I had truly lost track of how much time had passed since I had so abruptly left the bookstore. I knew that it had been more than a half-hour, but how much more was beyond my ability to comprehend then. I took a wild guess that it had been closer to two hours, mostly because I crept back at a snail's pace. I was still processing what I'd learned, but I was also avoiding actually dealing with it. Hermione, smart chit that she was, had almost certainly inspected the papers that I'd left behind, so she undoubtedly knew at least as much as I did, and probably more. She had all that time to dig deeper and read further. The answers to several questions were surely more quickly accessible with a query or two than with two more hours of combing through old newspapers. I was such an arse.

I knew that I needed to apologize to her for my flake-out, but I hoped that she hadn't read more into my departure than what it was on the surface. I had said that I'd be back. My momentary flirtation with the idea of leaving was truly fleeting. I'd rejected it nearly as soon as the thought had fully formed. But what concerned me was the fact that it had. Was I really still so emotionally and mentally weak that I'd run, leaving behind the only good thing that had happened to me in the past two years and – just as important – skipping out on the implied promises I'd made to her? The fact was that I was still really young, not even twenty yet, for another four months. Legally, I was an adult in almost any country on the globe, but I'd been in a psychological limbo for a very long time. As much as I said I sometimes felt so much older, my maturity seemed to be situational.

Thinking about that on my trek back, I realized that I still had an awful lot of growing up to do if these revelations – which, by the way, could easily have been predicted with a bit of simple logic – had threatened my steadiness so dramatically. I had to seriously consider whether I was in any position to be in the kind of relationship we had entered. That thought process might not be entirely fair to Hermione, but me accepting – even tacitly – at least partial responsibility for her welfare in addition to my own was something that deserved some sober reflection. Neither of us had any obligation to the other beyond a moral one based in human decency, nor had we made any actual commitments. I could readily admit that I liked her, far more than as a friend, and that being with her was good for me in many ways. But I questioned whether I was using her to find my own stability as much as she was using me to prevent her own implosion. That whole concept of "convenience" reared its head again.

Being in a relationship, however it was defined, had plenty of advantages, I acknowledged. Everything from basic companionship to shared expenses to regular (fabulous, mind-blowing, knock-your-socks-off) sex were unequivocally in the plus column. We provided things for each other that were necessary and desirable, both physically and emotionally. But was it something – anything – more than that? I liked doing things for her and with her, and it felt fabulous to be at the center of her attention. Was that because of how that made me feel, or predicated on her responses to it? I knew that there could be a distinction between the two, but was there one, and did it even matter? I felt like a heel for even allowing the train of thought.

She was special to me, I had to admit. There was something about her that made me want to look after her, regardless of whether she was capable of it on her own, and I knew that I drew strength from that. There was more to it than just that, though. She pushed my buttons – every single one of them – in uncountable ways, and that was exhilarating even when it resulted in a screaming row. I'd never felt anything similar - not even close – for any other woman. Just thinking about it had things stirring in my gut and elsewhere. Wanting her was not up for debate. I'd wanted lots of women, though. At least, I thought I had. There was something tickling my brain to remind me that what I wanted was more base than that, and had often been achieved without even knowing my partner's name (or without a partner at all). Allowing that conclusion to jell didn't take more than a few seconds, but I feared that my rash behavior had put both her and our relationship in jeopardy. We needed another one of those heart-to-heart chats, but the onus was on me to come crawling back first. So I did.

When I arrived back at the bookstore's reading room, I must admit that I was at least a little surprised to find her sitting there. She looked up at me from her seat with questions in her eyes, but left unspoken, save for one. "Are you okay?"

I remember nodding slowly, as though the simple movement of my head on my neck were a task of great complexity and skill. Merlin knows, it was about as much as I could accomplish at that moment.

"Okay," she said, resolutely. She got up, wrapped her arms around me in a crushing hug, and sat back down. Gods, she was so insightful about my need to deal with what I'd learned in my own time and in my own way. I could tell that she wasn't feeling her best, but she gave me the space I needed. I had my own questions for her, and I could tell by how fidgety she was that she was practically bursting at the seams to get it out. (It wasn't the jitteriness that accompanied her core corruption problems; by then, I'd learned to tell the difference.)

"I'm sorry," I started. "I know I shouldn't have bolted on you, but it seems I couldn't really help myself." I know that my expression was about as sheepish as I was capable of appearing. "I'm not proud of it, but I needed some time to process what I learned. I also realize that there's certainly more to the story. I was rash and immature."

"Yes, you were," she told me. "But I understand what prompted it. Sometimes the pressure just builds up until you think you're going to burst. An escape of some sort is usually necessary. At least it was a relatively harmless one, in the grand scheme of things."

