strong leadership.’ Do you think that’ll be his campaign slogan?”

He finally released Draco at the bar and turned to him with a playful grin. He didn’t seem to harbour any malicious intent, but Draco kept his guard up all the same. Old habits die hard, and with someone from a traditional pureblood line, Draco couldn’t shake his wariness.

“You’ve no idea who I am, this is quite fun,” said Shafiq. He spread his arms wide. “You’re looking at a pruned branch off a cursed family tree. Except I had the good sense to marry a man so intelligent and good at his job that securing my full inheritance after my brother passed was just a regular Wednesday for him.”

“Forgive my ignorance, but I’ve never seen you at any events over the years,” Draco cautiously offered.

“Hmm, and you never will. Not if it’s held in a pureblood home,” Shafiq clipped, his tone slightly bitter. He nodded at the approaching bartender and held up two fingers and cocked his head at Draco. Immediately, two glasses of an amber liquid appeared. 

“Cheers,” he toasted Draco and they both tossed back their drinks.

It was his father’s and grandfather’s favoured Scotch. A subtle adherence to the “old ways” in this rarely observed tradition among the circle of sacred families: to offer your guest a sample of their preferred drink to kick off the evening.

“Sterling does the circuit and bless him for it, but it’s the right move for his career,” continued Shafiq, his former jovial tone abandoned. “But I’ve no need for that crup-and-pony show. Your contemporaries... well I suppose, the generations above your contemporaries, can all go choke. Not a few years ago they’d have murdered my husband or me without a second thought. They can rot for all I care. Sorry to say that very much included your family, until recently. I think the only other Sodding Twenty-Eight member you’ll find here tonight is one of the Abbotts, since Augusta Longbottom declined.”

Draco didn’t know what was expected of him for this conversation. The talk of families had him indulging in a nervous tic he thought he’d shed: twisting the Black ring on his left hand followed by a twisting of the Malfoy ring on the other. 

“Our families, despite their shared outlook, have never really had cause to interact. Though I had an older brother who tried to pull one over on your lot. Pardon me, that’s rude,” Shafiq grimaced and patted Draco’s arm in apology. “My idiot brother over-promised gold or influence or both to some high-ranking Death Eater, Yaxley probably, and met the end of a wand. My sister married some boring bigot like herself and they’ve got a few little horrifying miniatures running about their manor home by now hearing cautionary tales of their ex-communicated blood traitor uncle who stole and defiled the family estate.”

Shafiq shook his head and flashed Draco a dazzling smile.

“But I’m being a terrible host talking of such maudlin family drama. Let’s discuss you . Seems you’ve nabbed yourself a Magbob as well? You are by far the most interesting Malfoy, even if you’ve unfortunately not let that gorgeous hair grow longer. Your father wore it well.”

“I… thank you? Wait, sorry, did you say Magbob?”

“It’s an antiquated term for Muggleborn, darling, do keep up. Sterling hates it but Hermione thinks it’s funny. Such a charming girl. In need of a worthy counterpart, I think.”

“Granger has many admirable qualities.”

A neutral answer, and one that did not fool Shafiq. 

“You’re courting her, then? Observing all the proper rituals like a good, pureblood wizard should? Do you have Mummy’s approval and an heirloom ring waiting in your vaults?”

Draco could tell the other man was winding him up, a different sort of vetting process than Sterling had previously conducted. 

“Our relationship is strictly professional.”

Shafiq let out a loud laugh. “Oh look at you, you tightly-wound little thing. Don’t hurt yourself over the decision, just indulge in some expensive alcohol, loosen up, and see where the evening takes you. I assure you, it’s much more fun on the other side.”

“The other side of what?”

Shafiq’s smile somehow found a way to grow wider and he pushed off the bar. 

“Any and all of your family’s expectations. I personally recommend the Muggle whisky. You’ll never touch Ogden’s again,” and with a wink at the bartender he slid a full glass in front of Draco and sauntered off. 

Draco took a reluctant test sip and found he’d been steered correctly in at least this instance. 

His eyes found Granger again. She was on Sterling’s arm, shaking the hand of another guest. Draco watched as Sterling subtly distanced himself and Granger took the reins of the conversation. The older man took a step back from her, letting her inhabit her own orbit, letting her pull the others in all on her own. 

She’d reeled Draco in from a distance and without even trying.

Despite knowing for a fact this was not a dream, it felt like one, for a moment. When she turned suddenly in his direction, with a certainty that she could and would find him in an instant across a crowded room, Draco felt reality fall away.

Her eyes met his, like she knew how to find him, and when she grinned, as if she’d only just been waiting for him to notice her, he felt like he was dropped into a dream.

Thank Merlin there was no dancing at this gala. Just decadent food and a top-shelf bar. Magical and Muggle liquor aplenty should one be adventurous in their tastes, but Draco found himself honouring Shafiq’s recommendation for the remainder of the evening.  

Draco replaced Sterling at her side and it felt like too much. It felt too good to stand this close to her, to laugh with her, to hear her compliment his work, to watch her face flush when he praised her in turn. 

So he drank a bit more than he should. Not enough to be sloppy or brash, just perhaps a little bolder with Granger than he should. 

Maybe he let his hand rest on her lower back as he guided them back to the bar for another round. Maybe she kept her arm tucked through his elbow when she complained about her uncomfortable shoes and wasn’t as confident in her heels while standing and networking. Maybe he draped his arm across the back of her chair when they took a break at a table in a darkened corner of the ballroom. Maybe she sat with her leg flush against his. Maybe his fingers played with a loose curl on her shoulder while she chatted about all the possible donors they’d secured for her programme.

Maybe she stopped talking and he stopped breathing when his fingers released the curl to trail his touch along her bare shoulder. Maybe her eyes fluttered closed as he kept his touch on her skin in a skimming caress. Maybe when she looked at him again and recovered her voice she shakily whispered, “That feels nice.”

He retracted his hand and stood abruptly. The whisky liked all these “maybes” but Draco knew he’d been far too forward with her. 

“Tonight was… I’d best be leaving now, if you don’t think there’s anyone else I should speak with.”

“No one else.”

She stood and followed him to the Floos. They stopped in front of the grates and neither reached for the powder. 

“Good evening, Granger.”

“Have a good night, Draco.”

Neither moved. 

“I really ought to leave.” 

“Why?”

“If I don’t leave now, I’ll try something I might regret,” Draco murmured. As they had earlier in the evening when she’d first spotted him, her lips parted for a brisk inhale. 

“Why would you regret it?” 

“Not for the reason you think. I… I’ve had too much to drink for this.”

“For what?”

“Granger. Please. Let me do something properly. For once.”

She was standing so fucking close. How did she manage to be so loud without making a sound?

Draco let himself do one regrettable act. His eyes raked down her entire form, drinking her down as easily as that whisky earlier. When his gaze completed the slow journey back up to her face, having made several detours along the way to indulge in the shape of her thighs, hips, and breasts, he found brown eyes full of that determined fire. 

“Do it soon then,” she whispered and took a step back. Always the stronger one.

That night, he didn’t need to fall asleep to dream of Granger.

Draco strode purposefully into her office Monday morning. 

“Good morning. Would you like to have dinner with me on Friday?”

“Yes. Yes, I would.”

Chapter Text

Tonight was meant to be low-key. Casual. A trial run in a different environment without the charade of advocacy work looming over them.

Which meant Draco had to check a few impulses.

He didn’t send flowers in advance.

He didn’t show up on her doorstep to escort her.

He didn’t select a restaurant where he’d paid for a private table and discreet entrance through a back door.

That last one he regretted the most. 

Draco counted three photographers so far and all he’d done was approach the restaurant by her side and hold the door for her. 

Granger kept her head high the whole way, like she did in the courtroom, the halls of Hogwarts, everywhere she went. Form your opinions, it said. I’ll act as I please.

Still, Draco felt the polite thing was to at least acknowledge the absurdity of the situation.

“Does that bother you? If there are pictures in the press?”

“No, it’s inevitable.” She waved a careless hand behind them as they were shown to their table. “I’ve seen pictures of my work dinners with Sterling plastered across magazine pages and framed as a romantic rendezvous.”

“Pansy is rooting for you two.”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake.”

She laughed and it cut some of the unease that permeated the air. They’d interacted in specific, constrained settings together and this new one felt strange for its lack of an objective. Tonight’s declared purpose didn’t serve her clients, nor their investigation, not his friends nor hers. 

Draco understood that their date tonight would just be a small thing. A simple dinner out. A test of a feeling. But it would also be a rather large step on her part. Because Draco appreciated that action of having to re-open, to re-expose a wound. She’d not dated anyone since the break-up months ago, and whatever attraction simmered between them had, until the recent gala, gone unacknowledged. 

Granger took a fortifying sip of wine and Draco desperately wanted to assuage her nerves. She’d done the encouraging and he’d done the asking and then she’d completed the routine by accepting. 

But it would take a mutual effort to progress things further. A development Draco very much favoured, but based on Granger’s mannerisms and uncharacteristic quiet demeanor, he knew she wasn’t quite there.

“So, um,” she piped up after they’d ordered, “I was thinking about adding a few questions to our interviews.”

“We don’t have to talk about the programme.”

“Oh. Right.”

She flicked her eyes down to the table. Draco wondered how often she’d been told to not talk about her career. Like at Hogwarts when he overheard conversations from her two idiot friends telling her they didn’t want to talk about schoolwork, or exams, or something interesting she’d read. 

“Not because it’s boring,” he rushed to clarify. “But, well, I know quite a lot about it already.”

“Right, of course,” she released a nervous laugh. “What should we discuss then?”

Which led to Draco putting forth the following comment: “Your dress the other night. At the gala. I meant to compliment it.”

“Oh, um, thank you. And you, in your tux, you looked nice. You should dress that way more often.”

“It was… tolerable. I suppose.”

Another few beats spent on silently pondering how not to fuck this up.

“What do you do in your spare time?” she asked.

“I see Blaise and Theo when they’re not working, make sure neither of them is in need of being committed. Before you helped Goyle out, I’d try to visit Pansy regularly. She doesn’t really leave her home, as I’m sure you know. And then attending the charity ball circuit so I can sort out my family’s contributions. I check in on my mother but she seems to require less of me these days.”

“But what do you do? For yourself, I mean.”

It shouldn’t be a difficult question to answer. He should have prepared more for this date. He should have come here tonight with a list of dozens of interesting and intriguing facts about himself that would make Granger ever so enthralled by him. 

But no, Draco had to face the fact that he was simply a directionless heir with no more plans in sight (the crux of their previous argument). He existed, aimless. No map, no compass, no clear path laid out any longer. Freedom at its most intoxicating and terrifying. There’d been a time in his life where he’d not had any choice, not been given one. And now when he looked at his life all he saw were choices. 

“The programme has been a nice change, I suppose.”

“Oh please, I’m sure you can’t wait for this farce to be over for you. Having to show up to an office, how common,” she teased.

“Hmm, true. It does have its perks though.”

He’d finally seen an opening and he seized it. He made sure to hold her gaze, made sure to then let his eyes rove slowly from her face, specifically to her mouth, then down to her throat and collarbone before flicking back up to her eyes, toeing the line of brazenly ogling her.

She responded brilliantly: flushed cheeks and a reciprocal heated stare. He’d play a delicate game here of taking it slow for her sake but also letting her know, in no uncertain terms, that he’d be very willing to speed things up, should she desire. 

“And what is it that you do with your spare time?” He returned her question, giving her some recovery time. “I can’t imagine someone like you having an abundance of it.”

“The second I say ‘read’ you’ll just roll your eyes, even if it happens to be true. But I’ve been making more of an effort to spend time with my own family these days.”

Talk of her parents filled a good portion of their meal. It seemed a happy relationship despite the difficulties encountered with bringing them back from Australia and repairing their memories. Granger spoke fondly of them and he wondered how they’d react to knowing with whom she dined this evening. 

In an odd bout of coincidence, Granger regarded him thoughtfully and answered his internal question.

“They’d like you, I think.”

“Not so sure about that given our… history.”

She laughed. “Fair point. I meant they’d like you now.”

She cleared her throat. “I like you now.”

“Is that so? Care to elaborate?”

“No. Not when you’re looking so irritatingly smug.”

“I complimented your dress earlier.”

“You didn’t. You said you meant to compliment it. You didn’t follow through though.”

“That’s quite the astute observation solicitor Granger, trapping me on a technicality.”

Her face blanched. “Sorry,” she said hurriedly. “I wasn’t… oh my God I just tried to lawyer my way into a compliment.”

She took a desperate gulp of her wine.

“Calm down, you looked stunning.”

“Thank you.”

“As you do this evening.”

“Thank you, but you don’t have to—”

“Merlin, spare us the meek little dormouse act, you’re too bold for that. It’s just me.”

Her eyes widened and he saw her cycle through several reactions: embarrassment, indignation, and eventually landed on mischief.

“Fine,” she said and downed the rest of her wine. “Thank you for finally noticing the effort I put into my appearance for you. And I'll have another glass I think. Since you’re footing the bill.”

As this was only a first date, and still a cautious one at that, the evening ended after dinner with Draco escorting Granger to her front door. 

She’d regained more of her usual confidence after her second glass of wine, but her nerves returned as she looked up at Draco and struggled with how to say a simple goodnight.

“I’m horrendously out of practice at all this,” she rushed out with an apologetic shrug of her shoulders, “but I’d like to see you again some time.”

“You’ll see me Monday.”

“Outside of the office.”

“Hmm, do you have any trials coming up? I could come watch again.”

“I don’t mean in a professional setting.”

“Perhaps we’ll run into one another at one of those ghastly galas I’m always attending.”

“You’re really going to make me ask, aren’t you?”

“I require clarity, Granger. As a steward of the law you must know how important our words are and anything less than absolute—”

“Would you like to go out next Friday?”

“I would.”

She kissed him on the cheek. Her lips moved to his ear. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

Draco thought of her while awake that night. He didn’t remember what he eventually dreamed about when he woke, but he did recall the feel of Granger’s lips on his skin. 

A pretty blush stained her cheeks when she greeted him Monday morning (yes, another unnecessary office trip) but otherwise their dynamic remained unchanged while they worked.

Or rather, she worked and he scrambled to find another theory other than the current one that beat against his brain, that formed a weight on his chest. The knowledge he held inside. No, the possibility, he corrected himself, as “knowledge” implied something certain, something based in fact. 

The wand measurements were just a coincidence. And Draco wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about their little investigation anyway, so confronting Theo would have been a bad move. 

He looked over at Granger. Head bent, insubordinate curls brushing the parchment she read, determined in her quest to find alternate ways to access Flint for questioning again. While Draco sat some feet away from her, not holding up his end of their initial bargain. All she’d ever asked of him was honesty. 

Unsure if he was about to perform a betrayal of his friend, Draco offered a half-measure to temporarily appease his irritating conscience.

“I had an idea. I think,” he swallowed then ploughed on. “I think what we’re looking at here is an experiment. One done without informed consent of its subjects.”

“An experiment?” she repeated and put down her quill. He could see the idea percolating in her mind. She leaned back in her chair and stared, unseeing, at the far wall. Every memory, every conversation, every report she’d studied: she flicked through the catalogue of months’ worth of work to confirm or deny Draco’s proposition. 

“But how? But…” and he saw her brilliance carry her away. She hurried to his desk and snatched up his notes, then paced as she read through them.

“Draco… this is… yes, I see you’ve noted the different divisions… I think that’s the control group… and the timeline… yes, you’ve noted that as well...” 

Her eyes roved frantically, performing the intake of information at an inhuman speed.

“Oh my God,” she whispered and sat heavily in her chair. “How did I miss this?”

Draco immediately wanted to comfort her, tell her she’d not been working with the full deck, but some latent fear held him back. 

“This is so familiar… yes, this has happened before,” she insisted.

“In the prison?”

“No, of course not, since Dementors were always the guards, it’d hardly be the place for human research gone awry.”

She took a sharp breath and ran a hand through her curls. 

“We could cite Nuremberg… Tuskegee… this sort of thing, a blatant abuse of ethics in research… we’ve seen horrific examples of this before. But if we got the ball rolling and tried to get permission for another investigation… oh but damn, we wouldn’t even be able to use the Muggle cases.”

“Why not?”

“The Wizengamot doesn’t allow for those arguments to be heard since they concern Muggle law or rulings.”

“But it seems like it’s directly applicable. Isn’t there some sort of human rights workaround?”

“There’s definitely war-crime related codes, but this isn’t war. The closest scandal our world has are the infamous Squib Experiments that took place under Millicent Bagnold’s leadership.”

“What happened?”

“Similar to the Muggle examples, the participants did not have informed consent. Unspeakables told parents of Squib children that if they drank certain potions, they’d have their magic restored.”

“Let me guess, that was a lie.”

“Correct,” she said grimly. “They were testing the effects of a so-called ‘magical ability’ potion that they wanted to eventually give to Muggles, but at least our laws protect them, and I won’t even get into why that notion of research is disturbing and horrifying on so many levels. Some of the children ended up horribly disfigured, and well… I’m sure you can imagine the mental and emotional toll this took on families. One of the researchers leaked a memo about the false premise and it blew the whole thing open. It was a huge scandal, it took down some top Ministry officials and Bagnold resigned as Minister because of it, despite the popularity she had for holding office during Voldemort’s first downfall. We need some of these prisoners to talk.”

Granger’s eyes widened and she got up to do laps around the room again. 

“My God, if this is similar… it’d be… just huge… just… I can’t do this, I’m going to muck it up and I should just go back to my other cases on creature laws or privacy laws or ones where lives aren’t at stake—”

“Stop it, Granger, that’s not what’s going to happen,” he attempted to mollify her. “You’re going to be brilliant if and when this thing comes to light.”

“I can’t—I’m not—I’m just—"

Draco stood and stepped in front of her to cut off her manic movements.

“Do you know what it’s like to watch you in the courtroom?” he asked softly, injecting calmness into the air, hoping some of it would affect her.

She shook her head.

“You command it. You pull everyone in towards you and part of me suspects you have no idea.”

Fuck, he could kiss her in this moment; as she parted her lips in slight surprise at Draco’s earnest, soothing praise. 

“So perhaps the court won’t grant you the decisions you want, or perhaps this investigation never gets off the ground,” he continued, “but never, not for one single minute, believe that it is because of your inability to perform well. You have no idea how loud you are.”

Her brow furrowed. “Oh, should I be speaking softer? I’m not trying to shout during my arguments.”

Draco chuckled. “No, it’s nothing to do with your volume.” 

He touched his fingers to his temple. “You make people hear you. They’ve no choice but to listen. You can’t begin to understand what goes on up here with how you just get louder, and louder. There’s no escape, no refuge.”

Draco let his fingers fall away. He took her hand and placed it against the side of his head. 

“Can’t you hear it?” he pleaded.

She shook her head again.

“All this time, I thought it was meant to torment me. But no. No, Granger, it fills my head up, but it’s the sweetest fucking sound.”

The almighty Hermione Granger. A steady, constant beating within him that he couldn’t possibly ignore, and didn’t think he wanted to anyway.

“Are you sure you don’t have tinnitus?”

Draco laughed as her fingers fell away. She reversed their positions, bringing his hand to the side of her face.

“You’re the opposite for me. You… you quiet everything,” she said in a hushed tone. “When I’m around you, it's like a sound that takes over and everything else just falls away. And I can… I can remember who I am and what’s important to me. Everything else is just noise but you… you make it go away. And then I’m left with this startling clarity.”

Gods, her lips looked so fucking kissable. As if they’d softly comply with the demands of his mouth and then command in return. Yielding and sweet or bruising and retaliatory, either way Draco needed to know how they felt, how they tasted.

But he was not going to have his first kiss with Granger in the middle of the work day in this drab legal office.

A knock sounded on the door, but neither of them moved.

“That’ll be Harry,” she said after a beat.

Draco stepped back as she called “Come in!”

But he hadn’t stepped far enough away based on Potter’s pause before entering. 

“Hi Harry!” Granger said brightly and though Potter raised his eyebrows, he merely replied with a neutral, “Hermione.”

Draco received a nod. He’d forgotten Potter had planned on stopping by to discuss some of their findings. 

“No Angelina today?”

“‘fraid not,” said Potter grimly. “Robards is keeping a close eye on us still, it’s hard for us to go anywhere together that isn’t deemed ‘official Auror duties.’ It’s hopefully nothing, but just in case, I Floo’ed home first and then to your reception area.”

Something sparked inside Draco at Potter’s innocuous statement. After Ginny’s intrusion, had Granger only left her personal office Floo open to Draco? More trust she’d instilled in him. More trust he might be betraying by staying silent about Theo.

“I’ve only got about 20 minutes to spare here unless I want to get interrogated,” continued Potter.

“I’ll make it quick then. You recall the difficulty we had with Flint? Well, Draco’s just found a new angle for us. I couldn’t believe it, it’s fantastic, the insight he was able to pull from just the pieces—”

She complimented him no less than eight times in the ensuing minutes. Draco counted. Potter probably did too, as his face grew more and more resigned the longer Granger enthused about Draco’s “brilliant investigative work.”

Potter turned to Draco. “Your friend Nott, he works in the DoM.”

“And?” asked Draco as his heart rate spiked.

“Can’t we ask him to poke around?”

Granger jumped in with a scoff. “Harry, he’s an Unspeakable, he’s under an oath. And we can’t just ask Theo to ‘poke around,’ honestly.”

“Why not?” countered Potter. “He could help if he asks the right questions.”

Granger acted as a deflectionary shield for Draco once more. “And what happens if he tips off the wrong person to what we’re investigating? We couldn’t give him any hint of what we’re doing or he could say too much and they’ll be able to cover their tracks. We have to keep this close to the chest for now until we know for sure.”

Potter nodded resignedly and Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the way he’d just allowed Granger to buy himself more time. 

“Right, so uh,” Potter coughed and shifted his eyes between Granger and Draco. “Anything else I should be made aware of? Any other new developments?”

Draco rolled his eyes and stood. “I’m getting myself a cup of tea.”

He couldn’t resist leaving the door ajar. An impulse he was glad of when he returned from the tea cart to linger outside and hear Potter grilling Granger about their present more-than-collegial-not-quite-romantic-but-perhaps-soon situation.

“…something with him?”

“It’s nothing. I mean, it’s not nothing, it’s just… you know it’s only been the one date and we work together, sort of, and—”

“Hermione, I don’t care, you know, if that’s what’s happening here.”

“Ron cares. He sent me a Howler when he saw the pictures in the Prophet.”

Potter groaned. “He had no right to do that. I’ll talk to him.”

“Don’t, Harry. I don’t want to put you and Ginny in the middle.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t call him a git when it warrants it. You’ve been broken up long enough, he needs to be more mature.”

“Yes, well, maybe if you felt like reminding him that I haven’t said a word about his very public dates with new women, I suppose that would be helpful.”

“Noted.”

“And that’s it? No further commentary from you about Draco?”

Potter sighed. “Ginny has quite a lot to say, none of which I care to repeat, especially sober and in the middle of a work day. Or actually, ever. The woman is shameless.”

“Don’t dodge my question.”

“Hermione, I don’t… Jesus, look, I dragged him into this whole thing in the first place, so I dunno… that should tell you enough, I guess. If you’re ready to be with him, then be with him.”

“Harry, it’s only been one date, it’s not like we’ve shagged or even kissed for Merlin’s sake—”

“Gross.”

“—there’s just all this tension and it’s becoming unbearable and I don’t know how much longer I can wait before I—”

“Nope, that’s it. That’s my limit, I’m leaving. Date him or don’t, just be happy and never speak to me about this again and maybe Floo-call Ginny or something. Christ.”

Draco backed away just in time as Potter exited the office. A momentary shared gaze before Potter strolled by him with a raised eyebrow.

“Meant what I said Malfoy.”

June 5, 2004

Draco fucking loved his birthday.

Granger answered the door draped in a blue-grey gown. Rippling silk that clung to her body. 

Tonight she’d be on his arm at some soiree for some cause he could no longer recall. Thoughts of how that exquisite material might look piled on her floor reigned supreme instead.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

He stepped inside her home for the first time. They’d now gone on three successive dates, each one ending in a lingering peck to his cheek and a request if he’d like to see her again. In a non-professional setting. He, of course, unfailingly responded in the affirmative. They never discussed anything date-related at her office, but stares certainly lingered, blushes often coloured her cheekbones, and speaking voices adopted softer, lower tones.

She cast an appraising eye over his attire. “I see you opted for Muggle formal wear again.”

“I was advised to dress this way more often.”

“I’m surprised you listened.”

“Bold of you to assume I was speaking of you.”

She chuckled. “Oh? Was there someone else you were looking to impress tonight?”

“Just you.”

He’d stopped teasing so she stopped laughing.

She stepped up to him. It may have seemed another small thing, but this bravery was a monumental act of pushing herself just a bit more. He stayed still, letting her approach on her terms, at her speed.

Granger tested each step in the lead-up to kissing him; paused in each little moment before progressing. 

First, she conquered the proximity. Toe to toe with him and took an inhaled, steadying breath.

Then she tilted her head up. One breath. 

She braced one hand on his chest. Another breath. 

The other hand on his bicep. A few breaths this time.

She paused at this step the longest. He gave her an encouraging countermove of placing his hands at her waist. 

She finally surged forward and granted Draco his first taste of her. 

He never wanted to dream again. 

Draco could Floo to Theo’s right now and demand he cast, as specifically as he could, the precise feeling of being kissed by Hermione Granger.

It wouldn’t feel a tenth this good. It would annoy him, possibly infuriate him, to be trapped in a dream state when reality could deliver this euphoria.

Her soft lips were tentative in their introduction, another brief test to see if a sample warranted more. 

It only took a mere blip of time with their lips joined for Granger to decide she very much wanted more. 

What had begun as a light brushing of lips increased in pressure, and he let her mouth part his and take anything she wanted. Not to say Draco wasn’t an active participant in this venture, but he waited for Granger to move her mouth to follow her rhythm, waited for the sweep of her tongue along his bottom lip before answering in kind. 

She brought them to a slow, lazy conclusion. Her lips loitered against his, dawdling at the point of departure, delaying their separation.

She pulled back only a fraction, eyes opening in a stuttering reignition of their ability to perform one of their basic functions. 

“I thought I could wait until later,” she whispered.

“What for?”

“After a little liquid courage, I suppose. Let the tension build over the course of the gala.”

“Sod the fucking gala.” 

He flexed his hands at her waist, luxuriating in the warmth of her through the thin layer of silk that separated their skin. 

“Well, it is your birthday, so I guess we can let you decide what you’d like to do.”

“There are many things I would like to do. To you.” He punctuated this statement with a peck to the corner of her mouth.

“Actions over words.”

Her full bravery unleashed at last. 

Draco grabbed her by the back of the head this time to show just how eagerly he planned to fulfill such a demand. He indulged in anchoring his grip in her hair, in delivering not just simple kisses, but nibbles and bites to her lower lip. She responded  in her own way, as Granger always had a response to him—be it a returned insult, a toss of her hair, a huff of annoyance—but Draco could say he rather preferred this response of her tongue in his mouth and her lithe frame pushing against him, small fists bunching the material of his jacket.

But before he could introduce his hands to other areas of her, she jolted out of his grasp and rushed to her coffee table. She held up a Galleon.

“Sorry,” she apologized breathlessly. “I was supposed to reply to Harry to tell him we were on our way and he’s rather prone to being a Mother Hen over me these days.”

“Ah, still using that method of communication?”

“Well I did invent it.”

“Mmm, I recall, unfortunately. May I see it?”

He took the offered coin, then his wand, and charmed a reply to Potter. 

Smirking, he returned it to Granger and her eyes widened as Draco assumed a string of expletive-ridden replies from Potter started arriving. 

“Oh I should have known you’d do something to rile him up!” She fumed. “What did you write to Harry?”

“I said you were coming. Just not to the gala.”

She dropped the coin. 

Their movements met in the middle as they both hurried to close the unnecessary distance between their bodies.

Frantic and messy and fucking delectable. 

He’d been half-kidding about skipping the event (some charity initiative he still couldn’t recall and on a Thursday, no less) but now he knew that literally nothing could make him leave this situation he found himself in at present. That situation being one hand in Granger’s carefully styled hair and the other sliding a dress strap off her shoulder as they kissed. 

He moved them forward, looking for the nearest hard surface to press her against, to press closer, tighter, snuff out any and all space that separated them. Draco filled his mouth to the brim with her, the kisses she doled out answered by his demand for more. 

They undressed like a polite conversation: your turn, my turn, and now yours again. 

