Seven Years Ago

Draco handed his kit to Mipsy, whose arms were open wide to receive it from him. Draco eyed the dining room cautiously – he had been expecting a typical Sunday dinner, but the mood felt distinctly different.

His father was holding three champagne flutes in one hand, and an uncorked bottle in the other.

He was smiling.

Draco frowned. "What's the big occasion?"

His father gave him a strange look, as if he wasn't sure whether or not Draco was being serious. When Draco looked around the room helplessly, locking eyes with his mother whose expression was unhelpfully neutral, a flicker of impatience crossed Lucius' face.

"You," he said, as if it were obvious, "and your freedom from that bloody community service."

"Oh," was all he said.

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, unsure how he was supposed to react to his father's expectant stare. Lucius frowned, uncomprehending, and placed the flutes carefully on the table, along with the champagne.

"Oh?" his father repeated incredulously. "That's all you have to say? Oh? "

"Thank you," Draco amended, quickly shuffling himself towards his father and picking up one of the glasses in a gesture of gratitude. "I just wasn't expecting anyone to remember."

Lucius' expression softened a little, with something approximating warmth entering his eyes. "Of course I remembered," he replied, with a coy smile, "is there anything more important than having your freedom back?"

Narcissa swallowed and shifted just slightly in her seat, staring straight ahead.

"I suppose," Draco conceded uneasily. "It doesn't change much, though, does it?"

The flicker of warmth was extinguished.

"It changes everything, Draco," Lucius said icily.

A sense of foreboding twisted in his chest. There was something closing around him, he could feel it – but he couldn't see what it was yet.

"But…" he said slowly, "well, does it ? I'm only halfway through my fellowship with Friedmann. I'll still be spending all of my time at St. Mungo's, I suppose I'll just be getting paid for all of it now, but it's not as if it's anything substan–"

"Fellowship?" Lucius parroted. "You're under no obligation to–"

"I know that," Draco interrupted, irritated, "I want to do it."

The room went chillingly silent. Draco looked between his parents – his father, apparently furious, and his mother, who seemed to be pretending that neither of them were there in the room with her.

"What?" Draco demanded.

Narcissa sighed, finally meeting Draco's eyes with an exasperated look.

"Your father was under the impression that you'd accepted the fellowship to reduce your sentence," she said crisply. "And now that your sentence is over, so would be your involvement with St. Mungo's."

Lucius plucked the champagne flute from Draco's hand and vanished all three along with the bottle. Draco raised his hands, palms up, in frustration.

"What exactly is it that you're angry about?" he demanded. "It's a prestigious opportunity–"

"It's training to be a public servant," Lucius snapped. "It's not appropriate for the future patriarch of the Malfoy line."

"You're not serious," Draco said incredulously, eyes narrowing. "Specialised healing is a highly respected–"

"Not. For. Us, " his father hissed, enunciating every word. "You have an estate to manage. A legacy. And you'd prefer to listen to the snivelling complaints of the public, tell them you'll make it all better for them?"

"I can't believe I'm having this conversation," Draco muttered angrily. "I thought you, of all people, might appreciate the foundation I'm trying to restore for this family."

"Restore? " Lucius chuckled. "You are humiliating this family. You're humiliating me."

"Lucius," Narcissa hissed, throwing her napkin onto the table and standing. "That's enough."

"So – what? You thought I'd drop it all and run to you, begging you to train me up for my duties?" Draco snarled, closing the space between himself and his father. "I enjoy healing, father. I'm good at it. You'd know that if you'd ever asked–"

"I don't give a damn what you fancy doing with your spare time, Draco," his father retorted coldly. "You have a duty to this family, and I won't see you sloughing it off so you can roleplay being some sort of hero. Our foundation is as strong as it always has been. It doesn't need changing. It needs protecting."

"Doesn't need changing?" Draco shouted. "Wake up, father. The Wizengamot controls our assets. You can't even cast a spell without the Aurors' approval. The Malfoy legacy has been effectively castrated, thanks to you."

