Chapter 1

Three and a half years later

Finally the day had come that Draco had been waiting for for three years.

His mother was being released from Azkaban.

After the war had ended, he'd had no chance to flee with her, as he'd intended. He and his mother had been arrested by Aurors at Hogwarts after Voldemort's demise. Lucius had died in the final battle, but Draco had not grieved. His father had been a sadistic murderer, and Draco was glad he was dead.

But Draco and Narcissa had both been tried by the Wizengamot. To his surprise, Potter had stepped forth to testify on his behalf as well as that of his mother. Draco had been acquitted with a heavy fine on account of his youth; but Narcissa was an adult and had hosted the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters in her own home for over a year, no matter how unwilling shed claimed to be. She'd been sentenced to three years in Azkaban prison.

Draco had sent appeal after appeal through his lawyers to the Wizengamot to try to get his mother released early, but the Malfoy name, once so revered, had become mud in the wizarding world despite their lineage and wealth. He was welcome nowhere and scorned wherever he did go. The only friend he had left was Blaise Zabini, who had fled to France with his mother when the war started and hadn't sided with either Voldemort or the Order of the Phoenix. Blaise was the only one who would even speak with him anymore.

Draco threw the floo powder into the fireplace of the Malfoy townhouse in London and stepped into the green flames, saying, "Azkaban prison."

There was a whooshing sound and then he was spinning through the green flames. A moment later, he stepped out in what appeared to be the entryway of Azkaban prison. He'd never set foot here before. His mother had been taken straight from the courtroom to the prison, and despite his many requests he'd never been permitted to visit. He looked around at the dank, cold stone floor and walls, hoping his mother was waiting there for him to go home. Instead, a middle-aged paunchy man approached with a disgusted look on his face

"Mr. Malfoy?" he said, as if he had tasted something sour. "I'm the warden here, Denis Frank."

"Yes. I am here to take my mother home. Where is she?" He looked around again.

"She's in her cell. Follow me." The fat man turned and walked from the room, not waiting to see if Draco followed him.

Draco frowned. Why would she still be in her cell? She was free as of today. He almost complained to the warden, but at the last moment held his tongue. He didn't want to jeopardize his mother's release.

As he followed the warden up the stairs and through the halls, he grew more and more horrified by the poor conditions. The stone walls and floors were damp and cold, as if no one had bothered to put a warming spell on them. Icy wind whistled through the cracks. Mold grew on the walls. Cobwebs hung in the corners and rats scuttled over the floors. At least there were no more dementors at the prison, but this was bad enough.

At last they reached the door of a cell with a tiny window only about six inches across. The warden put his wand to the doorknob and Draco heard the lock disengage. A moment later the door opened and Draco eagerly stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was the foul stench assailing him. It smelled of filth and rotten things, and Draco found himself holding his breath as he looked around the dark cell. Finally he spotted her.

On the floor, lying on a thin mattress, was the tiny form of his mother, curled up in the fetal position, unmoving.

"Mother?" he said, his voice cracking as he stepped toward her.

He knelt at her side and examined her. She made no response to his presence and he was terrified for a moment that she was dead. He put two fingers to her neck and could feel a pulse, although it was faint. Intensely worried, he picked her up in his arms and was alarmed at how light she was. She was emaciated to the point that she no longer looked human. Her filthy prison robe hung around her gaunt frame. He could tell now that the foul stench was coming from her. She was covered with grime and filth, and her blonde hair was unrecognizable, it was so matted with dirt.

Furious at her condition, he turned to the warden to find that the man was gone. Deciding not to waste any time in hunting the man down, Draco hurriedly carried his mother down the stairs and through the corridors to the entryway fireplace. Her stillness and the shallow, rattling sound of her breathing terrified him. She still hadn't opened her eyes and he didn't know if she was conscious. Without a second's hesitation, he stepped into the fireplace and appeared a moment later in the Malfoy townhouse. "Milly!" he called the instant he appeared.

A moment later, his mother's personal house elf appeared with a crack. Her face was wreathed in a smile. "Master!" she cried. "The mistress is back?" He knew that Milly had been eager to see her mistress again after three years of separation, but the house elf's smile faded at once as she saw the condition of the woman cradled in Draco's arms. "Oh no! Is the mistress not well?" she cried.