She pushed his jacket off his shoulders. He slid her other dress strap down. She untied his bowtie. He tugged her hair loose from its clip. She undid his waistcoat. He slid his hands around to her back in search of her bra clasp ( fucking Merlin, he found none). She unbuttoned his shirt and pushed that off him too. 

Draco lifted her onto the counter and grabbed her by the backside to pull her flush against him. 

All he could hear was her. Not that that was any different from normal inside his own head. But now all he could hear were her gasps. Her panting breaths that said she really fucking needed this release, that she wanted him to make her act this emboldened. He hiked up her dress and let her grind into him and moan, kiss every part of his neck she could reach with her lips. She’d ruin her makeup, ruin her hair, ruin her dress, and ruin him. 

The incessant sound of her could only be cured by her. She functioned as her own antidote. 

She’d thoroughly familiarised herself with his hair and now became acquainted with more of his body. Confident touches skimmed down his chest, roving over faint pink scar tissue and then came to an abrupt halt. 

Her hands trembled at his belt buckle. 

“Sorry,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “It’s just been a while for me since I’ve—”

“Me too.”

A shared vulnerability. 

Draco tilted her chin up, away from her present cause for apprehension. “This is your call.”

But she set her mouth in a determined line and kept at her task. It took her a few more tries to undo his belt. Her shaking fingers rested at his waist. Draco covered them with his own.

“We don’t have to—”

“I want to. I really, really want to—” She suddenly laughed again. “Oh God that sounded so desperate and pathetic—”

“No. It sounded really fucking hot.”

He picked her up again, her legs wrapped around his waist.

“Bedroom?” he muttered into her neck.

“Down this hall here. Second door on the left.”

“I was asking if you wanted to move there but I suppose that answers it.”

More turn-taking as he laid her down on the bed. She shimmied her dress off, he shoved his trousers down and kicked them away. 

Draco may have pinned her beneath him, but they pulled at each other; caresses of discovery followed by impatient touches and insistent grabs once a new swathe of skin had been properly introduced. 

“Are—we—dating?” She asked between kisses.

Draco moved his mouth down to her throat. “If you like,” he said and descended further down to her collarbone. “I’m certainly in favour of the notion.”

“Good.”

He took a leisurely journey back up to her ear. 

“Per our earlier discussion, any particular ah, actions, you would prefer this evening?”

“A Contraceptive Charm.”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant, now cast the charm and get inside me.”

He wanted to oblige immediately, and regretted having to leave her mostly naked and writhing beneath him to fetch his wand from her living room. 

For a moment he hovered in the doorway to her bedroom, sure that the no more than thirty-second pause in the proceedings would be enough time for Granger to rethink this decision. 

Draco loved being wrong. Sometimes. Particularly this time. 

She saw him standing at the threshold with his wand in hand and erection tenting his boxers, and responded with a smile as she peeled off her knickers.

Yes, being wrong was such an excellent thing.

He covered her body with his again, muttered the charm, and tossed his wand aside as Granger clutched his shoulders for support. 

As he eased inside her, the grip on his shoulders increased in pressure to the point of pain as her nails dug into him. 

“What do you need?” he asked hoarsely, desperate for this to feel as sublime for her as it did for him.

“I’m fine, it’s just a bit tight. You’re, um… a lot to accommodate.”

He pistoned his hips slowly, then stopped thrusting altogether when her nails still pierced and kissed her instead. His mouth took possession of hers, then her throat, then her breasts. She whined for him to move, but he held off, working her up to a begging, fevered state and only acquiesced when her grip relaxed and she impatiently shifted her hips beneath him. 

He swallowed her down, seeking to satiate his thirst, but she kept giving a well of such divine offerings that he’d soon be dazedly drunk off her. He thought his mind would quiet if he sated himself with her; of her noises both voluntary and involuntary. If he drank her down he could temper whatever the fuck was happening in his mind, or perhaps she ran deeper and had seeped into his soul. 

Draco decided that he’d been all wrong once more. As he’d told her himself, she was the sweetest fucking sound in his head, so what was the point of wanting to quiet it? He never wanted to know silence again.

Instead, he wanted to only know the sound of Granger gasping for air, of the wet sound of her open-mouthed kisses against his neck, the soft slap of skin sliding against skin, and best of all, her short-winded statements:

“That feels good.”

“Right there. Please.”

“You can go faster, if you want.”

It took diligent attention to her nipples with his tongue and the zealotry of his fingers between her legs to finally have her whisper-shout his name as she threw her head back against the pillow. Draco barely held on as she climaxed, and the second he felt her body start to slacken, he let himself release. 

They lay in bed together afterwards. She ran her fingers along his arm in a soothing up and down motion. They couldn’t seem to stop touching each other, even in their physically depleted state.

Her fingers stilled on the unfortunate black ink on his left forearm. She appeared pensive rather than disgusted. 

“What made you change, do you think?”

“Lots of things,” Draco replied honestly. “Little things and big, horrific things. But it’s those little things that can cause you to think differently.”

“Like what?”

Draco traced a finger down her cheek. 

“How you beat me in every class, how you had such command over your own power. And then,” he now traced the spot on her arm where he knew a scar existed beneath a Glamour, “bigger things that showed me I’d had it so wrong for so long.”

She rewarded his solemn candour with a kiss; the deep and languid kind that meant he could initiate these kisses in the future and she’d approve.

“It’s still your birthday for a few hours. Did you want to show up fashionably late?”

“Not at all.”

“I didn’t get you a gift.”

“Will you resort to violence if I make the obvious joke about getting to unwrap you?”

Her face drained of colour.

“This wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to… I mean, that’s rather problematic, I wasn’t ‘gifting’ you sex as if I didn’t really want this too, I didn’t feel obligated because it’s your birthday or anything.”

He kissed her to shut her up. 

“Stop overthinking. We can have sex on days that aren’t my birthday too if it will make you feel better.”

She laughed and he relished in the victory of it. 

With no plans to show up far too late to some stuffy, boring party, Draco thought it best to take his leave. Having him stay the night did not seem to be a step she wanted to take just yet, and Draco had his suspicions that such an act would feel more intimate for her than the one they’d just performed.

“Will this… complicate things?” she asked as she walked him to the front door. 

“In what way?”

“The investigation. The programme.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Well if we’re ah, together, it could… blur some lines… at the office.”

“Why Granger are you saying you won’t be able to control yourself around me at work? Should I stay away for your own good?”

“Don’t you dare,” she said sharply, but then added a quiet, “I like being around you.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Chapter Text

Dating Granger meant a few changes in his life. 

Shockingly, it meant seeing less of Potter as he started sending Johnson to them for periodic updates. Potter’s Auror partner was more tactical in her thinking than emotional or self-righteous, which made her a good sounding-board for Granger.

The two women had set up a giant board along one wall of the office, complete with a proposed timeline based on the scant information from Flint about the faux “dragon pox” outbreak, and the more concrete timepoints from other prisoners based on their experiences and medical visits. Plus, Draco’s contribution of the suspicious lack of Dreamless Sleep prescriptions and use, the DoM personnel visits, and the possible logical groupings of inmates based on their in-person interviews and the de-identified psychological evaluations. 

When he asked Granger about this most welcome shift from Potter to Johnson, she rolled her eyes and grumbled something about Potter being uncomfortable in their presence, “what with all the tension and longing glances and what-not.” Draco smirked and considered stealing her charmed Galleon to send Potter some detailed descriptions of what happened when those glances escalated. 

On that point, dating Granger also meant regular sex with Granger. She had a strict “no PDA at the office” rule for the days he showed up, but it still meant fantastic shags at her place or his on most evenings, and one time almost in a dark corridor off a ballroom. 

In his defence she’d worn an emerald green, fitted gown and it dipped dangerously low in the back. His self-control, already stretched to a breaking point, snapped completely when she’d made a comment about his rings.

“Why do I find it so attractive that you wear rings?” 

“I’ve no idea.”

She narrowed her eyes at the hand he had wrapped around a glass. 

“I think it’s because it makes me look at your fingers.”

“Go on.”

She continued to stare at his hand and seemed unable to pontificate further on the matter. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Is this an ‘actions over words’ situation? Do you want to go somewhere and explore this epiphany of yours?”

They’d slipped down that darkened hallway and he had one long-fingered hand delicately wrapped around her throat—she’d guided it there—and one delving into her knickers before she regained her senses and impatiently apparated them to her bedroom. 

He had her up against the wall, his hands still in place.

“What is it about the rings, Granger, hmm?”

The thumb on her throat stroked down, feeling her pulse thrum beneath it, then glided up until it landed on her bottom lip. He pressed against it then into her mouth. She sucked on it for a few tantalizing moments as he rolled his hips against hers in time with his fingers inside her.

He dragged his thumb out of her mouth and down the front of her dress to circle a nipple. 

“I don’t know. I just... they make me want your hands everywhere.”

“Happy to oblige.”

Her hips writhed and she clung to his upper arms.

“Bed—now—bed—go—” she choked out. 

“First things first,” Draco muttered back and rubbed her clit until she came. 

Draco still couldn’t remember which cause he’d ghosted in favour of shagging Granger so hard both rings left indents in the skin of her hips, but wrote the host a substantial cheque the next day all the same. 

The photo spread printed in the society pages featured several shots of Draco escorting Granger at the beginning of the evening, and the expression on Draco’s face in almost every photo screamed his wicked intentions for all to see.

He’d received many a Howler for these images from the unwashed masses, but he burned them instantly and laughed. 

He also received a note from Pansy: “For Merlin’s sake Draco, be less obvious.”

A note from Blaise: “Tell Potter I do trauma counselling.”

A note from Ginny: “I’ll be selecting Hermione’s gowns more often if it nets this reaction. You’re welcome, ferret.”

An exorbitant delivery of several cases of Ali Shafiq’s preferred whisky and a note that read, “Tell your dear mother should she ever feel up to hosting a party at that ancestral home of hers, I’d love an invite.”

Dating Granger meant his mother started popping round for dinner unannounced on a more frequent basis instead of waiting for him to come to her. Draco let her get on with this not-even-close to subtle new behavioural pattern a few times before confronting her directly.

“Not that I’m not flattered by all your recent visits to dine with me, but why do I have the feeling you’re hoping to see if I’m entertaining another guest for dinner?”

“The Prophet has it right, in this instance?”

The recent crop of gala photos had been strung together with other weeks’ worth of pictures of their various dinner dates in public and now told the story of their official romance. 

“Correct.”

“You’ll keep me apprised of any serious developments?”

“Did you want to specify what you mean by ‘serious developments’ or continue along this abstract line of questioning when a more straightforward path exists?”

“Merlin, you sounded like your father just now.”

“Nice deflection.”

She huffed. “And now you sound like Andromeda.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, a move copied directly from Narcissa’s own playbook. 

She tried another tactic. “You and Miss Granger make a striking couple.”

“Thank you, I’m inclined to agree.”

“A powerful alliance as well. Your lineage with her political capital.”

“I have less than zero interest in that angle.”

Narcissa regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. Her hand twitched on the table between them; flexed in a compulsion to perhaps lay it on his arm. She moved it into her lap instead.

“Draco, I hope you don’t feel as if… well, there’s no need to rush things along. It’s all right if this is something casual.”

“It’s not casual.”

“Oh.”

Her line of questioning had since run through her initial suspicions of Draco’s motives: vanity, thirst for power, or passing lust. 

None of the above, of course.

Narcissa fiddled with a serviette. An odd movement for someone whom Draco would describe as composed; deliberate to the point that every blink of her eyes seemed a choice rather than an involuntary human function. 

“I know it’s still a bit awkward darling, but I do think you’d enjoy getting to know your aunt.”

Draco let the implication behind his mother’s statement linger unacknowledged. 

For now, this burgeoning and exploratory phase of his relationship with Granger held most of his focus and attention.

Dating Granger meant learning all of Granger’s expressions and tics, and not because they irritated him. 

He could tell when he’d said something really funny if it made her clutch her abdomen when she laughed. 

He knew what each of her frowns meant. One was for concentration. One for when Draco said something inappropriate. One for confusion. One that tried to hide amusement.

But his favourite things to learn about Granger involved her reactions to him. The ring proclivity was a lovely bit of intel. He simply had to drag his fingers down and around her throat and along her chest and her skin would flush a brilliant, beautiful pink.

For most of his life he’d known the sound of her, but now he learned things from her touches, too. She seemed particularly fond of his hair and determined to ensure it never looked properly in place. Especially if they were kissing. 

She would clutch his shoulders and biceps almost painfully when they fucked, but she took extra care with her caresses if they traversed the scarred landscape of his chest. Instinctive in the way she knew when to handle him with tenderness. 

Without fail, she threw her head back when she came, completely uninhibited when he rendered her undone. Draco preferred to bury his face in her neck, her hair, whichever part of her he could seek refuge in. 

She was not a fan of hand-holding as she usually needed her hands to gesticulate during conversation or they were occupied with a book. She seemed to prefer his touch skimming along her thighs or arms. She had no qualms about throwing her legs or feet or head in his lap like some sort of rag doll if they were sharing space on a couch or bed.  

She liked it when he gripped her hair, but hated when he attempted to run fingers through her curls. It didn’t stop him from trying. It unfailingly earned him her frown of annoyance.

His Mark didn’t bother her and she would remove her own scar’s Glamour in the privacy of her home. Neither could hurt either one of them now; all their power had died away with the monsters who’d given them out in the first place. Physical remnants of pain and regret, but these symbols no longer held any sway over their lives. 

They were free to choose each other, and so they did. 

Things were going well. 

Which meant something had to then go horribly wrong. 

Granger wanted to interview the warden. Johnson and Potter agreed, but the challenge remained for how to gain access to this man. He’d thus far declined to participate in any part of the programme when Draco and Granger visited Azkaban in person, and they only ever saw guards during these interviews. Granger had invented all manner of reasons to try and schedule a meeting with the warden, but they’d had no luck as of yet. 

No one wanted to take Draco up on his suggestion of borrowing Potter’s Invisibility Cloak and ambushing him outside the office. Apparently that sort of behaviour would “get the entire programme shut down, are you serious Malfoy?”

Flint agreed to see them again, but only with a lawyer present. While this meant Draco had at least instilled a bit of fear into that cretin, Draco had the distinct feeling Flint was toying with them. 

With no new perspectives and with no more useful leads from Flint, they’d hit a frustrating wall again. All the while, Draco convinced himself that he did not need to share his suspicion that Theo may have been a key part to all of this. He had two warring internal excuses for this reasoning:

He’d promised Granger, Potter, and Johnson discretion during the investigation.

He’d promised Blaise and Theo discretion about Theo’s ability. 

But deep down, Draco knew the real reason he did not voice his suspicions aloud. The longer he chose to protect Theo, the longer he betrayed Granger’s trust.

As they were wont to do, outside forces brought Draco to a decision crossroads sooner than he would have liked. 

He’d enjoyed a sumptuous dinner with Granger made by his elves (his paid elves, he was quick to remind her, given she’d been the one to push that particular piece of legislation through) and Draco had just poured some after-dinner drinks as they settled in one of his studies. 

She’d already found his bookshelves on a previous visit and had a little personal reading collection piled beside one of the armchairs. As if she intended to keep returning to said armchair. His armchair in his study in his home, but she’d made it hers.

He of course rolled his eyes and chided her for making a mess of his study. But he also told his elves not to touch the pile. 

This particular quiet evening was suddenly interrupted when Pansy’s head appeared in the fire, looking panicked. 

“Draco! Can you come through?”

“What’s happened?”

“It’s Greg, I don’t know what to do, please.”

They exchanged nervous looks and quickly went through the flames to find a distraught Pansy wringing her hands. She seemed gratified rather than embarrassed that Granger had come along too. 

“Where is he? Are you all right?”

“I’m—I’m fine,” Pansy managed to get out, but her whole frame shook. Granger leapt into action and gently took her by the arm and sat her on a nearby settee. She kept a comforting hand on Pansy’s back and Draco knew then it was serious since Granger was allowed to offer this sort of support without having her hand ripped off.

“Greg he—he’s had trouble sleeping and I—I thought, you know, that there would just be an adjustment period. Gods,” she let out a slightly hysterical laugh, “who among our generation doesn’t have horrifying nightmares?”

Draco summoned one of her decanters and conjured a glass to pour Pansy a measure of brandy. She held it in trembling hands and took a fortifying sip. 

“He—he’s locked himself in a guest room. Mother is trying to get in now. I—I don’t know how to help him. Sometimes when I go in there in the mornings to check on him… sometimes he’s sleeping on the floor. He says he’s still not used to the bed being that comfortable and it’s too much and—and some days I just see him curled up in the corner of the room and he sort of zones out and nothing I say seems to make a difference and I can’t even get him to eat.”

“Do you think he’d hurt himself?” asked Granger. 

“No,” Pansy swiped at her falling tears. “No, but whatever he’s holding in… whatever he can’t seem to get past… I don’t want him to turn into a shell of himself.”

“Which room is he in?” asked Draco.

“Across the hall from mine.”

“I’ll stay here,” Granger murmured and Draco nodded gratefully. 

Draco found Mrs. Parkinson looking equally relieved to see him. “Oh thank Merlin. I’ve just managed to unlock the door, he’d put several wards up.”

Draco sent Pansy’s mother along to comfort her daughter and knocked on the door twice before pushing it open. 

“Goy—Greg?”

Draco waved his wand once to light the lamps along the walls of the darkened room. 

“Hey Draco.”

He blinked at the sudden brightness and followed the sound of the soft-spoken call to see Goyle seated on the floor at the foot of the bed. 

Draco approached carefully. “Pansy’s worried about you.”

“I don’t deserve her tears.”

There was an odd, toneless despondency to Goyle’s reply. 

“I thought things were going well for you here? Has something happened?”

“I shouldn’t be here. Every time I close my eyes I just relive it all.”

Draco drew on some of his experience from working with others like Goyle, but still felt woefully inept.

“Pansy really, um….  I think she’d like for you to talk to her. To tell her what’s going on. She said you were having trouble sleeping.”

“Yeah. I’ve lost it.”

“Lost it?”

“Can’t turn off my mind, you know? How sick is it that I got my best sleep in Azkaban?”

He suddenly turned to Draco with wide, manic eyes. “I just want to rest. I just want to fucking sleep. Why can’t I? What’s wrong with me?”

Draco swallowed once and shifted his weight. He had an uncomfortable feeling of being in Theo’s shoes all those years ago when Draco had been the one looking this way: gaunt face, bleary eyes, dishevelled hair. Desperate and exhausted. 

“Greg, listen. You have people here who want to help. And they—um, we, I mean—can help if you let us. I’m going to send Blaise through, is that okay with you?”

“You said we’d talk some time.”

“I know, I did. And we will. But I… well I think I’m not the right person here.”

“I don’t know how to talk to Pansy right now.”

“I won’t bring her, but let me get Blaise. Just… just stay here and leave the door unlocked, all right?” 

Draco eyed the wand held limply in Goyle’s hand but didn’t think disarming the man would go over well. 

“Greg, just tell me it’s all right and I can have Blaise here in under a minute.”

“S’alright.”

“Thank you.”

Draco found Granger fixing tea for both Parkinson women and quickly muttered, “He’s fine, just going to grab a professional,” and Floo’ed through to Blaise and Theo’s home. 

Blaise immediately fired off a bunch of questions at Draco as he threw robes over his pajamas. 

“Do you think he’s a risk to himself or others?”

“No, just a breakdown. But a serious one. Pansy will probably need you too.”

“He has a wand?”

“Yes, but I don’t think he’ll use it. He let me in once Pansy’s mother had gotten through his wards.”

“Those wards might have been accidental magic if he was that distressed,” Blaise muttered to himself and disappeared through the fireplace.

Draco could feel the other presence in the room before he even turned around to confirm it.

“Theo, tell me you didn’t have something to do with this.”

“I can’t tell you either way.”

Draco wasn’t sure what to expect from Theo. When he turned around he saw a gangly form sitting defeated and almost curled in on himself in an armchair. 

“I’ve been working with Granger on this advocacy thing.”

It may have seemed an abrupt topic change, but Draco knew Theo had understood the implication.

“Yes, that seems to have worked out very well for you.” There was no malice in Theo’s factual statement and Draco inclined his head in acknowledgment of the subtext.

“Yes, but it means I’ve spent a fair bit of time combing through Azkaban records. I recognised your wand’s measurements.”

Theo’s face immediately fell into an expressionless mask of inhumanity. Not one flicker of an emotion, no hint at a feeling, as if someone had pulled a curtain over his true features and left behind an image of immovable neutrality.

“Theo, I’ve put enough pieces together and I think…” Draco took a fortifying breath and plunged onward, “Were you involved in some sort of experiment on prisoners?”

The eerie mask remained in place. He didn’t even blink, nor react at all to such a serious accusation. 

“Theo, I asked if—?”

“I heard you,” rasped Theo and looked as if he physically struggled to get the words out. “But you have to understand I’m operating under certain… limitations at the moment.”

Draco frowned and shook his head. “No, I’m not here for vague nonsense. Answer the question.”

The mask resumed its hold but this time, Theo’s jaw clenched as he appeared to fight it. 

“There’s spellwork,” Theo bit out. “Do you think the Department of Mysteries just relies on Unspeakables to not say anything? No, I signed a magically binding contract. I can’t talk about my work in any specific way.”

“But if I ask you the right questions… you can confirm or deny?”

“Depends how the question is phrased.”

“But you can talk about your ability.”

“Yes. That, at least, belongs to me.”

Draco nodded and considered his best course of interrogation. 

“Since you gave me my dream in Sixth Year… have you used your ability on people other than me and Blaise?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Can’t say.”

Draco noticed his friend’s knuckles turning white as they gripped the sides of the chair. 

“I’m… I’m sorry, I can drop it if you want. Maybe instead you could help Goyle now? Just this once? Give him ‘happiness’ like you did me?”

“No,” Theo spat. “I’m done using it on people.”

Draco held up a placating hand. “Okay, it’s fine I only wanted to… Theo look, I’m trying to help you, and Greg, and Granger, and I can’t do that if I don’t know what happened.”

Theo’s face stayed stuck on his impassive setting. Draco dragged frustrated hands through his hair and paced in front of the fireplace. 

Three groups, Draco recalled. He and Granger had classified their subset of inmates into three groups based on how they spoke about their time in that sham of a quarantine. 

“You did three different types of dreams,” Draco finally guessed. Theo didn’t, perhaps couldn’t, react. 

“Don’t suppose you could tell me which emotional states you cast?” Draco tried.

“Can’t say.”

“Try.”

“You’ve experienced it.”

Happiness. That tracked with the men who seemed to have enjoyed their time sequestered. Based on Goyle’s statement of quality sleep, Draco would hazard a guess at the control group being something as simple as “calm” or “peaceful.”

Which left the last third. 

“I think I’ve got two figured out. And I know you can’t tell me anything. But maybe you can show me what you did to the third group.”

Theo’s face lit up, excited that Draco had found a workaround before immediately falling into regret.

Draco took that as acquiescence and transfigured a chair into a longer couch. 

“Just tell Granger I fell asleep here after drinking with you or something.”

“No need, I can control it better now.”

“How do you mean?”

“Just the time. I can determine the length of the sleep state.”

Draco conjured a pillow and settled onto his back. Theo towered over him and pressed the tip of his wand to the skin of his hand. Though Draco knew not to expect that dazzling dream state he’d experienced in his Sixth Year, part of him burned with anticipation at the thought of entering that fantasy again. Until he remembered the look on the faces of men like Sinclair.

This would not be a hazy slice of bliss.

“How long?”

Draco checked his watch. “Thirty minutes, if you can.”

“It’ll be non-verbal this time.”

That disorienting shock of the quick flip between not-awake and awake. When the mind both lagged and simultaneously interrogated you with rapid-fire questions: where am I? What day is it? What time is it? Am I late for something?

That confusion of the in-between. You had been prone, unconscious, susceptible to attack, even. The body required rest and so you must, as a human, enter this state of ultimate vulnerability.

That weakness of allowing the self to lie dormant so as to recharge, physically and mentally, while necessary, could wreak havoc if disrupted in a violent manner. 

Being roused out of this helplessness could cause a brief shot of adrenaline to trickle through your system, the mind spurring to life before the rest of you. That energy, dispersed slowly, triggered survival instincts and perhaps the limbs lash and jerk, forcing you to get up, to move, to rise to the occasion, but messily so. 

Or if you are Draco, you have trained your body to jump to attention at a moment’s notice. It must, or you’d be risking torture or worse. It hardly ever made for a good night’s rest.

Draco was roughly shaken by the shoulder. He let out a gasp of a breath as his vision scrambled to catch up with the rest of his faculties. 

His wand was already clenched in his fist. Had he fallen asleep with it in his hand?

“Your presence is required,” intoned the solemn voice of Snape. 

Draco quickly pulled on his robes and followed behind him.

“No mask,” Snape said curtly. “He’d like your face shown.”

Guarded. Alert. Draco’s mentor maintained these two states constantly and he strove to emulate him. Especially within these halls.

Draco’s footfalls clicked against stone, the sound bouncing loudly off harsh, bare floors and stately, gilded frames.

The empty portrait frames whose occupants had fled for different homes, or perhaps even the safety found in the inside of Gringotts vaults, made the silence even more irrepressible.

Lonely and forsaken.

And much too quiet when the quiet wasn’t broken by sheer terror. The echoing sounds of cries and screams filtered through the cavernous halls of his childhood home at regular intervals.

A home that now knew unending pain and misery.

Draco gulped down the constantly chilled air. Grey skies filtered through murky windows. These tall, glistening walls of glass once gleamed so brightly under the daily attention and care of dozens of elves. But the Dark Lord had gone through most of the house elves within the first year of his residence here. Easy target practice, after all. Or just some helpless creature on which he could sate his rage.

Helpless and alone. Not a friendly face to be seen no matter where Draco looked. 

Draco trudged along behind Snape. He knew exactly where he’d be led. Where he was led most days.

Constant dread. It hung in a permanent cloud over him, over the once brightly-lit halls of Malfoy Manor.

Afraid and miserable when not diluted through the power of Occlumency. Outside of that, he had no reprieve, knew no relief from this eternal punishment.

The door to the Manor cellar opened as he approached. A familiar and grotesque sight awaited Draco at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Ah, Draco,” greeted the Dark Lord. “You know what to do.”

An unnaturally white hand waved a wand of Yew in a complicated pattern and suddenly Narcissa appeared at his side. Voldemort’s gash of a mouth split in a horrifying facsimile of a smile, the tip of his wand now pointed to Narcissa’s throat. 

“I have always given you a choice, remember that Draco. This is your doing.”

Snape shoved him forward toward the rows of barred cells that lined the cellar. 

“Who is first today? Make sure to identify them for me,” insisted Voldemort in that high, cold voice.

Draco peered past the bars and saw the sunken eyes of Lucius.

“My father.”

“Hmm, perhaps not such a difficult choice this time,” mocked Voldemort. 

Draco raised his wand. “Crucio.”

Lucius was thrown onto his back as he writhed and screamed under the power of Draco’s curse. 

“Enough,” said the bored voice of Voldemort. Draco did as he bade and his father’s body disappeared. 

Draco met his mother’s eyes but she only shook her head. 

“And next?” prompted Voldemort and Draco moved along the row. 

“Blaise.”

The cell after Blaise held Pansy. 

After Pansy came Theo. 

There might have been other prisoners in between or after; Draco couldn't’ seem to recall. How long would this last today? How many more faces must Draco watch contort in agony? None of them begged or pleaded with him anymore.

A haze of despicable acts and a stream of Unforgivables cast again and again from his Hawthorn wand. Put in an impossible position and forced to perform under threat of his mother’s life. 

All the while, guilt and bile rose in equal measure within him. Cold sweat ran down his forehead and back. He had no way out, no respite. 

No one to help him. 

“And now we come to my offering for you, young Draco.”

Voldemort shoved Narcissa to the ground and then clicked his fingers. A bound and bloodied Harry Potter appeared on the floor beside her. 

His mother looked up at him through tear-filled eyes. Potter looked up at him through mostly-swollen ones; his glasses bent and cracked.

“Who do we have in the final cell?”

Draco didn’t need to turn away from the two at his feet to know who occupied the last barred cell.

But he turned towards her anyway. 

She never said anything. Never made a single sound. Just stood there in her ratty, tattered clothing, tangled mass of filthy hair, and a smattering of dried blood, bruises, and dirt marring her skin. 

“Hermione.”

“Ah yes,” said Voldemort, voice tinged with amusement now.  “Potter’s pet Mudblood.”

Draco raised his wand in her direction. Like he’d been trained to do. Like he’d been ordered to do. 

