Draco Malfoy was walking to the gallows.

It was simple, wasn't it?

He knew what he needed to do.

And yet.

And yet.

Each crunch of gravel underneath his boots, each time his heel struck the ground and propelled him forward–forward, keep moving–it felt like the ominous ticking of the grandfather clock before it struck and blared the sounds of midnight.

He was about to condemn his father.

His father, who had wilfully damned Hermione, who'd seen Draco's vulnerability – his need – and weaponised it.

Apparently they got what they paid for, in terms of quality.

It had been right in front of his face. His father had fucking told him.

A patient of yours, perhaps?

What did it say about Draco that, even now, his mind went to those rare moments when his father offered him a single, sweet crumb of something like tenderness?

He'd always lapped it up like a starved animal.

'The other students are simply jealous of you, Draco.' A matter-of-fact voice, as if there were no realities where this couldn't be true. 'You possess things they will never dream of. The cunning ones will try to befriend you. Fools will try to make an enemy of you.'

He could feel the smirk that had crawled onto his face then; now, it made him want to vomit. Twelve-year old Draco had brimmed with smug satisfaction that his father had placed Draco in an 'above' category, a 'better than', by telling him how many people were below him.

He'd liked it.

No – he was intoxicated by it.

Before leaving for school, Draco's father made him feel below. On good days, Lucius would direct his exasperated, irritated attention to correcting him – correcting his speech, his manners.

Correcting his emotions.

On worse days – most – he paid Draco no attention at all. He looked through him, onto more important things, like he was a ghost. A very busy man, his father, with very important things to do.

Something had shifted when Draco left for Hogwarts. He didn't know it at the time, being a child. But, suddenly, he was a banner for his father, a fully-animated rendering of the power of the Malfoy line. As Draco wheedled his way into the hearts of his professors and asserted his dominance over whoever would cow to him, his father began to regard him differently. He looked at him with–

Approval.

It was sacred, and fleeting.

Draco would excitedly tell his father about how he'd convinced his housemates to give him things, to be his brawn, to tell him secrets. His father wouldn't say as much, but his satisfied expression felt conspiratorial, a silent affirmation of how Draco had managed to wield his influence.

But, somehow, he always managed to fuck it up.

Detention.

Losing a duel.

His grades.

You were outscored by a Mudblood?

He would try harder.

He became the Slytherin Seeker.

He excelled in his subjects.

He joined the Inquisitorial Squad.

When he was sixteen, he saw his father vulnerable for the first time.

He was determined to make it better.

He would have his father freed, their status restored, their world back on its kilter.

He had offered himself: his body, his magic, his soul.

He had promised to kill the most powerful wizard in the world.

His father responded:

'Don't embarrass me, Draco.'

Draco examined the young Auror standing before him. Mousy brown hair, slight build, comfortable in his own skin. Appraising eyes.

"Where's Goldstein?" Draco asked, glancing around the office wearily.

The Auror watched him, and to Draco's surprise, loosed a cigarette into his hand. He placed it between two fingers, brought it to his lips, and fished into the pockets of his robe. He produced a muggle lighter, flicked it, and drew the flame up to the cigarette, inhaling quick and deep into his lungs.

"Having it out with Harry," the man said matter-of-factly, holding the smoke for a few moments before releasing it in a slow, measured exhale. He gave Draco a penetrating stare. "Harry sounded like he intended to win."

Draco examined the man slowly, brows furrowing. "And will he?"

"Tends to, when he means it," he muttered. "You don't recognise me, do you?"

"I did," Draco replied quietly with a sigh, looking away. "But I don't know your name. I'm sorry."

"Dennis," he supplied. Draco's mouth began to open in a question, then he continued, "Dennis Creevey."

His eyes widened.

Creevey.

Brother to Colin, surely; the youngest victim at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Muggle-born.

There had been speculation about who'd killed Colin, not that it mattered in the end. Who knew – maybe it was one of Draco's friends. One of his relatives.

Draco met his eyes determinedly. "Then I'm especially fucking sorry."