"I fear she's very ill," he replied. "We have to get her into her bed at once," he said. "I'm going to send an owl to St. Mungo's asking for someone to come see her. In the meantime, would you change her clothes and get her as comfortable as you can? Maybe try to remove some of the grime?"

As he spoke he was walking down the hallway to his mother's room, which he had had readied in preparation of today.

"Of course, Master!" Milly squeaked, running to keep up with his long strides. "Milly will do everything she can for the mistress!"

Draco laid his mother tenderly onto the bed, watching her for a moment as she lay, frail and tiny, on top of the covers. He was filled with impotent rage at her condition. He knew the conditions at Azkaban were poor, but nothing could have prepared him for this. If he thought it would do any good, he would bring a lawsuit against the ministry. He sighed as he thought how futile that would be. But this was unspeakable.

He left Milly then to tend her mistress and went to send a missive to St. Mungo's. He couldn't take Narcissa to the hospital since she was required to stay under his provision on probation at Malfoy House for the next year. He prayed that they'd be willing to send a healer out to an ex-Death Eater's home. He tried to ignore his doubts that they would do no such thing.

Hermione left the muggle pub with her heart feeling lighter than in had in months. She had had lunch with Ron and they had finally put some things to rest.

After the war ended, she and Ron had started dating, but Hermione had soon felt that there was something amiss in their relationship. She had always known that Ron was immature and self-conscious, but she had never realized that he resented her intelligence quite so much. He had tried to hide it from her, but she was smart enough to pick up on it. She had also recognized that she could never truly respect a partner who attempted to overshadow her own accomplishments. So, six months into their relationship, she'd broken up with him.

Ron had been bitter and resentful over the breakup. What Harry had feared had come to pass, and Ron and Hermione's friendship had been destroyed.

In the months after their breakup, Ron had proceeded to date anything and everything in skirts, at first, Hermione suspected, to try to make her jealous. But soon, Ron had begun to enjoy the attention from the women who flocked around him and Harry because of their fame. Harry, of course, had been with Ginny since the end of the war and was uncomfortable with the attention, but Ron reveled in it. Far from being jealous, Hermione had felt sad that her former friend had fallen so far.

Their breakup had impacted Hermione's relationship with the Weasleys too. Molly had been upset that Hermione had dumped her youngest son, and it had taken the matron a good year to warm up to her again.

A few days ago, however, Ron had come to see her where she lived with Harry in Grimmauld Place. He wanted to apologize for his behaviour, he said. He wanted his friend back.

They had agreed to meet up today at a muggle pub and had hashed things out, hopefully for good. Hermione was looking forward to having her friend back.

She apparated in front of St. Mungo's Hospital and entered to begin her afternoon shift. She had just begun her apprenticeship the month before after three years of study to become a healer. Two months after the war ended, she had taken her NEWTS with Outstandings in all subjects. She was certain she could've entered the ministry as an auror, as Harry and Ron had done. In fact, Kingsley Shaklebolt had offered her a position; but she'd had enough of fighting and now wanted only to comfort and heal.

When she entered the apprentices' office she noticed at once that there was a to-do. Delia Bagly, their supervisor, was raging about something, and it took Hermione a moment to understand what the woman was complaining about.

"Wait, what? Narcissa Malfoy needs a healer, and she can't come here because she's on probation from Azkaban?" Hermione clarified.

"That's right," Mrs. Bagly said with disgust. "I'm not going to waste sending one of my healers to the home of a Death Eater, but neither will I force any of the apprentices to go. Draco Malfoy has offered an obscene amount of money for someone to go take care of his mother, but no one will volunteer."

"As if we would help a murderous Death Eater," one of the apprentices muttered darkly, and the others murmured their agreement.

"Former Death Eater," said Hermione. "And his mother never bore the dark mark, despite being sent to prison. Everyone deserves healing despite what they've done. I'm ashamed that none of you will help her."

"Why don't you go then, Granger?" the first apprentice sneered.

"I will!" she declared. She turned to Mrs. Bagly. "Do you have their address? I'll go at once. Let me just get some supplies first. Do you have any information on her condition?"

Mrs. Bagly shook her head. "He just said she's very weak and has a rattling breath. She was released from Azkaban today."

"I'll bring a wide range of simple treatments then," Hermione said. "It might just be as simple as poor nutrition."