The curse would not leave his lips. She stared back at him with those large, challenging eyes. Eyes that used to voraciously tear through every book in the Hogwarts library, eyes that would drink in knowledge and only build upon her already impressive intellect. Eyes with a fire that could not, would not be snuffed out.

Eyes that only viewed him as a disappointment.

“Which shall you choose, Draco? You’ve always whined about not having a choice and yet see how benevolent your Lord can be? All these choices and paths laid out before you. Whatever shall you do?”

“I—”

“It’s not difficult, you ungrateful whelp. You can torture the Mudblood while Potter watches or I can torture your mother. Do you think she’ll last much longer?”

Draco backed away from the cell, from her. 

“Stop, please I—I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore.”

“Anymore? And what is so special about this one? You’ve left countless victims in your wake and yet you would disobey your Lord for this bit of filth?”

Draco looked into the cell again, but now his view was obscured by another. Ron Weasley materialised and grabbed Granger by the waist and shoved her bodily behind him. He turned his beaten and freckled face towards Draco, a picture of bravery and defiance. Someone who had nobly suffered.

Draco stared back, unable to move or speak.

A failure. A coward. 

His hesitancy enraged the Dark Lord.

“Enough!” roared that awful, hissing voice. 

Suddenly Voldemort lunged forward. Those long, white fingers clamped around Draco’s throat and immediately tightened, cutting off his air supply. Draco only knew one feeling as black spots appeared in his vision and he was violently returned to the land of the subconscious.

Fear. He only felt fear.

Draco came to in Theo's study with a shout. 

“Where is—?” he began frantically before his brain caught up. 

Theo had put him in an enchanted dream state. He was safe. Granger was safe. His mother was safe. 

“Accio firewhisky.”

Draco didn’t even bother with a glass and simply downed a hefty measure from the summoned bottle.

“Will you need Blaise this time?”

“No. No, I think that one’s pretty clear.”

He offered the bottle to Theo who crossed the room in that prowling gait of his and accepted the whisky for a deep swig of his own. 

Draco rested his head in his hands and focused on the things he knew to be true. The burn of the whisky down his throat. The presence of Theo at his side. His friends and Hermione currently alive and safe at Pansy’s home. 

But his hands still shook as he drew them down his face. 

“How long… how many times did you do that to them?”

Theo shook his head, looking pained at not being able to answer.

“Enough,” was all he could offer.

“We’ve got to take this to Granger,” Draco stated firmly and stood. 

“No. I can’t offer you anything more. And other… factors are in play.”

“Which factors?”

“Just the one. The most important one.”

“You’re worried something will happen to Blaise?”

Theo could only nod.

“Fuck.”

And it shouldn’t have felt so similar to Sixth Year. Because this time he had an out, he had someone in his corner. Someone brilliant and unstoppable. A fierce warrior.

“What’s made you think Blaise is at risk?”

But Theo’s face went blank again.

“Theo, if someone forced you to torture others against your will, we have to stop them. Are they still at Azkaban? At the Ministry?”

The infuriating blank mask was only usurped by a look of wretchedness. 

“Draco, please. It’s done with and all I can do is keep myself away from people. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me and—”

He cut off here, his mouth magically prohibited from elaborating further.

“Let me speak to Granger. Or you can come with me.”

Theo shook his head back and forth in a pained denial, and Draco reached his limit for causing his friend distress tonight. 

“I’ll just… go see if Blaise is almost through.”

As he stood to leave by the mantel, Theo called out. “Draco, you have to know… you have to believe me. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I just wanted to… to know what I could do. To know why I could do this. And then others—”

Theo broke off with a muttered curse word and averted his gaze.

“You still sent the Jelly Slugs,” offered Draco quietly.

Theo tilted his head to the side, puzzled by the relevance. 

“On my birthday,” Draco clarified. “You sent them. This year. Every year, even when I didn’t deserve a bit of kindness from you, you were my friend anyway.”

Theo looked close to tears at this point.

“You care about people, Theo.  And I know how it feels to have that… manipulated.”

His friend’s head bobbed in gratitude and Draco looked into the fire as he saw Theo’s hand dash at his eyes. 

“I know you think you’re stuck,” murmured Draco, “but I’ll find a way, or Granger will. But I won’t tell her or involve anyone until I know you’ll be protected. And Blaise.”

Theo only nodded again and Draco went through the fire to find Blaise briefing the Parkinsons and Granger on Greg’s condition.

“I made sure he had a Calming Draught after we talked. I’ve just told Pansy I’ll pop round after work a few days this week and chat with him,” he updated Draco in an undertone as Granger urged Pansy and her mother to go to bed.

Blaise clapped Draco on the shoulder. “I know he missed out on much of the programme and it’s such a shame, because it’s sorely needed.”

He stepped back and surveyed Draco with a bit of pride. “This is good work you’re doing with Hermione. This will help people transition. I’m glad you called me over when you did.”

Draco had no adequate reply. His mental and emotional state swung from one high to another dangerous low at such a rapid speed in the past few hours and he’d yet to settle on just exactly what he felt at all.

He hadn’t realized he stood frozen in Pansy’s parlour until Granger appeared in front of him and cupped the sides of his face.

“Are you okay?”

“No, I don’t think I am.”

“Come to my place,” she said softly. 

He obeyed her, grateful she understood that he needed to surround himself with her for the time being. Her goodness, her strength, her unending well of light. 

But he’d halted again in her sitting room, caught in an urgent thought and staring down at his own hands with unseeing eyes.

“Draco, what—?”

“What we’ve been doing, at Azkaban,” he spoke up suddenly, “I know we’ve been giving a lot of them—the inmates—information and encouragement and such—and the other, real advocates are helping do the actual connecting but… do you think we could… I don’t know… make sure our group… make sure they see people like Blaise?”

She gave him a smile. This one meant admiration. For something he’d said or did. 

“Course we can. I’m not going to drop my work if we uncover something. It may have been our way in, but at the end of the day, it is a real initiative. They won’t get left off.”

She took his hand and led him to her bed. 

As he drifted off, Draco recalled the story of Theo’s mother requesting to dream of safety. 

Draco felt certain that for him it would feel like this: wrapped around Granger with her breathing steadily against his chest.

Chapter Text

For the second time in as little as a few hours, Draco jolted awake with a gasp. Another trip into the horror landscape of having to torture and being tortured in turn.

Except now he had a soft bed beneath him and gentle fingers stroking his hair.

“You’re all right, catch your breath,” whispered Granger. “Nightmare?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m just going to make tea. You can join me if you’d like or go back to sleep.”

Draco rolled onto his back and shut his eyes, trying to force himself back into a sleep state. But his anxious mind raced and sent a fear through him; a fear that the second he succumbed, his mind would simply pitch him right back into the nightmare world he’d only just escaped. 

He stared at Granger’s ceiling and instead focused on the muted, distant sounds of the familiar ritual of hearing tea prepared. Eventually, other noises filtered down the hall: shifting utensils, drawers opening and closing, stirring and mixing, and the creak of the oven door. 

Reluctant to stray into sleep without her soothing presence by his side and curious about what she’d gotten up to in the kitchen, Draco left the bed and padded through her home to join her. 

He found her levitating a bowl into the sink and then peeking into her oven. 

“This is more than just tea,” Draco commented as he leaned against the counter.

“I just needed to stay busy. You weren’t the only one having bad dreams tonight,” she said, her expression grim.

She then occupied her hands again and began washing the dishes. Hands that hadn’t shaken him awake roughly, but had instead sought to calm his distress.

“What are you baking?”

“Shortbread.”

She paused her cleaning and flicked her wand and a cup of piping hot tea floated over to him. Draco stared down into the cup, equal parts embarrassed and grateful.

“I’m sorry if I woke you.”

She jerked her gaze towards him. “Why would you apologise for that?”

Draco shrugged. He didn’t have a good answer. Prior experience with waking a partner due to his convulsive reactions to nightmares hadn’t gone quite this direction. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked and turned to give him her full attention. 

A question he’d only been asked by Blaise or Theo. He sipped his tea and considered how much he felt he could or wanted to divulge. 

“Oh you know, just the usual visions of torture and the like,” he tossed out.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“What?”

“Make light of it. There’s nothing wrong with you being affected by your experiences.” She took a sip of her own tea. “I’d be shocked if you weren’t. Myself, I… I hate trying to go back to sleep after I’ve had those dreams. The ones interspersed with real memories. It’s weird isn’t it? How our brains sometimes know what to fill in? How they can somehow make it so much worse?”

Draco nodded. Yes, his brain seemed quite adept at that particular skill.

She came and stood hip to hip with him against the counter top, waiting him out. Draco could luxuriate in the silent comfort of her nearness, but her proximity inspired a type of courage he hadn’t been familiar with for most of his life. He wondered how many others she affected this way. 

“It was about me having to torture other people, under threat of course, but still. In my dream, I still… I still pointed my wand and said the words. That… that helplessness… I tried to shake it but I couldn’t. It’s the worst fucking feeling.”

“Who were you torturing? People you knew?”

Draco turned to look down into her eyes. “Yes. The people I care very much for. And I had to hurt them over and over.”

He reached out and twined one of her curls around his finger. “I couldn’t protect them and I hate myself for it. It was, possibly still is, my biggest fear. Not just letting them down, but letting them down in a way that hurts them. Maybe there are external factors and outside forces pressuring, but it’s all done by my own hand. And that feeling of… of being backed into a corner where I end up not being able to protect anyone, I—”

How could he explain without it sounding completely pathetic? That he had so few people in his life that fell into this category at all. 

She took hold of the hand playing with her hair. 

“I know it’s probably fruitless to tell you to let go of that guilt, but what’s done is done and you’re safe now. No matter how real it feels, it was just a dream.”

“Perhaps,” Draco agreed and squeezed her hand then dropped it to cup her jaw. “It doesn’t mean I want to be that person again. Or to even feel like that person again in my dreams. I couldn’t bear it. Seeing you like that.”

He saw her eyes widen just a fraction and her lips part to suck in a short breath of surprise. Smart witch, she’d of course connected his statement earlier with what he’d just revealed.

She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a lingering kiss. Her timer interrupted Draco from taking things further and she moved away to grab her tray from the oven.

She waved her wand over the biscuits and then started transferring them to a plate.

“Was Pansy all right?” Draco asked, keen to move on from morbid, personal talk of fears and nightmares.

Granger nodded thoughtfully. “She’s tough, but seeing Greg like that for a few days in a row was too much.”

She paused to take another swig of tea. “They love each other,” she stated simply. 

“You’re sure? I don’t really see them as a couple.”

Granger shook her head. “No, I don’t think it’s quite romantic. Not yet.”

“Then why would you say that?”

“It’s just different shades of the same thing. Sometimes it looks like Blaise and Theo.”

“Sickeningly romantic?”

She laughed. 

“No, it’s different with Pansy and Greg. I can see it in the way she spoke about him. She wanted to help him in any way she could, not for her own needs, but she wanted to be attuned to his. So, perhaps not quite a romantic love just yet, but love in a way that she wants to make him feel safe enough to accept what she can offer.”

She took a deep breath. “Sometimes love looks like that sort of patience. And sometimes it looks like what I had with Ron. An inevitable build over years of friendship. We may have loved each other but…”

She cut herself off and peered guiltily at Draco, perhaps only just realising she’d been openly discussing her previous romantic partner with her current one.

“But?” he prompted.

She took her time in formulating a response and handed Draco a plate with two biscuits. Not because she wanted to avoid speaking of her ex-boyfriend, but because she wanted to be deliberate in her word choice here.

“Love is an offering. You’re offering yourself and all that entails. No more, no less than what you actually are. Sometimes it’s enough, sometimes it isn’t. What I had to offer wasn’t what Ron needed or wanted. And vice versa, I suppose. Speaking for Pansy, she’s giving Greg all she can, regardless if he reciprocates. But when he’s ready to, when he feels safe enough to offer something in return, she’ll accept.”

Draco took a bite of her shortbread, still warm. He almost spat it back out but instead coughed and hastily swigged his tea.

“This tastes terrible… I mean Merlin, this is awful.”

Granger sighed and stared down at her own half-bitten biscuit resignedly. “I know.”

“No, really, these are disgusting.”

“I know. You’re supposed to chill the dough but I thought I could speed the process up with a few spells. Not sure how they ended up tasting like something sort of earthy.”

“I think it’s wood chips.”

She scowled as Draco burst into laughter. He remembered the hazy glow of sunlight that had filtered into his dream kitchen, as Granger had pulled a tray of perfectly baked croissants from an oven and couldn’t stop laughing. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing… it’s just that I always had it in my head that you were a fantastic baker.”

“I can make things you know!”

“Hmm, perhaps, but I’ll need to see it to believe it. You make a decent cup of tea at least.”

She scowled and vanished the entire batch of borderline poisonous shortbread.

“This is the last time I ever attempt to do something nice for you,” she said petulantly.

“Oh come now Granger, no need to pout. There’s plenty you’re good at.”

She made an adorable little “harrumph” noise and turned away from him. 

“Sulking, are we?” He approached her and slid his arms around her waist. “Would you like to hear the litany of things you are very, very good at?”

He swept her impossible, beautiful hair over one shoulder so as to meet no impediment in kissing down one side of her neck. 

“You taste so much better than those cursed biscuits.”

“Weren’t you supposed to be listing off things I’m good at?”

He chuckled against her skin. “You are such a lawyer. Let’s take this back to bed and indulge in that praise kink of yours.”

She whirled around with flaming cheeks, but before she could throw out a denial he cut her off with his lips. 

Her small hands pushed against his chest. Not to beat him away, but to move him backwards and down the hall. A silent acceptance of his accusation that she’d never verbally admit to, but Draco smirked nonetheless. 

He got her naked and kneeling on the bed and knelt behind her, stroking his Malfoy signet ring down her bare back. She brought his other hand up to her breast and Draco bit back a quip about her bossy hands taking the place of her bossy mouth.

“Let me fulfill my promise from earlier,” he murmured. “You would like to hear what you’re good at, is that right?”

“Yes,” she whispered and brought his hand away from her breast to suck on two of his fingers. Draco knew what she’d want after that, and brought them down between her legs. 

“Obviously you’re exceptional at anything related to magic. It’s quite annoying,” he insisted, his fingers moving in a swirling, teasing motion.

“You could be in charge of your firm with how successful you’ve been,” he whispered next, and her hips jerked against his hand.

“No one crafts a written or verbal argument quite like you, Granger.” He teased her a few more moments, before allowing her a brief bit of time with his fingers inside her.

“I bet you’ll make partner in a year or two.” He removed his touch when her breathing became erratic, positioning her with an encouraging push between her shoulder blades so her face and chest met the mattress. 

“And my favorite thing about you,” he murmured as he lined himself up behind her, “you’re so very good at taking my cock.”

She probably rolled her eyes as she braced her weight on her elbows, while Draco took hold of her hip. When his other hand landed next to her much smaller hand on the bedspread, she grabbed it to interlock their fingers. 

Don’t let go, I need this. You need this, her touch said.

Draco probably muttered out more praising phrases about how good she felt, how good she was in general, but most of his thrusting was only accompanied by his labored breathing and her sharp gasps. 

Kisses pressed down her back, squeezes to his fingers, a sturdy grip on her hair to pull her upright and seat her in his lap, his hand around her throat, an endless echo of his given name reverberating around the bedroom from that very same throat, and it all culminated into a perfect surrender as she rested her head back against his shoulder; lolling and lazy now that she’d found release and told him it was his turn now if he liked, urging him on with verbal encouragement about how she wanted to feel him let go too.

It would be easier for both to fall back asleep after this, sated and spent in their post-coital contentment. Per her usual habits, Granger trailed her touch along his bare skin. Draco knew she wouldn’t stop until sleep claimed her.

“I like making terrible biscuits for you,” she said softly.

“Good. I’m sorry our night was so disruptive.”

“I’m not.”

He let silence fill the air for a bit before breaking it with a quiet admission.

“I like that you were here when I woke.”

“Hmm, I think you were more interested in having someone to shag.”

“No. No that’s not why.”

When he next woke after a few hours of slightly more restful sleep, it was because Granger kissed him awake. She kissed him through another round with her pinned beneath him and she kissed him goodbye in front of the Floo and she by then had thoroughly kissed away any melancholy he’d felt from the events of the night before. 

But it was only a temporary stay of anxiety. 

He’d been able to push the guilt over Theo’s predicament aside while with Granger, but it returned in full force when he arrived home. A letter awaited from Pansy that Draco wondered if she’d meant to send at all. 

“ Tell Granger

Granger’s really

I think you should know

Don’t screw this up with her.”

Draco sat resignedly in a pub and swirled his dwindling pint around the glass. He had tried to beg off from this meeting by claiming an allergy to cheap alcohol, but Granger would not put up with his whinging.

“Sorry for making you come out like this, but your little relationship actually makes for a nice cover to meet.”

“Fuck off Potter.”

“Draco!”

“What? That was rude of him to say.”

“It was a bit rude, Harry,” chided Johnson.

Potter rolled his eyes and cast a swift Muffliato around their booth. The esteemed Auror and his more tolerable partner had picked a dingy pub in Diagon for this public rendezvous. 

“We could have just met at my place,” insisted Granger. Draco silently agreed and sulked into his sub-par drink. But apparently both Johnson and Potter were having a devil of a time breaking away from the Ministry for even a lunch break during the work day. Thus, a cover in the form of Draco joining his girlfriend out for happy hour with two of her friends. 

How fucking quaint. 

“I think Angelina and I are being tracked,” Potter announced dramatically. Draco rolled his eyes as the rest of the group exchanged uneasy glances. 

“We’ve gone to a few pub nights to try and speak to some of the guards at their locals,” said Johnson. “And we’d actually built a bit of a rapport with a few over a couple weeks until recently. Now it’s mostly cold shoulders if we dare approach. Someone definitely put something in their ears about me and Harry and we’ve been basically told to bugger off.”

“Why would you think you’re being tracked?” asked Draco.

“I’ve been noticing the same faces around quite a bit wherever we go,” said Potter and Johnson nodded in agreement. “Whether we’re in the office, in the canteen, out on official patrol, sometimes at Ginny’s home matches even.”

“Other Aurors?” asked Granger.

“Yes, and I’ve seen them sometimes at George’s shop too,” added Johnson. “We’ve also been assigned less... exciting cases. We’ve not had any sort of work outside of London and the surrounding areas which, statistically, just feels off.”

“It’s like we’re on an unofficial leash. They know I’m close with Hermione, but with the official investigation into Azkaban concluded, the… controversy for lack of a better term over me testifying for you should have died down a long time ago.”

“There’s sort of a split in ideology,” explained Johnson. “Some Aurors who want to do the right thing. And some who will close rank around the department. They’re keen to brand me and Harry as trouble-makers since then, and with us still prying into things through the guards, it feels like we have targets on our backs.”

“So meeting you two for casual drinks in a very public place will hopefully contribute to lessening whatever suspicions some of the DMLE seem to have about us. Anyway, how’s your bit going?” asked Potter.  “Any other way to confirm Malfoy’s experiment theory?”

Draco swallowed a mouthful of terrible-tasting beer and with it, a bitter feeling of unease. 

“No more than what we already know, unless we can glean more information from our next in-person advocacy sessions with the inmates. But actually I did receive some good news earlier. Derek Stanford finally replied to one of my owls. Sorry,” she turned quickly to Draco with an apologetic grimace. “I didn’t mean to keep anything from you, but it wasn’t one of your office days and I figured I’d just tell everyone together.”

She even reached under the table and squeezed his hand. I’m sorry, it said, again. I would never intentionally hide things from you.

Draco threw back the rest of his drink in one go. The bitter unease became a burning shame instead, slipping down his throat and slinking through his veins.

“The warden?” Potter asked. “What do we know about him?” 

“Not much,” answered Johnson. “He’s been in the position since after the initial post-war trials. I don’t think he was a personal appointment of Kingsley’s though.”

“What would happen?” Draco tossed out abruptly. “If the warden gives us a good lead. Who can we take this to? Your boss?”

Granger’s hand squeezed his again. He knew it was because he’d said “we” and “us.”

Fuck. The slinking burn intensified to an almost boiling point. It would soon corrode away his organs like an acid.

Potter ran a hand through his aesthetically bothersome hair. “No. Robards wants to run for Minister next election cycle, and he’s taking all the usual steps in that direction. He takes way fewer cases himself, he’s shut in his office most days, and from what I can tell of his public appearances, is all too happy to extoll the virtues of longer sentencing at Azkaban, of how that makes society safer. I don’t think we can count on him for help.”

“He wants to appear tough on criminals,” added Johnson. “He’s got so many in our department marching to the beat of that drum. Many of the Aurors were with him in the aftermath of Voldemort’s downfall and put a lot of those Death Eaters away.”

“We’ll find a way Harry, I know it,” said Granger with that determined glint in her eye. Draco could see how fiercely she believed it too. How she’d always believe it. She’d fight any battle, wage any war for the right cause and after everything she’d been through with Potter, had earned that unshakeable belief that she could—that they could—always win. 

If her cause was just enough, if she worked hard enough, she could raze the fucking world. She made it look disturbingly easy. As if one could just simply decide, “I am a good person and I shall upend every unjust system put in my path, no matter the cost.”

With nothing more to discuss about their clandestine investigation, Draco was forced to endure another disgusting drink and a torturous further hour in the company of the Chosen One. 

While that was painful in and of itself, it was nothing compared to the festering panic, the pull to sink into despair. Because he wanted to luxuriate in this triumph with Granger. He wanted to help her save the day, for once. Have her keep looking at him with pride, as if he contributed something good in her life. 

Despite his inner workings being eaten away by actual swill and the lingering discomfort of keeping key information from Granger, he survived the evening as if nothing were amiss.

But later that night when they’d gone their separate ways and he tried to sleep in his bed, his mood turned at once desultory and frantic. Was there something innate about him that prevented Draco from ever being capable of heroism? 

The last time he’d felt this hopeless, this helpless in an impossible situation, he’d done any and every desperate act to save himself and his parents. 

And look where that route had led him. He’d almost killed two innocent people accidentally, and spurred the events that led to Dumbledore’s death. 

Perhaps now he should do nothing. That way he’d avoid getting anyone else hurt, and see that Theo stayed safe. Theo had said it was over and done with and as long as he kept quiet then no harm should come to him or Blaise. Draco would be lying if his natural nightmare at Granger’s didn’t come into play here. Visions of Blaise and Theo suffering, and having no recourse to protect them, to somehow shield them, would haunt him for a while still.

But that decision to keep quiet had to contend with the very loud sound of Granger in his head, urging him to do the honourable thing. 

Because Draco wasn’t alone this time. He could actually ask for help. Was that the right course of action here?

He knew he couldn’t come to a decision tonight as he felt that unwelcome sensation of the walls closing in. He’d run out of time soon and then it would no longer be in his hands at all. For now, it felt to Draco like he had some semblance of control; the tiniest bit of a grip on the situation. The second he let this train out of the station, he’d no longer be the one driving it. He had no power over what happened next.

And didn’t that scare the daylights out of him. He’d had to operate from a position of desperate fear before and knew it was the worst motivator of all.

When he arrived in her office the next morning to help draft some of the questions for their appointment with the warden, Draco still hadn’t come to any sort of decision. He had no idea what he and Theo were up against, what that would mean for him and Blaise, and how Granger might get pulled into a possibly dangerous situation.

So he stole these few moments and just watched her. He didn’t know how many more mornings he would get like this. Of seeing her already hunched over her desk, curls pinned back for now, bright-eyed and prepared to make her mark on the world. 

“Good morning,” she looked up with a smile when she heard him arrive. 

“I’d like to kiss you good morning.”

“Draco, I have to concentrate when I’m here.”

He offered her an apologetic half-smirk, and took up his post behind his desk. 

He let her get on with actual work for most of the morning and behaved professionally while they drafted the interview questions. 

But once she retreated to silently work on her own for a bit, taking his revisions under advisement, adding her own brilliance and probably crafting something extraordinary, Draco began losing his patience. His wild panic at the thought of betraying either his friend or her transfigured into a need to just keep her for a few more moments of his fucked up life.

This manifested in him attempting, of course, to distract her for lascivious reasons. 

“Do you mind if I read this aloud?”

“Go ahead,” she said absentmindedly and continued writing.

“Dated today, a list of things, in no particular order, that I, Draco Malfoy, would like to do to Hermione Granger.”

Her quill stopped moving along her parchment.

“Let’s amend that. Here are things in the proper order, I should like to do to Granger.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m working, obviously, if you’d stop interrupting. Now, where was I? Yes, top of my list, invent a reason for Granger to walk over to my desk.”

“Draco I’ve told you, not during my office hours.”

“Once she is within grabbing distance, park her right on top of my desk. Let’s see is she—?” He craned his neck over to observe her head to toe. “She is wearing a skirt today, excellent.”

“Draco, I have a lot to do today.”

“Granger does have gorgeous thighs, let’s jot that down. Right, hike up the skirt, slide my palms up her thighs. She makes the most outstanding noises when I touch her, I should record them for posterity.”

“We are not making a sex tape of any kind.”

“What’s that? Sounds scandalous.”

“Draco—”

“Fine, no recordings or written accounts, but just know that I have all of Granger’s noises memorised and frequently revisit them in my imagination. Now, where was I? Ah yes, endeavouring to make Granger come in the loudest possible manner.”

She finally shut up.

“Fingers first I think, she likes to be warmed up with lighter touches.”

More silence.

“Actually, strike that, I have a better idea. I think instead I’ll pull her down and make her ride my thigh, make her work for it a bit. I bet she could come like that, for the first one anyway.”

Silence still. 

“Then I think she can go back up on the desk. Prior experience says she’ll be dripping at this point, which will make for a rather pleasant experience for my mouth on her cunt.”

“Draco.”

His name no longer passed her lips as an admonishment. 

She fucking whimpered it. 

His eyes snapped up to hers. “Say the word. Say the word and I will have you on this desk right now.”

She stood shakily and pointed toward the fireplace.

“Floo. Go. My place.”

The second she stepped through after him, she grabbed him by the front of his robes and quite literally stole his breath.

“We can’t make a habit of this during the work day,” she insisted even as she sat on the couch and pulled Draco down by his tie.

“And why not?” he argued back then sank to his knees before her. “You get a lunch break, do you not?”

“But you know I—” she frantically rucked her skirt up as Draco made quick work of removing her knickers, “—prefer to take it a bit later in the day.”

“Hmm,” he hummed against her inner thigh and kissed his way closer to her cunt. “And I would argue it’s healthy to,” he interrupted himself to swirl his tongue against her clit, “change things up every now and then. Would you say you agree?”

The hands in his hair and the hips moving against his face said she quite agreed. 

She then verbally agreed with many “Yes’s” chanted in a row, but that could also have been in response to the skill of his tongue in combination with his hands beneath the cups of her bra.

His cheeky statement earlier about the sounds she made, while an excellent seduction technique apparently, was also one-hundred percent the truth. Her noises wove together in a fantastic symphony of soft, rapturous cries and pleased hums. This orgasm was no exception.

She stole a glance at her watch as he sat back on his haunches and smirked at her general state of dishevelment. Time seemed to still be on his side, since she hurriedly yanked him to standing, removed his clothes, and all but shoved him onto a loveseat so she could straddle his lap and ride him. 

Draco would take Granger any way he could have her at this point, but something about seeing her in control of the pace, of seeing her in charge of their shared pleasure, thrilled him like nothing else.

“You can go faster than that, can’t you?” He taunted her. 

She smirked down at him, nothing but confident in her ability to shut him up with quicker movements of her hips up and down. Granger had many tools at her disposal to keep him from talking, including but not limited to: sweeping her tongue past his lips, riding him faster, or bringing his head forward to capture a breast in his mouth. 

“See?” he said when they’d finished and she lay curled into him like a lazy kitten, “You have time for the occasional quick workday shag.”

She frowned up at him but seemed too sated to be grumpy or cross with him. The frown lines in her brow shifted slightly to something more akin to pensive.

“I really like you.”

It was a decisive statement, but he could hear all her insecurities lurking behind it: I really like you, please don’t let me down, please don’t hurt me.

“You’re overthinking again. Don’t.” He leaned down and kissed her. “It’s more than mutual, Granger.”

Her habitually wandering fingers trailed from his chest to his collarbone and back again in an endless routine of comforting touch. 

“Once we’ve solved this you won’t have to come into the office anymore.”

“I technically don’t have to come in now,” he countered. 

“I know,” she said in a small, guilty voice. He hated it. He wanted that tone banished from her vocal catalogue. 

“If I invited you to dinner with my mother, what would you say?”

“Oh!” she blinked up at him, surprised at both the question and the abrupt topic change. “Is that something she’s requested?”

Such a lawyer.