He heard the crack of Lucius' hand against his jaw before he felt it.

His skin split under his father's signet ring. Draco brought his hand to it, feeling the warm trickle of blood between his fingers.

The three of them stood staring at one another, chests heaving furiously, none of them daring to move. The room was silent, save for the sounds of their breath and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

"Charming," Draco finally muttered, letting his hand fall away from his face. "Enjoy your champagne, father."

Narcissa reached out her hand towards him. "Draco–"

He disapparated.

Present

Hermione adamantly refused the staff's repeated attempts at getting her to take a calming draught.

"I don't want it," she insisted sharply.

She needed to think.

As soon as Draco left, she grabbed the IV pole and rushed over to her pile of books, snatching the ancient Magicke tome and slamming it down on the table tray.

"Hermione," Friedmann said wearily, "you should be resting–"

She shot a glare up at him and the Healer's mouth snapped shut. Silently, she turned her gaze back down to the book, flipping pages more quickly than she really should given their tenuous condition. Infuriatingly, she couldn't remember what had been written about slavery. She'd been distracted by the alarming possibility that she'd agreed to an arranged marriage. Had she even read the bloody thing all the way through?

What is the matter with you? You've had nothing but time, and you couldn't even be arsed to do proper research -

Out of nowhere, she felt the sudden weight of Lucius Malfoy's boot on her throat. She was right there again, her breath being stolen by his increasing pressure against her.

She could smell him -

Hermione grit her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head violently.

She came to the section on blood oaths and skimmed the headings. Marriage, slavery, employment contracts, business negotiations: each had its own parameters, and the nature of the magic looked to be different for each application.

The grip of a marriage oath extended to include all of the blood relatives of the husband and wife, ensuring that everyone obeyed the alliance between families.

Employer and business negotiations could be time-limited; once the tenets of the agreements were fulfilled, the parties were released from the possibility of being punished by their own magic.

Slavery, unsurprisingly, seemed to be the most unbalanced and least forgiving of the blood oaths. All that was required of the 'master' were basic terms that the other person agreed to, which seemed to vary wildly based on how desperate that person was. The text referenced examples ranging from providing every creature comfort to simply agreeing not to torture them. In exchange, whoever was unfortunate enough to be the slave had to obey every spoken command from their master. If it was phrased as a choice, the punishment would not be triggered. Direct instructions, though -

She remembered that first day at Draco's clinic.

'We need to discuss it, at least,' he'd said.

'Wait.'

And after the Bulgarian Healer: 'I need you to tell me when you're not alright.'

She closed her eyes.

Ron.

'I'm just asking you to wait a little longer… even a week, 'Mione, that's all I'm asking.'

'You can't walk out on me, Hermione! You can't walk out on us!'

Her teeth felt like they were going to burst under the pressure of her jaw. The cruelty of what Lucius Malfoy had done, that he'd purposely inflicted on her … and then he'd erased her memory of it, just to ensure have no defence against it.

Her rage energised her in a way she hadn't felt in years.

She forced her eyes open again and continued reading at a furious pace.

Even under torture, she should have been smarter. She had always been aware that torture was a possibility–a likelihood, even.

She should have known better.

Lucius' terms were bound by the same punishment as hers – painful, but not lethal. If he'd decided to seek out her parents anyway, would it be like when she triggered the blood oath? Painful, disorienting… and temporary?

He could've killed them anyway, she thought, and might have only suffered for a short period of time for it. Furthermore, it seemed that slaves were bound not to harm whoever was defined as their captors, but Bellatrix had been correct in that the oath made no such provisions for the masters. Any pureblood still could have attacked her, tortured her, raped her, and she would be powerless to defend herself against them. According to the book, any willful act of physical harm - including injury, confinement, even neglect - would trigger the punishment.