Fifteen minutes later she had apparated in front of a large townhouse in the center of London.

The façade of the building reminded her of Gringott's Bank. It was ornate in design, made of black onyx stone with marble pillars to support the frame. It was several stories high, and must have dozens of rooms, she guessed by the number of windows. It was decorated with the sculptures of magical creatures, serpents, dragons, and chimeras.

She shook off her distraction and knocked on the door. Not ten seconds passed before it opened, and she was confronted with the face of Draco Malfoy. Hermione hadn't seen him for three years, but she would recognize him anywhere. He was the spitting image of his father, Lucius Malfoy, with his white blond hair, silvery grey eyes, sharp aristocratic features, and pale skin. He was taller than she remembered, however, towering nearly a foot over her petite 5'3" frame. She noted the surprise on his face when he saw her.

"Granger? What are you doing here? Are you the healer's apprentice sent by St. Mungo's?" he asked, his eyes passing over her healer's robes.

"I am. I hear your mother is ill?" she asked.

She expected his face to contort in disgust, for him to order the filthy mudblood off his property. Instead, she was surprised to see his face suffused with – relief? She was curious about that, but he was speaking again before she could wonder long.

"Thanks for coming, Granger. My mother's very ill. Will you come see her?"

Her attention at once diverted, she followed him when he gestured her into the house and the door closed magically behind her. "Can you tell me anything about her condition, Malfoy?" she asked, at once professional.

"She's unconscious," he said in a pained voice that surprised her. "I arrived at Azkaban this morning to retrieve her, and she was lying unconscious on a cot in her cell."

This was very worrying. Hermione simply nodded. "I'll know more when I see her," she said.

She followed Malfoy through an enormous, opulent townhouse, past many rooms and several hallways. At last he led her into his mother's room.

"My mother's house elf, Milly, has changed her clothes and tried to clean her as best she could with some spells," he said.

Hermione stiffened in disapproval, although she didn't know why she was surprised. Of course a wealthy pureblood family would own house elves. Hadn't Dobby belonged to the Malfoys before Harry freed him? Before she could express her disapproval, however, her mind was wholly distracted by the figure on the bed.

Narcissa Malfoy was unrecognizable from the proud and haughty woman Hermione had seen at Malfoy Manor when the snatchers had brought them there three and a half years ago. All that was left of the tall and healthy woman was a frail collection of skin and bones, so pale as to be white, except where grime sat in the beds of her nails or around her hair and neckline. Her once-blond hair also was filthy, and Hermione could smell that the woman had been living in her own squalor for quite some time. Horrified, Hermione completely forgot Malfoy's presence as she took out her wand and began to run diagnostic spells on the poor woman.

Draco watched as Granger worked over his mother's still form. He was sick with worry over Narcissa's condition, and could only be thankful that the famous Gryffindor witch was the one who'd been sent.

When St. Mungo's had refused to send out a healer, saying they would send out an apprentice instead, he had felt despair fill him. It seemed his failings would cost his mother her life after all. But then he'd opened the door and seen Granger standing there and had been filled with instant relief. He had had no idea she was training to be a healer, but he'd admitted to himself years ago that she was indeed the brightest witch of her age.

From the beginning of his time at Hogwarts, Draco had been sick with jealously of the intelligent muggleborn. Lucius's expectation for his son was that the Malfoy heir would come first in his class. Draco had expected it himself, always having been a clever boy. He'd been ashamed, therefore, when he'd come home at the end of his first year and had to explain to his fuming father that a muggleborn girl had beat him in every subject.

Lucius had been furious, and had spent that whole summer hammering into his only son's head the inferiority of mudbloods and the superiority of purebloods. Draco had returned to his second year at Hogwarts filled with hatred for the curly-haired witch, and his bullying had been constant and cruel.

He was ashamed now to think of what an arrogant little prick he'd been. It had been in his sixth year that he'd finally admitted to himself that she was, indeed, the brightest witch of her age. They'd shared an arithmancy project together, having been paired after being the only non-Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw students in Professor Vector's class. He'd had to grudgingly admit what he had been in denial of for years: Granger's muggleborn blood had nothing to do with her intelligence or her abilities as a witch. If he, as a pureblood, had come second to her in every single class during their six years at Hogwarts, he could no longer claim that her muggle parents made her inferior.