“She’s certainly hinted at it enough times.”

“I see. Would these hints lean towards the more approving or disapproving side of the spectrum, in your opinion?”

Such a fucking lawyer.

“She’d like to meet you, Granger, if you’re willing, of course. I’d like it, too.”

“At your home?”

“Of course.”

Neither needed to elaborate on the particular reason for the choice of venue. She pecked his lips and got up from his lap to stretch her limbs and redress. She had another one of her frowns on, the one that meant she was thinking through every possible outcome of an imagined scenario.

“Would it be less of a lift on your part if my aunt—Andromeda—were to be present as well?”

She whirled around, fingers paused in the act of buttoning up her blouse. Her eyes widened in surprised wonder at how he’d known precisely what to do here.

So Draco Malfoy does know how to be considerate , it said and her lips twitched into a grin.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” she replied.

He could care, he wanted to tell her, he could care so deeply and fully for someone else and want to meet their needs instead of just constantly serving his own.

Draco didn’t have that life lesson until it had been far too late. He hadn’t known any examples of this in his upbringing. Some, like Theo and Blaise, had attempted to show him, but the lesson never seemed to stick.

Until now.

If he thought about it, Granger had shown him all along. Not actively of course, not at first. At first she’d just existed on the periphery of his life as they orbited around each other at school; both ignorant to how they’d been circling closer and closer as their antithetical worldviews would lead them down parallel paths to the same destination of a war fought mostly by children. 

She’d always been so forthright in her pursuit of selfless care for those in her sphere, and now she stood right in front of him, both consciously and unconsciously leading him into a life filled with certain joy. He could now allow himself to be something good for someone else. 

One made sacrifices and displayed vulnerabilities as a choice, Draco finally understood. Not the illusion of choice, like he’d had his whole entire worthless life, but a genuine choice. 

Her explanation from the other night made a reappearance in his brain. 

An offering. 

Soon, Draco told himself. He’d take a few more days to research how to best help Theo then he’d tell her everything. 

The next evening, Draco still hadn’t decided the best way to reveal Theo’s predicament to Granger. They were at his place this time, and she sat in her armchair with her growing pile of tomes by his fireplace.

He watched her read from his armchair. She shifted every now and then; leaned closer if she wanted to re-read something, sat up straighter if she disagreed with a statement, tucked her knees under her if she became enthralled with a passage.

Draco stared at her, wondering how he could possibly start a conversation he wasn’t sure he wanted to have at all.

She suddenly gave a small jump and fished her charmed Galleon out of her trouser pocket. 

“What’s got Potter all hot and bothered this evening?” drawled Draco.

She jolted up in alarm at the message. “A missing persons report was just filed in the DMLE for Derek Stanford.”

“Who?”

“The warden.”

Chapter Text

Independent research had led Draco absolutely nowhere. Thick tomes full of legal theory left him almost cross-eyed when he tried to find workarounds for Theo. He considered himself a cut above most people in the intelligence department, but the unfamiliar terms, jargon, and complicated webs of citations, Latin, footnotes, bylaws, caveats, and on and on and on and Draco wanted to murder every lawyer for their glaring and violent abuse of commas.

One sentence should not go on for a full Merlin-damned page. 

He needed Granger for this, there was nothing else for it. Yet, days kept sliding by in a haze of bleary-eyed reading, dealing with Potter’s frantic messages and theories about the missing warden and whinging that he and Johnson weren’t involved in the search. But Draco now also played host to the ever-constant companion of guilt. 

He clung closer to Granger when they could be physically together. He wondered if she could sense it in his touches, fraught with a sudden urge to keep holding on to her, keep kissing her, keep keep keep to stave off the fear of losing. 

Every moment with her felt stolen; a cheating of fate by prolonging this bliss. Because those hours when he couldn’t have her in his arms, when he couldn’t lose himself in her, he lingered in guilt-riddled agony. He had to dial back his time in her office because he knew sitting across the room from her would be unbearable. 

Draco wasn’t sleeping again. 

When he showed up for their programme work, Draco had trouble focusing on anything as they arranged the Portkey. He nodded absently at everything Granger said, hardly hearing her or knowing if nodding would even make sense in the conversation.

Despite Granger being consumed by unravelling the mystery, she’d surely noticed Draco acting oddly.

“Who are we seeing today?” he asked as they approached Azkaban. 

“Just two appointments, remember? Ben Sinclair and Flint.”

“Flint? Thought he’d given up his little power play with having his lawyer present?”

“I told you all this already, he’s said he’d like to return to how it was before. Hey,” she tugged on his arm to halt their progress up the stone steps. “You seem distracted today. Everything all right?”

“I’m fine, don’t nag.”

Her head jerked back and her features fell in hurt at the cold way he’d brushed her off. She quickly masked it and set her mouth in a grim line. 

“Fine.”

She made to stalk past him, but he snagged her wrist. He ran his thumb along her pulse point, a physical apology to precede the verbal one.

“Wait… sorry. I—I didn’t sleep so well last night and I’m just… out of sorts.”

She softened immediately. Her benediction of forgiveness so easy for him to earn now. Now that she trusted him so fully. 

Granger caring about him, harbouring affection for him, was no longer a foreign sensation; a forbidden desire locked away when he’d needed to protect his mind from wandering into a dangerous dream world. Now, he could look down into her expressive eyes and accept that their relationship hadn’t been such an unattainable fantasy after all.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, searching his face as she bit her lip. He saw when she arrived at a decision, when she’d determined her next action.

She fished something out of her jacket pocket and pressed a small, round object into his hand. 

“I’ve been… well I’ve had this for a day or so now. Actually that’s a lie, a bit longer.”

Draco stared down at the Galleon he now held.

“You know I’m obscenely wealthy, right?”

“It’s not actual money.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, inviting elaboration.

“It’s charmed. You know, like the one I have to communicate with Harry?” She tucked an errant curl behind her ear, self-consciousness taking her cheeks hostage with a brilliant flush. “But um, this one is just for you.”

He could make no adequate reply to this gesture. His inability to form words spurred her to ramble further.

“I thought, you know, it’d be quicker to reach me if you’re not near a Floo and you needed me. Or, uh, vice versa.”

“So do you toss enchanted gold at every man in your life?” He hoped teasing her would inject some levity into the salty sea air thick with far more than just brine.

“No, only the most important ones.”

“Right,” he said, and he curled his fingers around it. His throat felt tighter than usual. 

Another offering. 

What could he possibly say to this, to being rendered immobile and mute by a little bit of faux currency?

“I’m—”

He was what? Honoured, flummoxed, humbled, speechless, properly fucking elated? Perhaps feeling far too much for having earned something this monumental from this particular woman?

“I’m thinking I’ll probably abuse this for naughty purposes.”

She whacked him on the arm but there was an undeniable sparkle of thrill in her eye at his acceptance. He couldn’t offer her any of the sentimental drivel she might have gotten from Weasley, and Draco knew Granger didn’t expect it of him. 

She’d accepted what he’d offered of himself and apparently, that was enough for now.

As Draco slipped the coin into his pocket, he shot her a forced smirk. Because along with those wondrous feelings came the answering battle cry of regret, pain, shame, trepidation, and anxiety.

Oh yeah, and the fucking guilt. 

They walked in silence through the gates and through the monotony of the standard wand check and security protocols.

Just before they entered the interview room, Draco stroked a hand down her back then traced the path back up. 

“Thank you,” he said in a low voice and pressed a kiss to her curls. The double-edged sword of her answering smile: a boon for the exhilaration it gave him and a liability for the wound it stabbed through his chest.

Ben Sinclair was their first meeting of two for the day. The Sinclairs were what Lucius would call “a tertiary family.” Meaning: definitely not Sacred Twenty-Eight by virtue of sloppy relatives or at least, relatives not adept at hiding matches or dalliances of “impurity.” They still held with the values of the Dark Lord and contributed to the cause but would not garner an invitation to Malfoy Manor for any sort of social call or event. 

Ben had been two years above Draco in Slytherin, but their paths hadn’t crossed much while at school. An extremely lower-rung Death Eater, more of a Snatcher than anything, he’d been one of the unfortunate fall men like Goyle in the post-war uproar to restore justice. 

Ben appeared nervous to the point of almost passing out at their first advocacy session, particularly whenever Granger addressed him directly. Which meant Draco had been the one to form a rapport, keeping with Granger’s initial prediction all those months ago about some of these men being more willing to open up to him than a Muggleborn war heroine. The Muggleborn war heroine.

Recently, Draco had gotten him to divulge more about some of his more rational, less fanatical family members. Ben would serve a sentence for four more months, then be a free man. One of his uncles owned an apothecary and he hoped to work in the shop and possibly even take refresher potions courses. 

“How are you Ben?” Granger gave him a bright smile that he tried to return. 

“I’m well, thank you Hermione.”

“Well, I come bearing horrible news for you.” Draco slid a few quidditch magazines on the table. “Your Tornadoes are tanking in the standings now that they’ve lost their star Beater.”

He leaned forward with a frown to read the scores. “Damn. I knew our reserve roster wasn’t deep enough. Who’s favoured to win the conference now?”

“The Arrows.”

“Pity. Better them than your Falcons though.”

“Watch it, Sinclair, it sounds like you’re awfully envious of our record 27 league champion titles.”

“Easy when you’ve got more gold than any other team and can basically buy any player you like. Rich tossers.”

Granger let the quidditch banter carry on for a bit, letting Draco lull Ben into a more comfortable posture in the hard-backed metal chair across from them.

“I know we’ve asked you a bit before,” Granger said carefully, “but we were wondering if you might remember anything at all from that several months long period of isolation?”

His features immediately fell. His whole body went rigid. “Why… why have we got to talk about that? I told you, I don’t know anything.”

“Just covering our bases,” said Granger, attempting a chipper tone. “You’ve got an interim warden now, so we just want to see if perhaps any of the prisoners might remember something that could help with the investigation into the disappearance of Warden Derek Stanford.”

Ben shook his head back and forth, light brown hair almost a curtain over his now ashen face. 

“Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t make me… don’t make me go back.”

“Back where?”

“No no no no I don’t want to see it anymore, I don’t know… what they did to me, I don’t know, I don’t know. I can’t go back.”

“Go where? Ben, did someone hurt you?”

“Please please, I don’t know anything, I didn’t do anything, just don’t make me remember.” His eyes darted around the room and his breathing sped up, quickly building to a panic. 

“Ben, just calm down, no one wants to hurt you,” Granger tried again, but Draco could see she wouldn’t be able to reach him now.

“No no no no no no,” he clutched his head in his hands as he rocked back and forth in his chair. Granger looked distressed and her arm made a sort of twitching motion in her lap. Draco knew if it weren’t against prison protocol she would have laid a soothing hand on his arm.

“No, you don’t understand, you don’t know, I can’t sleep now, I can’t I can’t I can’t, don’t make me, I don’t want to anymore, please, please,” he was almost sobbing now, begging and pleading with them but with glazed, unseeing eyes and Draco knew they’d not get anything reliable out of him in this state.

“I’ll do it this time, I’ll go through with it, don’t think I won’t,” Ben babbled and clutched at his wrist.

With a sickening rush of understanding, Draco realised that Ben had just confirmed Draco’s long-held suspicion of a past suicide attempt. Draco knew what the wide eyes, desperate words, harsh intakes of air all meant: so afraid of something intangible, that Ben had once resorted to trying a permanent escape and would prefer that over whatever had happened during the isolation period. 

Fear. Acute, blinding, nauseating fear.

Draco had known it for roughly thirty minutes, even if it had felt like a lifetime, inside his own dream. But it had only been one occurrence. He’d not been able to pull the specific number out of Theo, but based on the paperwork Draco had studied for months and Granger’s proposed timeline of events, Sinclair had experienced a state of fear for weeks on end.

He remembered the Theo from his Sixth Year dormitory. The one who’d warned him of the darker potential for his ability. 

Draco now saw the physical manifestation of the consequences of said potential. It looked like a mad, on the verge of tears, young man so afraid of what his own mind had conjured during sleep that he’d have taken a deadly way out to avoid seeing those imagined terrors again.

Draco could only watch in horror as Granger called for two guards for assistance and they dragged a thrashing, pleading Sinclair out of the room. The ringing silence left in his haunting wake wanted to choke Draco. 

This was unconscionable. Theo had to come forward and Draco would have to protect him how he could, because leaving people like Ben to suffer with no hope for recourse couldn’t stand. 

The Galleon in his pocket felt like it weighed two tons.

Granger let out a few shaky exhales then turned to Draco. “Are you all right? I didn’t mean… God, I hadn’t meant to set him off like that,” she said, clearly perturbed. 

Draco grabbed her hand. “You did nothing wrong. He’s just… well I think whatever happened here… well it affected him more than most. You couldn’t have known.”

“No, but you’d told me previously that you’d suspected him to be one of the more serious depressive cases. I should have taken more care with him.”

Gods, she would do that. She would try to shoulder blame for something not even close to her responsibility. 

For now, Draco could only offer a pitiful physical comfort with a fleeting touch. It might be the last time she allowed him to do so. 

She snapped right back into lawyer mode as Flint was led into the room.

“No legal representation this time Flint?” asked Granger coolly, and despite his inner turmoil, Draco couldn’t help the swell of pride at her tone. Merlin, she was always so fucking fearless.

Flint shrugged his shoulders and leaned back, trying to appear at ease. 

“I thought we could have a little chat. Explore my options post-release. That is what your little initiative is meant to actually do, yes? Check on my general well-being here and then set me on the path to success once I’ve served my time?”

“What options would you like to explore?”

“I want to know what you can offer me, Granger. The warden just up and goes missing, vanishes into thin air, and we’re just all going to pretend that’s fine?”

“I hardly see how that relates to you. Mr. Stanford’s case is currently being investigated by the DMLE.”

Flint let out a harsh laugh. “Don’t be surprised when they hand you some tidy excuse in a few months’ time and label it ‘unsolved.’”

“Do you know something about his disappearance? Because if so, you are legally obligated to—”

Flint cut her off. “You’re so pathetically naive, both of you. To a man like Warden Derek Stanford, Azkaban was his kingdom. Your father’s death,” he nodded at Draco, “was quite the blow, because before that the DMLE left him alone to do as he liked, essentially.”

“Speak plainly Flint and quit wasting our time,” drawled Draco. 

“Men like Stanford thrive by existing in the grey. He took over a crumbling institution no one wanted to touch with a ten-foot broomstick and made sure all the good, law-abiding citizens felt safe in their beds at night. And he did that by cutting a few corners, you understand, when it came to civil rights of inmates.”

“Do you have evidence of further mistreatment other than what was uncovered by the recent DMLE investigation?” asked Granger, voice sharp.

Flint scoffed. “Potter’s big investigation into abuse or neglect by guards did nothing but weed out the obvious cases. Problems Stanford himself would probably have taken care of and then swept under the rug without anyone hearing about it.”

“Are you saying that you have suspicions of more corruption?”

“What I’m saying is you don’t operate this system for years on end without a bit of inside help at the governmental level.”

“Like spinning a tale of a dragon pox outbreak?”

“Perhaps.”

“So spit it out then,” Draco said shortly. “Now’s your chance. You want Granger’s help? Earn it. Tell us what happened during those months.”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t? Which is it Flint because we’re running out of patience here,” snapped Draco.

“I can’t recall. Do you understand?” Flint cast a quick gaze over at the door behind his shoulder. “I am unable to recall. But I’d agree to certain, ah… procedures for recollection.”

Granger sat back in her chair and surveyed Flint, performing at once an intake of the information and scanning it for truth. 

“What would you want? In exchange for uncovering memories. No guarantees, mind you, we’d have many steps before we’d reach that point.”

“What every prisoner wants. To not be murdered and to get the hell out of here sooner.”

Granger sized him up again and to Flint’s credit, he neither looked away from her scrutinising gaze nor did he sneer. Draco hated that he couldn’t help with this decision. She’d have to personally weigh her own scruples, her own moral code, her duty as a lawyer against aiding someone who’d rather see her cut down by a wand at worst or cast out of wizarding society at best. 

Her benevolent sense of justice won out, as it always did.

“I can’t promise a favourable outcome, nor will I agree to personally handle your case. But if you are willing to cooperate, I will assign you a solicitor from my firm to take you on for your next parole eligibility hearing. The firm you’ve used for your family for decades is actually a bit of a laughingstock in legal circles.”

Flint’s lips twitched. 

“You’ve got a deal, Granger.”

“You could thank her,” drawled Draco.

“I’m sure you’ll take care of personally rewarding her on my behalf.”

And just like almost every other visit, Granger had to stop Draco from drawing his wand while Flint was led away to his cell.

Granger seemed in a good mood as they returned to her office. She had another piece of her puzzle with Flint agreeing to supply his memories of the supposed cover-up. 

She began scribbling on parchment and then periodically floating new ideas and theories over to her investigation wall. 

Draco watched her work for a few uninterrupted minutes. He let the time distend on: Granger in her purest form. Carried away by an idea and having brilliant thought after brilliant thought. Reading and researching and trying and caring so much that it cascaded out of her, overflowing in an abundance of her relentless pursuit of truth in this fucked up and unfair world.

Draco needed to finally pull his weight. 

“What sort of protections are available?”

“For Flint?” Her head jerked up from her notes. “Plenty, but I’m not sure his claims will be taken seriously, or would even be enough for us to launch another official investigation. I think it’s time I looped in Sterling. We’ll need to file for permission to have Flint’s memories reviewed by a court.”

“No, not for Flint.” Draco played for time by fiddling with one of her paperweights. It was a ceramic tooth, a gag gift from her parents. Her mother had written “Always fight tooth and nail!” on one side of it. Her father had penned “Root out the bastards!” on the other. 

“What if someone outside the prison had information? But perhaps certain circumstances prevented them from coming forward. Fear of retaliation in the form of, I don’t know, job loss or even physical danger?”

“Draco, why are you asking me this?”

He released the tooth and looked at her. Another moment he let extend on, wondering if doing something good always had to come at such a high cost. 

“I might… have information. I might know something, or rather someone, who was a large part of running the experiment at Azkaban.”

“Who?”

“I can’t say just yet.”

It was not often he’d seen Granger stunned into silence. And this wasn’t shock in a fun way: shock at something salacious or romantic he’d said. This was a surrender to surprise because disbelief had taken her mind captive. 

She stared at him and Draco catalogued the different ways he’d fucked up by the emotions displayed: Hurt. Anger. Betrayal. 

“How long have you known?”

“I can’t… I can’t say anything more until I know they’ll be safe if they come forward.”

Her pained face regarded him for a beat more before she abruptly grabbed a fresh piece of parchment. She wrote furiously for a few moments of terrifying silence before folding the piece and sending it off in the form of a flying memo. It flew across the room and slipped under her door to its intended recipient.

When she looked back at Draco, the cold layer of a person trained in a legal career masked the Granger he’d come to know. Not the blazing fire of a passionate advocate, nor the fierce fury of a warrior, but the protective chill of cool professionalism.

“If Sterling and I are filing an official whistle-blower investigation I’ll need your statement on record. And I’m… I’m compromised. If you’re a witness to all this, I want it officially noted. I’ll have Sterling conduct the formal interview.”

“I’m not a witness, I just know the identity of someone who is a witness and I—”

A returning memo interrupted any explanation, excuse, or pleading elaboration he might want to attempt. Granger’s mouth set in a resigned line as she read it.

“If you have information pertinent to our evidence-gathering of illegal activities at a government institution and are willing to share it with the firm, we would appreciate your formal statement. Tomorrow, preferably, if you’re not busy.”

“This formality is unnecessary, I—”

“You may bring your own legal representation if you wish.”

“I don’t require legal representation, for fuck’s sake Granger, just let me—”

“Draco, stop.”

She’d voluntarily lowered her shield. It morphed into a spear and Draco felt the pierce as she swallowed a lump in her throat. 

“If you meant anything you’ve ever said to me since we’ve been together, you will show up in Sterling’s office tomorrow morning,” she whispered hoarsely.

Draco buried any other pathetic responses to her, knowing he could not rectify the damage he’d caused. Not yet. 

He took one final look at her as he spun through the fireplace. Already seated back at her desk with quill in hand. But this time with brimming eyes.

Still a warrior. But a wounded one.

Draco fired off an owl to Theo the second he returned home, even though it was mid afternoon. 

Come over tonight, as soon as you can. We need to talk.

Theo made good on Draco’s abrupt request, Floo’ing straight from the Ministry into Draco’s study. One of his elves would probably need to re-buff the floor with all the pacing Draco had done while waiting for his friend.

“What excuse did you give Blaise?”

“Just wrote and told him I’d be working late.”

Theo accepted a tumbler of amber liquid.

“Unprompted alcohol huh? Is this about what I fear it’s about?”

“We have to ask for help Theo, it’s time.”

Theo took a deep sip of his drink and said nothing, sinking into a plush armchair and the burn provided by whisky. Draco took the chair opposite and leaned forward. 

“I went to the prison today. Granger asked one of the inmates a simple question about that phony dragon pox outbreak and he looked like he wanted to die. I’ve felt that fear before, not just from what you did to me, but I’ve had to live in that fear. I know how it can wreck a man.”

Theo glared at him. An uncommon expression of malice on a normally kind face. 

“Don’t you think I know what I—” but he cut himself off, shaking his head back and forth, fighting with the magic that suppressed whatever he may have wanted to divulge. 

“I know you can’t tell me anything more,” said Draco in a placating tone. “Granger has a plan, but it will involve you revealing your ability to her and telling her what you can for now.”

“So why isn’t Hermione here?”

Of course Theo would ask. Would sense the desperation in Draco’s voice. He shifted back in his seat, swirling some more liquid courage down his throat in place of the real thing. 

“We’ve had a bit of a… a misunderstanding. I think I’ve lost her trust for a bit. But I’m trying to… course correct. Which is why I need you.”

“Is this about fixing your relationship?”

“I can admit that’s a pretty strong motivator. But Theo, it’s more than that. You know it is. I’ve never been good at helping people. Me trying to help has been disastrous, frankly. But this time, this time we have someone who we can actually trust. And I know you Theo. I know you want to make things right.”

Theo sized him up over the rim of his glass. A calculating stare to ascertain the level of dedication Draco had to this situation. 

“You have that much faith in her.”

“No,” Draco disagreed. “I have all my faith in her. She doesn’t know how to fail.”

Theo assessed him again. A reluctant, wry smile eventually graced his features.

“Gods you know… I’m happy for you, you know that? If you could see yourself, like Blaise and I see you,” Theo broke off and stared into his drink. “This is a fucked up thing, I won’t deny it, and I wish this had come about in just about any other way but Draco, seeing you find someone worthy of you is fantastic.”

“I—thanks, I guess. I might have cocked it up. Massively.”

Theo gave an encouraging squeeze to his shoulder, a rare physical display of kindness that Draco secretly welcomed.

His friend’s face turned hesitant. “One more time. One final time I need you to swear to me that if we do this we can keep Blaise safe.”

“I can promise you that we’ll try and with Granger involved that our odds look good. Do you really want to live your life constantly looking over your shoulder? Waiting for the day you can’t protect Blaise or yourself anymore? Because let me tell you, I’ve been there and it’s fucking terrifying.”

Though Draco could see that fear hadn’t quite dissolved from Theo’s features, resolve to do the right thing eventually won out. 

“I know. I know, and I appreciate that you can relate, as depressing as that is so—” Theo let out a frustrated breath. “I’ll meet with her. Just tell me when.”

Draco didn’t expect to see Granger when he arrived in Sterling’s office. But she sat in a chair next to Sterling, quill poised over parchment and prepared to take notes. 

She didn’t greet or look at Draco. She kept her eyes down. She’d be all business today, she’d keep up that unbothered act in his presence. But he knew her too well now. She wore her least favourite work robes. No makeup, no jewellery. The Granger he’d seen on that morning months ago who thought she could hide her misery after her breakup with Weasley.

Had she slept poorly? Did she get up in the middle of the night and bake something terrible? Did she know how Draco hadn’t slept either? That he’d tossed and turned and when he eventually slept he dreamt of the most mundane things when he’d wanted to dream of her? So he could at least see her?

“Mr. Malfoy, thank you for coming in today,” said Sterling in that professional monotone. “May I offer you tea or coffee while we await your solicitor?”

“No, thank you, and as I already told Granger, there’s no need for the formality. We’re not waiting on anyone.”

“In that case, do you agree that anything said today may be submitted to a court of law as evidence of illegal activity?”

“I do.”

“Hermione has brought me up to speed on the suspected situation occurring at Azkaban. What more can you tell us?”

“I have reason to believe that the Department of Mysteries conducted an unethical experiment at Azkaban.”

“Hermione has already provided all of the evidence collected thus far. What else can you tell us to back up your claim?”

Though he had no cause to do so, Draco squirmed in his seat at being subjected to the brisk, rapid questioning. 

“That evidence is all conjecture and will get you nowhere with the Wizengamot. I know a person directly involved with the running of the suspected experiment willing to testify.”

“Name?”

“Not just yet.” Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Granger roll her eyes at her notes. “I’d like to clarify a few things first. Is there a workaround? For the oath the Unspeakables take?”

“Yes, the Squib Experiment trials created the legal precedent for it,” rattled off Sterling without a second thought. “If this is an official whistleblower case, the charm can be removed and the Unspeakable can testify.”

“How?”

“We petition the Wizengamot to undo the charm by filing a claim on behalf of the Unspeakable, provided we have enough reason to believe it’s a necessary step.”

“Rather than reveal their name now, what if I were to bring them here? You can question them to the best of your ability and decide if it’s enough.”

Mentor and protégé exchanged glances and seemed to arrive at agreement.

“We’ll expect you on Monday morning then, Mr. Malfoy.”

Sterling stood and offered him the professional courtesy of a handshake. While there was nothing malicious in the perfunctory conclusion and dismissal of Draco, the blue eyes said something else entirely.

Granger didn’t say a word, but gathered her notes and stalked past Draco. 

“Granger, wait.”

She stopped and turned to him with an imperious glare that screamed, I swear to Merlin if you embarrass me in front of my boss I will hex your bollocks off.

“Could we speak somewhere in private?”

Her eyes shifted; looking down and around the room, anywhere but at him.

“Please?”

She finally looked at him and gave a brisk nod, then turned on her heel and led him to her office.

She dumped her notebook and files perhaps a little harder than she intended to on her desk as some slipped off and she gave a frustrated swish of her wand to set everything back to rights.

“What do you want?”

“Is your office warded for privacy?”

“Of course it is, what kind of lawyer do you take me for?”

“I’ll be bringing Theo in.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“You seem unsurprised,” said Draco.

She clucked her tongue. “Of course it was Theo you were protecting, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together, Draco. But I just wanted to hear the truth from you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you. Before.”

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t.”

“You withheld information from me. Crucial information. You lied by omission.”

Always out-lawyered by her.

“I made a promise to my friend years ago, back at school. I said I’d never tell anyone about his abilities.”

She slapped her palm on her desk. “Damn it Draco, this is so far beyond some promise you made as a teenager!”

“I wasn’t going to betray Theo. I’ll not put him in harm’s way.”

“And what about everyone else, hmm? Do you not care about the harm that’s been done to others? That could continue if we don’t bring this to light?”

“Theo is my priority. He’s the one I’ll protect here.”

Her lip curled. “Yes, well I think we both know how your desire to only protect your own has brought devastation to the rest of us in the past.”

Draco couldn’t help but flinch at her cutting words.

“Low blow, Granger.”

She looked apologetic but offered nothing by way of verbal contrition. It might have been a cruel statement from her normally kind lips, but it wasn’t incorrect.

“Did you not trust me with this?” The hurt in her tone, the notion that Draco hadn’t confided in her because he doubted her reliability, gave a harsh twist to the spear still lanced through his chest from yesterday. 

“No, I did. I do.”

“Then why not tell me as soon as you suspected? Why make me, make us, go round in circles for weeks? You watched me hit dead end after dead end and all the while you kept this from me. Did you not believe in what we’re doing here? I thought—I thought you cared about the work, about the programme.”

I thought you were better than this spilled over from her tone.

“I’m sorry, but I had to be sure first. And Theo’s… ability is something only myself and Blaise know about.”

He’d piqued her curiosity now. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned an ability. What is it that Theo can do?”

“What do you know of magically cast dreams? Dream parameters set by another person based on a particular emotion.”

She furrowed her brow, transformed into the Hermione Granger who’d memorised knowledge, tucked it away, and could now recall that knowledge on a whim. 

“Do you mean empathic dream magic? There’s a few texts on dream states specific to the magical world but it’s all rather vague in my opinion.”

“It’s real.”

She raised one skeptical eyebrow.