She knew me so well. And I knew her well enough to recognize that if I didn't allow her to spill whatever was on her mind that she'd eventually get annoyed, then ticked, until she made it to downright pissed off. It wasn't worth it, especially if I acknowledged that I really wanted to hear what was on her mind anyway. My poor showing notwithstanding, I was then eager to move beyond it and learn something useful beyond the wild conjecture that had caused me to flee.

"Should I assume that you read what sent me into a tizzy?" I probed, attempting to make light of my stupidity.

"You may," she answered, lifting her brow in something that appeared to be equal parts annoyance and compassion. Her worry for me was evident but I feared that my lack of self-control in the face of troubling news had shaken her faith in me, at least a little.

Since she offered nothing more, I continued, "Should I also assume that you know more now than I did when I left?"

"Of course," she confirmed.

I should have guessed that her relatively relaxed demeanor and calm tone of voice meant that whatever she'd learned wasn't all bad, but I'd been so primed to hear the worst - whatever my imagination conjured that to be –that I was even more reluctant to accept something that wasn't disaster.

"Okay, then, what's the verdict?" I prompted, then held my breath.

She leaned back in her chair and said, "Well, the good news is that your mother is home, serving a one-year house-arrest for her conviction as an Accessory to Sedition. The gist of it is that they went easy on her because of what she did the in the forest to help Harry."

Oh, right, I thought. She'd lied to Voldemort, Hermione had told me during that wrenching conversation so many weeks earlier. "I suppose that deserved some consideration," I admitted grudgingly. It was still difficult for me to believe that after so many months of neglect, she'd finally shown some of the maternal instinct that I was convinced didn't exist. I recall thinking that if she'd bothered even a day earlier, I might not be where I was now. I was unexpectedly grateful for the fact.

"And Lucius?" I prompted. Now that the door was open, might as well step in all the way.

"Two years in Azkaban, suspended sentence," she relayed.

"Really? Why was it suspended? Does the story explain?" I was flummoxed about how he'd managed to weasel out of a lengthy incarceration.

"Well, you remember that I told you that neither of them fought during the final battle?" she reminded me, to which I responded with a nod. "He used that, his apparent distress over your disappearance, and a healthy dose of throwing his old compatriots under the bus to parlay his way into a lenient sentence to a reduced charge of Incitement."

So the bastard had followed Potter's and Weasley's lead in betraying his former friends. Slimy bugger. Hardly a surprise, though. My father, if nothing else, was a political animal and a survivor, and he uncannily knew exactly which cards to play to his best advantage.

"What else?" I asked, instinctively certain that she'd not shared the whole story yet.

"He's reclaimed his seat on the Wizengamot, effective two months ago," she added reluctantly.

"Fuck me sideways," I uttered under my breath. I wondered whether I was more disgusted with the fact that he'd managed to come out smelling like a rose once again or that his corrupt cronies on the Wizengamot had allowed – or engineered – it to happen.

"There's something else," she said, haltingly. "About you."

Now, that got my attention, and I could feel my eyes go wide of their own volition. I was afraid to ask, but with all the relatively positive news, at least from my parents' perspective, I could feel an echo of something hopeful in my chest. When I finally got the question out, it was barely audible. "What?"

"Your parents jointly petitioned to have the charges against you dropped, regardless of whether you were declared dead. Your father cited the fact that you'd felt coerced and were under constant threat if you failed to comply."

"And?"

She shook her head. "I haven't made it that far in the reading yet. I expect that the results will be reported in one of these," she said, indicating the stack of papers on the table. "This is the next months' worth."

She moved to hand me some of the sheaves of parchment, but I just couldn't take them. The shake in my hands was clear evidence that I would need her help once more. I shook my head and backed away, only a few inches, but she got the message.

Without a word, she turned back to the stack and began to scan the front page of each in turn. I guessed, and her actions confirmed, that news of Malfoy legal issues was the stuff of banner headlines. The twelfth edition proved my assumption right. She lifted it up for me to see.

"Malfoy Heir Absolved in Absentia" was the featured headline in thick, bold, black letters. Beneath that was a smaller headline reading, "No Declaration of Death".

My hands were still shaking, but I finally reached out to take the document she offered. Scanning it quickly, I digested the key points, then went back to read for the finer details.

"In an emotional and heartfelt hearing, pureblood patriarch and former Death Eater Lucius Malfoy made compelling and convincing arguments that his missing son, Draco Lucius Malfoy, should be absolved of any crimes he may have committed while under the coercive influence of the dark wizard, Tom Riddle, who called himself 'Lord Voldemort.'

