"The greatest struggle is not physical but pyschological. The demons telling us to give up when we push ourselves to the limit can never be silenced for good. They must always be answered by the quiet the steady dignity that simply refuses to give in. Courage. We all suffer. Keep going." -Graeme Fife
She watches from a bench a few yards back, wondering just how long she'll have to wait for him. Despite what others might think she really was not a patient person.
He looks so different from the boy she knew in school. His robes are tattered and dirty. His hair is so grimey that it is hardly blond anymore. And his face, that was the most different of all.
To say that he was frightening was an understatement.
He used to walk around with hatred in his eyes, maybe a few eye crinkling laughs here, a few sneers there. But now, now there was just nothing. Even as he stared into his own parents' grave.
There is something you come to expect from an angry person. But this Draco, she couldn't read him at all. She didn't know what to expect from him.
So she watched him. Very intently. Always with her hand on her wand. He wasn't allowed one but that by no means made her foolish.
He was still staring into the hole. His eyebrows drew together.
What are you thinking, Malfoy?
Stupid mudblood.
Good thing he didn't think he could speak anymore, he'd curse her up and down. In the muggle sense at least; that's what happens when you're a fucking prisoner. When your wand gets snapped and you get thrown into prison. How ironic. The mudblood with not an ounce of magic in her veins was allowed to do magic and him, one of purest bloodlines left, was forbidden.
Irony was his fucking friend. It was the best friend he'd ever had. Metaphorically speaking, of course. And how sad was that?
Currently, though, Draco was not in his cell, and ironically enough, (hah, his lunatic mind laughed at him) he had Granger to thank for that. Not that he would.
He was standing in the shadows of a gigantic tree, his hands were stuffed in his pockets and his head was down. He was the only person standing beside the open hole.
No words of sentiment came to his mind, no "I miss yous" came out of his mouth. Nothing. No feeling. Absolutely none. "Lucius Malfoy, and Narcissa Malfoy," was all the marble headstone read.
He looked up to study his surrondings. This was the first time in years that he had seen daylight,the first time the sun had touched his skin. He was savoring each breath of fresh air.
Maybe if he was lucky he could run for it, he might not have a wand anymore, but he was a physically strong man, and she was a weak and pathetic small woman.
"Don't even think about it malfoy," she cut into his train of thought. He didn't turn to look at her, he just squeezed his hands into tight fists and clenched his jaw. He heard her turn and start to walk away. "Come," she said, and he turned his back on the gaping hole and followed.
He glared at her form in front of him, where his dead parents could drag no emotion from him, she could. Granted it was hate, but that's really all he'd ever felt. His emotional span wasn't as erratic as some. He noted her right hand in her robes pocket and had no doubt her fist was clenched around her wand. She didn't trust him and the feeling was entirely mutual.
Not that he would trust himself either, but then again he was a slytherin. Which by definition meant that he was not trusted nor was there anyother soul that he could trust.
"Don't you find it funny that you were the only person at their funeral," his fists clenched tighter, his finger nails digging into his skin. "Even house elves have more people mourning over them."
He ground his teeth together, "and the one person who was there, their own son for Merlin's sake, couldn't even muster up an ounce of emotion." She stopped and turned, and met his glaring eyes, "have you always been a heartless bastard Malfoy?"
Her brown eyes were half glaring, half amused, with a small smirk playing on her scarred face. His nostrils flared and chapped lips puckered painfully. 'Fuck. You' he screamed in his head. "I reckon you have," and she turned around, "come," and he did.
The chest tightening of apparition loosened and he stepped away from her. It was a windy day on a hill close to the sea. "Come," she said, starting ahead of him.
They walked over a hill and through wrought iron gates. She walked them past headstones. He sucked in the salty, humid air, just grateful to be outside, regardless of the location.
She stopped at a particularly dirty plot, magicked it clean, then continued walking. He followed. "Do you know where we are malfoy?" He never answered her questions, he didn't know why she even bothered trying anymore. Truthfully he hadn't talked in months. She continued on without waiting for him to answer, "we're at the muggle cemetary. Every muggle who died during the war is buried here."
I don't care, he spat inside his head.
She shot him a sideways look. "I wonder how many people are buried here that you killed," she whispered. Stupid, self assured Gryffindor. Where he was from words like that got you killed, or congratulated. The wicked could be quite unpredictable.
She walked them to an unclaimed area by the edge of the cliff and sat down. She put her hands out behind her and rolled her head onto her shoulder. He stood on the edge of the clearing, fists in his pockets and eyes narrowed.