“In my Sixth Year he did it for me. When I couldn’t sleep because of... because of the horrifying situation… the task I’d been given. And I’ll admit, I thought he was full of it too, but then he used his power to give me one night of pleasant dreaming. Probably the best sleep I’d ever had.”

He tried to hold her gaze but she looked away, casting her stare to a point over his shoulder.

“What was your dream?”

She might be angry with him, but nothing could tamp down Granger’s desire to learn something new.

“He cast happiness. And I dreamt of living my life on my own terms. I’d survived the war and reached adulthood and I had… I had a family.” 

Draco twisted the two rings on his fingers, one after the other. “Not just in name, you understand, I had what I’d ached for possibly my entire worthless life. A child who looked up to me, who didn’t fear me. An actual, real relationship with both my parents. And a wife who… well more like an equal, really.” 

Her eyes flicked briefly to his, but didn’t linger, moving to a random spot on her desk instead. 

He could respect her need to shy away, and so he’d carry the bravery load for a bit. 

“She was gorgeous and kind, but so fucking cheeky you wouldn’t believe,” he let out a reluctant chuckle. “And smart. So smart. It was amazing she let me even discuss the same topics as her.”

“Sounds lovely,” she clipped. 

“I always thought you were brilliant, you know. Even if my stupid, younger self refused to acknowledge it aloud.”

That got her attention. 

“Are you saying… that you dreamt of me? Back then?”

She didn’t look disturbed by this confession, but intrigued. 

“Not quite. Blaise explained it to me once. How it wasn’t necessarily you, more a familiar stand-in for something good. A sign that I had something I could live for and hope for beyond the awful position I’d found myself in during Sixth Year.”

When she nodded and lowered her eyes, Draco quietly added, “The dream showed me a person that I could know happiness with, should I care to earn it. My ideal partner.”

She looked up again through her lashes, wetting her lips nervously before tossing out the question he knew she’d ask.

“And how does the real thing compare?”

“You don’t. It’s not even close.” 

Draco couldn’t take the distance any longer and stalked around her desk, reaching for her. “You are so much more than I could ever—”

“Stop. Please.”

He stopped his progress and dropped his arms as she hugged herself around her middle.

Wounded still. 

Because he’d taken her offering and not given fully in return. Granger had every right to retreat for a time, he knew that. It didn’t stop him from feeling bereft and unsure of where they currently stood with each other. 

His honourable traitor of a mouth asked, “Do you want me to leave?”

“No. But I think I need you to. For now.”

Draco respected her wishes. He clung to her last two words like a tiny string of hope, pulled taut and threatened by an impending tug. If he pulled too hard, if he grabbed and yanked at it like every instinct within him screamed at him to do, he knew it would snap. He’d be left with nothing but his regret and a Galleon that hadn’t once warmed with an incoming message from her.

Alone again in bed that night, he gave into the temptation. He grabbed the coin and his wand from the nightstand and sent off a confession she deserved to know. 

I eventually let go of the dream. Not sure I’m capable of letting you go.

Chapter Text

Draco had a difficult, trying situation to endure in the form of revealing Theo’s identity and ability to others. Without Blaise’s knowledge. Another person he’d need to briefly betray and then, hopefully, earn back that trust.

Draco expected the impending pain and anxiety that would surely accompany that appointment on Monday morning.

Though he wondered whether it would be more painful than his current reality of dinner with his mother and aunt.

A dinner that should have included Granger.

Draco clung to the hope she’d still attend this previously scheduled occasion. His heart had pathetically leapt with joy when he felt the Galleon warm in his trouser pocket, but her two brisk messages immediately squashed that feeling.

Please apologise to your mother and aunt on my behalf.

I have too much work to catch up on this weekend.

Still no word on what that meant for the two of them as a couple. He resisted the urge to send back another apology at the paperwork he’d probably instigated on top of the emotional turmoil he’d also caused. 

In hindsight, Draco should have given his mother advance notice of Granger’s absence. He should have given her some cobbled together excuse and rescheduled the dinner for some nebulous future time. 

But that would have been admitting defeat in Draco’s mind, and so down to his own tendency to avoid difficulties only to create new ones, Draco had opted to suffer through this stilted meal.

Narcissa had made her extreme displeasure about the lack of Granger known vocally, silently, and in just about every expression and behavioural tic since her arrival. Even the way she cut into her roast duck seemed tinged with bitterness at this evening only being a party of three. 

The sound of cutlery and glasses being set down after dainty sips filled most of the dinner. Until Narcissa could no longer quell her urge to voice, once again, her confusion over Granger’s non-appearance. 

“Draco, I just don’t understand—”

“Mother, I already explained.”

“No, you deflected.”

Draco sipped his wine for a generous amount of time. He’d summon something stronger, but didn’t think that would go over well and he was already on thin ice.

“What is it you don’t understand?”

“Why Miss Granger is not present.”

“She sends her regrets.”

“Sends her regrets, how preposterous. What did you do?”

The narrowed eyes of his mother never failed to get a confession. Obliquely he wondered if in another life she’d consider becoming a barrister too. 

“From my own mother,” he grumbled and rubbed his temples. “Why are you assuming I must have done something?”

Andromeda hid a smile in her wine glass as Narcissa let out a disbelieving scoff.

“So I am to believe that Miss Granger, a young woman your aunt speaks of with the utmost respect, is generally thought to be of the highest integrity, who has formed quite the attachment with you, simply decided to send her regrets and skip out on meeting me?”

“I… fine, I screwed up.”

Narcissa pursed her lips. Evidently being right was not enough to turn her mood around.

“Have you apologised?” asked Andromeda.

“Of course but… well I think it’s going to take a bit more than just words with her.”

His aunt nodded sagely. “She’s very proud. Very stubborn. Reminds me of someone,” she said with a knowing grin.

“You should send her flowers,” suggested his mother. 

“This is more than a sending flowers type of debacle,” he answered and picked at his food. Normally, this desultory habit would have earned him an admonishment from Narcissa about proper table manners, but she seemed too determined to course correct Draco’s relationship instead.

“Jewellery? Your father once had the most gorgeous earrings commissioned for me after he dropped you as an infant.”

“Father dropped me? Wait, he held me?”

“The most beautiful opals you ever saw.”

Draco caught Andromeda’s eye roll. 

“I don’t think Hermione would be interested in material objects in lieu of actual contrition,” she said. 

“Please, Andromeda, if he’s already apologised it can’t hurt his cause. What’s her birthstone darling?”

“Sapphire,” Draco rattled off instantly.

“Oh how fortunate for her,” enthused Narcissa. “There’s at least two pieces that come to mind in the Malfoy vaults. Though I’m not sure her… voluminous hair would lend itself to a tiara.”

“I think she’d prefer I respect her need for solitude at the moment rather than gaudy headwear.”

“Ted was like that,” Andromeda chimed in. “He’d want his space when we argued.”

“How would you ultimately resolve things?” asked Draco. His aunt didn’t often mention her late husband or daughter, at least not in front of Draco and Narcissa. 

“You’re not going to like my advice,” she warned wryly. “But time. If we’d each said our piece, we knew we could come back to each other with clearer heads. If she knows you’re waiting her out, she’ll at least leave an opening. I’ve never known her to be callous with those she cares about.”

Perhaps not, Draco thought dismally as they adjourned to a sitting room for tea, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t earned the right to declare an end to things if he’d hurt her too much. 

His aunt surprised him later by pulling him in for a brief embrace as the women took their leave.

“Nothing wrong with a little patience, as painful as it may seem now. She’s worth it. As are you.”

“Nothing wrong with a sapphire pendant either,” grumbled Narcissa.

Bravery always looked like Granger. 

Draco had known that from an early age. It looked like a young girl with frizzy hair and prominent front teeth, raising her hand as high as it could go in every class. It looked like a girl coming into her own on the arm of Viktor Krum at the Yule Ball. It looked like a young woman bleeding and screaming on the polished floors of a drawing room, refusing to give away her mission. Today it looked like a determined crusader; ready to solidify her theories and find the best path to justice. 

But bravery also looked like Theo. 

Nervous and twitchy, with limbs overflowing in a chair; pale-faced and tense but set on doing the right thing.

Draco sat rigidly beside his friend, trying to exude a calm in his role as an official witness to Theo’s relinquishing of his Unspeakable Oath. As Draco did not possess a power like Theo’s, he could only assist by remaining a steadfast presence as Theo essentially abandoned his entire career. 

Though the coffers of House Nott were more than abundant and he did not need to work in any sense of the word to supplement his livelihood, Draco knew what this had meant to Theo. Attaining a respected profession in their world in which Theo had finally made his own name and redefined what it meant to be a Nott was no small feat. This act today obliterated his Ministry job prospects.

Bravery looked like Theo nodding at Granger and Sterling and saying, “I would like to officially break my Oath so I may assist in this investigation.”

Sterling was not a man to waste his own, or anyone’s, time. The paperwork was laid out, waiting on the desktop. An innocuous document, but Draco couldn’t help the coil of fear that sprang up within him. 

Draco remembered that coil from long ago, when he’d been on the verge of a terrible act. But now, he was aiding and abetting a cause for good. Hopefully to some god of fate or fortune, that might make a difference in the outcome.

“Please hold your wand to the parchment,” instructed Sterling.

Theo’s hand was steady around the handle of his Sycamore wand. 

“Please state your name.”

“Theodore Oneiros Nott.”

“What is your occupation?”

“I am an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries for the Ministry of Magic.”

“Do you wish to have the charm placed upon you by the Ministry removed?”

“I do.”

“Are you asking of your own free will to have this charm removed?”

“I am.”

“You would agree to be questioned under Veritaserum?”

“Yes.”

“You would agree to submit memories for examination?”

“Yes.”

“Do you swear on your magic that you require the breaking of your Unspeakable Oath so as to report on a criminal offense, harm done to an individual or individuals, or a threat to either the secrecy or safety of the magical world?”

“I do.”

An inky black ribbon flowed out of the end of Theo’s wand. It broke apart as it touched the parchment and arranged itself into the letters of his name. 

“Mr. Malfoy, if you could sign here as witness,” said Sterling. 

As Theo did not hesitate, neither would Draco. The second he finished the last letter of his surname, the document curled into a sealed scroll and flew into Granger’s outstretched hand.

“I’ll take this personally to the DMLE. I’ll hand it directly to either Harry or Angelina,” she said and briskly left the office. 

Draco exchanged a quick glance with Theo who only nodded his head in her direction.

He followed her into the hall, but she’d been too fast for him. As he saw her curls whipping around the corner, he knew chasing after her would be a futile and unwelcome gesture. This document was more time sensitive than Draco’s attempts to fix their relationship. But fuck if it didn’t hurt.

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. 

“It really is unfair how handsomely you brood and pine.”

Draco opened his eyes to see a grinning Ali Shafiq approaching.

“Mr. Shafiq.”

“Ali, please, darling.”

Today the man was dressed in a suit of bright cerulean with a garish brooch of a raven with a snake clamped in its talons pinned to the lapel. 

“You don’t work here too, do you?”

Ali let out a loud laugh. “Absolutely not, I’m a rich layabout. Sometimes I pop by and bring Sterling his preferred brand of tea and distract his employees. But it seems I’ve missed Hermione, so when you and your charming witch have resolved your lovers’ quarrel, we’d love to have you over for dinner.”

Draco raised an eyebrow at the dramatic phrasing but declined to acknowledge such a thing. 

“I think they’re about finished in there if you’re waiting for Sterling. And I should also probably take my leave before he sees me again and indulges in any murderous impulses.”

“Please, the man’s all bark,” said an amused Ali. He peered closer at Draco. “Has Hermione ever told you how they met? Why he hired her?”

“The first time we ever spoke, he threatened me and said she was good for the firm’s reputation.”

Ali smirked. “Yes, he does like to hide behind that convenient excuse. While it’s true, it’s not the whole truth.”

Draco let his continued silence indicate he could risk bodily harm for the rest of this story.

“She marched right up to him at a charity auction, pointed a finger in his face, and accused him of lacking any and all moral compass for defending an apothecary chain for house-elf labor violations. He’d won, of course, and she felt he deserved a thorough dressing-down for such repugnant legal arguments.”

“Bit rude of her.”

“He thought so, at first. Came home and told me all about this uppity little war heroine who was all puffed up because his opponent in court was rather pathetic and he’d just been doing his job.”

“I’m sure she’d hardly deemed that a satisfactory answer.”

“Right in one. She wrote him a letter the very next morning bursting with every legal counter argument that should have been levied against him, a treatise on the history of house-elf abuse and enslavement, and a dissertation on how being a fellow Muggleborn should give him unique insights into the inequalities perpetuated by the magical legal system. He sent her an owl with a job offer at lunch.”

“She doesn’t do anything by half.”

Ali patted his shoulder sympathetically. “My husband, if you couldn’t tell, doesn’t care much for people. It’s why she’s good for him. She reminds him why he should,” he said gently. 

Long after Draco had left the law offices, his impressions of the woman he knew seemed to lead back to the same conclusion he’d reached a long time ago. 

Hermione Granger was very much a fallible human. She was bossy, at times vindictive, and prone to bouts of grating self-righteousness. 

But Draco remembered his summation of her in his Sixth Year: of how she cared and cared and cared so loudly even when it did not benefit her in the least. 

Because Draco knew; he’d seen it in the way she’d rushed out of the room today. She still cared for him. Far too much and perhaps to her own detriment.

He had another empty evening stretched out before him. He could dive into the depths of his liquor cabinet, bring out one of the rare bottles and sign up for an immensely depressing evening of staring at a fucking coin.

Or he could make good on at least one promise in his life. 

“This is a welcome surprise,” said Pansy as he stepped out of the Floo. She glanced behind him with a confused frown. 

“Where’s Granger?”

Draco rubbed the back of his neck and took an unnecessary amount of care with dusting soot off his clothes.

“Ah, home? Probably?”

When he heard nothing in response, he looked into Pansy’s eyes. A tactical error. 

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why isn’t she here and why are you all shifty?”

“I… just a misunderstanding is all.”

“I’m Floo'ing to hers. Am I yelling at her or consoling her?”

He only lasted about five seconds in their next staring contest. 

“Consoling.”

Pansy took a sharp inhale and Draco knew the exhale would contain supreme annoyance at his actions and general existence. “You complete arse, I told you not to screw this up with her!”

She pushed past Draco with a muttered, “I’m raiding your wine cellar first,” as she Floo’ed away in a huff.

Draco nodded at Greg who stood uncertainly in the doorway to the parlour.

“If you wanted to stay, Pansy has a barmy amount of aged brandy neither she nor her mum drink.”

“I actually did come to see you,” said Draco and Greg gave him a tentative half-grin. 

Before drinks could even be summoned or poured, Pansy returned, clutching her favourite Merlot and a sauvignon blanc for good measure.

She stalked up to Draco with an abrupt question. “Do you know why she helped me? With Greg?”

Draco shook his head. He’d never asked Granger a second time, after she’d shrugged him off the first time he’d asked.

“I wrote this beautifully crafted letter. So deferential you wouldn’t believe. I’m sure she’s saving it for future blackmail on me. Addressed her as ‘Miss Granger’ this and ‘Solicitor Granger’ that. I talked up her Hogwarts achievements, I complimented her intelligence, it was the most embarrassing, humiliating thing I’ve ever put to parchment. Merlin, I even apologised to her for all the shite I said to her when we were younger.”

“And she agreed?”

“Not then. She wrote back, ‘Pansy, I’m honoured you would consider my help but why would you ask me?’” 

“I mean, it is a bit odd you’d ask her,” said Draco and earned a withering glare for his interruption.

“Well I wrote her that it’s obvious, because she only ever makes the right choice. And I thought if I could convince her, then Greg had a chance. If I had her in my corner then maybe that just might make a difference to a court if they saw their heroine willing to fight for him.”

“So you flattered her some more then?”

Pansy let out a derisive snort. “Draco, flattery gets you nowhere with her, you know this.” She inspected the bottle in her hands, presumably reading the label. Or perhaps she did not want to look at either of the wizards in the room when she quietly finished her story.

“Granger cares about everything and it’s aggravating in general, but she just wants to know other people do too, I think. She wanted me to tell her about Greg. About the Gregory Goyle I know. And once I’d done that, she sent over a contract for services within an hour.”

“What did you say?” Draco couldn’t help but ask.

Pansy kept her gaze on the bottle. “That’s between me and Granger.”

“You never told me that,” said Greg softly. 

“I…” Pansy looked up at him but froze, speechless. A rare sight for his generally gregarious friend. The girl who always had a barb on her tongue, a stream of one-liners at the ready, disarmed by a quiet observation.

“I’ll write it down for you,” she murmured, then left for Granger’s home. 

“That was Blaise’s idea,” said Greg, offering a bit of conversation to a room otherwise devoid of it.

“What?”

“Having Pansy write to me on… on days where I don’t feel much up to conversation or leaving my room. She’ll write me letters instead and then it’s like how it all started, with her coming through on a piece of parchment.”

“She can be a lot to handle in person.”

“Yeah. She can,” he agreed and chuckled affectionately.

Draco couldn’t recall Greg having smiled much at school. Perhaps because he was always standing behind Draco with Crabbe, ready to laugh cruelly at something Draco said or did. Or he’d be in front of Draco, a shield for a hex or a punch. 

He wondered how often Pansy managed to inspire the expression on his face, or a laugh from his throat. 

“I’m working on something with Granger. Do you mind if I ask about… about your time in Azkaban?”

Greg shrugged and shifted in his seat. “I s’pose. This is for that advocacy thing, yeah?”

“In a way. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“S’alright. I’ve got nothing to hide, Pansy knows it all anyway.”

Draco took a moment to marvel at such a statement and the careless and easy way in which Greg uttered it. As if showing the worst parts of yourself to someone wasn’t this hugely terrifying feat of bravery coupled with imminent self-sabotage, but rather, a natural consequence of caring for another person. 

“Did they ever tell you why they had to sequester some of you? Put you in an isolated unit?”

Unsurprisingly, Greg replied with a similar refrain Draco had heard from other prisoners before. “Yeah, dragon pox, I’m pretty sure. They had to give us some potions or something I think.”

“Can you recall anything from that time period?”

Greg took a measured sip of the brandy and looked like he was thinking hard. “It’s odd y’know? I wasn’t going mad or anything when I was talking about my sleep being good in there. But yeah it was… I’m trying to remember but it’s a bit fuzzy. They said it was a quarantine thing, but I definitely have these images in my head of other beds in the room. Other people in the room. Like a hospital ward, you know? But let me tell you I slept like the damn dead.”

“Can you describe the sleep? Did you dream at all?”

“Just… calm. Like I didn’t have to worry about anything, not good, not bad. Just regular sleep. The really good kind. No nightmares at all. They came back though, after.”

“Did they let you have Dreamless Sleep?”

“No, said there was a shortage I think.”

“When I saw you once, you said you hadn’t been able to send post for a bit.”

“Yeah, while I was in that ward I don’t think I was allowed post. I was pretty out of it though.”

“Do you think your memory of that period was tampered with?”

“I—” His eyes widened and Draco saw his knuckles whiten as they tightened around the glass. A grim realisation that perhaps his thoughts and memories were not quite his own. “Fuck, do you think? But why have I got bits and pieces of it? If they modified my mind, why not take everything?”

“Because I think perhaps someone wanted a chance for you to be able to tell us about it.”

“Bugger,” he muttered and polished off his drink in a long swig. “I’m guessing you and Hermione are trying to get to the bottom of this, yeah?”

“Her more than me but… well, yes. I’m… we’re… trying. To figure out what happened to you all.”

“She’ll do it,” Greg asserted confidently. “The two of you working together, seems like that’s a good shot. You’re both, you know… smart.”

“Oh, uh, thanks Goy—Greg.”

Granger probably would have squeezed Draco’s knee and given him that look of pride that he didn’t realise he coveted until this moment. She probably also would have tilted her head in Greg’s direction in a not-so-subtle hint to keep talking like normal adults do in social situations. 

“How’ve you been?” Draco tried. Merlin, had he really never asked this question of Greg his entire life?

“Pansy and her mum have been good to me. And Blaise has helped loads.”

A beat of silence that Draco didn’t know how to fill. Empathy was an uncomfortable sensation that younger Draco hadn’t bothered to have when considering the existence of Greg in his world. 

“Do you like it?” Greg asked suddenly.

“Like it?”

“The programme. Working with the prisoners.”

“It’s ah… it’s all right, I suppose. I think that they um, well most of them, like speaking with someone their age who isn’t a lawyer or a guard.”

Greg nodded and chewed his lip. “Pansy thinks I should ask Hermione if I can help out with it.”

“Oh, that’s um... well that sounds… right, that would be helpful for Granger. She’s fond of it.”

“And you of her,” Greg said and smirked over his glass. 

“You’re one to talk, care to elaborate on your relationship with Pansy?”

“She’s letting me take her to dinner. Proper-like, to a restaurant in Diagon.”

“She agreed to that? To go out in public?”

“Took weeks to convince her but yeah, she said she’s ready. She didn’t go to Azkaban but she didn’t have to. To suffer.”

An erudite comment on the woes of their mutual friend that Draco hadn’t thought Greg ever capable of, but then, it seemed he’d underestimated many people as of late.

Including himself. 

He talked quidditch with Greg for a while longer, and when he had consumed enough brandy to consider pulling a possibly life-ending move, left via fireplace. 

Merlin bless this Pansy-Granger friendship. It meant that the Floo connection between his current location and Granger’s home was still open. 

Two pairs of wide eyes greeted him when he stepped into her sitting room, but Pansy recovered first.

She crossed her arms and stood from the sofa, blocking Granger from view.

“Can we help you?”

“I need to speak with Granger.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to speak with you.”

“You can stand down Pansy, it’s fine,” said an exasperated Granger.

Pansy whirled back towards her, disbelieving hands on her hips. “Are you sure? You’ve had a few glasses of wine and you seem like the type of witch to fall for his wiles while under the influence.”

She leaned down and peered into Granger’s face. Granger huffed and scooted around her personal bodyguard. 

“For goodness’ sake Pansy, it’s fine, I’m fine, I’ll speak with him.”

She impatiently flicked her wand and then followed the empty wine glasses floating over to her sink. 

“Fine, on your own bushy head be it. I’ll owl you tomorrow,” Pansy promised and gave Draco one last threatening glare before Floo’ing home.

Draco tried for a lopsided grin. “I promise not to use my wiles on you, especially since you’re apparently compromised.”

“Why did you come over?”

Her tone indicated she was definitely not inebriated enough to immediately cave to playful humour. She stayed behind her counter. A physical barrier between them.

“I was just speaking with Greg about his time away. He was able to recall a bit from the stint in the separate ward, but not enough. Which means when and if we get permission to use memories as evidence, the removal process will have to—”

“I’m experienced in the removal process for Memory Modification Charms, having seen it done on my own parents, thank you very much.”

Snippy and hacked off, even with slightly glassy eyes from Merlot consumption. But fuck if her sanctimonious posture, voice, and all around uptight aura didn’t make his heart ache for missing her. For missing how she’d let him turn her priggish attitude right around with calculated maneuvers from his hands or lips. 

Despite Pansy’s ridiculous claims, he’d need to appeal to logic and compassion if he had any hopes of reigniting what had once flourished so brightly between them.

“I’m aware, Granger. But Greg spoke of having bits and pieces of his experience still in his memory, which means the charm was either ineffective or perhaps not done right the first time.”

She inspected her nails. “Is that all?”

“Right, well I just thought you’d want to know. In case you hadn’t considered that angle.”

“It’s pretty obvious, based on what Flint said and all the rest of the statements.”

“Right.”

Draco didn’t move. She hadn’t asked him to leave and he’d not prematurely end his own shot at reconciliation.

“What did you really come here for?”

A fleeting opportunity to show her he could be trusted. 

“To try and help. And because I think I’ve given you enough words at this point. This is an action.”

She hugged her arms around her middle and moved to sit on the sofa. But on the far end. A healthy distance from where he still stood. 

“I think Theo purposely botched some of the memory charms,” Draco said.

“Well if he did, he should be able to tell us soon.”

Right. Obviously. 

“I just wanted to give you something to work with… in case the motion got denied.” Another pointless statement from Draco.

“Sterling’s optimistic on that front. Harry’s testimony, the missing warden, I think they’re keen to get to the bottom of it. Kingsley’s been pressuring as well on that front, which works massively in our favour of course. He’ll want his Ministerial legacy to be known as the leader who brought us out of the post-war mess. If we can mount a solid case, he’ll support our effort.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“I appreciate the gesture.”

A kind statement but still a dismissal of sorts. He at least interpreted it as such. 

His unwilling feet took him to her fireplace again, but his mouth made one more play.

“No one taught me how to be like you,” he murmured.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not instinctual for me. To want to help.”

She sighed. “It’s not about instincts, Draco. It’s about will and effort. And not just being able to spot an injustice, but being willing to fight against it, even at personal cost.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It never is. I’m not… I’m not going to lecture you or scold you right now. I appreciate this… more than you know. I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. I’m still… well, I’m not ready to… but—”

She trailed off, chewing her bottom lip to play for time.

“But?” He prompted, expecting the worst. 

“This is a good start,” she said with a small smile. 

She stood and approached him slowly. She popped up on her tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. Her lips moved to his ear. “Thank you.”

She stepped back and swept her gaze over his face. Calculating, cataloguing, her mouth turned down into her combination frown of concentration and confusion.

“Did you mean it?”

“I mean everything I say.”

He received the frown of annoyance for that one.

“What you sent through the Galleon. About your dream. And me.”

“Of course I did.”

His response came out hoarse and imbued with more emotion than intended. It eviscerated her frown, though. Destroyed her features and then made them anew into a softer look, a delectable parting of her lips and dilated pupils.

An expression of want. 

“Maybe Pansy was right about the wine,” she grumbled and averted her gaze to the floor.

“Would you prefer we talk when you’re less susceptible to my charms?”

“There’s… much I need to say when I’m not distracted by,” she waved her hand vaguely at the middle of his chest and then in the direction of his face.

She took a deep breath and exchanged her susceptibility for apprehension. “You’ll be there with Theo? When we remove the oath? It should be any day now.”

You’ll be there for me too, right? Rang out loud and clear.

“Yes.”

Before he left, Draco lifted her wrist to his mouth. A quick kiss that said he’d wait. A brush of lips that said he understood. A brief taste of skin as a reminder that he cared.

He cared so fucking much.

Chapter Text

Draco found himself in the wrong again.

Because the dinner with his mother and aunt was not the most miserable recent event he had attended. 

It was definitely this morning’s meeting in Sterling’s office. 

Granger and Sterling were all business, but everyone else seemed to have no trouble openly displaying emotions. 

Johnson greeted him coldly, and Potter one-upped her with a muttered, “Thanks for the intel Malfoy, any other information you want to sit on for months?”

Granger had definitely updated them, then. But Draco could give a fuck. Because both Blaise and Theo looked thoroughly dejected. 

Blaise looked like he might be sick at any moment and Draco wondered how much forewarning his friend had given him. Did he spring it on him over dinner just last night? Did he sit him down, drink in hand, and blurt out a teary-eyed confession? 

However the information had been shared, neither of them looked as if they’d had a good night’s rest.

But Blaise had shown up here today, so it seemed that honesty had not destroyed what they had together. Draco hoped he’d be able to say the same of his own relationship eventually. 

As Theo settled into a chair in front of Sterling’s desk, Blaise and Draco sat side-by-side on a leather couch. 

Potter and Johnson stood like guard posts by the door. 

Granger sat beside Sterling, quill poised over parchment, ready to record her ideas and theories. Her face set; grim yet determined. 

Blaise’s knee bounced; an aberration from his normal composed demeanor. Draco coughed and murmured in a low voice, “He’s doing the right thing. I don’t know what he’s told you but—”

“Everything he could.”

“Then trust Granger. And Theo too.”

“I do. But he’s… Merlin, fuck how didn’t I notice… I mean I knew he was off, but I should have pushed harder, questioned him on everything. How didn’t I see—?”

“Don’t,” Draco cut in sharply. “Don’t second guess. From one mess of a person to another, it’s the worst thing you can do.”

“Gods, you do listen to me sometimes, don’t you?”

“Not enough,” Draco muttered back and settled back on the sofa. 

Sterling was taking Theo through the official procedure. The reason Granger had been so busy over the weekend was she’d been chasing down signatures from Wizengamot members via owl.

“The good news is that our request to break the oath has been accepted. However, the court has not granted permission to allow current or former prisoners’ memories as evidence.”

“But we can appeal that,” added Granger. “Provided Theo’s testimony is compelling enough.”

“For now, we will solely be working with the evidence provided by Mr. Nott,” said Sterling.