She scanned through sections at a frenetic pace. Being released from the oath required the willing blood of the one who enslaved them – Lucius had no reason to willingly cleave himself from her.

Hermione knew that the DMLE had wanted Lucius Malfoy ever since his shockingly light post-war sentence. Harry had spoken to her several times about this: no matter what angle they came at him from, Lucius always managed to slip through unscathed, like an eel. His probation supervisor turned in pristine reports. He poured thousands upon thousands of galleons towards 'good causes', which ostensibly had curried good public favour, and fuelled useful connections that were no doubt shielding him from a certain level of scrutiny.

She was not naive. The DMLE had Lucius, and they would not let him go now that they did. No deal that Goldstein would be willing to offer Lucius would be enough to convince him to give up his leverage – her freedom. And yet, Draco had seemed ready and sure that she would be released from the blood oath.

She worried that Draco had been putting on a front of confidence and control for her sake. Then, with a painful twist of her stomach, she realised that she was even more worried about the other possibility.

Perhaps Draco knew something that she didn't, and he was knowingly walking into a dragon's den and undaunted by the personal cost, as long as he got what he went looking for.

Draco sat across from Anthony Goldstein in the DMLE office. Another Auror that Draco vaguely recognised, but could not place, stood watching with arms crossed from the doorway.

Draco said nothing. He hadn't felt this small, this stupid, since sixth year.

Of course they didn't trust him. Of course they had assumed he was following in his father's footsteps.

The Aurors, the Ministry, the Wizengamot–after everything he'd done, they still didn't give a damn about him, because he was irredeemable.

He had given his life to atonement, and none of it had mattered.

"It looks as though I owe you an apology," Goldstein said stiffly, though there was no remorse in his tone. He slid a glass with two fingers' worth of amber liquid and a few ice cubes to Draco, which Draco ignored. "But you understand the position I was in."

"I ought to kill you," he muttered lifelessly. "You put my entire ward through hell."

"Second time you've threatened me this evening, Draco."

"Fuck you."

Goldstein shrugged, downing his own glass in one. "I assume you're here to discuss negotiations for your father's compliance?"

Draco stared at the table ahead of him. "I suppose that depends on what you've already offered him."

"Weekly visitation rights at Azkaban, for his family," Goldstein said flatly. "Supervised, of course."

Draco chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "You know he'll never agree to that."

"That's what the Wizengamot is willing to offer him."

"And the Wizengamot is willing to let Hermione lose her magic – or die – rather than consider offering him a half-decent plea bargain?"

Goldstein leaned forward on his desk, watching Draco contemptuously. "The answer's no, Draco. I have been after Lucius Malfoy for my entire career. He will die in Azkaban. There is no way around it. Not even for the Golden Girl."

Draco was standing with his wand raised before he'd consciously registered what he was doing.

He'd forgotten about the other Auror, though, and he was disarmed before he could cast anything damaging.

Pity.

"Potter won't stand for it," Draco said in a low voice, not bothering to look back at the man who'd disarmed him. "I won't, either."

"Potter answers to me," Goldstein replied in a clipped voice. He looked up at Draco with poorly-veiled smugness. "And the Wizengamot doesn't give a shit what you stand for, Malfoy. You're his son. You've still got the bloody mark on your arm." His stare turned hard and cold. "One person's magic does not outweigh the best interests of the public. Your father is a menace, and it's high time he paid the price for it."

Draco slammed his hand on the table. "I thought that the DMLE ought to be concerned about the well-being of a victim of systematic torture–"

"We are concerned," Goldstein snapped. "And we will do everything we can to make sure that Miss Granger gets the support she needs after this is over. But–"

"After you've forced me to suffocate whatever's left of her magic, you mean?" he shouted. Even without his wand, he could feel his magic threatening to burst through him.

Goldstein narrowed his eyes. "It's an unfortunate situation for everyone involved," he said evenly.