"Taking much of the blame on his own shoulders, the senior Malfoy related the way in which his son had been forced by Riddle to 'atone' for his own failures during an unsuccessful attempt in the Ministry's Department of Mysteries to gain access to a prophecy regarding The Boy Who Lived Twice. That atonement included a mission to attempt the murder of Albus Dumbledore, the late Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and one-time Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and to facilitate the entry of Death Eaters into the school. While the younger Malfoy was not successful in the former task, one carried out according to a plan concocted by the late Headmaster together with his late successor and Order of the Phoenix spy, Severus Snape, he was successful in the latter, repairing a Vanishing Cabinet whose twin at Borgin and Burkes, an antique shop of dubious repute in Knockturn Alley, created a passage through which at least six known associates of Dark Wizard Riddle gained entry. Malfoy testified that his wife's and son's lives had been threatened if Draco failed to execute the mission to which he had been assigned.

"In addition to his testimony and that of his wife, Narcissa Malfoy (nee Black), the young man's father requested testimony of at least nine others, six of whom were classmates of his son. Among them was a twelve-year-old Hufflepuff, Simon Twitwhistle, who testified that Draco Malfoy had refused to cast an Unforgiveable curse at him as had been ordered by 'Professor' and convicted Death Eater Alecto Carrow. Instead, young Malfoy took the curse subsequently cast by Carrow, and was additionally subjected to a Bombarda hex which resulted in two broken ribs and a broken wrist, both injuries later treated in the school's Infirmary by Matron Poppy Pomfrey. Her testimony confirmed the young student's account. Similar testimony was offered by a young Ravenclaw, who related the story of Malfoy's successful attempt to hide him from an infuriated Amycus Carrow, who'd been enraged by the boy's slightly raised voice in a school corridor.

"A picture emerged of a young man who was at worst, a reluctant participant, and at best, one who did his best to subvert some of the most egregious excesses of the mercifully brief Death Eater regime at Hogwarts.

"The decision of the Wizengamot to grant clemency to Draco, while not unanimous, was an overwhelming 47 to 2 with one abstention. The vote having been taken in secret, the Wizengamot declined to release the names of those who voted against the measure.

"In an additional petition, the Malfoys requested that Draco's status as 'Missing after Conflict' remain, allowing the statutory period of seven years after a disappearance to continue without appeal for a finding. Their petition was granted. The effect of such decision is that, within the seven-year span, should Draco's remains be found or identified among the eight bodies remaining unclaimed after the Battle of Hogwarts, his death would be declared effective the date of the battle, May 2, 1998. Should his remains fail to be positively identified, his date of death would coincide with the expiration of the seven year period on May 2, 2005. Of course, both Malfoys stated that they remained hopeful that he may have been injured or memory-charmed and will show up alive and well long before that date. Should that unlikely event occur, young Malfoy would be able to resume his life without interference."

"Well, I'll be damned," I muttered. Since she'd been reading over my shoulder, she obviously grasped the implications of the situation.

"So you could go back," she concluded.

I nodded. "I could. I don't intend to do that, but at least the option is open."

"You don't want to see your parents?"

"Not particularly," I stated.

"Even after they got you cleared?" she pressed.

"Nope."

"Okay, then."

I could tell that she was surprised at my decision. I sighed. "Look, Hermione, would you be so quick to forgive Potter and Weasley?" I challenged. I thought the comparison was apt.

She shrugged. For the first time in a very long while, I thought her foolish. The rude sound that I made apparently clued her in to my disdain.

"It's not as simple as that," she argued. "They were my friends, and although I'm livid at what they did, I understand why they think they needed to do it. I wouldn't forgive them today, but sometime in the future, under the right circumstances…"

It was a good thing she stopped there, I thought, because I might have had to hit her with a little hex to shock the sense back into her if she'd completed any sentence to include "maybe someday."

As I sat there running my hands through my hair, I tried to figure out how I could explain to her that I couldn't go back to being the dutiful son, the heir, after how they'd failed to shield me from the ugliness that had nearly destroyed the wizarding world. Any future relationship I might have with either of my parents would be distant, at best. I tried to explain to her how I viewed their most recent actions.

"What they apparently did for me was about salvaging their own reputations and positions at least as much as it was about redeeming mine. They had nothing to lose; everyone thinks I'm dead, including them. This was all to show themselves off as compassionate, caring parents when they were anything but that during the last three years. If their petition had failed, they could go on with the act, filing appeal after appeal. I've experienced enough neglect - both active and passive – that I'm not fooled by their sudden bid to be Parents of the Year."

"It's sad that your relationship with them has made you so cynical," she offered.

I shook my head. "Not cynical – not when I've lived the evidence for so long. Realistic." I remember that we were both quiet for several long minutes until something occurred to me. I recall thinking that I was surprised it had taken me that long to realize.

"There is one major bright side to this," I stated, and the false cheer in my voice was thick.

She looked at me expectantly.

"I can get to my money."