“How will this all work exactly?” asked Theo. 

“First we remove the oath. Mr. Potter, could you bring in the representative?”

Potter left and returned a minute later with an older wizard wearing Ministry Curse-Breaker robes of emerald. 

Theo stood and clasped hands with the other wizard. The curse-breaker began muttering incantations in a slow, hypnotic stream and the entire room watched with collectively held breath. A string of gold issued from the wand, coiled around Theo’s arm, ran up to his chest and wound around his throat. It remained there for a shining moment before disintegrating. Theo shivered and his eyes rolled back, but the next moment, the curse-breaker stepped back and nodded. “It is done.”

He signed a form provided by Sterling and took his leave. 

Theo rubbed at his throat. “I thought I’d feel something other than a little tingle. Bit anticlimactic wasn’t it?”

No one laughed.

“Right well, question away I suppose. Hopefully this doesn’t end with Harry and Angelina taking me away in cuffs.”

“Can they do that? I thought the DoM doesn’t answer to the DMLE or even the Minister?” Blaise chimed in.

“That changed thanks to Voldemort,” said Granger. “Remember that horrifying Muggleborn conspiracy about them ‘stealing magic’ based on false information they claimed came from the DoM? They don’t require any sort of government approval for work nor do they answer to the Minister for day to day operations, but they are subject to the laws of the Wizengamot.”

“Those laws include unethical research practices,” said Theo and cast a wary look at Johnson.

“No arrests are happening today,” she replied calmly.

Sterling shared a significant look with Hermione. 

“Mr. Potter and Miss Johnson are here in an unofficial capacity, as I’ve understood.”

Granger stared down her mentor but her face flushed slightly. Sterling pursed his lips and turned back to Theo. Draco saw that Granger had won that round, even if he’d raised objections to her involving Potter at all. 

“Mr. Nott will provide us his side so we can prepare a proper defence. We need to know all the major players, who knew what and when. We’ll have to act as defence in regards to Mr. Nott but we can file a case on behalf of the prisoners. Should that be deemed necessary.”

“Oh believe me,” Theo said darkly. “I think it will be necessary.”

“Please then,” Sterling sat back and nodded at Hermione to begin taking notes, “be as thorough as possible.”

It started innocently enough. As most stories of corruption do. 

Fresh off excellent NEWT scores, but bearing an unfortunate surname, Theo was thrilled when the Department of Mysteries accepted his application to the Unspeakable program and invited him for an interview. 

It hadn’t gone particularly well. He entered a different chamber for each portion of what turned out to be a multi-part interview. A Head Unspeakable from each of the divisions sat as an imposing wall of austerity in front of him. Each branch of research represented: soul, space, afterlife, time, prophecy, mind. 

He hadn’t known what to expect though perhaps that had been the point. He completed one round after the other, each Head dismissing him to the next with no follow-up questions allowed from Theo nor with any information on what the nature of the job itself entailed.

They presented him with various “what if?” scenarios and questioned him in brisk, snappish tones about how he’d use magic in these situations. Questions of a ludicrous nature, Theo thought.

“You can only save the phoenix or the unicorn from extinction, which do you choose and why?”

“What is your ideal way to die?”

“Are you currently, or have you ever been, misplaced in time?”

“You are allowed to be reincarnated with all memory of your previous life but as a flobberworm. Do you choose this path or death?”

“Define love and name five enchantments or potions that induce the feeling of it. Be as abstract as you desire.”

Theo had no idea if the answers he gave were just as ridiculous or down right disappointing. 

His final audience with the head of the Mind division signified the end of his short attempt to secure gainful employment in the DoM.

“Well if that’s all Mr. Nott,” intoned Unspeakable Filagree and gestured towards the exit.

And Theo could see. He’d gotten good at reading people over the years and this obstacle course of wizened elders hadn’t been impressed by anything he’d said. 

Until he made a desperate play.

“I have a rare gift that I think would be of particular interest to your branch.”

“Do tell, Mr. Nott.”

“I can perform empathic dream magic.”

“That is a rare gift indeed and not one supported by much evidence. Would you care to demonstrate?”

“Er, now?”

“No, at a later date.”

Theo fretted about the decision the rest of the week. He shouldn’t have said anything, he knew that, but it burned within him, that desire to prove to someone besides Blaise that he had value, that he could contribute something to the world. 

He soon received an owl with an offer to join the ranks of Unspeakables. 

Blaise would be livid if he knew how Theo had secured his job, but part of him wanted to try for his partner too. Blaise had found such fulfillment in his Healer studies, wouldn’t it be marvelous if Theo could also come home every day from a prestigious career? 

He threw himself into his work. He’d suddenly been given access to texts and artefacts, some he’d never even heard of before, and all this knowledge just waited for him to discover it, to wield it. For someone as intellectually curious as Theo and eager to expand his own understanding of magic, the beginning of his career was a dream. 

Theo worked collaboratively on bigger projects with other Unspeakables, but was also given time to pursue individual endeavors. And Theo always knew which area of solo research he would want to study. 

There was a paucity of dream research in general, and empathic dream magic the rarest of all. With his mother gone and no other relatives to speak of, Theo had no one else he knew of to consult about his power. All he had were his mother’s dream journals and a few written accounts from some great aunts, long-dead. 

An intangible influence, not something everyone could see like the inherited power of a Metamorphmagus. His mentor confirmed as much, that although Theo’s unique gift had been studied previously, he would be the first Unspeakable with the gift. 

How could they test the limits or capabilities of such a power and study its properties? Could he learn to control it beyond the emotions he cast?

He’d need to test it on others, Filagree suggested. 

A researcher’s fondest dream. To receive the go-ahead for their idea and department permission and resources. Theo spent days putting together a proposal for the study parameters. It would have to be done on a shoe-string budget, his supervisor warned, as their division was the least popular and least funded by far in the DoM. 

WIth the recent rise and fall of Voldemort and the intrigue surrounding horcruxes, prophecies, souls, and prolonging life, the Mind division saw quite the dip in interest. 

Mind magic was hardly very exciting, and all nebulous anyway. Everyone knew how Occlumency and Legilimency worked. But with this, with Theo’s ability to be studied, to map the unconscious mind and how it might affect the actions of a conscious one, Theo saw a field ripe for the picking. 

Fantasies of future uses flashed before Theo’s eyes.  

What if he could use his powers to help people? In the way he’d made his mother feel safe, and the way he’d made Blaise feel loved? Could he present an alternative, safer option to Dreamless Sleep for helping people recover from war-related nightmares, reducing the potion addiction rate amongst their generation? Perhaps if he’d known better in Sixth Year he could have helped someone like Draco sooner?

Theo devoured psychological studies of how the dream state affected people during their waking hours and added more to his study proposal. He would need volunteers willing to participate in a sleep study, modelling his design off others that had been previously conducted in the DoM in partnership with St. Mungo’s. 

It was a small study, a dozen participants in the bowels of the DoM, but to Theo, it meant everything. He’d learned through careful reading that with enough focus, he could exercise control for the length of the dream state. 

But that small little study only helped Theo hone his skill. It hadn’t gotten him any closer to examining how he could affect other people with prolonged exposure. He’d need to re-submit a proposal for the next funding cycle and hope his request for more volunteers and a larger research space would be approved. 

No need, assured Filagree. He’d sorted that bit already. 

And Theo didn’t question it.

Azkaban, explained his superior, had a healthy population that could be enrolled in a sleep study and they’d already been granted permission by the warden. 

How, asked his mentor, would Theo, hypothetically, design an experiment?

Well, reasoned Theo, he’d want a neutral group, ones that slept calmly. Simple enough. Then he’d want a group experiencing a stronger emotion. Theo pitched “happiness” of course, recalling how it had affected Draco, though with proper conditions, he hoped it would lead to less angst.

Both groups would have their behaviour monitored and see a Mind Healer once a week, Theo included in his proposed budget. They’d self-report at the beginning and end of the study period on their overall mental well-being and Theo would combine this report with their medical evaluations. 

Sure, agreed his mentor. But this was hardly the sort of exciting research that would get them noticed. An offhand remark that made Theo uncomfortable. Acclaim would be lovely and welcome, of course, but Theo hoped to help others who’d survived a war, and further, see how this could perhaps work in synchrony with the mind-healing field. Interprofessional practice at its best.

Which was why the prison setting disturbed Theo. 

“They’ll be properly monitored,” Filagree assured him. “You’ll put them out for about an hour, then we’ll have them evaluated once they wake.”

It appeared above board at first. Theo arrived with his superior at the prison, they even signed in and had their wands recorded. They were shown to a wing of the prison that their escort explained was used for quarantine or an overflow from the medical wing. A dozen or so beds lined the ward, separated by privacy curtains and wards, and each occupied by a young, male inmate. Some of whom Theo knew, like Gregory Goyle and Marcus Flint. 

“Have we gotten their consent forms?” asked Theo. 

“It’s all taken care of,” his supervisor cryptically replied. A red flag Theo chose to ignore. 

More red flags, glaring and obvious, were raised during this first day. 

Theo had been told by several people over the course of his life that he had a creeping presence, that you almost felt like he constantly stood over you, even from a distance. He never meant to be intentionally off-putting and he certainly never meant for his height or general demeanour to cause anyone alarm. But now he thought he knew how those people felt with the way his boss watched him perform his ability. 

One by one, he went down the row and gave this group, the control group, a sense of peace. 

Once they woke in a staggered phase, Theo dutifully recorded how they felt. 

“Good sleep.”

“Fine.”

“Normal.”

Rinse and repeat down the line. 

They then moved to the opposite wing in the isolated ward  for the test group for a strong emotion. And as he had with Draco, Theo decided on “happiness.”

Maybe if he could give these people something happy, some bit of joy, a little escape from the daily misery of incarceration or perhaps war-time nightmares, they could benefit, or heal. Take that positivity into their post-sentence lives.

“Was that real? Bloody amazing!”

“Can you do that again?”

“Happiest I’ve ever felt.”

Excited, Theo eagerly awaited the medical and behavioural evaluations as the weeks passed. How would the prisoners modify their waking behavior based on what they dreamt? 

He noticed how eagerly both groups anticipated his visits. The “well-rested” group looking forward to a peaceful sleep and the test group craving a hit of happiness. For this first round of the trial, they visited three times per week. 

With the trial period about to come to an end, Filagree surprised Theo with a suggestion.

“I think there’s potential for a third group here.”

“It’s almost through our first round of data collecting, perhaps if we continue on after this analysis? I don’t think adding another group at this stage will help,” reasoned Theo.

Filagree went on as if Theo hadn’t spoken.

“I think you should induce a negative emotion. Something like guilt, perhaps?”

Theo physically recoiled. 

“They’re already prisoners. Why would I want them to suffer more? I don’t want to torture anyone.”

“What is your concept of suffering? Of torture?”

“It obviously varies from person to person, but sustained, deliberate infliction of pain or trauma.”

“How is it torture? It’s not real, they’re in no danger.”

“It’s psychological torture. And we have no idea what kind of physical effects this would have.”

“Precisely,” said Filagree. “Is it not the duty of the DoM to investigate the capabilities of magic and how it affects humans?”

“Not like this.”

Filagree accused Theo of letting his emotions cloud his researcher instincts. 

Didn’t Theo want to help his government? If they could find a way to mend these monsters, to fix their thinking, wouldn’t that be a good thing? Make them confront everything they had done and feel that pain? 

Theo cut off the twisted philosophical debate and requested the psychological and medical profiles of the two current groups. And when his supervisor hesitated and offered a vague excuse, the horrible truth dawned on Theo. 

They hadn’t been having these prisoners self-report on their thoughts or feelings at all. Other than the brief statements they gave to Theo, there were no records of observed behaviours, no Mind Healer involvement. Just the standard report out from their physicals conducted by prison healers. He noticed the requests for Dreamless Sleep, none of which had been granted, with the warden’s signature on every file. 

Theo also checked the DoM records for the parchment trail of consent forms for the prisoners. He again found none on file. 

Further, one of the prisoners had commented that they were sick of staying in this ward all the time, which puzzled Theo. They were supposed to go back to their cells, their normal daily activities on the non-experiment days. 

It had turned into a prison within a prison. They’d kept these men separate and locked in this ward while Theo essentially played around with their psychological states. 

He confronted Filagree. What kind of sham trial was he running here, with Theo at the helm? 

An interesting one, he countered. One that would actually get traction within the Ministry, put their branch on the map. Theo vehemently disagreed, seeing as how he’d already violated so many ethical and scientific protocols, no reputable journal would have them. 

“A journal?” repeated Filagree snidely. “Don’t you see what a gift you have Theo? You can affect these people without casting an Unforgivable, without doing physical harm. It’s remarkable. It’s what we’ve been looking for.”

“Who’s we?”

“Never you mind.”

“Why let me do the first part of this trial at all?”

Theo still didn’t understand the motive. Why have him carry on with his version if they meant to sabotage it like this? At first it seemed like a standard case of a mentor possibly swooping in and taking credit for a protege’s ideas, but this had moved into an even more sinister realm.

“To see if you could really do it on a larger group.”

He’d been testing out Theo this whole time. Theo had allowed himself to fall into the exact trap Blaise had always feared he would. It was the reason for his initial wariness when Theo came home excited about receiving approval for this initial trial. Though he of course had magical limitations on him from divulging the study details, Blaise knew enough to guess Theo would be researching his powers. 

Filagree drove the dagger in further. “Did you really think you could coast with this soft research? Your powers are so nebulous, so difficult to be grasped, did you really think this would go anywhere? We need something useful from this.”

Further, his supervisor had changed his mind. He didn’t want Theo to imbue “guilt” after all. 

Instead, he ordered “fear.”

And Theo hesitated. Protested. 

“You understand this will forfeit your job?”

The choice became clear: perform the third part, or he’d see himself fired from the DoM. 

That was the moment Theo hatched his escape plan. It became less about surviving with his career intact, and more about collecting evidence. He wouldn’t want to work for this type of evil anyway. More banal than Voldemort, and he’d successfully avoided that little club, but insidious and harmful to others nonetheless. 

While he’d lament the lost opportunity of work, he certainly didn’t need the gold. But he did need to keep his own sanity.

Theo complied with Filagree, for now. At the very least, he could keep observing, keep monitoring these prisoners. He was more than a little afraid of how else they’d be used, or had been used, with no one knowing. 

Theo eventually met the elusive warden, the one who’d signed these men away to the DoM like it was nothing and then denied them proper care. 

Stanford greeted Filagree like an old friend and Theo could see it so clearly. How this type of network proliferated through two wars, how in the ashes of such horrors, middling men with a shared lust for control could prop up corruption to serve their own needs. 

When it came time for Theo to cast on the first prisoner in the new group, he froze. He’d never done such a horrific action before. He’d been concerned enough with how “happiness” had affected Draco and seemed to affect some of the other prisoners already without the proper context for working through their emotional states.

When Theo still hesitated, Filagree took him aside for a more overt threat. This little power of his was all he had to offer the world, and besides, what of his partner, Blaise? 

“What of him?”

The threat didn’t escalate to physical harm. But rather, to reputation and livelihood. “A word from me in the mind healing community and he’ll be blacklisted from every journal, conference, and clinic. I could have his license stripped in the blink of an eye. Would you want that for him?”

Blaise’s work was his whole life. He’d taken the calm, steadfast support he’d always been for Theo and heaped it instead onto his patients. 

Theo steeled himself and performed his task like a good little weapon. An obedient torture tool.

The first time interviewing this test group post-dream was a waking nightmare for Theo.

“Why did you do that?”

“Is my mother okay? That wasn’t real, what I saw?”

“Please… please don’t… don’t ask me.”

Some of them couldn’t even speak. A few threw up when questioned further. 

“This isn’t good research,” Theo tried to reason with Filagree, appealing to his sense of scientific duty. “This group doesn’t make sense in the overall design. And since we can’t observe them in their daily lives, we have no idea how it’s affecting them for real. The parameters aren’t realistic.”

This protest was met with a jeering laugh. It lit a fire under Theo.

Theo knew how to read people and he saw how his supervisor had gotten careless over the years. He’d clearly abandoned research protocols and any sense of ethics, and perhaps that type of lax attention to regulation extended to other areas of his life?

Like the wards on his office and files for example. 

As with many a disillusioned bureaucrat, Filagree had been putting in the bare minimum while he waited for someone like Theo to come along and bolster his department’s reputation once more. Turns out, that bare minimum meant only the most basic warding spells protecting his office. Easily surpassed by Theo in a matter of minutes.

Theo found a report filled with observations all about him and his magic. He found observations worded in ways that made his stomach churn. 

And one sentence that made his blood run cold: “This should be of interest to future interrogative efforts of the DMLE since your Unforgivables measure was voted down.”

Theo flipped through as quickly as possible, but saw no names mentioned in writing and no other departments. Unfortunately, Filagree’s flimsy protection of his incriminating documents did extend to anti-Duplication charms and blacking out of the funding sources. 

Theo kept mentally cataloguing every infraction, every breach of law or ethics he could, waiting for his opening. 

But all the while, he still had to return to Azkaban several times a week and induce a group of incarcerated men into a brief state of the worst fears their minds could conjure. The waiting might very well break Theo.

Blaise noticed first, because of course he did. Theo started having panic attacks in the middle of the night again. Something he hadn’t experienced since his Sixth Year. Eating proper meals became more of a chore, seeing his friends became difficult for the facade he had to maintain and all the while he frantically searched for the right way to get himself out of this awful web of terror. 

His opportunity came about in one of the worst ways possible. 

Theo saw it in the terrified eyes of Ben Sinclair. The young man seemed more susceptible than most to the psychological damage Theo brought with each visit. He regarded Theo with fear for the pain he could inflict and often couldn’t speak but to silently cry upon waking from the dream state.

Stanford never said much of anything during their time there, preferred to simply watch and observe that everything ran smoothly. 

But Filagree grew crueller. Didn’t bother to keep his mocking thoughts to himself, had no qualms about referring to men like Sinclair as “the weak one.”

Theo probably could have warned his superior, that often when you underestimate “weak” people, it may be to your detriment. 

Because in a desperate, yet calculated move, as Ben emerged from his sleep state, he rolled off his bed and onto the floor. When Stanford went round, wand raised to check on his inmate, with startling speed, Ben took him out at the knees, and a scuffle ensued. 

When the wrestling stopped, Ben had Stanford’s wand pressed to the warden’s throat. 

“I don’t want to do it,” whispered a terrified-sounding Ben. “But I will.”

Theo tried to reason with him. Pleaded with him, reminded Ben he didn’t want to hurt someone. 

“You’re right,” said a despondent Ben. He shoved the warden away and in the next blink conjured a knife and held it to his own wrist.

“No!” Theo disarmed him then stunned him. As Ben slumped to the floor, Theo turned to Filagree and saw the man did not have, nor did he care to have, a plan. Thankfully, Stanford at least seemed concerned enough to want to save his own skin.

“I let you carry on, but this has gone too far,” said Stanford. 

“Then we’ll permanently remove Sinclair.”

“No, bodies lead to questions and investigations.”

They went back and forth for a time, each accusing the other, and it was enough for Theo to hatch his own plan and propose it aloud.

“We’ll modify their memories. No one has to know.”

He couldn’t remove the dreams, he knew that. But the other two men did not. Stanford and Filagree Stunned every man in the ward, then Theo went to work.

He crafted a narrative instead. A dragon pox outbreak and a quarantine period in every prisoner’s head.

Then they revived the prisoners and had guards lead them back to their cells. 

They brought in the previous two groups, and Theo saw his chance here. He’d rather spare the “fear” group any lasting memories of pain. Of being used as lab rats for their worst imaginings. But with a few men here… here he could get a bit creative with his spell work. Or perhaps not creative per se but maybe a little lax with how much of the memory of their sequestered time he removed. 

It would have to be enough for now. Maybe if one of them said the right thing to the right person (a lawyer, a relative) someone could probe further. 

In the end, each party had enough leverage over the other (a prison scandal versus a DoM scandal) to agree everyone would go their separate ways and never speak of it again.

Theo and his supervisor avoided each other at work now. He was moved onto other projects, instructed to help other Unspeakables with their research. 

Theo had always been adept at biding his time. A skilled patience learned from a childhood. Particularly in a home where his father never expected his son to start throwing curses back when he reached a certain age.

Dormancy could look like compliance to those who did not know Theo well.

But upon the murder of one Lucius Malfoy, the Prisoners’ Act passed. Suddenly, a whole group of lawyers, advocates, families, and court members wanted to peer closer into Azkaban. Harry Potter himself led the charge.

Then Theo, with his piles of suspicions and incriminating memories still couldn’t see a way out. Because he received a letter.

A letter that warned him to keep his mouth shut. That threatened scandal, imprisonment or worse if he dared say a word. 

The implication of “worse” constituted several moving photographs of Blaise. Heading to his office. Out to dinner with Theo. Walking down Diagon Alley. At lunch with Draco. Walking into St. Mungo’s for a clinic visit.

“It would be so easy,” warned the letter before it ignited and fell away to ashy nothingness.

The evidence of the threat destroyed, but Theo’s lingering sense of guilt for Ben and the other inmates, his shame at having been so gullible, and his fear for the well-being of Blaise could never be so easily banished. 

Helpless. Alone. Afraid. 

No need for special dream powers to conjure the ultimate state of fear.

Chapter Text

Not one person in the room seemed to know how to break the silence left in the wake of Theo’s tale.

Blaise had his arms hanging limply at his side now. At various points during Theo’s confession he’d gripped the back of his head, gnawed on his nails, and cast accusatory glares at Draco. 

Theo let out a pained sigh. 

“I wanted to help people, like Blaise does, you know? But I was in too deep before I realised that I’m just a cheap shortcut. What Blaise does… that’s the real work.”

Theo’s voice was raw by this point. From speaking for so long and from grief, from guilt.

Blaise’s knee bounced in an insistent rhythm of anxiety. 

“Theo,” Blaise’s voice broke on the name. “Why didn’t you come to me immediately?”

Theo looked over to his partner with that fond exasperation that couples often share when they know the other partner so well and would have anticipated their response.

“Besides what is essentially a magical gag… all you ever do is fix me. I was only ever a weird kid with a shite dad and you just have to constantly take care of me. I’d gotten myself into this mess and I wasn’t going to drag you down again. I do that enough already.”

Blaise shook his head furiously. “Don’t you dare. Theo—you—you—absolute arse, the only reason I’m able to do anything at all is because you fixed me first.”

Draco leaned forward, unsure if he’d have to physically stop Blaise from storming out. 

“I know, those dreams I gave you when we were kids helped, but you didn’t need them anymore,” countered Theo. 

“I didn’t need them because I had you!” Blaise burst out. Draco hadn’t seen this lack of composure from his friend since Sixth Year. “Of course it was lovely as a kid to go to sleep and dream about coming from a loving home with a parent that gives a shite, obviously it was wonderful to finally get some of that affection I’d craved for so long. But it wasn’t real and you were! You were there when I was awake and you cared enough to be my friend and more.”

“Those dreams brought us together, without them we would never—”

“How many times, Theo? How can I make you finally realise that you are so much more than this ability? I didn’t fall in love with you because you put a pretty picture in my head, I fell in love with you because you made sure I didn’t come apart after every interaction with my mother, because you cared enough to make me open up about it, because you always, unfailingly stuck with me when I didn’t think anyone in the world cared. We made it through a bloody war for each other, I’m not letting you be in danger over something like this now.”

Theo shook his head. “No, I don’t care. I’d do it again for you. You always protected me. It was my turn, don’t you think?”

Blaise sank back against the couch and had his head buried in hands. The sense of defeat evident in his crumpled posture. He’d failed to save the most important person in his world and the horrifying weight of such a revelation looked almost too much to bear. 

“This threat you received regarding Blaise,” said Sterling, bringing the conversation back to a less emotional plane, “do you still have it?”

“No, it had a self-destruction charm built in.”

“We can add it to the list of memories to extract and submit for evidence,” muttered Granger and made a note. 

“And where is Unspeakable Filagree now?” asked Sterling.

“Still in the DoM, of course, though I don’t see him much these days” said Theo, bitterly. “He has no need to threaten me via anonymous letter, as he’d done that explicitly already.”

“Could that have come from Stanford? Before he went missing?” chimed in Potter. 

“I didn’t know him well,” said Theo slowly. “But he seemed keen to just have the whole thing behind him. If anything, I’d say he felt a bit guilty.”

“And he’s not under a magical oath,” said Johnson. “What if he felt guilty enough to finally come forward and Filagree found out, and removed the problem himself?”

“I agree. This is absolutely a motive if someone else knew he felt that way,” said Potter. “But who else besides Theo and Filagree knew?”

“I’m telling you, someone at the Ministry knows too,” insisted Theo. “Filagree had that report about my use for the DMLE, which means he was in contact with someone in your office,” he gestured to the two Aurors who both stiffened but couldn’t offer a denial. 

Everyone began offering suggestions and theories at once. How best to protect Theo now, who they could trust at the office, when this could be brought to the Wizengamot, etc. 

Through the din of voices—Theo and Blaise’s low sounds of domestic bickering, Sterling’s icy formality, Johnson’s authoritative tone and Potter’s irritating one—Draco noted the only one missing from the fray.

He looked at Granger to find her staring down at her parchment, eyes whizzing across every line jotted down. He knew when she reached the end of her notes when she released her bottom lip from her teeth and stared unseeing at the paper. 

For every time she’d almost died, for every choice she’d been forced to make, for every person she lost, to still have to stare into the face of unimaginable abuse of power and marginalised people...

He remembered what she’d ranted at him about her break-up with Weasley. About how Weasley wanted to move on, to let society run itself, they’d done their bit as heroes and could take a breather now. Draco hated that he sort of understood where the ginger git was coming from. But as he looked at Granger and saw the dull flush of anger begin creeping up her neck and into her eyes, the way her hands slightly shook where they clutched the parchment, he knew exactly how she felt.

Again? All of this again? And for what? The most exhausting part of Theo’s tale for her must have been how ordinary it all felt. She and Potter (and fine, with help from Weasley, he supposed) had already stamped out the obvious evil. But this? How could they fight the banality of power-hungry researchers and uncaring prison administrators that had been allowed to flourish by a society that didn’t care to question anything?

But Draco hadn’t been the only one to notice her. 

“Hermione,” said Sterling suddenly. “Why don’t you get a jump on editing your transcription? It will help to have all the information organised.”

Only because Draco had now become familiar with Sterling’s voice and mannerisms could he recognise the subtle shift in tone. 

Her notes would require almost no editing. Sterling would know that. 

Granger gave a jerky nod and stood immediately. Without a backward glance, she swept from the room. Draco didn’t stick around for the rest of the conversation either. He would go where he would be needed. 

He followed her right into her office and she didn’t object. 

He could see the horror, the shock at the way their world had failed yet again. Draco saw the anger and the despair at the audacity of the way Theo had been used, at the way his natural gifts and intellectual curiosity had been warped into something sinister.

And then he saw the determination. She would have to once again step in and clean up a mess that never should have occurred in the first place. 

Louder and louder it spilled from her features, seeped from her soul and screamed in his mind. 

“Are you all right?”

Her eyes snapped to his and the unspoken answer blared at him. No. No, of course not.

Draco took her hand and led her to the fireplace. “Can I at least see you home?”

She nodded and squeezed his fingers before going straight for the Floo and disappearing through the flames. 

When he arrived in her living room she’d already begun pacing and muttering to herself. 

She’d gone right into planning mode, straight into mounting a defense for yet another battle she would need to fight. 

“Barbaric… just absolutely… disgusting and I cannot believe… actually I can believe, but bloody Merlin the depth of depravity to just… abuse and… my God, Theo, what was he thinking… and all those prisoners… and you!”

She whipped around and pointed an accusatory finger at him. Draco stood there and braced himself for a bitter and deserved dressing-down. 

“You made me feel so foolish.”

His heart plummeted but then immediately picked back up in an odd, twinging flip as she stalked over and grabbed him by the shoulders to crash their lips together. 

He really hoped he wasn’t dreaming. 

Because if this was Granger’s method of punishing him it was certainly not a good way for him to learn a lesson. He’d disobey and betray her again and again in an endless loop of awful behaviour if it meant he could win this glorious reward. 

Her bruising, relentless kisses only increased in intensity and he let her back him up against the nearest wall and ravage his lips, steal the air from his lungs, scratch at his scalp, tug at his hair, and take take take all the things he’d withheld, even if he hadn’t meant to deprive her.

She broke away with a harsh intake of air and buried her face in his chest. He felt her frame quivering and his suspicions of why she’d hidden her face were confirmed when he heard a sniffle. 