"Well," Draco said in a low, furious voice, "then you'd best be grateful that I'm going to break the blood oath whether he agrees to your pitiful 'offer' or not."

Goldstein frowned. "And how do you plan to do that?"

"None of your fucking business," he said coldly. "But I do need to see my mother first. I assume that I'm free to do so without either of us being arrested?" he demanded, voice dripping with venomous sarcasm.

"Yes," Goldstein replied, glowering. A slight redness had risen to his cheeks.

"And will I be allowed to speak with my father?" he asked snidely. "Considering it could save someone's life."

"You'll be monitored." Goldstein looked furious, and he shook his head in frustration.

"I'm not an idiot." Draco turned to the Auror standing in the doorway, who was looking rather paler than he had when Draco had entered the room. "I'll take my wand back, thanks. Next time you think about defending this twat, remember that he wasn't even willing to negotiate to save one of your precious war heroes."

"Mother."

Narcissa Malfoy startled and stood, turning around on her heel to face her son.

She looked terrible.

Even when his father had been sent to Azkaban, his mother retained an air of elegance, some level of unshakeable dignity.

She was in a nightgown and dressing robe. He'd never seen her in pyjamas – not even on Christmas morning.

Her eyelashes, usually curled and painted in black, stood starkly blonde against her blue eyes. She must pencil in her eyebrows, he realised, because they were barely visible against her pale skin. Her lips were cracked, and her hair fell limply against her face. It looked damp – greasy, maybe, or slicked with sweat.

"Draco."

He closed the gap between them in an instant and wrapped her in a tight embrace. She clung to him with strength he didn't know she possessed and began to sob.

"It's okay," he said shakily, keeping his arms around her, letting her clutch him so hard that it was pinching his skin. "It's okay, mum. What have they told you?"

"Nothing," she shrieked through tears. "They took your father – something about a bloody portkey – and I had no idea what they'd done with you, they wouldn't let me leave the manor, I couldn't even send you an owl – "

He shushed her and rubbed his mother's back. She gasped a couple more times before she seemed able to control herself again. Her grip loosened and she pulled back from him, eyes searching over him like she was trying to convince herself he was real. He felt the warm, soft palms of her hands meet his face. She held him, rubbing her thumb across the line of his jaw.

She hadn't done that since the Battle of Hogwarts.

"Are you alright?" she whispered.

"I'm fine, mum."

They both knew it was a lie, but it was enough to assuage her for the moment. She said nothing for a long time – she did not ask about his father.

"I…" Draco started. "I need to talk to you about something. Could we sit down?"

Narcissa sniffed and nodded, doing as he asked.

He tried several times to speak, but he couldn't find adequate words.

"Just tell me, Draco," she encouraged softly. "What's happened?"

He hung his head.

"He's not getting out this time."

He felt his mother stiffen beside him and heard her inhale sharply. She waited several moments before speaking. "And what about you?"

A sob escaped from him before he brought his fist to his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, weeping openly. "I can't help him, mother. I have to – I have to do what's right."

"Draco." Her hands were on his face again, pulling him to look at her. "What about you? Did he — has he gotten you caught up in whatever this is?"

He swallowed, shaking his head. "No, but–"

"Then everything is going to be alright."

"Mum," he protested, pleading. "You don't underst–"

"Everything," she said clearly, looking into his eyes with utter conviction, "is going to be alright as long as you are, Draco."

He stared back at her. He nodded, pulling her into another embrace and kissing her cheek.

"I have to go," he whispered.

"I know," she murmured back. She smiled at him, eyes shining with tears.

He stood and turned.

"Preserving the Malfoy legacy shouldn't have been your burden," she said suddenly. "Not with who we are. Who we've been."

He looked back over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow in question at her.

She smiled again. "Perhaps you'll change it after all, to something worth preserving." She squeezed his hand. "I love you, Draco. Please come home."

He smiled back at his mother, squeezing back then dropping his hand.

He disapparated.