Draco had to hand it to Goldstein; usually, he was hypervigilant to the DMLE nosing around in his business. Years of being on the tight leash of probation – all the while knowing that Diggory was salivating for an opportunity to send him to Azkaban – had made him all too alert to seemingly innocuous questions, or stray wizards that trailed near him for any amount of time. Contrary to his father, he didn't try to evade or to slither his way out from under the threat of suspicion. After the fall of Voldemort, the new regime was balanced squarely on its own superior moral code. This was their game, not his, and he played within their constraints. They couldn't take anything else from him if he didn't falter by breaking any of their sacred rules; doing so would violate their ethos of justice and freedom, putting them in the same category as the Death Eaters.
Let them watch. He would obey if it was the cost of some measure of reassurance that he and his family weren't going to end up rotting, forgotten, in a cell.
That, or he was fucking paranoid, and acting like a decent, law abiding wizard had just been a happy side effect. Either way, until the last few weeks, Draco had had an excellent acumen for sensing when he was being watched. However, recent events had put him at a disadvantage, and he simply didn't have the energy he usually did to pay it that much attention.
If not for recent events, he never would have done what he did: antagonising Harry and Ron publicly, at work, then fleeing to the manor in a near-rage. He wondered if they tipped off Goldstein themselves, or if he was already being monitored by that point. He was so consumed by his fear, his desperation, that he had to admit that he probably wouldn't have noticed if an Auror had set up camp in his damn dining room.
It didn't matter now, anyway.
Goldstein had arrived with warrants and orders to be executed.
Draco was under suspicion of trying to compromise a DMLE investigation. The sudden visit to the manor was the official reason Goldstein provided, though he suspected there was more to it than that based on Harry's accusatory questions before he'd even left.
Even Draco's 'foolproof' plan to be good - to be an upstanding example of wizarding standards - had come around to bite him. As a specialist Healer, the one who had pioneered Obliviation therapy, he'd made himself indispensable, even if he was suspected of wrongdoing. So, under the watchful eye of the DMLE, tied and gagged, he was to continue providing the treatment to Hermione, to restore her memories.
He was not allowed contact with his family until Goldstein said otherwise.
He was not to travel outside St. Mungo's and his home, unless accompanied by an Auror (he'd rather die).
He was removed from the clinic roster until further notice, to limit his contact with the public. Draco couldn't fathom how Goldstein had managed to justify this to the Wizengamot, as if he were an obvious threat to further corrupt the investigation by simply being able to access his clinic colleagues and patients.
His communication – owls, floo – would be monitored.
Wand checks were mandatory.
Just like old times.
Friedmann, apparently, had put up a formidable fight. He argued that there was no precedent, and even if a patient's life was at stake, a Healer could not be coerced into treating them at the price of personal harm. He agreed, discretion was important, but they had no evidence that Draco had done anything untoward. Isolating him from the outside world – especially now, when he was expected to be casting dark magic on a near-daily basis – was not only cruel, it was a very real danger to Draco's mental health.
It was only then that Goldstein had to admit that this was not about saving Hermione at all, not really. No, this had escalated to being considered a terrorist threat, a matter of wizard-wide security, and her memories potentially held crucial information to neutralise that threat.
This, unsurprisingly, did not help to endear Draco to his new set of shackles.
The only consolation to all of it was that he was suddenly very much able to produce a strong Cruciatus against Hermione. He was bitterly, viciously angry that he had been cornered like this, that the DMLE clearly didn't care about making him collateral damage – but even more, he felt a ripping, agonised fury at the fact that Hermione was being used as a means to an end.
He thought of Goldstein, he thought of his father, and, after hearing the sound that she made after that first full-strength Cruciatus, he thought of himself.
No question now that his curse was potent enough.
It was torture for both of them.
The memories that surfaced during Legilimency in the following days seemed to confirm Draco's theory. The first was Hermione and Ron. Hermione was steadfastly ignoring him as she stuffed clothes into an overnight bag, with Ron shouting at her to wait, to just listen to him. Draco had assumed that this was the fallout of The Prophet article; both of them had clearly been crying. Even in the memory, Draco could sense the insistent, clawing pain she felt. Then, when she moved for the floo, Ron had grabbed her wrist firmly, telling her that she wasn't walking out on him, and she spun to slap him across the face.
The pain that Hermione felt was so instant and consuming that Draco had been temporarily disoriented as he ripped out of her mind. His eyes briefly locked with Hermione's, and he saw that she'd felt it, too.
But he didn't dare say anything. He was terrified that he would set off the oath somehow.
So he swallowed, tore his gaze away from hers, and left Wanda and Friedmann to take over from him.
The next memory had been at the ministry, hunched over a toilet. Draco recognized it as the loo closest to the courtroom.
There had been a considerable amount of vomit.
Then, after another round of the Cruciatus and with a sickening sense of unreality, he watched himself – scowling and impatient – barking at her to sit down in his clinic room before Hermione crumpled to the floor.
The days passed in a fog. He did not initiate conversation, and the only ones who even tried were Wanda, Friedmann, and Will (though, this hardly counted, seeing as he was professionally obligated). He arrived at St. Mungo's, completed the day's round of treatment, and retreated back to his flat.
Will had warned Draco a long time ago that occluding was not a healthy coping mechanism, and he needed to stop using it to numb his emotions.