Dennis took a leisurely pull from the cigarette before moving it from his lips again. "Yeah. Well."

He dropped the cigarette to the stone floor, crushed it with his foot, and vanished the sooty remains with his wand, even though the room still smelled unmistakably of tobacco and smoke afterward.

"I'm sorry too," he said quietly, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms over his chest. "Up until a few hours ago, I was pretty convinced that you were part of some elaborate conspiracy to ensure Hermione Granger didn't get her memory back before your father had a chance to get away."

Draco barked out a laugh. "If I am, I've failed miserably."

"Indeed."

"You'll take me to him?"

"With Goldstein's blessing, even."

"Mmm," Draco hummed with fake enthusiasm. "Lucky me."

"You have a plan, right?" Dennis demanded, suddenly showing anxiety for the first time since they'd been talking. "You know what you're doing?"

Hermione's cheeks, slightly pink, her lips parted just so.

You're an idiot, she'd said.

She'd smelled like antiseptic and Christmas baking.

"I certainly fucking hope so."

"Draco," his father said congenially. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Father," he returned, not meeting his father's eyes and taking the seat opposite him.

Considering he had been incarcerated, his father looked positively serene.

Lucius' expression was relaxed, if not a little patronising. Despite the prisoner's garb, he sat ramrod straight, with all of his usual formality.

Lucius surveyed Draco like he was his kingdom.

"Well, Draco, not to worry," he said warmly. He regarded Draco with a gentle, knowing expression. "With me being arrested, it had to come out eventually – whether you were the one to reveal it or me."

He tried not to frown, but couldn't be sure how successful he was. "What do you mean?"

"Well, before the Wizengamot charged me, I'd have preferred to keep that knowledge to myself for safekeeping. Although, I would've been perfectly happy for her to die, if they hadn't had anything substantial to charge me with," he explained, and he made it sound like a meaningless hypothetical — like trying to choose between chrysanthemums and dahlias for the vase in the front foyer. He inclined his head towards Draco and raised his eyebrows, as if they shared some secret. "Obviously."

He wanted to ask what he meant by that, too, but he stayed silent.

Lucius continued with a sigh. "But, as it stands, she's made herself rather useful for the time being."

Draco felt like he had separated from his body, floating listlessly.

"Despite Anthony Goldstein's incessant posturing," Lucius said, a distinct hint of disdain weaved into his tone, "they'll never allow it. Not at the cost of Potter's brave, precious Mudblood."

Fury crescendoed and flattened in a split second. He continued to breathe calmly, as if he wasn't about to drop the cage around the very first person he'd ever craved affection from.

As if, despite everything his father had done – everything he'd always fucking done – he could stop loving him.

Could stop hoping that he'd been wrong about him, after all.

"You might be right," Draco murmured. "And what do you want in return?"

"Quite reasonable, I think," Lucius replied conversationally. "I can't exactly stay here; my associates weren't nearly as trustworthy as I'd hoped." He sighed. "But I've created enough connections in Eastern Europe and America for us to settle there. I'm perfectly willing to agree to an exile from Great Britain in exchange for saving Ms. Granger's magic."

For us.

This was the part when Draco was meant to fall in line – to obey.

"And if they don't agree?"

Lucius' brows pinched together in irritation. "Don't be stupid, Draco."

"Humour me."

His father scowled, shifting in his chair with an air of annoyance. "Then I'll wait until they do, obviously."

"Hermione will have to stay in quarantine until you reverse the blood oath," Draco said, unable to fully veil his bitterness any longer. "She'd have to be cut off from — from nearly everyone who matters to her. Even then, she won't be safe. Her magic is unstable."

"They'd best not make me wait, then," Lucius said conspiratorially, "hadn't they?"

His father believed it, he realised.

He believed that even with this betrayal – the lie, sacrificing his career, the expectation of just packing up and starting a new life in America or god knows – that Draco would follow him.

Even believe wasn't a strong enough word; Lucius knew it.

"You lied to me."

