AN: Thank you to all of those still reading this story despite the irregular updates.

Read and Review Please!

Chapter Sixty Two: Defensive Defence

"Stay there, pretty boy." The prison officer chortled to himself, as if Draco had a choice.

But Draco slumped into the metal chair, listening to his manacles rattle as he moved. There was no resistance. There was no point to it in Draco's mind. The prison guards enjoyed bullying the inmates, particularly when they fought back. Draco should know; he was once a bully himself, he understood the mentality. That was why he knew he deserved this. This prison. This miserable existence. This was his punishment and he knew he deserved every second of it, even if it would never atone for what he had done. The senseless bullying. Senseless torturing. Senseless murders. It led to a senseless life.

The door opened again and closed quietly. It wasn't heavy boots that echoed in the dingy room, it was the soft pad of polished shoes. He watched the pair of black, shiny brogues stride to the other side of the scarred table and slip underneath. The person sat and a roll of parchment appeared, along with an ink pot, two quills, and a heavy leather book with a gold embossed title. He sneered at it and leaned back in his chair.

Then he nearly fell off it. Instead, his jaw dropped, before he quickly shut it and stared at his visitor.

"Granger?" His voice was scratchy from misuse, but she heard him.

"Hello Malfoy." She greeted him plainly, a gentle smile on his lips, "We haven't much time, so I need you to help me build your defence." As she spoke, she began flicking through the large tome, while shuffling through her papers.

"My defence?" He asked stupidly, his brow furrowing.

"Yes, Malfoy, your defence." Hermione raised her chin proudly, "I will be your representative during your trial tomorrow."

"I don't need a defence. I did everything I am being accused of." He couldn't look her in the eye though as he continued, "I have tortured and killed more than I can count. I helped in raids and aided the Dark Lord. I bear his mark. I'm a Death Eater and I did everything I was told. With no remorse."

"I don't believe you." She replied tartly, "You do have remorse."

"My hands are stained red with blood of the people I murdered, Hermione." He snapped, "I don't deserve a defence. There is none."

"I don't believe you." Repeating those words again, she reached across the table to where his hands were chained to it. His long, pale hands were marred with dirt, but he could feel the blood weighing on them. He knew in her papers were his countless crimes, laid out for her to see, in all of their gory glory. How she could sit there and say she didn't believe him with the evidence in front her, he could not tolerate. Tugging at his chains, he refused to let her touch his filthy hands, and she withdrew once more.

"Have you read how I tortured a muggle family until the mother vomited blood and begged for death? Or how I tortured and murdered one of the Creevey brothers in my basement? Or how I kept Lovegood prisoner for weeks, just to send a message to her father?" He glared at her, "Or how-"

"I don't need you to spell out your crimes for me, Malfoy, I'm capable of reading them." She patted a piece of parchment. Pulling a pair of circular spectacles from her pocket, she placed them on her face, and squinted at the book.

"Nice glasses." He sneered. She tutted at him dismissively, before writing something down. He watched her for a few silent minutes, as she worked through the book for three pages, noting down a phrase or two on her many reams of parchment.

"Draco." Hermione slipped off the glasses and placed them on top of the book, before looking at him. Kindness was in her expression and he scowled at it, "You did everything you did to stay alive. I don't believe you should be punished for that."

"I did it because I enjoyed it, because I believed in it-"

"No." She raised a palm at him calmly, "No, you don't. I don't believe that you believed in those philosophies for a long time. I think, by the time you were a Death Eater, you were a scared, young boy who had been brain washed all of his life to see the world in an incorrect way. But you questioned it. That's why you couldn't kill Dumbledore."

"How would you know anything?" Draco refuted.

"I know." Was her cryptic reply, "I know you were under the threat of torture to follow orders. I know you were threatened with your mother's life. I know you hated meeting the eyes of your victims, but you did it because you wanted them to know, for just a second, that you were sorry. You were sorry that you had to protect your family and yourself over them. I know you feel guilt and remorse. And I know you deserve to have a fair chance at a defence, because you don't deserve to waste your humanity letting it rot in this prison, because you think that's what you deserve."

"You know nothing, Granger." He warned lowly, leaning forward to stare her in the eye, "You know nothing."

"I know nothing about the hell you have been through, that's true." She nodded, pity curving her lips downwards, "I do know you have a better soul than you want to show."

"Get stuffed Granger, I don't need your help." Flicking his hand at her in dismissal, he shook his head, "I don't deserve it."

"Like Pansy and Blaise?" She whispered and his quicksilver eyes turned back to hers in a heartbeat, "Do they not deserve a defence either?"

"What are you saying Granger?" He asked in a dangerously low tone.

"I am Pansy and Blaise's defence too. Or do they not deserve one either?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Are you threatening us?" Anger built inside him and his fists clenched, causing the chains to clang together, and remind him that he was powerless.

"I'm saying you all deserve a defence." Shrugging, she wrote another point down, "But if you say that you don't deserve one, perhaps they don't either. After all, Pansy tried to hand Harry ov-"

"That was a tactic to save Slytherins from having to fight their family!" He roared, yanking his wrists painfully against the metal cuffs encircling them, as he stood.

"And Blaise, well, he's done much the same as you – torture, murder..." Hermione levelled her gaze at him expressionlessly, "Tell me how these actions should be defended or perhaps why?"

"Blaise was staying alive. He-he..." Snapping the chains against the table, he growled in frustration, "You can't leave them to rot!"

"I can do anything. I am your defence. Without me, you're all going to die here, slowly and painfully." Malfoy's gaze was like fire on her face, but she tilted her chin up and stared defiantly back.

But he saw the flicker in her gaze – she would never leave anyone to suffer. She would fight for them whether or not they wanted her to. Sitting back, he assessed her. She was forcing him to accept her help, whether he wanted – whether he deserved it or not – and she wasn't afraid to threaten him to ensure he got a chance at freedom. He wanted to sneer at her hopefulness, as if the Wizengamot would ever give him as chance. They would sentence him to the dementors' kiss, without a doubt, and they were only allowing Hermione the charade of a trial because of who she was and who her best friend was.

But he also knew that if anyone could turn the trial on its head, it would be the witch before him. While he knew his case was a lost cause, he at least had hope for Pansy. She didn't deserve to die here. Neither did Blaise, he would find death quicker than they. As much as he wanted to refuse this facade of a trial, he had to ensure Pansy and Blaise got a fair one too. He would barter away anything for his friends, his chosen family, to have a taste of freedom.

Watching her watching him, he felt his shoulders slump in defeat and he nodded once, in slow agreement. She nodded back in understanding and slid several pages of parchment towards him. Taking them in his grubby hands, he read them carefully.

Hermione watched him carefully, his usually elegant beauty was marred by weeks of living in a filthy, flea ridden, threadbare mattress, and sunken by meagre gruel for food. Yet, his eyes were intelligent and his jaw was set stubbornly. She admired that, his appearance may be broken, but his spirit was not, and she would ensure she fixed it, just as he fixed her. He needed to be redeemed into the life he should have had, had it not been twisted by prejudice and war.