"Granger - Hermione -"
If he'd dared, he would have tugged at her sleeve like a child. Instead, he followed her through the corridor deep under the Ministry of Magic, dodging wizards and witches in their court finest, some of them wearing the plum-coloured robes of an honourable member of the Wizengamot.
He himself stood out with his pale hair and his natty robes, too-short robes. He was thin as a rake, he knew, but he still sucked his waist in and hunched his shoulders so that - maybe - no one would notice.
Of course, there was no chance; notoriety hung like a lantern over his head.
If the Ministry didn't confiscate wands on entry and expressly forbid wandless magic, he'd have cast a Disillusionment Charm and shimmered after Granger like a mirage.
He followed her as closely as possible, pressed against the wall of a corridor,
which would have been wide but now, filled with angry faces, was too narrow to catch a breath. Things were starting to get a bit dark around the edges.
No one noticed him. Their eyes slid past, as though there was no one trailing her, and absurdly landed hard and hateful on her. As if he wasn't the guilty one. Perhaps her shunning would make her more amenable to him.
"Granger, please!"
The bottom floors of the Ministry were lit with an otherworldly light emanating from what probably were ceramic tiles, but who can be sure when there is magic involved? The place was white with few adornments; the most exciting was the grout.
Each perfectly glazed tile had been laid so it would be easy to wash the stains of crime away. He almost looked down to see if his Death Eater shoes were marring the floor with black footprints.
Still, no one could see him even though their angry whispers held his name. She sped up. She couldn't leave without him. He had nothing. Nowhere.
They'd built the ceiling too low, though; it hung heavy, and he was sure it would crush them all any minute.
The ambient glow rendered every detail with ruthless clarity, chapped, pursed lips and flaring winter-reddened nostrils. Clenched jaws, barred teeth - disappointed mouths were hissing at her like she had proven herself to be a treacherous monster.
Still, no one saw him, no one cared, except perhaps her and that's what he had to hold on to. The dark edges had crept in, and he could barely make her out.
"Please - Hermione - Miss Granger -"
Her heels clacked hard enough against the tiles to fracture them. Dimly, the cracks spread like spider webs across the floor. He couldn't make much out but he followed the sharp bang, bang, bang of the last person who had bothered to speak to him without spitting at him. She hadn't walked away or abandoned him. She had helped him. He knew if he lost track of her, the cracks would widen into chasms and swallow him.
A few months ago, she had sat him down in the Azkaban visitors' antechamber. There were lit wall sconces there; it was noticeably warmer, and the dread and grief lifted almost enough to think clearly. He tried not to, but he always begged her not to leave him there.
Her face was inscrutable as always, but for the first time, she hesitated. Her face was always blank, and her manner brisk. It was unnerving. He thought he saw some emotion flit by.
"Your parents are dead. They were executed. I'm sorry, Malfoy." She stared at him, then turned to her pile of parchment and unrolled something doubtlessly important.
That place took your pain and threw it back at you. It haunted you with your fears. It used your happy memories to remind you of what you lost. His father's pride at his Quidditch skills, his mother's at his trickery and cunning, the smell of the Manor gardens - it all came back to him. Here in Azkaban, it would come back to him over and over until all that was good was gone.
They had killed his parents, the only two people who'd cared for him.
She got up to leave, and he couldn't move, couldn't beg. He sat until he was forcibly moved to his cell.
Curled up on the slab-stone, he relived every time he'd made his mother cry.
And every day, over and over, he turned his back on them in the Great Hall and left them sitting in the wreckage of the last battle.
He walked away, saying nothing as if he was their son no longer and they were not still his parents. He refused to turn around as if they meant nothing and if he didn't love them. He left as if he didn't know them, as if they were not still his parents.
He screamed his grief at the limestone and sedimentary rock. He appealed to the apparitions; he told them he'd been wrong, and this time, he would not be persuaded to demand a trial all his own.
They oh'ed and ah'ed sympathetically, and he waited for his chance to make amends, but in his more coherent moments, he knew there was no time turner that could help him undo the past.
He hadn't had time to mourn his parents, too busy pleading for his own life - and she, whose loss was so public, had shown no signs of grief even as her dogged support for him turned The Daily Prophet spiteful, calling it self/-inflicted and a crime which should be prosecuted.
Their conferences had been clinical. She had questioned him, asked for his memories, watched him tremble and heard his voice crack with the same impassive face, but she hadn't sneered at him. She had emotionlessly demanded that he tell her the truth, every ounce of it. Not once had she told him he was a despicable human being, not when she stared down at the Dark Mark on his arm, not when he admitted he had been proud to receive it, not even when it became obvious that he was making up what he thought she wanted to hear because he was terrified she would walk away and abandon him to the fate he, just like his parents, deserved.
All the derisive eyes were for her, the hissed conversations; if he had any decency, he would stop right there, let her enter the elevator and wait for the next one. His gratitude to her should find him seeking a life away from everything, never again reminding the world that she had helped him.
He was ashamed that he was crying, sitting on the floor with his face in his hands like a child.
But he would do anything. And it worked. She grabbed him by the arm, swearing under her breath. She kept her grip on him, and he followed with his head hanging through the furious crowd who refused to share the lift with them from the court to the atrium. She dragged him to one of the fireplaces, and a nauseating moment later, they were in an unfamiliar room.
When he came to, he was tucked into bed, and for a moment, he thought he was home, but when he opened his eyes, he was looking up at a water-damaged plaster ceiling and the smell of Earl Grey made by dipping tea bags in a mug hung in the air. It all came back to him with such intensity that it was all he could do to lean over the edge of the bed before he threw up.
He was safe, for now.
Hermione swore, vanished the sick and cleaned up his face. She sat down next to him, the weight of her shifted the bed. She pressed the mug into his hands.
"Drink."
He obeyed, tipped the mug, and tried to hide that the tea burned the whole way down.
"Merlin's balls. I didn't mean for you to -"
"Didn't you get my note to meet me in the atrium? Did you think I was just going to leave you there? I just wanted to be a little less conspicuous. Merlin knows people hate me enough as is. I didn't want to flaunt it -"
The note - the truth was that he hadn't read the folded sheet of paper she'd given him after the sentence had been read out.
"Accommodations." She hadn't looked at him, had just gotten up and left and panic had flooded him.
"Look at me."
He immediately did as she said. She studied him, as impassive as ever.
"You did," she sighed. "Well, all's well that ends well, I suppose. Listen, Malfoy, I haven't been able to think further than getting you free. Any idea what you want to do now? I have a feeling things might become a bit gnarly from here on out. I was fired a bit back, and I haven't been able to find a job since. Luckily, I own the Ramshackle, and Mitsy gets food for me somehow, but I have heard that they're trying to invalidate the purchase. Merlin knows what I'll do if they succeed." She was staring at the cup in his hands as she was speaking.
"What?"
She looked up at his face and patted his shoulder gently.
"Don't worry, we'll figure something out. Get some sleep. Mitsy brought you some soup," she nodded at the night table. "I'll be in the next room if you need anything."
He grabbed her arm. She made a face and he realized he must have hurt her and he heard an odd whine and let her go as if she too had scalded him. When she turned back her face was soft and her eyes shiny with tears.
"Azkaban really did a number on you, didn't it?"