"At the manor?" Lucius asked in a dismissive tone. "Hardly. I told you that if there was something I could've done to help, I would have. But I couldn't, could I?"

"You couldn't help your son by answering honestly when he is literally begging for it?"

"Don't be dramatic," Lucius scoffed, annoyed, "if I'd told you, you'd have had to keep it a secret, and you could have been implicated."

Draco held his father's gaze. "I deserved to know."

"Deserved?" Lucius repeated sharply. "Good lord, Draco. Antonin was right – I was too soft with you. Now I'm being punished by your bloody petulance."

"And – what?" Draco demanded, feeling his resolve swell. "I'm just to give up my life and follow you to wherever you're exiled to?"

Lucius rolled his eyes.

"Why would you want to stay in a place like this?" he snapped. "If this has shown me anything, it's that this fool's government is beyond hope. What is it? Healing?" Lucius demanded, furiously pushing a hand through his hair and out of his face. His pale skin was starting to become mottled, a rare sign that he was finally losing his composure. "You'll get a bloody Healing post if that's what you want."

"I want you to undo the blood oath," Draco returned, his voice rising along with his temper. "I want you to stop being a sadistic fuck and let Granger go."

The words didn't seem to unsettle his father at first. "I'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from the vulgarity. I'm your father." The smash of Draco's fist against the table between them seemed to get his father's attention, and he frowned. "What has gotten into you?"

"Take the fucking deal," Draco said through clenched teeth, fisting the the collar of Lucius' prison-issued tunic and yanking Lucius towards him. "Do the right thing for once in your life."

Comprehension – though Draco could not be sure how complete it was – began to dawn on his father's face.

"Oh, good God," Lucius hissed, his punishing condescension blasting Draco at full force. "You cannot be serious."

"She's a person," Draco said in a low, menacing voice, "you're torturing her, father."

"And you think she wouldn't do the same to me? To you?" his father spat, eyes now becoming wild. "She is a Mudblood and she will always try to steal what isn't hers. I am trying to protect you."

Draco shook his head slowly and took a single step backwards, surveying Lucius with horror.

Seeing him, truly, for the first time.

Panting, insecure, desperate, feral –

This was his father.

He wasn't – had never been – that cool, controlled man he'd so admired.

"Father," Draco said quietly. "Take the deal. Please don't make me do this."

Lucius' laughter was like a mace – barbed, heavy, menacing. "Do what, exactly? You don't have any say here, Draco. I can wait out the Aurors and the Wizengamot with or without you. I fully intend to."

"No," he murmured, a sense of peace suddenly washing over him. "Undoing the oath requires your blood given willingly."

Lucius frowned, nostrils flaring.

"Your blood," Draco continued, "is my blood, too."

Lucius was on his feet in an instant, hand closed around his son's throat and his face within centimetres of Draco's.

The door to the interviewing room banged open and a blinding red light flashed. His father crashed against the wall, stunned, and Draco spun to face an incredulous Dennis Creevey, who was still pointing his wand at Lucius.

"Is that … actually going to work?" Dennis asked, eyes wide. His tone was doubtful, but his expression held some amount of hope.

Draco inhaled sharply and pawed his fists across his eyes quickly, clearing them of the tears that were threatening to spill on his cheeks. He let out an exhale, shaky and rattling.

"I certainly fucking hope so."

Hermione had been pacing for hours, which wasn't the easiest thing to do when attached to an IV.

She wasn't sure what brought the realisation. She had been re-reading Femi's book for the fourth time, searching for answers, when she realised –

Draco is going to do it himself. Draco is going to give up his father to undo the blood oath.

Or try, at least.

She'd demanded to talk to Femi, who had begrudgingly admitted that her suspicion was correct, and Draco had gone to confront Lucius.

If he didn't succeed in convincing his father to free her from the blood magic, Draco would be condemning him to life in Azkaban.

His father. His mother's husband. The patriarch of the Malfoy bloodline.

She demanded that Femi tell Draco she wouldn't allow him to do it - that she would refuse.

