Neville Longbottom and the Ministry's Decision
Chapter 1
Warnings: This is your Death Eater custody turning into romance type story. Clichéd, but I like those and I like this couple. Regarding cannon, not much is the same after 5th year. The war is over after a nice big battle, which took place a few years after our main characters left Hogwarts.
There's going to be M/M and possibly F/F couples. Maybe some bad language. Likely an mpreg. Well, probably some bad language. Aww, who am I kidding? There'll be cussing. More warnings to come as they, well, come up.
Summary: Neville is a nice guy so of course he'll help out an old school mate with a problem. Unfortunately, the problem is Draco Malfoy. Fortunately, things will work out in the end, no thanks to the ministry.
Obligatory Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine, go figure. Cause nobody's ever said that before. Though, wouldn't that be something if J.K. Rowling were secretly writing fanfiction?
"You want me to what?"
"Accept custody of Draco Malfoy." Hermione Granger's words were calm, though her expression slowly became uncertain the longer Neville Longbottom stared at her without speaking. "Neville?"
Setting his tea down, Neville collapsed into the sofa. His eyes blindly took in his sitting room, the wide spaces and casually modern furniture. It was nothing like the stiff, formal rooms of Longbottom Manor, where his grandmother had raised him. Though there was plenty of rooms because he'd had thoughts of a future family when he purchased the property, none of the rooms had any likeness to the cold elegance of a pureblood home.
"Why in Merlin's name would I do that? And don't tell me he'd be more comfortable with me than with you. It may be true, but only marginally," Neville said.
Hermione laughed. "Can you imagine Malfoy's face if he looked out the window at the Muggle street I live on? Or Ron's face when I told him I was changing his 'boy's room' into a bedroom for our childhood rival?"
"No, I understand no one would win in that situation," Neville said. He rubbed a callused hand over his jaw. "But that still begs the question: why me?"
"You're a good man, Neville," Hermione said. "Right now, it's custody with a proven member of the light or Azkaban. He doesn't deserve Azkaban, and I'm sure we can agree on that?" After Neville's nod, she continued. "I've fought hard to get the sentences mitigated for those who were young in the war. People like Pansy Parkinson, who never cursed a single person, do not deserve that sort of slow death. Yes, Malfoy took the dark mark, but he almost immediately fled to France with his mother. He may never have been likeable, but he shouldn't have been dragged back illegally by aurors with an overdeveloped sense of justice."
"I know your reasonings for that, Hermione. I've supported you against the ministry. I don't agree with his sentencing either, and I'll admit I felt life in Azkaban was a bit much." He remembered the celebratory announcement in the Daily Prophet five months earlier. He'd felt disgusted at the gleeful conversations he heard around him on visits to Diagon Alley.
"Your country house is large and isolated. He couldn't get into trouble with neighbors and with your greenhouses out back, you could easily give him space."
"Well, that's true," Neville admitted. "But this wouldn't be a short intermission of my life. This is a big commitment. This is years, maybe decades, of sharing my home with someone who tormented me."
Sitting down next to him, most of her earlier nervous energy expelled now that the request was finally voiced, Hermione gripped him arm. "You're right. You might be committing the rest of your life. But it is a life on the line. Yes, a Malfoy life, but a life all the same. He needs somewhere safe. Sure, plenty of people are volunteering to house the few I'm managed to get mitigated sentences, but not all of those people have good intentions. There's no rules in this. When I pushed against the lifelong Azkaban sentences handed out to our old Slytherin schoolmates, I had Muggle court systems in mind. I thought they could live on their own, monitored but free. This . . . ownership the ministry had come up with is risky, and I don't want to see people hurt because of me."
"If something bad happened to them—"
"Which is likely," Hermione interrupted.
Nodding in agreement, Neville continued, "It wouldn't be your fault. There's the chance of good coming from this, instead of eventual insanity in a cell."
"So you'll take that chance?" Hermione pressed. "You'll agree to custody of Malfoy?"
Neville looked once more at his home. He looked at the undecorated, bachelor walls, and thought of the comfortable but plain empty bedrooms up the stairs. "Yeah. I'll take him."
He was cold. The comfort of a blanket was a wishful memory. Draco still had his robes, but they hadn't held up well against the bare stone he slept against. The edges were fraying and the seams where slowly weakening. He wondered what would happen years from now, when the clothes disintegrated around him. Would they give him new robes or would the guards leave him naked?
He was hungry. They fed him, but not often, and never much. Draco dreamed of Hogwarts food. Not the rich gluttony of Malfoy manor, but comfort foods, warm and soothing, made by the caring hands of house elves.
He hurt. His shoulder ached where the guard had gripped him. In the back of his mind, though, was relief. When the guards came, whether on a routine check of his health or a Azkaban-wide headcount or delivering a meal, the held him tightly, face pressed against the wall while they secured his cell, checking for contraband. They'd leave him bruised or scrapped, but always grateful. Grateful because they hadn't hurt him more, hadn't hurt him in the way he most feared. Sometimes, cornered in his little cell, with several men crowding him and knowing he was utterly powerless, the man holding him would lean forward and slide his erection against Draco's lower back.
He was sad. Truly, sad was an understatement, and not entirely true. Draco was frustrated with his situation, his helplessness. Angry that the aurors had gone so far to find him, without orders, and without any real reason aside from a captured Death Eater listing off names of those with Dark Marks. He despaired for his future, wallowing in apathy that was his inescapable situation. He lived in terror of what the next day would bring, whether it was dementors eroding at his sanity or the looming presence of men with power over him in every way.
Curled in the corner of his cell, his bottom long ago numb from the stone floor, his arms around his raised knees doing nothing to contain his body heat, Draco listened. The cries of other prisoners where mindless or begging. The swish of dementor robes was momentarily absent, but the sound of footsteps grew louder.
When his cell creaked open, Draco looked up. He wasn't expecting to be fed because it didn't seem that much time had passed since they'd last entered his cell with the mush he would ingest for lack of anything else, but time was flimsy with no windows for reference.
Two guards entered, while another stayed by the door. He thought about jumping to his feet to prevent their harsh hands from hauling him up, but the sudden movement would likely only anger them. It was better to stay limp and pliant, and let the guards position him as they chose.
Draco's eyes half closed as they reached down, not quite wincing but still bracing himself. Pulled to his feet, his gait faltered when they guided him not against the wall, but toward the door.