As much as he wanted to kick the little bitch, to steal her wand and hex her and then run like hell, he wouldn't. He couldn't risk it. So he turned his back to her and waited for her to decide to stand up.
He was always at her mercy.
She would walk and he had to follow; she sat and he was forced to wait. It bothered him to no end being at her beck and call, but he squashed those feelings. Because regardless of how much he hated her and hated their little outings, he did not hate the sunshine, the wind, even the rain.
The sight he saw when he turned around, the magnitude of headstones sprawled around him, made his breath catch for one moment. There were literally thousands of them. So vast that he could not see an end, and when his eyes followed over a distant hill, the headstones carried on to the next one, and the next. Until finally he squinted and saw the iron gate they had come in.
"This is the largest spot the ministry could find for them all," she said. And it was large, it was enormous. There was grave stone after grave stone, and on their way out he really looked at them: "Natasha Smith, 3 years old," "Ian Pratt, 14 years old." Some held families, others couples, and when he saw one with a woman and her unborn child he couldn't look anymore.
"Not surprising that you wouldn't know this was here." No shit you dumb cunt, I've been in prison for who knows how long. She stopped and he realised they had passed through the iron gates; she put her hand on his shoulder and the crushing darkness blinded him.
They were on deserted grounds. An early morning mist hovered around them, and the suns first rays were beginning to make light. He had started noticing things again - like how the mist made everything drippy and crystalline.
"Do you know where we are?"
Granger was a few feet in front of him and not looking in his direction. For this he was thankful, he hated those eyes with their infinite Granger wisdom. Always probing him.
"This is where Voldemort finally fell. Some call it the place of the final battle. But there is no quote, unquote, final battle. It still continues to this day. If not out in broad site, then internally within us all, even you, Malfoy."
She took a deep breath and blew it out. Her breath forming in front of her like a dragon breathing out smoke.
"I brought you here to tell you something today, it will probably be difficult for you, but I ask that you listen to everything I have to say. I speak nothing but the truth." She turned around to face him then.
His only knowledge of the day the Dark Lord died was an excited guard going from cell to cell, shouting gleefully at all the inmates. Spreading his knowledge of the downfall of Voldemort.
"Did you know that Professor Snape was a spy," he nodded slowly, knowing this was a trick question.
"I thought so. Did you know that he was never on Voldemort's side? There was a time that he was, but that all changed drastically on the night Harry's parents were murdered. He was unconditionally in love with Lilly, Harry's mother, until the day he died. I know this because I watched him die and saw his final memories."
"What are you trying to say..." but cut him off midsentence.
"Do not interrupt me, this is hard enough to say already, just know that everything I tell you is one hundred percent the truth."
She clutched her arms around her stomach and continued.
"Professor Snape had asked Voldemort not to kill Lilly, he had been in love with her for sometime and Voldemort knew this, he promised not to, but in the end what is the life of a mudblood woman anyway? Voldemort couldn't have known the consequences that killing Lilly would have.
Throughout our journey to destroy Voldemort, Snape helped us, more than once to be quite honest. Do you know that he took an unbreakable vow about you?"
His chest tightened. He literally felt like he could not breath.
"Oh yes, he vowed that shall you not be able to kill Dumbledore that he would kill him for you. Your mother is the one who made it with him. That's not the shocking part though, oh no. Snape told Dumbledore about the plan and the vow and Dumbledore made Snape promise something in return. Do you know what that is?"
He couldn't even answer, his insides were churning, how had so much escaped him?
"Dumbledore made Snape promise to kill him. You see, Dumbledore did not want your soul maimed. He essentially sacrificed his life for your soul. Snape's soul was already torn apart by that point. So they planned his death. You should have taken Dumbledore's offer, Malfoy, he truly cared for you. Needless to say, your soul is torn apart now so I guess you could say that in a way Dumbledore died in vain. But he also died for Snape, not just you, for if he did not die, Snape would have. I'm sure you know the inner workings of the unbreakable vow.
"So now that you know the truth about Professor Snape I want to enlighten you on the true character of your mother."
"How could you possibly know anything about my mother?" He whispered, sure that if he spoke any louder the extra effort would cause him to vomit.
"I know quite enough to make an educated guess. Did you know that your mother saved Harry's life during the final battle? She told Voldemort Harry was dead when she knew that he was not. Directly affecting the outcome of this particular battle, which ended in Voldemort's death. It actually took place not to far from here."