She would disobey his command.

No matter what Lucius Malfoy had done – how cruel and unforgivable he had proved himself to be – Hermione could not, would not force Draco to sacrifice his father for her.

Draco had barely opened the door when she started.

"You don't have to do this," she insisted, darting towards the door. Femi was right behind him, looking more solemn than she'd ever seen him before.

Draco was calm, and he regarded her with a slight frown. "You're an idiot."

Her eyes nearly bulged from her head. "Excuse me?"

"I know that," he replied mildly, still frowning, and focusing his attention on a stray curl that had fallen in front of her eye. He tucked it behind her ear. "Of course I don't have to do this, Granger."

His gaze slid back to meet hers, grey eyes clear and vulnerable as she'd ever seen them. "But I am choosing to."

She flung her arms around his neck and shoulders, pulling herself against his chest with desperate, ecstatic –

Relief.

He startled slightly at the sudden force of her. Soon, though, Draco melted into her, burying his face in her hair, finally letting go of any pretence of being stoic. He sighed into her neck – a tired but contented sound.

"Femi," he muttered, prompting the sangoma to step beside them. Femi pulled out the same satchel as Hermione had seen before and tugged it open by the strings. He spread the black glittering powder over her and Draco and began chanting spells that were indecipherable to her.

"Hands," Femi prompted. They both lifted the hand closest to the sangoma. Two strokes, and their palms were opened with blood trickling down onto their wrists. Femi took each hand in his own and placed Draco and Hermione's hands to clasp each other's.

Draco looked at Femi for confirmation, and he nodded.

"With this blood," Draco said clearly, grey eyes boring into hers, "I release you from your oath, Hermione."

The air seemed to vibrate. She felt the blood and powder leaching into her skin and invading suddenly. She felt the magic course through her veins, her muscles, her fascia – seeking out the tendrils of the blood oath and extracting them.

She staggered and Draco wrapped his free arm around her waist, tugging her into him, keeping her upright.

A warm, glowing aura filled the room –

Everything felt so light –

She knew no more.

—

When Hermione awoke, it took her a second to realise where she was.

As if she hadn't been there for weeks already.

She glanced down and felt a rush of disappointment, seeing the Viva mutatur still flowing freely into her.

She traced the edges of the cannula with her finger and sighed.

She heard the sound of someone else breathing and looked up.

Draco was sitting in the chair next to her bedside, one elbow resting on his knee, and his head resting against the knuckles of his hand, fast asleep. He was snoring – albeit just softly.

He looked peaceful, and she almost didn't want to wake him.

"Draco," she said slowly, squeezing his hand.

His eyes flew open and the look of peace was immediately replaced with one of concern. He sat up straight, fixating on her face. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," she said softly, smiling. She tried to look brave. "It didn't work, then?"

He blinked, still a little bleary from sleep, and frowned. "Why? Can you feel something?"

"The IV–"

"I wasn't going to take it out before we could test it," he interrupted, exasperated. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that could be? We didn't get this fucking far for you to die at the last second on me."

"So you don't–" she started, then she made a choked, squeaking sound. "Can we–could we test it?"

Draco smirked. "Punch me."

"What? Malfoy, I'm not going to —"

"I command you to punch me."

She froze, suddenly struck with the anticipation of it.

A crooked smile began to form on his lips.

"I order it."

Nothing happened.

Her eyes widened. "I… won't. I won't punch you."

Draco let out a shout of triumph, scooping her from the bed and squeezing her fervently. He tugged the IV from her arm – rather harder than she would've liked, if she was being honest – and kissed the site where it had been reverently.

She felt a smile spreading across her face as she watched him, grinning madly like he'd just caught the winning snitch at the quidditch world cup.

"Tell me I'm the best Healer this world has ever seen," he demanded with mock seriousness.

"I won't," she replied, equally through laughter and through tears. "But… you might be."

Draco's eyes were practically shining as he looked at her.

"Granger."

"What?"

His expression softened from delight to a quiet relief. "Let's get you the fuck out of this hospital."