“Don’t—Granger—don’t cry.” He tilted her chin up and cupped her face. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I’m sorry.”

She stared up at him and the tears tracked down her cheeks and spilled onto his hands; warm little droplets that burned like a Fiendfyre of guilt. 

Her lips trembled all the more, features twisted in the sweet release of grief. 

“I missed you, you absolute idiot. And I’m so, so angry with you, but God, I missed you.”

“Don’t cry—just—stop.”

“I can’t very well help it, I’m not doing it on purpose!” She burst out and stepped away to dab at her wet eyes. 

“You can’t expect me to keep it up if you’re crying.”

That at least got her to laugh.

“All right, I’m not that angry, maybe I never was,” she admitted tiredly. “I’m just disappointed, I suppose. I thought what we had… our partnership, even before it was… what it is now... I thought it was a good one. An honest one, at least.” 

“It was. It is.”

Draco took her hand again. It twitched briefly as if she wanted to rip it away but then she allowed herself to be led to her sofa. 

He realised something then. About how he always spoke about his involvement with the advocacy initiative. 

“It’s not temporary.”

She looked away. His next words were harsh, but his touch gentle as he took her chin and forced her to look at him. “No, don’t you dare, you are far too brave for that.”

Chin jutted out now, she held his intense gaze as Draco repeated his statement.

“It’s not temporary.”

“What isn’t?”

“This.” He squeezed her hand. “It never was. Not for me. Is that what you thought?”

She took a fortifying yet shaky breath but maintained eye contact. “Whenever you… whenever you would talk about the programme you always seemed to have an endpoint in mind. It was my understanding that once we’d solved this, you would have considered your debt to Harry, your debt to me, paid. And you’d be free to… move on. Even if I hoped otherwise.”

While Draco couldn’t quite summon the humility to grovel or let her in on his secret (that he was a massive fucking idiot, blundering his way through life) he could give her a truth.

“To be honest I… I don’t know what I’ll do when this is all over. But what I do know is that this isn’t temporary.”

She swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded. It seemed she understood the seriousness of his feelings, but perhaps he could be all the more clear about the depth of them. 

Another epiphany: it had been so long since someone had chosen her. 

“Did you think I was just choosing Theo over you?”

She opened her mouth to deny it but the split second hesitation had already spoken for her.

“I—”

“Weasley didn’t choose you.” Draco interrupted bluntly, and almost caused his own murder.

“Don’t you dare—”

“No, just listen for a minute.” He took her other hand too. “Weasley chose some vision of a woman popping out a litter of children and raising them for him over you. Biggest mistake of that tosser’s life and that’s saying something.”

She bestowed her Frown of Annoyance. 

Hands weren’t enough for him. Draco tugged her into his lap. 

“I wasn’t choosing Theo over you. I wasn’t hiding information because I wanted to keep something from you, or make you feel foolish. I just wanted my friend to be safe. I always planned to involve you. I just buggered the timing.”

Draco held a hand against her temple, hoping the contact would remind her of how he supposedly quieted her mind. “This isn’t a phase. I’m not chasing a boyhood fantasy, I’m not with you because I’m bored and looking for a change of scenery. I have no idea what happens after but I do know I’d like for this to continue… beyond.”

Granger took her time with his statement, letting it linger between them. Memories, good and bad, probably flew through her mind, as she assessed her risk here. Weighing what she knew about the man palming the side of her face against her own doubts. Questioning if his actions and words could be trusted going forward, or if the attraction they shared overrode her logical side. 

She suddenly rearranged herself and threw a leg over to straddle him. 

“As a steward of the law, I require clarity. How far beyond does this continue on?”

She’d made a coy joke of it, but Draco kept his tone sincere. 

“As long as you want. I’ve got no conditions for you. No timelines to enforce.”

He removed his hand from her face and pulled her hips even closer. “Just me. That’s what you’re getting. Selfish and conceited and too proud by half.”

“Offer accepted.”

She lowered her mouth to hover over his and posed a question before a kiss. 

“Should I presume this is a mutual acceptance?”

“Of course, even though you are so fucking loud and sanctimonious and prissy.”

“Doesn’t seem to be a problem for you.”

She reached down and stroked his cock through his trousers, and he resisted the urge to quip about collecting “hard evidence” to back up her claim.

“I think you’ve always been a problem for me,” he teased.

“Are you hellbent on sabotaging your shot at make-up sex?”

“Maybe I just missed riling you up.”

“Or you just missed me.”

“Right again, Granger.”

Of course she was right. Because he’d missed her so fucking much. He might hear her all the time inside his head but nothing compared to the way she sounded in person. 

The way her breathing impatiently quickened as they divested each other of clothes. Her short inhales when he moved his mouth to her breasts. The whines when he kissed further down and only teasingly licked her clit. 

His name, gods his fucking name, in all sorts of iterations. 

Impatient, so he’d thrust faster.

Soft, so he’d look her in the eye.

Harsh, so he knew she was about to tumble over the precipice.

Faint, so he’d hold her close in the afterglow. 

And then the tactile portion he craved. Gentle explorations along his bare skin by the pads of her fingers. Skimming in a way that felt fleeting while simultaneously staking an indelible claim over him. 

“Why do you do that every time?”

“Hmm? Do what?”

“The touching.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Not at all, I was only curious.”

Her eyes followed the path of her fingers. “Just reminding myself to be present with you. And confirmation that you’re here, I suppose. A comfort thing.”

“I could be around more often. If you like.”

“I would like that.” Her fingers suddenly stilled and she met his gaze. “This is sort of related but I… I never told you how it ended with Ron.”

“You did, though. You said he was pushing you for things you weren’t ready for. That you had different outlooks you couldn’t fully reconcile.”

“Yes, but the final straw was when he accused me of never really being there with him.” Her touch resumed again. “As in, I may physically be spending time with him, but I’d really be a million miles away, thinking about work or some case that was troubling me. And as awful as that was to hear, he was right. I told him so and well… I think he expected me to apologise, but I couldn’t. We yelled a bit more and then he was packing a bag.”

She trailed her fingers up to his face now. “It’s not something I’d like to repeat.” They stroked up to his forehead, through his hair, back down to his neck, further down to his back. Then up and down, up and down along the muscles there. “Not with you.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Part of Draco felt guilty for selfishly sinking into the sanctuary he found in her arms, when the others had stayed behind to help sort out Theo’s predicament. Perhaps sensing his turn in mood, she shifted in his hold. Her fingers came up and smoothed over the crease in his brow.  

“Thank you for coming after me. Everything Theo revealed… it was a lot to process. I’m angry and exhausted and...” Her sentence faded away as she lost herself once again in battle planning.

“What are Theo’s options? Realistically?”

“He’ll be out of a job, a Ministry one anyway, indefinitely. Whistle blowing only protects him for coming forward, I can’t see the court allowing him to retain his Unspeakable status as he was torturing people, even if it was coerced.”

“Do you think he could face Azkaban for this?”

“Providing his memories back up his details and we can perhaps get some prisoners to volunteer themselves for Memory Recovery, I think Sterling can at least ensure he doesn’t end up serving time in the prison. Probation is all but guaranteed here, and probably either magical monitoring or an outright wand ban for a time.”

“Small price to pay if we can keep him safe.” He reflexively tightened his grip on her. “I can’t… I can’t let anything happen to him. Before I met you, again, Theo had to... I’m only… I’m only here today because of him and Blaise.”

Soft fingers traced over his lips. A brief kiss followed their touch. One that said I’m glad you’re here. 

“I think I understand now. What he means to you.”

“I’m still sorry it played out the way it did.”

“If it were Harry and I were in your position… well I’m not sure I can blame you entirely.”

“What’s our next move?”

“We can’t do anything just yet,” cautioned Granger. “We have to rely on Sterling to do his job.”

But that didn’t sit right with Draco. 

Maybe he could see what his father had to say about all this.

Draco tore through his father’s study again.

He put faith in his father’s magpie-like tendencies to hoard threads of influence, scraps of connections to expose or exploit. “Every family has something to hide, no matter their wealth, political standing, or blood status,” Lucius had often said. 

Lucius had kept a very handy timeline of Ministerial elections and the subsequent bureaucratic appointments made by said Ministers upon taking office. 

Voldemort’s second failure at world domination had created quite the mess at a governmental level. Enough of a confusing jumble for certain witches and wizards to set up camp in the name of law and order.

In the wake of the Dark Lord’s most recent downfall, Lucius had a brief period before arrest and imprisonment. And during this house arrest, he’d kept tabs on the moving parts and pieces of the new government taking shape.

This time allowed him to amass the correct amount of leverage of war-time crimes committed by members of the Wizengamot and other higher-ups who would levy the claim of “I was scared and so I did what I was told,” that had allowed them to retain positions during and now post-Voldemort. 

That refrain (and the threat of information leaks) got Lucius a shorter sentence than he probably deserved. But then, he had been murdered so perhaps karma did exist after all. 

Draco flipped through notes on the immediate aftermath of Potter’s triumph. The remains of the court system had immediately declared Shacklebolt as interim minister; no surprise there or further commentary from Lucius. 

His father had a whole lot on the make-up of the DMLE and the Aurors who transitioned from the state of war to the reality of peace. Per his more shallow tendencies, he’d jotted down lines of petty information about inept officers like John Dawlish (“susceptible to bribes, pretends wife isn’t a half-blood, slow on the draw with a wand”) and more veteran ones like Gawain Robards (“Ruthless. Will play the long political game”). 

Lucius had a list of almost every higher-up he knew to be at least somewhat complicit in the Dark Lord’s regime who’d somehow retained employment. Quickly scanning the section on the DoM, Draco noted the name Byron Filagree. 

Draco tucked that fact away and moved to notes on the legal landscape of late 1998. 

In the wake of post-war sentences and appeals, the making of new laws and undoing of old ones, Draco noted a particularly alarming proposition. A measure shot down by the courts that would allow for the use of Unforgivables during interrogation. Introduced on the floor of the Wizengamot by one Gawain Robards. 

Robards lost the battle with that one. But he landed a different victory. 

He’d apparently penned a personal recommendation during the nomination process to fill a vital post with the Dementors gone. 

The appointment of Derek Stanford as warden of Azkaban prison. 

There was the lead. Draco chased it. 

He had the separate pieces; scattered and seemingly all coincidental, but months of research with Granger taught him that any link could hold the answer.

The past few months had also taught him he worked better with a partner.

Draco desperately wished he could have used his Galleon to send a message to Granger along the lines of, “I’ll be over in five minutes, take your knickers off and wait for me in bed.”

Alas, he had to send her, “Hearing transcripts from Law Proposal #4055b if you have them. Or know where to find them.”

They ended up Floo’ing to her office after-hours and leafing through old trial records. Reminiscent of their early days together, only now Draco could run a hand up her leg and squeeze her thigh when he hit a dead end and wanted a distraction from the failure. 

“What are we looking for?” he eventually asked impatiently, frustrated that he may have only wasted time poring over tedious and overly verbose transcripts. 

“There!” Granger suddenly said and stood up. “Expert witness testimony given by Unspeakable Byron Filagree.”

“In support of the law?”

“Yes and further down the list of those testifying…”

Her finger landed on the name of Derek Stanford. 

“What a handy little trifecta of friends,” mused Draco. 

“Mmm…” Granger sat down and scanned further through the transcript. “Some of the things Filagree says… about how much the mind can withstand the Crucio before it breaks… my God he seems intimately acquainted with the physical limit.”

“He seems like a sick bastard.”

“With friends in high places,” added Granger with a grim expression. 

“Is this enough to go on?” Draco asked with a hopeful glance in her direction.

“No. But it’s enough to make me very, very worried for Theo.”

Draco found a confrontation awaited him in the form of a sullen Blaise when he arrived at Nott Manor with Granger. 

Before the cavalry could turn up to the “let’s build a protection plan for Theo” meeting, Blaise pulled Draco aside. His voice sounded calm and measured per his usual vocal habits, but his eyes exuded hurt. They’d not had a chance to discuss things (namely, Draco’s involvement and foreknowledge of Theo’s predicament) since Draco had prioritised comforting Granger during the ordeal.

“I asked you. I asked you point blank if you noticed anything wrong with Theo,” said Blaise.

“I know.”

“Couldn’t have come to me after you cottoned on?”

“And said what?”

Blaise opened his mouth to rebut but Draco cut him off. “Telling Granger first was my way of handling it, my way of keeping him and you safe. I won’t apologise for my methods here.”

“I could have—”

“Done what? Helped how? This is for the best. Don’t let your sentiment cloud your judgement here.”

Blaise pulled back, stung. Draco immediately went for a softer tone. 

“Blaise. Please. Think for just a minute why I’m still here, why I’m involved at all. It’s not just for her. I would hope by now that you could trust that.”

I care too. For both of you.

Blaise’s gaze morphed to a begrudging acceptance; Draco’s temporary deceit less important than repairing his relationship with Theo. 

“How’s he doing?” Draco asked, nodding towards Theo. He was chatting quietly with Granger. 

“It helps that he can actually talk to me about it now but… now I know why he can’t look Greg in the eye. And when he told me about Ben he…” Blaise trailed off, unable to articulate how Theo’s guilt had physically manifested. 

“I can’t say I’m not angry with him, with Theo. I warned him, I always warned him…” Blaise broke off again and sighed. “I think we’re both just feeling monumentally inadequate at the moment.”

Draco had a long history with that particular feeling, and didn’t know how to comfort his friend. Especially when he hadn’t quite won his own battle with thoughts of all his personal deficiencies. 

He was thwarted from making a sentimental fool of himself by the timely arrival of Potter and Johnson.

Despite Granger telling Draco to deliver the message in a more tempered way, he completely disregarded her advice. 

“Robards is involved, we need a plan to take him out,” he announced dramatically.

Granger shot him a quelling look and flicked her wand to string together the trail of documents that she’d organised into a timeline detailing the links between the DMLE, the DoM research, and Azkaban. 

“We have here an Auror wanting a more brutal system who has made public attempts at shaping our society into that image,” summed up Granger. “And though these links may seem tenuous, I also see two other individuals in positions of power who not only agreed with him, but we know worked together via Theo. We also know Filagree was in contact with someone at the DMLE about Theo’s power.” 

“So we have all this,” Potter waved a vague hand at her floating research. “What can we do with it? Send it anonymously to the Prophet and take it public?”

Granger shook her head. 

“This won’t be public information until Sterling and I file the official petition on Theo’s behalf. We currently have the upper hand.”

“Except you don’t,” countered Blaise. “Someone—”

“Robards,” chimed in Draco.

“—at the DMLE knows about Theo and they’ve already seen fit to remove the warden it would seem.”

“Blaise is right, Harry,” Johnson insisted as she saw her partner’s mouth working up to a furious argument. “Our plan right now needs to be how to best keep Theo protected until he can testify.”

“We can’t do a Ministry safehouse,” mused Potter. “Everyone in the department—”

“Including Robards,” said Draco.

“—has access to those locations.”

“Especially Robards.”

“So I’ll stay home,” said Theo simply. “My house has protective enchantments.”

“Great, Theo becomes a safe shut-in, that’s settled. Now, we can discuss how to pin this on your boss?”

“That’d be lovely, Malfoy, do you have actual proof to share?” asked Potter through gritted teeth. 

“According to my father’s files—”

“I already hate this.”

“—Stanford was put in place by Robards.”

“And Filagree served as an expert witness during the push by Robards to get Unforgivables on the books as acceptable interrogation methods. Theo knows Stanfod and Filagree are at least involved as he’s seen it. We know they all ran in the same circle and further, seem to share a similar outlook in regards to how society should treat incarcerated people,” reiterated Granger.

“But per Harry’s point earlier, what can we do about this at the moment?” asked Johnson.

“We need the official paperwork of Stanford’s promotion first, as well as all the documentation we can find on his tenure as warden. That’ll be on record at the Ministry,” said Granger.

Draco turned to her in surprise, understanding where she wanted to go with her methods. “You want Sterling to throw out an accusation in open court?”

“Exactly.”

He saw the gleam in her eyes. The gleam of a girl who’d trapped Rita Skeeter in a jar. The girl who’d led Umbridge to certain doom at the bows and arrows of a centaur herd. 

“An accusation like that gets people to look closer at Robards. He’ll be under scrutiny as it is with his planned run for Minister, this could get him to act a little sloppy,” she added. 

“So what, you want to deliberately provoke the man into doing something desperate?” asked Potter in disbelief.

“Yes.” 

“He’s the head of the DMLE,” Potter reminded the room unnecessarily. “And if we really think he’s involved, he may already be responsible for the disappearance of one man as well as the threats to Theo.”

“Harry—”

“I just want you to be careful, Hermione. Angelina and I already think we’re being watched, I don’t want you putting yourself in danger based on a guess.”

“I’m just popping to the Ministry to grab some official records, it’s hardly breaking into the Department of Mysteries,” she volleyed back.

Draco had an unfortunate realisation in that he whole-heartedly agreed with Potter. Then a second epiphany in that he could help in his own way here. 

Draco looked across the way at Theo and Blaise. He remembered the two boys who had clung to each other that morning of his 17th birthday, who shared a love-bond so strong and bright it would carry them through this turmoil eventually. As it had through abusive childhoods, negligent adults, a fucking war, the disdain from society about their relationship, so would their devotion win out here. 

He understood it now; the lengths one could go to in pursuit of shielding another from harm.

“I’ll do it then,” Draco offered. 

“You can’t,” said Johnson at once. “Only Aurors or legal representatives would be able to access those types of documents.”

“And we do need them as I’d prefer not to rely on the Lucius Malfoy method of hearsay and bribery for information,” added Potter.

“I agree,” Draco said, causing the entire room to blink in surprise. “So let me hole up in your office, you check out the files Granger needs, bring them to me, and I can record what we need without her setting foot on Ministry premises. Simple.”

“Right, because nothing about you showing up at the Ministry is suspicious or wouldn’t grab the attention of Robards.”

“So you agree your boss is behind this, great. I’ve got the least to lose here, and I’ll sort through the information faster than you ever could, and then we have something concrete to hand to Sterling for Theo’s case before Robards has a chance to cover his tracks.”

“Or I can bring you in under the pretense of arresting and questioning you for suspicion of some nefarious plot.”

“Oh did you want to cuff me? Didn’t know you had an Auror-detainee kink, Potter.”

“Merlin, you two are so immature,” huffed Granger.  “Harry, you know you’ll have to sneak him in.”

Potter groaned. “Hermione—”

“Harry.”

Potter lost the staring match. He turned to Draco resignedly. 

“Ever worn an Invisibility Cloak before?”

Chapter Text

“All right there Malfoy?”

Draco tore the Cloak off and threw it on Potter’s desk. 

“You certainly took your time. Did you need to speak with that insipid witch for so long?”

Potter shrugged, apparently without a care as to whether Draco melted into the floor while he listened to some old lady blather on about Celestina Warbeck’s latest album. 

“If I didn’t stop and chat with Mabel she would have followed me and asked a million questions. Trust me, that was quick for her.”

Draco sat in the chair behind the desk and ignored the raised eyebrow from Potter at his audacity to do so without permission. 

“Well? Off you go, Granger’s given you the list of what I need.” Draco made a shooing motion in his direction.

“God knows what she sees in you,” Potter grumbled. “This could take some time so wait here,” he added unnecessarily and left, closing the door with a snap. 

Finally.

Draco snatched the Cloak back up and ignored the mixing rush of guilt and adrenaline that now coursed through him.

Because Draco had lied. 

He had absolutely no intention of waiting for Potter to return with stacks of files.

The employment history and records would help paint a picture, sure.

But the hard evidence would be found in Robards’ office. Theo had seen with his own eyes the report Filagree used to communicate with his DMLE source. 

Therefore it stood to reason that Robards would have complementary leverage. And if Draco happened to successfully liberate this from the Head Auror’s office and pass it along to Granger and Sterling, then they’d have something more tangible to stick to the bastard. 

It might mean some legal consequences for Draco, but he’d worry about that later. 

Draco threw the Cloak back over his body, indulging in a begrudging silent compliment for the garment. It truly was a magnificent magical artefact, and if the rumours were true, Draco had now come in contact with two of three of the Deathly Hallows in his lifetime. He also bitterly thought about how easy it must have been for Potter to roam the halls of Hogwarts at night, given this unfair advantage. 

Draco edged down the halls of the DMLE, only having two close calls with a pair of interns heatedly debating proper filing procedure and another pair of Aurors escorting a suspect in between them. 

Draco made it to the corner office, the name in gold-plated letters inscribed on the door: Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Auror Gawain Robards. 

And then Draco waited. And waited. When twenty minutes had passed with no movement whatsoever, he resorted to his backup plan to get into the office without performing spellwork of the breaking-and-entering variety. 

The last time he’d used Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, he’d been a terrified yet determined Sixth Year student performing a planned act in the service of the Dark Lord to save his parents.

Now he was a slightly less terrified, less morally compromised adult about to perform a rash act in service to Hermione Granger and his newfound conscience to save his two friends and possibly dozens of prisoners. 

What a life he led. 

He tossed the handful of powder he’d brought a little ways down the hall, then sent some sparks and a little clicking noise out of the end of his wand. 

He waited again. Though this time, results took roughly thirty seconds. Voices near the disturbance cried out in alarm and the door to Robards’ office flew open with a bang. 

Draco slipped inside, the door shutting naturally behind him. He removed the Cloak but kept it close, unsure of how much time he’d have alone. 

It was a spacious office, and well-maintained. Towering cabinets lined one wall, no doubt filled with case files from decades of service to the Ministry. The walls showed the decorated career of a devoted government agent. Commendations from several Ministers. Certificates of trainings completed, expertise achieved, awards received. Framed letters of praise from foreign leaders. Medals for bravery. 

Gawain Robards was a Ministry of Magic Auror through and through. 

Draco took a step towards the filing cabinets then stopped. No, the type of incriminating documents Draco needed would be kept closer to the man himself. 

He went straight to the desk instead. Robards was apparently more careful than his DoM compatriot, requiring an Alohomora or two to rifle through the top few drawers. Draco quickly scanned their contents, finding nothing of interest other than what appeared to be some confiscated wands and standard forms for arrest warrants. 

But the fourth drawer had ward magic as a form of barrier to entry. As Draco contemplated what type of complicated spellwork he’d need to bypass the wards, he heard approaching footsteps. He hastily backed away from the desk and threw the Cloak on just in time as Robards strode back into his office. 

He stopped at the threshold for a moment, appearing lost in thought, then kept on to sit rigidly behind his desk. He pulled a fresh piece of parchment and a quill towards him and then stopped, seeming to think hard. 

Trying not to breathe too loudly or make any sort of noise, Draco observed him as he stared into the mid-distance. 

Robards looked haggard; quite at odds with the sharp, seasoned veteran Auror Draco initially met upon the news of his father’s death. Draco knew the look well. Glamour charms that no longer did the job. A few days’ worth of stubble on a usually smooth chin. More frown lines around the mouth, purple bags beneath the eyes, a pallid face. A man coming apart at the seams, but doing his utmost to hide this from those around him. 

What had Robards so worried? These physical signs were more than just products of the normal stressors that accompanied working in the DMLE.

So suddenly it caused Draco to take a surprised step back, Robards threw down his quill and walked to his cabinets. He worked quietly and quickly, seeming to know exactly what he needed to find. He waved his wand and a stack of folders and parchment floated over to the desk. 

Draco crept forward, curious as to what this pile that had so thoroughly captured his concentration contained. 

His heart stopped cold at the document on top of the pile. 

The official agreement signed by Theo to break his Unspeakable Oath. 

He couldn’t sift through the pile to see what else Robards had collected. 

Draco slid his Galleon out of his pocket and silently sent off quick messages to Granger. 

Stuck in Robards office.

Find Potter now.

I’m sorry.

As Draco looked on, another document floated over with a terrifying list of information: 

A list of Granger’s upcoming court appearances.

Her travel schedule. 

Her home address.

A warrant for Floo access to her home address. Already signed by Head Auror Gawain Robards.

“I have been an Auror through two wars. I know when I’m being followed.”

Robards’ voice abruptly rang out, though he didn’t turn around. 

The thrum of fear coupled with guilt churned through him. Alone in a room with a powerful and potentially very dangerous man. He’d overestimated his ability to go off-script and come out of this the unscathed hero.

Draco sent one more message through the coin. He didn’t even think twice about tapping it out. If it would be the last thing he ever wrote to Granger, then she should know. 

He slid the Galleon back into his pocket and raised his wand beneath the Cloak.

“You can come out now Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco did not remove the Cloak, but spoke up. 

“How did you know it was me?”

“Your wand has a Trace on it.”

Another piece of parchment landed on the desk. A readout of Draco’s wand activity. 

“My probationary period ended years ago,” Draco countered, cold dread filling his stomach. 

Robards finally turned around, looking close to where Draco stood invisible.

“Mmm, so you were told. Been using plenty of Contraceptive Charms as of late.” 

Robards didn’t say it with a leer, like perhaps Flint would have. No, this threat was more than a sexual harassment tactic from a powerless prisoner with a disrespectful streak. 

Draco’s hand felt sweaty around the handle of his wand, the material of the Cloak almost suffocating. When Draco still said nothing, Robards’ expression turned slightly amused. 

“You really think you can best a trained Auror in a duel?”

“Well I’ve beaten Potter before and not even the Dark Lord can say that.”

Draco had also been 12 at the time and had cheated, but that was neither here nor there. 

“Then allow me to give you all the information you require. You may choose a different course. I’ve got someone to waylay Potter outside the records room. And I’ve got constant eyes on Johnson too,” Robards gestured to the pile on the desk. “Now, your girlfriend is the careful sort. Floos directly to and from her office from what I can tell. You constantly escort her to public events. But international portkeys are registered here you know. Heading to Geneva at the end of the month for a conference, isn’t she? Alone?”

“What do you want from me?”

“Take me to your friend Mr. Nott’s home. Now.”

Draco said nothing. He removed the Cloak and held his wand steady in Robards’ direction.

“If something happens to me, understand I could make life very difficult for the people you care about,” warned Robards.

“You’re bluffing.”

If Draco had learned anything from Potter’s odd knack for avoiding death, it was to keep your adversary talking. A very Slytherin-esque trait, Draco thought. He’d take the piss out of Potter for that should he survive this. 

“All I have to do is say the word and one of my Aurors can have Miss Granger brought in for questioning for any reason I choose. I know of a select few who’ve demonstrated over the years that they aren’t too fussed about how roughly they physically handle detainees. And she’s quite easy on the eyes, isn’t she, your girlfriend?”

Draco’s wand shook in his grip from a combination of rage and fear. “She’d see you all removed and imprisoned for anything you did.”

“Hmm, perhaps. Would you wish that for her though? When you can so easily prevent that from happening now? Take me through to Nott, he’s the only one I want.”

“So you can kill him?”

“No. I’ve learned that bodies cause questions. I didn’t even get the pleasure of killing your father and that caused quite the problem for me. I simply want to remove any incriminating memories and he can be on his way. And remind him of the cost of coming forward.”

“Why did you have my father murdered?”

Robards rolled his eyes.

“Merlin, the world does not revolve around the Malfoy family. Your father was murdered by an overtired, grief-ridden guard who was deemed medically unfit to carry a wand. And it was still a kinder death than Lucius deserved. But no, the removal of your father from this earth was most inconvenient for me, I assure you. Got Potter all up in arms to storm in and try to save all those worthless low-lifes. Potter is a naive child, as is the rest of your generation. And yet that generation has Shacklebolt’s ear.”

Though Draco might not survive the day, part of him wanted to fall over laughing. 

Hear that father? Not only did your untimely demise push Mother back to her “blood traitor” sister, create the perfect circumstance for me to fall madly for Granger, but inspired a hero mission from Potter to save the rest of Azkaban.

Is there room enough in your grave for you to roll? 

Only Lucius Malfoy could accidentally cause some good in this world. 

The Galleon warmed in his pocket.

“So why not attack Granger?” Draco questioned abruptly, playing for more time. “Prevent her and Sterling from investigating.” 

“And make her a martyr? No, much easier to play into the public’s preconceived notions about prisoner filth. Better to show that her methods, her soft ways, failed.”

Draco did not like the shiver of trepidation that rippled through him at that statement. 

“Why are you involved at all? What use does the DMLE have for prisoner experiments?”

Draco could sense that Robards’ patience for chatting was nearing an end. 

“I have a job to do, Mr. Malfoy, which is probably not something you can relate to. And to do that job, I need to get answers out of despicable people. Further, I need to ensure criminals stay where they can no longer cause problems. Byron and I have been friends through many administrations, many crises in our world. We found ourselves with mutually-aligned interests. He wanted to continue some more exciting research and I wanted a better behavioural deterrent than simple incarceration. I am sick and tired of seeing men like Lucius Malfoy or Gregory Goyle do the bare minimum only to be freed once more.”