She stared at him and bit her lip. She was breathing fast like she had just finished running.
"Everyone who you thought was evil, heartless, and inherently cold actually helped us. I know that it is hard for you to fathom, that your own mother, your own godfather for Merlin's sake, were so absolutely different than what you thought your whole life.
Your mother loved you very much. Her and your father died of an old muggle disease: a broken heart for the life you could have lived. They mourned until their dying day because they were free and you were not, and lord they wanted you to see as they had, and they wanted to tell you how sorry they were for the life they brought you up in. But I happen to know that with your mother's dying breath she asked that you would be able to live a free life.
The wish was passed on to Harry, verified through legillemens, and reluctantly acted upon. Which is why I am here."
S
he opened his cell and didn't bother to say anything as she turned and started walking away. They walked past the guards at the end of the dank, dark hallway, the sound of dripping water somewhere on the walls caught his ears, a sound he couldn't hear from his cell.
She walked them down the stone steps and onto the gravel drive. He already felt like he could breath better. She turned to look at him and placed her hand on his shoulder and everything turned black.
They landed outisde of a homely stone cottage and she abruptly let him go, for which he was thankful, and she walked away. He followed her with a sigh.
Today her hair was very unruly, her jeans were baggy, and she was disheveled. From the expression on her face, to the way her shoulders hunched, and he was surprised that this did not please him. I guess you went literally fucking insane when the only human contact you had was barely considered enough of a witch to be allowed in your presense.
She led him around the cottage and passed through a barely visible stone fence, overgrown with vines and ivy. They rounded the house and what he saw made him stop walking. "Come" she said sternly. Giving him a pointed look.
They were in a vast green garden with wildflowers growing in patches here and there. The stone fence surrounded the yard, enclosing it. The simple beauty wasn't what stopped him, no, it was the obviously insane patrons and mediwitches sprawled out on the lawn.
One was strapped to some sort of chair with wheels. He started screaming and kicking. Shaking his head profusely. He started shouting: "not my daughter, please, please anyone but her. Take me! Take me! Please..." he trailed with a final whimper, "please..." his stomach felt sick. "Ahhhhhhhh," the man screamed. Then his head fell limp against his shoulder.
"He's like that on most days. Sometimes he's in the present, but mainly he's inconsolable and trapped in his own horrible past. There's nothing they can do for him, even calming draught can't bring him out of his own head," she said.
He quickly looked away from the man and to another person near him. This one had a mediwitch helping her to plant flowers the muggle way. As they put the last of the dirt on their newly planted beauty, the mediwitch did one final pat then brushed the dirt off the ladies hands and told her to go grab a snack to eat. While she walked away the mediwitch pointed her wand at the flower, with one last quick glance at her patient, she watered it, then she stood up and followed after the woman.
"Her name is Renata and she can't bare the sight of water, it puts her in about the same state as the first man you saw," she turned to look up at him. "They drowned her family in front of her," she whispered.
His hands gripped his trousers in tight fists and he pleaded into her eyes. A singular act of vulnerability that crushed him just to acknowledge, but his desperation was evident: he did not want to be here, could not be here, to see the aftermath of war.
How many people were here because of him?
It honestly hit way too fucking close to home, if he had succumbed to his forsaken mind, he could be right here. He had the feeling he was walking a tight rope, one wrong step this way or that way and he could fall and end up right where these people were. His stomach literally felt sick, like the little bread and jam rations he lived on were viciously trying to gnaw their way out of his intestines.
His gaze continued down her face and to the faded pink and white scar beside her mouth that stretched to her ear, and out of sight. He wondered how far it went. Then mentally scolded himself for pondering her.
She brought her hand up to it and traced her index finger along the bumpy, uneven line.
"Do you know how I got this," she shakily asked. He shook my head. "No I supposed you wouldn't," and she put her hand on his forearm and grabbed him so tight he could feel her nails digging into his skin, "but you will."
We apparated outside the ruins of a house he knew well. She pulled on his forearm and tried to forcibly drag him closer to it but he didn't move, her weak little arms could not make him go anywhere without the aid of magic.
"Don't make me force you," she said. And he couldn't move, he wouldn't. Not after everything she had told him, not after all the lies he now knew. He shook his head and she grabbed both his biceps and dug her fingernails into them, leaving tiny half crescents.
"Coward," she spat. He wrenched his arms out of her grasp and she stumbled backwards, with one arm he wiped her spittle off his face then pointed his finger at her.