Hence he had been very relieved when the healer's apprentice who appeared at his door had been Granger. He now stood tensely in the corner as he watched the curly-haired witch perform silent spells over his unconscious mother. Milly had been unable to scrub away all the filth with her scourgify spell, and he knew Narcissa would need several baths before the smell was gone. For now, however, he just wanted his mother to live to the next day.

He couldn't help cursing his father in his mind for getting them into this mess. It had been Lucius who'd been the driving force behind every terrible thing that had befallen them in the war. If he hadn't been such a sycophantic supporter of the Dark Lord, Draco would never have been forced to become a Death Eater, and Narcissa wouldn't have suffered in Azkaban for having to follow her husband's lead in the war for her own self-preservation and that of her son.

That was something he and Narcissa had in common: they had both always looked after each other, before and during the war. His mother had taught him occlumency when it became clear the Dark Lord was coming back, and the only reason Draco hadn't fled Britain and had taken the Dark Mark was to protect Narcissa.

Now Draco was feeling a burning fury toward his dead father, who had ultimately caused his mother to be in such a state. If she died today, it would be Lucius's fault. Draco almost wished his father were still alive, so that he could kill him himself.

Granger was now touching Narcissa's forehead and laying her fingers on the sick woman's wrist to take her pulse. It had been more than an hour and Draco could no longer keep silent. "What is it? What's wrong with her?" he finally burst out.

Granger turned to him with a worried frown on her face. "Your mother's very ill, Malfoy. I wish I had better news for you, but she's suffering from pneumonia and liver and bone marrow infection, what the muggles call tuberculosis, as well as a fungal meningitis, which is fungus growing on the surface of the brain. She also has sores and a skin infection from lack of cleanliness as well as being malnourished. I am guessing the … bathing facilities in Azkaban were not adequate?"

Draco was horrified by the diagnosis, but the compassion in her tone calmed him somewhat. Still, he couldn't help snapping, more angry at the situation than at her, "I doubt she bathed the entire fucking three years she was there. You should have seen the layer of filth that covered her when I brought her here!" Then his tone changed. "What can you do for her, Granger? Is she going to recover?"

Granger looked at him as if she'd never seen him before, before shaking her head. "I can't be sure. This next week will be critical. If it's all right with you, I'll stay here and care for her twenty-four hours a day until the danger's passed, if it does."

"You would do that?" he asked with desperate hope.

She looked confused. "Of course I would. But I need to start work immediately. First, Mrs. Malfoy needs sustenance. Could you send up a strong broth for her? I also want to give her a bath to try to clean out some of these sores."

"Of course," Draco said. "Milly!" A moment later, there was a crack and his mother's house elf appeared before them. "Milly, this is Miss Granger. She is here to help your mistress. You will aid her in whatever way she requires. Do you understand?"

"Of course, master!" Milly quavered, turning to Granger, who was looking at the house elf with compassion.

"Hi, Milly," she said gently. "I want to get your mistress well again. She'll need some broth to drink, and then I want to give her a bath. Can you help with that?"

Milly beamed at the apprentice. "Certainly, miss! Milly will return in a moment!"

With a crack, she disappeared. Granger had turned to a small beaded bag she had in her hand and was elbow-deep in it. An undetectable extension charm, it seemed, Draco noted absently. That was very advanced magic.

"I'm going to give her a strengthening solution," Granger said to him, bringing out a bottle. "I don't have all the potions I need here with me, so after your mother has had some nourishment and a bath, I'll go to St. Mungo's to get what I need, and then to my house to get my clothes and things for my stay."

Draco was about to reply when Milly appeared again with a deep bowl of steaming liquid in her tiny hands. "Here is the broth, miss!"

"Thanks, Milly!" Granger said with a smile. She was leaning over his mother's frail form, putting the mouth of the bottle of strengthening solution to her lips, then placed her wand at the older woman's throat. Draco saw Narcissa swallow the potion.

He forced himself to move. If he stood here watching and worrying he'd go mad. "I'll prepare your accommodations," he said, although he knew the house elves could do it.

"I only need a cot in here," Granger said. "I should stay as close to Mrs. Malfoy as possible."

"Of course. I'll get everything ready," he said, then, with one last look at the pale form on the bed, exited the room.