“Yet you removed Derek Stanford and let Filagree stay where he is?”

“Filagree knows to keep his mouth shut. But Stanford got nervous with your little crusade poking around Azkaban. He grew a conscience at the wrong time and had the unfortunate idea to tell me about it.”

The Galleon warmed again.

“What did you do to him? Is he dead?”

“No. He’s living happily somewhere in America as a Muggle, with a whole new life and identity implanted in his head. You can thank Miss Granger for that idea, it’s a rather ingenious way to hide a person.”

Robards stepped closer so Draco changed tack.

“You want me to take you to Theo? Imperius me then.”

“Ah, I don’t think so. Thanks to your best mate Potter there’s much more oversight on the spells that leave our wands. I don’t fancy having an Unforgivable show up on a weekly report.”

Sensing the time for action had arrived, Draco tried for a non-verbal disarming, drawing on bravery provided by the Galleon’s brief flash of heat.

It failed, but the twitch of his Hawthorn wand unfortunately gave him away. 

“Oh, were you actually planning on fighting me?” 

Robards summarily disarmed him and tucked Draco’s wand inside his robes. “DMLE privilege, especially in the Head Auror’s office, boy. You couldn’t have harmed me in here.”

Robards flicked his wand again and Draco felt his wrists bind together, an invisible force keeping his hands clasped in front of him. Another brush of magic and his feet unwillingly led him towards Robards. Magically cuffed and tethered to the Auror.

“So, we’re taking a trip through the Floo now, or I can send an emergency missive to one of my trusted Aurors who will arrest and detain Miss Granger, no questions asked. That’s the kind of blind loyalty I’ve built here over decades. No branding of Dark Marks required.”

Another impossible situation. Trapped in another corner. 

The Galleon felt hot against his leg. 

Robards threw the powder into the grate, and waited for the only occupant in the room who had permission to arrive at Theo’s home.

“The Floo won’t let you through,” Draco said at once. “Blood wards.”

“We’re magically tethered, so if you’re allowed, I’m allowed,” said Robards with a smirk. “But nice try.”

He summoned an interdepartmental memo from his desk.

“Last chance, Malfoy. Or I’m sending this off with an order to bring in Miss Granger.”

“Nott Manor,” Draco called.

He knew which parlour they’d arrive in. Where Blaise and Theo spent most of their time together, relaxed and comfortable in the home they’d made their own.

Robards shoved him forward into the room and Draco fell to his knees. He felt the dig of a wand into the back of his neck.

Blaise looked to Draco in confusion.

“I’m so sorry,” Draco pathetically offered his two friends. 

Another chess board on which Draco existed as nothing but a pawn. Another game in which he’d lose, and take his loved ones down with him. 

Robards waved his wand, shutting the open doors to the hall, locks clicking, trapping everyone inside.

“Hand over your wand Mr. Zabini. You as well, Nott.”

Robards collected Blaise’s tossed wand but Theo hesitated. 

“I see. Have it your way then.” He flicked his wand and Draco found himself on his back, Robard’s wand in his face. A moment later, Robards held Theo’s wand too, though he’d needed to cast an Expelliarmus to win it. 

Robards tried gripping each new wand in his possession, and seemed to have an affinity for Theo’s wand. 

Cold anger suffused Theo’s voice. “Filagree’s DMLE contact, I presume?”

“Correct Mr. Nott. I’ve always supported his research. Under Barty Crouch we actually had an experiment at Azkaban on how long the human body and mind can withstand the Cruciatus. It’s a shorter amount of time than you’d think.”

“You had a group of lab rats at your disposal in those prisoners,” said Blaise, disgusted.  

The Galleon hadn’t warmed in a while. 

“Precisely. However, given the certain political climate these days, if anyone finds out I signed off on these experiments or supported them in any way, my career is over. But when I am Minister, I think you’ll find some sweeping changes made to the justice system.”

“Assuming no one finds out about your cover-up,” said Theo.

“But it’s a simple arrangement, you see. Or it should have been. Your power could have helped your department receive more research funding and it would have given me a way to keep prisoners in their place without using torture curses. Speaking of,” he said and flourished the Sycamore wand.

Malevolent magic rushed through the air.

“Crucio.”

Blinding pain. The kind he hadn’t felt since he was 18. The all-encompassing, body-wide ravaging of the Cruciatus Curse hurt like nothing else. Nothing but agony from nerve ending to nerve ending; excruciating burning and tingling as everything within him felt aflame. His body rolled around on the floor, contorting and thrashing in ways he could not control, but no amount of movement would bring an end to the torture. 

Draco thought he heard voices shouting. 

The pain stopped. He could barely hear the conversation over his own laboured breathing. 

“You said you would only alter his memories,” gasped Draco from where he lay curled in on himself. He flexed his shaking wrists against the magical binding but they did not give. 

“Ah, but do you not see the opportunity I’ve been given? What a scenario I could craft?” A manic gleam shone in the eyes of a desperate man, pushed to his limit and no longer willing to operate in stealth. He rolled Theo’s wand in his hand as he pitched his falsified theory.

“Poor, unstable Unspeakable Nott, riddled with guilt, goes a bit mad one night and turns his wand on his partner and friend. Crucio.”

More pain, more uncontrollable twitching and jerking and suffering. 

Through the ringing in his ears, Draco heard Theo and Blaise pleading. 

This round lasted much longer. A nightmare of throbbing hurt, boiling torment he could feel in his bones, it ran that deep within him. White-hot agony seeking and finding every part of Draco and rendered him screaming incoherently, mindless in the misery of never ending pain. 

Theo said something to grant him another brief reprieve. 

“You just want me, please. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“No,” rasped weakly Draco from the floor, throat raw from yelling. “Theo don’t.”

“I’m the only other proof, yes? Eliminate me from the equation and be done with it.”

“No,” said Robards firmly. “I’m done with the disappearances and having to hide more of you people. Crucio.”

His sanity might not last much longer, and he wondered whether he might pass out or go mad first. But the pain stopped quickly this time as Draco heard another spell. “Stupefy!”

A body fell to the floor with a sickening crack. Another spell from Robards and a piece of furniture blew apart, bits of wood and upholstery flying apart. 

“May I remind you that you are wandless Mr. Zabini, and it would be unwise to try and rush at me again.”

Through half-lidded eyes, Draco saw Blaise darting behind different chaises and couches. He’d soon run out of barriers or any semblance of feeble protection.

So Draco did something brave. Or rather, something a bit stupid. He was sure there was some sort of Venn diagram of the two concepts with the word “Gryffindor” smack in the middle. 

Gathering what little strength he had left, he feebly kicked out, and hooked his foot behind Robards' leg and sent him staggering to his knees. 

He heard running footsteps towards him, but Draco’s brief attempt at a distraction hadn’t been enough, and Robards fired off another “ Stupefy ” at Blaise, this time hitting his mark. 

Struggling to even sit up, Draco was immediately knocked back down. Robards had a knee on his chest and Theo’s wand at his throat. 

He swiftly cast an Asphyxiation curse. 

Draco had a wild thought about the cleverness of that curse choice. More Crucios would have him jerk too much. Not possessing the ability to breathe would incapacitate him quicker.

The fight left Draco as he struggled for air. He saw the man’s lips forming the first syllables of the curse that would end his life.

Draco’s last thought would not be about this current state of pain.

Nor would it be about a sunny kitchen with warm croissants and a fantasy woman.

Instead he dedicated a final moment to a woman who egged him on with a whispered, “Do it soon then.” Who’d been so nervous on their first date she’d practically chugged two glasses of wine. Whose fingers trembled at his waist the first time she went to touch him. To the woman who’d probably spend a good portion of her future time absolutely furious with him.

Sorry Granger, I tried. 

Black spots appeared at the edges of his vision and gathered mass by the second. 

If Draco focused his hazy brain enough, he could actually hear her shouting his name.

Robards was thrown off him. It sounded as if his body flew into the nearest wall and he slumped to the floor. 

Air rushed back into his lungs with such force that he sputtered and coughed. Gasping and trembling, Draco struggled to keep his eyes open, but his vision swam, blurred by sweat and involuntary tears. Every part of his body ached. 

He caught flashes of the scene, almost like a sped-up dream.

Shouting.

People coming through the fireplace.

The sparks out of the ends of wands. 

Curses, hexes, jinxes.

He blinked and Robards was on his feet again. The older man deflected and parried the spells sent his way.

But he was no match for the righteous fury of one of the wands. 

Gods, even her spellwork was loud.

Attack and defend, attack and defend. 

Robards had fallen to the ground, now wandless and vulnerable.

Draco’s eyes fell shut again, limbs quivering of their own accord.

“Nott’s breathing!” called out Johnson. “He’s concussed, we need to take him in.”

Then he heard her in a gentler tone. “Rennervate. Zabini, you good?”

“Yeah m’fine, was only Stunned. But Robards… he was torturing Draco… the Cruciatus… I don’t know if he’s—”

Draco both heard and felt a flurry of magic fly through the air.

“Hermione, that’s enough!”

He forced his eyes open again to see Potter had Granger physically restrained.  

He felt oddly feverish as his strength faded fast. Blaise had crawled over to him, and put a hand on his shoulder, and then to his wrist. “Shit, your heart rate is too elevated. Draco, hey, stay with us, it’s going to be—”

“Hermione, stop!” Potter suddenly shouted.

She’d broken free and had her wand jabbed into a prone Robards’ chest.

“You tortured him? YOU TORTURED HIM?” The thundering cry of an incensed warrior.

Johnson stepped forward to cast an Incarcerous on Robards, dragging a reluctant and panting Granger away. 

More yelling. Draco thought it might be his very favourite sound. The noise waxed and waned as he crept closer to unconsciousness.

A smaller hand replaced Blaise’s touch.

Granger knelt over him, and though that sight was fantastically beautiful, what his bleary eyes had beheld moments before flashed even brighter in his mind: a person set on world-burning, soul-rending, retaliatory actions to avenge his suffering. The type of passion that ran deeper than mere lust, that could spur a person to fatally flex their power.

Holding on to that brilliant image, his eyes rolled back and he passed out.

Chapter Text

That foggy haze of leaving medical sedation. The blurry lines as you tried to focus. One blink to register that you needed to wake up, the next that you’re not in the same place you fell asleep. Another blink to check your surroundings. Who’s here? Where am I? What day is it? Do I have all my limbs?

Information trickled in slowly, memories in their wake. Panic seeped in too, trying desperately to jolt you awake faster than you’d like. The pull of potions in your veins would like you to stay right here, sunken and safe with no worries to plague you, no wands to wield, just stay oblivious in ignorant bliss.

But the mind unfortunately remembered you had some rather pressing questions to answer. Especially if you are Draco and remembered some urgent matters occurring in your life.

Theo. Blaise. Were they all right?

Was it his birthday? It could be his birthday, he’d no idea how long he’d been here. Would there be a box of Jelly Slugs waiting for him?

Was he dead? Had Granger murdered him? The afterlife could really do with better bedding if so. 

He could certainly breathe easier now than when he’d blacked out from Robards’ multiple curses. He had full control of his limbs once again and a normal, steady heartbeat. 

All good signs. 

He blinked fully awake and was greeted with the comforting and welcome sight of his mother. 

Narcissa sat at his bedside, paler than usual, but composed all the same. Draco rubbed at his throat before trying to speak.

“Is Theo—?”

She pointed down the ward. “Fully recovered.”

“How long have I been here?”

“About 36 hours now.”

“Where’s Granger?”

“I believe briefly checking in with Mr. Potter.”

Narcissa stood and approached, smoothing down creases in the hideous hospital bedspread. 

“She hasn’t left your side otherwise,” she said. 

“She’s going to yell at me.”

“I should think so, she seems in quite the mood. She’s already fired two of your healers.”

“Can she do that?”

“Apparently. You might want to feign sleep a bit longer.”

She handed him a glass of water. The next bit of information she imparted inspired an equal measure of dread and intrigue within him.

“I’ve been chatting with her.”

“Oh? About?”

His mother had that secretive smile. The one that meant she’d be keeping any more illuminating information all to herself. 

She shrugged. “This and that.”

The smile became something akin to a relieved sort of pain. The release of a held-in grief. 

“She saved your life,” Narcissa said in a hushed voice. 

“Only so she could end it herself, I’m sure.”

His mother hesitated another moment then bent down and pressed a kiss to the top of his hair before resuming her seat. 

“Theodore says you were very brave.”

Draco craned his head around and saw the only other bed in the ward occupied by a bandaged Theo. He gave Draco a little wave and a wry smile.

“I’m just relieved they found us in time,” Draco said grimly. 

“Do you need the healer now?”

“No,” he gratefully gulped down more water. “I’ll wait until they check in.”

Draco rubbed at his chest and gingerly flexed his legs. Some achiness persisted and he’d probably need Pain Potions for the next week or so. It would unfortunately mean a brief moratorium on some more vigorous activities he’d planned to engage in with Granger.

If she let him live. 

He found a Galleon next to his wand on the side table. The last message that had come through read: “I’ll bloody find you myself, you better hope I do.”

He wondered how many frantic ones had preceded it. He wondered how she felt about the final one he’d sent. 

The doors suddenly flew open as Blaise barged into the ward. His furious eyes zeroed in on Theo. It appeared Draco would have some company beyond the veil.

“Do you know where I’ve been?” Blaise asked in a thundering voice. 

Theo jerked his head in the direction of Draco and Narcissa, possibly hoping an audience might save him a bit of trouble.

“Oh, uh, hello Mrs. Malfoy. Draco, you’re awake, brilliant, glad to see it.”

“Don’t stop on our account,” said Draco. 

“Ahem, right.” Blaise turned back to his partner. “Do you know why Draco’s mother was allowed to be here when he woke?”

“Would it be because Draco was a very good boy and had his emergency contact paperwork properly filled out with St. Mungo’s?”

“Correct darling, and would you like to know where I’ve been for the past several hours upon discharge from my own care?”

“I’m going to guess it wasn’t arranging my welcome home party.”

Blaise ran an exasperated hand down his own face. 

“No, it was spent frantically trying to find you and only by having Potter get Sterling for me did I discover there’s an option to recognize same-sex partners on the level of spouses or blood relatives for visitation and contact purposes.”

“I believe Sterling is actually responsible for that particular law.”

Draco muffled his own laughter at poor Blaise’s expense. 

“No more secrets,” begged his friend. “No more of you doubting that I’ll stick around. That’s why you didn’t bother with the paperwork, isn’t it?”

“Blaise, no I swear, just me avoiding a simple task per usual, I’m so sorry, I—”

But Blaise did not want to hear any apologies.

“No, you listen to me for once, Theo. We are getting married and I’ll take your name or you can take mine, I could give a fuck, but I am going to introduce you as my husband and—”

“Yes.”

Theo’s one-word interruption stopped the rest of the tirade. Blaise blinked a few times, anger put on pause as it had to contend with the life-altering agreement that Theo had casually uttered as if he’d been asked about another cup of tea. 

“Yes?”

“Presuming Granger and Sterling put up a good defence, I’ll be a free man and we can have a proper wedding.”

Blaise covered his face with his hands and his shoulders shook as he choked on a sobbing laugh.

“And in a few years we’ll find a surrogate and make a little family,” Theo added.

Blaise laughed again and wiped his eyes dry.

“Do you think if I asked Ginny Potter she’d agree? Those Weasley genes seem quite prone to fertility,” Theo continued as if making a list for things he needed from the shop.

Blaise lifted Theo’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles, adding his own contribution to their future. “And we’ll force Draco to be godfather and Pansy to be godmother and they’ll constantly compete for this child’s affection.”

“I think Pansy will win, she’ll still be alive by then.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Draco interjected.

Theo pointed towards the door. “Well, Hermione’s approaching and it looks like Draco probably won’t be on this earth much longer if she has anything to say about it.”

Draco’s gaze snapped to the open doorway to find an irate figure taking up far more space than her small stature should allow. Anger, bright and loud, seeped into the air; an impending hurricane on a set path to make direct landfall on Draco. 

Fucking gorgeous in all her terrifying potential for malevolence. 

She nodded curtly at Theo and Blaise and gave his mother a tight, false smile as she approached Draco’s bedside. 

“Mrs. Malfoy, might I have a moment alone with your son?”

Begging his mother to stay and protect him would be childish, Draco knew that, but he almost gave in to that immature instinct. 

“I’ll let the healers know you’re awake and ready for evaluation. Perhaps in a few minutes?”

Granger smiled that manic expression of forced calm and Narcissa completed her betrayal by sweeping regally out of the room without a backward glance. 

Draco made a mental note to cancel his order of an opal bracelet for his mother’s upcoming birthday.

He might not be around for it given present circumstances. 

Granger flicked her wand and the curtains drew around the bed. Another swish and he knew she’d thrown a Silencing Charm around them.

He was completely fucked and not in a fun way. 

“What were you thinking!?”

She started screaming at him, furious. Accusations flew, followed by impugning his character and a calling into question of his sanity, morals, and critical thinking skills, all issuing out of her mouth in a steady stream of the most epic dressing down Draco had ever received in his life.

“—reckless beyond reason—”

“—stupid! Just bloody stupid and—”

“—complete disregard for the plan—”

“—so bloody lucky Harry has a coin too—”

“—should be thanking Merlin I was allowed through those wards—

“—could have gotten yourself killed, not to mention Blaise and Theo!”

He sort of listened to what she said. Though he was more preoccupied with the expression on her face. A look he’d seen before, though not on her. The look he remembered on Blaise’s face any time Theo was in harm’s way. When he’d fatally threatened Draco in Sixth Year. 

Granger cared very much indeed. 

She cared enough to give him a way to contact her. She cared enough to find Potter immediately. She cared enough to show up for the rescue attempt, even though Draco knew Potter would have tried to have her sit it out. She cared enough to wait for him to wake up and berate him.

She cared and cared and cared. 

For Draco.

“—that you had the absolute audacity to put yourself in a completely unnecessary situation when—”

“Do shut up Granger. I love you too.”

She stopped yelling. She might have been too shocked when she’d first read his confession over the Galleon, too worried and ready to act that she’d put those three little words out of her mind.

“I—”

He’d destroyed her eloquence. She couldn’t even frown at him. Time and silence stretched on, Granger unable to yell her way out of his calmly offered truth. 

Draco just grinned in her face, amused at the way he’d rendered her speechless. Finally she cleared her throat and smoothed down her hair, stalling for time. She bit the inside of her cheek and stared at a point on the floor. 

“I’ve admitted nothing you know,” she asserted.

Such a lawyer.

“It’s all right. You’ve already shown me.”

“I—well—I suppose my actions could be interpreted as such, yes.”

Such a fucking lawyer.

“Hmm, that puts me quite ahead in this relationship. A spoken and written declaration from me, while you dance around the issue and equivocate—”

“I love you.”

Quiet and loud simultaneously. Quiet in the way she’d uttered her honesty, and yet deafeningly loud in the way her eyes sought and then held his gaze. 

Both of them equally offering up bravery. 

Her hand slid into his. 

“I wasn’t quite lucid there at the end,” said Draco. “But it sounded like Potter had to hold you back from seriously injuring Robards.”

Her face flushed, not in embarrassment, but in a recalled rage. 

Fuck he loved her.

“You have no idea how many curses almost left my wand. When I saw him on top of you, when I heard what he did to you. I wanted to—to—” She took a shuddering breath. “He’s lucky Harry was there.”

Draco lifted her wrist to his lips. “Thank you.”

Her eyes softened and she sank onto the bed, thumb running circles along the back of his hand. 

“You’ve got to give an official statement, but Robards is in custody already. As is Filagree.” 

“But Stanford is—”

“Obliviated, I know. Robards was questioned with Veritaserum. They’ll have a search team for Stanford as well now that they know he was sent away. That might take quite a while though.”

Draco frowned. 

“It’s deeper than that, though,” he insisted and sat up straight. He filled Granger in on the unsettling conversation with Robards that led to his unfortunate appearance at Theo’s home.

While relieved to hear that Robards would pay for his crimes, Granger needed to understand just how pervasively this ran. 

“I’ve got to speak to Johnson and Potter. Robards had a whole network of Aurors with his same attitude. The way he so casually had that warrant paperwork ready to haul you in for questioning—completely unjust—and the way he spoke about certain Aurors and their more brutal arrest and interrogation practices—I mean it’s unconscionable letting our justice system fester into another cycle of barbarism and unfair power dynamics. It sounded like he kept the experiment close to the chest, but Shacklebolt needs to raze that entire department if we want anything to get fixed. I know Potter’s Azkaban overhaul weeded out a lot but the Ministry is a cesspool of corruption. Did you know my wand still had a Trace? Who’s to say Greg’s doesn’t, or my mother’s? What about the rest of those prisoners after they’ve served their time? We’ve got to root it out at the source and—what? What have I said?”

She’d squeezed his hand as her body shook with repressed laughter. A look of pride at him coupled with amusement blazed in her eyes.

“Sterling’s already gotten eight families to sign onto a case against the prison and it’s barely been two days. Angelina already had your Trace removed,” Granger reassured him.

“Good.”

Unstoppable. 

Draco could see it now, what she’d meant all those months ago. He almost pitied the likes of Robards and his ilk, they didn’t stand a fucking chance with Granger driving this cause forward. 

She shifted closer to him, sporting her frown that always preceded a question.

“I have to admit I’ve been curious about a few things. It’s been a bit…”

“Dramatic and dangerous as of late?”

“Yes, that.” She gave a light laugh. “Your dream, when Theo gave you happiness.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me more about it?”

The group in the back gardens of Nott Manor celebrated for myriad reasons. Theo and Blaise insisted on hosting a gathering to prematurely thank all involved in helping Theo, and they officially announced their engagement. And a few days prior, the Wizengamot announced the start date for the trials of Robards and Filagree. 

With task forces currently being formed to investigate Azkaban (again), the DoM, and the DMLE, Draco wondered how much of Granger he’d even see in the coming weeks.

Good thing he’d made the extremely practical and not-at-all selfish suggestion that she make use of his spacious study and library for any investigation planning outside of her office. It had everything to do with Granger’s flat being tiny and nothing to do with increased opportunities to convince her to stay the night and wake her in the mornings with his ringed fingers stroking up her bare thighs. 

But today they also celebrated a recent milestone for Draco. 

“Order of Merlin, Third Class. Not too shabby.”

Draco ran his fingers over the medal pinned to the front of his dress robes. He frowned as he recalled all the trouble he’d gone through to earn the honour of Minister Shacklebolt presenting him with such a prestigious (and superfluous) award: having to work with Potter, months and months of research, too many visits to Azkaban, and then actual torture. 

He much preferred the reward Granger gave him that morning in bed. 

“Surely you didn’t expect anything higher?” asked Theo with a teasing grin. “Because I think there’s still some lingering conflicting feelings about how I used my power. And the Ministry trespassing you did.”

“They could hardly implicate me for that though. They’d have to reprimand Potter, too. Can’t have that, can we?”

Theo threw him a smirk. 

“You might want to try a bit harder on the whole friendship thing with him. I think you’re sort of stuck with Harry if this relationship of yours with Hermione is as permanent as I wager it is.”

Draco didn’t have an adequate reply that didn’t include a curse leaving his wand in Theo’s general direction. He changed the topic instead.

“Still feel all right?”

Theo tapped the side of his head and grinned. “Never better. It was just a crack on the head. You never know it might have—”

“Please don’t.”

“—knocked some sense into me.”

“Merlin, you’re going to be the world’s most embarrassing father some day.”

Theo’s stare moved over to Blaise, in a heated debate with Ginny about quidditch. “Gods, what a dream that’d be.”

“Are you afraid?” asked Draco. He knew Theo understood he wasn’t asking about future parenthood. 

“No. Well, perhaps a little.”

The word was out to the world at large about the intrigue and corruption occurring within the Ministry. How Unspeakable Theodore Nott and his empathic dream powers had been embroiled in quite the research scandal originating in the Department of Mysteries and extending to Azkaban. How Aurors Harry Potter and Angelina Johnson had led the charge to clean up both the administration within their own department and at the prison. How solicitor Hermione Granger with the assistance of her paramour (and “noted prisoners’ rights advocate Draco Malfoy”) had worked behind the scenes to get the real story out of inmates like Gregory Goyle, Marcus Flint, and Ben Sinclair. 

It burned Draco a bit inside to know Flint would leverage his “cooperation” and “substantial hints to help uncover a vast network of corruption” to get an earlier release date. Still, the press spin had been mostly favourable thus far, and if public sympathy stayed with Theo, Draco hoped that would translate to leniency from the Wizengamot. 

Thus far, they’d put Theo on a temporary wand ban, keeping his wand for evidence collection purposes. 

“Do you really think you’re never going to use it again? Your power?”

Theo sighed. “Well I won’t say ‘never’ just… it’ll take some time and loads of conversations with Blaise before I’m comfortable again.”

“Well, when that day comes, I think Granger will be first in line. She’s dying of curiosity.”

“For Hermione, whenever she likes. I’m in her debt already and I suspect when this is all over I’ll owe her quite a lot. And you.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I consider us even.”

Draco looked out over the rest of the assembled guests at Nott Manor so he could avoid the open emotion in Theo’s eyes at that response. 

“Does this resemble it at all? Your dream from Sixth?” Theo asked after a beat.

Ali Shafiq (bedecked in a dandelion yellow three-piece suit today) had his arm linked through Andromeda’s and his head bent towards Narcissa, engaging her in what looked like quite the conversation. 

Pansy and Greg also sat close together, hands held together in Pansy’s lap as they watched a young boy gambol about the lawns. Potter, Johnson, and George Weasley took turns releasing a toy snitch as Teddy Lupin ran and chased it, only taking breaks to collapse on the ground in hysterical giggles. 

“No,” Draco said firmly. “Not really. Still inspires the same feeling though.”

Draco’s quiet observance of the odd assembly of people and enjoyment of his drink was interrupted by the approaching figure of Sterling. 

“Mr. Malfoy, might I have a word?”

Theo raised his eyebrows and strolled away. 

Draco had no idea what Sterling could possibly want to speak with him for, and resisted the urge to nervously throw back the rest of his whisky. 

“As… misguided as your actions were on behalf of the entire investigation, they did speak to the strength of your character,” the older man began, wrapping a half-compliment inside an admonishment.

“Uh, thank you.”

Gratitude felt like the only appropriate response to such a pronouncement. 

Sterling took his time again, working up to the purpose for conducting a private conversation. His wedding band tapped against his glass a few times, and it reminded Draco so strongly of Narcissa; someone so accustomed to constant composure indulging in a behavioural tic that it warned Draco of an incoming uncomfortable conversation topic. 

“Ali and I don’t have children. Nor do we aspire to.”

If Draco wasn’t wildly in love with a lawyer himself, he’d never speak to one again. 

Sterling seemed to regret that avenue, and tried another way to deliver a sentimental statement. 

“When Hermione first started working with you, I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

“Neither was I.”

“It seems to have been a rousing success.”

“Thank you. Granger, I mean Hermione, made sure the project flourished.”

“She didn’t do it alone,” countered Sterling neutrally. “She’ll have other cases to occupy her time going forward. You should think about running the advocacy programme full-time.”

With that, he left Draco to consider what sort of future he’d like to build. The kind of legacy he’d like to leave and how best to achieve such a newly formed vision.

Draco found Granger at the top of the verandah steps that overlooked the back of the property.

“I think I’ve earned your father’s approval.”

“Yes, I saw him speaking with you,” she said with a mischievous smile. “At least Sterling’s made you work for it. You’ll find my actual Dad is a bit of a pushover.”

“How does next weekend sound?”

“For what?”

“Introducing me to your parents.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You’ve gotten very good at saying all the right things.”

“No, you’ve only just noticed my perfection. I’ve always been this considerate.”

Draco kept his stare on her, plans and ideas taking enticing shapes and edging closer to reality the longer he looked at her.

“What is it?”

“Remember early on in our time together? You asked me what I wanted to do with my life. Perhaps I still don’t yet know the answer to that question, but I do know I want to be happy.”

“What does that look like?”

He intertwined their fingers.

“A nice home somewhere safe. A beautiful woman. She’s an atrocious baker and terrifying in the courtroom. She makes me want to do all sorts of horrifyingly charitable acts. Maybe we have a child or two some day.” 

“Sounds like a lovely offer.”

“It’s a genuine one too.”

Her answering smile told him that an eventual action on his part would earn him an affirmative word.

“I think I’d like to give it a go. If you’re willing to have me.”

“Granger, I think a life with you would be a dream.”

FIN