"No, fuck you," he said. He didn't even recognize those sounds coming from his own mouth. His lips cracked from from the effort.
He couldn't face those ruined walls, the weed strewn garden, the thorns. The literal death that you could feel in the air. The permanent darkness that hovered over the pathetic place. He could not think of a time when the sun had actually shone on his childhood home.
"Your aunt tortured me in those walls. Those same walls where you slept, where you played as a child, where you were born. She took a knife to my face. Where were you at the time? Did you know I was there, I wonder. How many people were tortured and died in that house Malfoy? Hm tell me, do you know?" She screamed as she walked around to my front and faced me.
"No." He barely whispered.
"And how many did you torture and kill?"
He turned away from her then, eyes closed. He couldn't look at her, at that fucking house. His hands fisted and tugged at his hair trying to pull it away from his skull. A rough scream of frustration strangled from his mouth and he felt his lips crack and tasted blood begin to flow from them.
He brought a shaking hand to his lips and smeared the blood. He lowered his shaking hands and fell to the ground.
The rain started then and he didn't know how long they stayed there like that. Long enough for a puddle to form at his knees. Eventually she gripped his shoulder and they were back outside the prison.
She started walking ahead of him and he didn't know if it was the vulnerability, or his sudden madness, but he shouted a strangled cry, grabbed her forearm and whipped her around.
"Why are you doing this to me, isn't it enough that I'm going to die? Do you have to make me suffer? Do you have to force me to think? To think about those muggles in the cemetary, those people in that home, your goddamn face and that fucking scar. Stop it!"
He knew she had been hoping for this, she wanted him to break. He always had been, he didn't know how to not be broken.
He crumbled to the ground and she stood there watching him.
"Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy"
He was standing in front of their grave again, this time in a much different frame of mind. I guess you could call it reluctant (or confused) enlightenment.
Granger was sitting off to the side, beneath that giant tree with a book rested on her knees. He looked back at their gravestone, wishing he could add more words now, phrases that correctly emphasised how great they were in his mind.
He sighed internally.
'I'm sorry,' he thought. 'I really had no idea. I...I thought you didn't care about me.'
He knelt down in front of their grave, the wet soil soaking through his robes and staining his new pants. When he'd asked her to take him here after their last outing she'd said that if they were going to do this then she at least wanted him to be decent.
She'd produced these new item from her purse and graciously turned around as he had changed.
Now he was out of his torn and filthy slacks and into some humble jeans that were a little too loose and sat low on his hips. She also brought him a new shirt which was long sleeved and black. She'd magicked his hair and body clean. He wasn't even aware that he had smelled, but he knew he must have looked a site before.
Nobody was ever allowed showers in prison.
And because saying it in his mind just didn't suffice he said aloud, "I never knew the depths of your love and I just wanted you to know that I love you too. So damn much. Thank you."
But he didn't stop there, Granger took him to Uncle Severus's grave and he apologized and told him he wished he'd known the greatness of his sacrifice for him. And that thank you, thank you so much, for saving his life.
And lastly they were in front of Dumbledore's grave. Words here were so mach harder to find so he aked Granger to conjure a simple wreath which he laid on his grave with his hands. That simple act of laying the wreath in the muggle fashion, but first having to ask Granger to produce it, spoke volumes about how so very different he really was.
Dumbledore would surely be smiling at him now.
They were at another cemetary. Walking in their normal procession, but nothing felt normal anymore.
He was raw, no longer numb, no longer emotionless.
She stopped at a gravestone. She was dressed unusually nice in a modest beige skirt and red cardigan. Her hair just as unruly, but farther down her back than he remembered.
How long had he been operating in this semi-unconscious world?
She bowed her head, conjured up a wreath of roses and gently kneeled and placed them at the base of the headstone. Then she placed her hand on the stone and buried her head in her arm.
She started crying. Really crying, with gut wrenching sobs. She began rocking back and forth. He could only make out one word on the engraved stone that was not obscured by her body.
"Ronald..."
She was broken too. She was broken and not healed like she should have been. Maybe that's what war does, it breaks you into a million fucking pieces and you can never, no matter how hard you try, put them back together again.
There were no more perfect souls for this generation.
She wiped her eyes and sat back on her heels. He saw the stone in all its glory. Today was the anniversary of his death. He grabbed her arms and dragged her up to face him.
She ripped herself out of his grasp. She wiped the snotty from her nose with her sleeve and walked away from him.
Later on that day...
"He married Luna, you know. Not that you care," and he didn't.
"They were happy. She's still alive. She was at the cottage that we visited." She picked a flower and started stripping it of its petals. He glanced up at the sky and saw the sun.
It blinded his world yellow, and hurt his eyes, but he couldn't look away. The funny thing about knowing the coldest depths of your mind is that when the sun captures you with its warmth you find that given the choice between the two, you'd take the blinding, painful yellow, over the numbing silence of the cold.
He started anticipating her visits, everytime his cell would open he'd hope, his heart would flutter and his stomach would clench. At first this flurry of emotions almost caused him to retreat back inside himself.
He wasn't used to these emotions. He had never felt anything like what he felt now.
How had he ever lived within the dark?
He was intensely aware now that he going to die in here, and he deserved it. No matter how repentent he was now, he had killed in cold blood.
How he wished he could take it back.
They were at the muggle cemetary again, sitting in a little patch of grass by the cliff. He was watching the sea smack up against the rock below.
There was something he had been wanting to tell her, and even though he was better at talking, expressing himself was still a challenge. Especially when it made him feel vulnerable.
The sun was shining on her face and her eyes were closed, soaking it in. The sunshine, his sunshine. What a stark contrast it was from the first day they had been here. How his world had been turned upside down.
Or right way up; he wasn't sure anymore.
"I'm sorry," he whipsered.
Her eyes opened and she looked at him, "for what?"
He leaned forward and reached his right index finger to her face and traced it down her scar, leaving goosebumps against her sun kissed skin. She leaned her head into his hand and closed her eyes.
"It's not your fault," she whispered.
She gently and ever so slightly squeezed her eyes together and sighed once more. He started rubbing small strokes back and forth on her porcelain skin with his rough, dirty, calloused thumb.
What a contrast they were. He was polluted, a murderer, the worst kind of person. And she, she was broken, but good, wholly and truthfully just plain good.
She sighed again, "it was so easy to hate you before, and put all my hate and anger towards you, but I can't do it anymore." She brought her tiny hand up to his and nuzzled her head into their hands. "I really can't hate you anymore."
His heart leapt from his chest and lodged itself in his throat. He cleared it once. Twice. And a third time before he could finally speak. "Would it be wrong of me to say that I feel the same?"
She opened her brilliant brown eyes, and he noticed the caramel in them. Now that he could finally see her without hate in the way, she became astonishingly beautiful to him. Granted her hair was still bushy, but it was long and curly and gorgeous. Her teeth were still slightly large, but they were straight and clean and gleaming. And her scar marred her perfect face, but did not detract from her beauty, not in his eyes. If anything it was enhanced because it resembled just how unfalteringly brave, courageous, and strong she was.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Beyond fuck.
"No, I suppose it wouldn't be."
They were at another stone cottage now, walking inside an old front door. The living area was small and quaint. Built in bookshelves lined almost every wall save one that had an entrance to a small kitchen. He stepped inside and stood in the hearth. She stared at him and looked at his curious eyes. She was standing in the middle of the room, hands clasped around her stomach, making her look even slighter. She cleared her throat, bit her lip, and shook her head.
"This is my house," she said, territorially. Her eyes asked him not to make any rude comments and he wouldn't have, even without her silent question.
"Make yourself at home, I will be right back."
As she walked towards the kitchen he noticed her set her wand on the table and lay her robes right next to it. "Would you like some tea?" She called out from around the little archway.
He was still standing in the doorway, unable to move, never peeling his eyes from the magical little stick. "N-no, thank you though." She brought him a cup anyway, guessing that he liked his tea strong, and she was right. Goddamn it, of course she was fucking right.
His feelings were so confused in his bloody head.
She went to the fireplace and sat down on the stone pavers in front of it. "Please, sit down in my chair. Sorry about the lack of accommodations, I'm just not used to having guests."
He nodded slowly, feeling slightly moronic that he was still standing by the door, probably looking like a right idiot, and went to sit down. He took a sip of his tea and set it on the end table next to him. She set hers down on the hearth.
"Would you like a tour? There's not much to see, but I'll show you, none the less." He nodded and stood up when she did, following her down the little hallway.
"This is the bathroom, right here is my spare room," she gestured to both, which were across the hall from eachother. He noticed her hands were slightly trembling, her feet kept fidgeting, and she kept biting those perfect lips in that adorable way of hers.
He smiled at her when her eyes met his and turned and kept walking. She opened a door at the end of the hall and walked inside. He followed her in and noticed that the room was small, but lovely. There was a queen sized bed with a plain white quilt on it. The walls were bare, but painted light yellow. Like sunshine. And the wall to his left wasn't a wall at all, but a set of french doors that revealed a very small, but charming stone patio.
She turned to face him, jumping slightly when she realised how close he was. He swallowed down the dryness in his throat and waited for her to speak.
He waited for an impossibly long time. He could feel her sweet breath on his neck, could count the freckles on her nose if he wanted to. The electricity between them was almost tangible. His stomach clenched as he realized just how personal this was for them both.
She cleared her throat and said,"this is my room." He noticed that her cheeks were turning slightly pink.
And then he closed the last step between them and put his hands on either side of her head. Her skin was warm. She closed her eyes. And when she did the sun shined in through the doors and onto her pale skin. He bent forward and put his forehead on hers and stood in the sunshine with her.
"I can't take back everything, no matter how much I wish I could, and it eats me up inside."
He was intensely aware of her fingers in his belt loops pulling his body flush against hers. Of the tingly feeling on his skin and the tightness down there as she lifted his shirt ever so slightly to put her thumbs on that little v right above his trousers. He sucked in a ragged breath, it had been so long since he'd been with a woman.
His voice came out softer, more hoarse, than before, "but I think I'm in love with you, and I...I..."
It was her who closed the distance between their lips, her who dragged him by his belt loops to the bed and pulled him down on top of her.
After they were done, when he sobbed big manly, shoulder shaking tears because he didn't want to go back to prison, and she held him and ran her fingers through his hair and told him it would be okay. And he told her he didn't ever want to leave her, and she told him that he had to.
And his broken heart literally broke again, how was that possible, when he had to go back inside those decrepit walls.
He had been in his cell for what he thought was almost a week. He'd mainly sit on his thin mattress, he hardly moved.
Damn Granger, forcing him to sit here and be pathetic. He couldn't stop the thoughts that paraded in his mind, and at first he vehemently tried to deny them, but after a time, days he guessed, he clung to them.
He had a distinct fucking feeling that Granger was never coming back and it made him feel so fucking vulnerable.
His mind took a path all its own, like they tend to do when under extreme circumstances, like his heart loving her and his mind adamantly denying this fact. It was probably a defense mechanism, his minds twisted, fucked up way of protecting what was quite possibly left of his sanity. Because in what world would he love Granger and she would reciprocate those fucked up feelings.
Maybe he was going to sit here for the rest of his life, trapped in his own mind. There were no calming draughts for inmates in prison, no peaceful sleep remedies for murderers and former death eaters. Maybe, hopefully this was it, he was going to die soon and this was fates way of giving him one last hoorah. By finally making him suffer in a way he made all those people so many years ago.
But she isn't dead...you could still see her again, if she wanted to see you, which she doesn't.
Fuck that cursed woman.
And his days carried on in much the same way, for how long he didn't know. Eventually he became so trapped in his stupid head that time ceased to exist. It meant nothing for him and he just prayed that's how it would stay until his eventual death.
Then came footsteps outside his cell, and his own fucking heart betrayed his blasted brain and leapt right into his dry throat.
The door opened and he sank back onto the floor, it wasn't her. He could tell his mind was laughing at him, she really wasn't coming back. Hopefully scar head was here to kill him.
"Follow me."
He followed him out of the cell and down the stone stairs to the gravel drive. He didn't even object when Potter grabbed his shoulder for apparition. They arrived inside an office with a large circular table.
Harry told him to sit.
"Draco Malfoy, regardless of my personal convictions against the matter, Hermione has told me that she is sure you are rehabilitated. She has sworn to me that you are...different. I didn't believe her but she showed me her memories. You are to be released from prison on a probationary sentence. One hair out of line and you will be right back. You will not be allowed a wand, ever; you'll understand why. Do you hear me clearly?"
He nodded, part of him registering the fact that his hands had begun to sweat, his throat had gone drier, and his mind had finally shut the hell up.
"Now, here is a portkey, it will take you where you wish to go," Potter turned to leave and with one hand on the door and the other in his pocket he said,"one toe malfoy."
And left.
Where did people go when freedom was suddenly thrust upon them? He couldn't speak for anyone else, but he knew where freedom would take him.
End.
A/N: Than you for reading. :)
All mistakes should hopefully be fixed, if you find any perspective errors while reading please review or pm and let me know.