But even Will had to concede that Draco needed to do something to compartmentalise while he was living through this nightmare, so once he was safely shut back in the more comfortable of his two prisons–his home–he occluded.
He was extremely annoyed when he was interrupted by insistent knocking. He rolled his eyes, but did not move to get up from his armchair. The knocking continued for several minutes, and he thought they'd finally given up when he heard the crashing of broken glass.
"Fucking hell," he swore, stalking towards the front door, seeing that the window next to it had been smashed. He wrenched the door open –
"Thought that'd get your attention. Reparo."
Ginny Weasley pointed her wand and mended the window, confidently stepping right past Draco and into his foyer, not unlike her brother had a few weeks ago.
"I don't think you should be here–"
"I told Goldstein that if he wants to keep me from going to you, he can try arresting me," she said pleasantly, taking a seat on his sofa and looking quite relaxed. "See how that goes for him."
Draco said nothing. Sensing that she was not going to leave, no matter how much he demanded it, he collapsed into his chair in resignation.
"You look terrible," she said.
"What do you want?" he muttered tiredly.
"I want you to know that not everyone doubts you," she replied. "I think the way Goldstein's treating you is outrageous. All of us–"
"'Us?'" Draco repeated scathingly. "Your brother was trying to convince Hermione to stop receiving treatment from me. Your husband wanted to interrogate me, right before–"
"He was trying to help," Ginny said firmly. She was unapologetic. "Draco, he knew that Goldstein had ordered surveillance on you. He tried to stop it, but Goldstein wouldn't listen to him. He was afraid that if they found something – anything – that you hadn't disclosed to the DMLE about the investigation, they'd have you arrested."
"You expect me to believe that accusing me in public was done for my benefit?"
"It got him kicked off the case," she said a little desperately. "He should've been more discreet, but after everything that happened that afternoon, I think he just panicked. Goldstein said it showed he couldn't carry out the investigation while staying objective."
Draco didn't know what to do with this information. "What has he told you about the terrorism claims?"
She shook her head. "He won't say. Or can't, maybe. They might've forced him to take some sort of vow, I'm not sure. He says that he won't be able to discuss it until it's gone public, which isn't really like him."
Draco said nothing for a few moments. "Well, if that's everything, I want to be alone."
"No, you don't."
His eyes snapped up to hers in irritation.
Ginny sighed and stood, and for a blessed moment, he thought that she was leaving.
When he realised she had helped herself to his kitchen and was making tea, he nearly screamed.
" You fucking Weasleys have no manners–"
"Shut up," Ginny said crossly, levitating a tray with a teapot, cups, and saucers to the sitting room and placing it in front of him.
Petulantly, Draco crossed his arms and slid back into his chair, scowling.
"Take the bloody tea, Malfoy," Ginny snapped, snatching a cup and saucer from the tray for herself. "It'll make you feel better."
"Why are you doing this?" he muttered angrily, taking up his own but not bringing it to his lips. "What's your point, Weasley?"
Ginny studied him for a long time before speaking. "This is what people do, Draco."
"It bloody is not –"
"We all love Hermione. You–" she hesitated, watching him carefully. "... care about her, too. That means that I – we – care about you. My point is making sure you're okay, just like you've tried to make sure she's okay."
He frowned, blinking furiously, and finally sipped his tea. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he only nodded, once.
Ginny didn't seem to mind.
The next treatment was the worst yet.
When he saw her arch against his curse, her toes curling, her strangled cry, despite her unconsciousness, he had to remind himself that she didn't feel it and that she wouldn't remember it.
"Ennervate."
Her eyes opened slowly. She looked empty, spent, and he couldn't help but mutter a hoarse I'm sorry before he entered into her mind.
Instantly, he knew something wasn't right. Unlike each time before, he immediately felt Hermione protesting against him, frantically and desperately kicking against him to get out .
But he didn't.
He was looking at himself, but the environment around him was dark and warped, like it shifted any time you tried to look at any one thing directly. Hermione was crumpled on the ground, crying quietly, and he watched himself watch her with concerned fascination.
"I honestly don't understand why you're being like this. Us Healers are here to help you, and it's obvious that you're suffering."
It clicked into place – this wasn't a memory. Not strictly speaking.
It was a nightmare.
"Wh-what?"
He watched the nightmare-Draco crouch down and look her over. He brushed his fingers over a strand of her curls, tucking it behind her ear in a gesture that was unmistakably tender.
He could feel Hermione's consciousness battering against him, begging him to stop watching.
Then he was wrenching her up on her feet–
"Now, what am I to do with a Mudblood?"
Draco pulled out of Hermione's mind instantly.
She was sobbing, clutching his wrists, trying to pull his hands off her face. He released her, staggering back in horror.
"You promised," she whimpered deliriously, "you promised you wouldn't."
"I'm sorry," he breathed, so softly she probably couldn't have heard him anyway. He looked up at Wanda, panicked, and she nodded at the door, signalling that she could handle things from there.
Harry was sitting in the visitor's area when he staggered out of the room. He stood up in alarm and was in front of Draco in seconds.
"What's happened? Did you get the memory?"
Draco shook his head, struggling to catch his breath.
"So–?"
"It was a dream," he panted. "I need – I need to talk to Femi. And Goldstein needs to know."
Harry looked confused. "Why does Goldstein need to know about a dream?"
"Just get him, Potter, " Draco said desperately, his voice strangled, "please ."
Harry nodded, blinking quickly, and made towards the floo at a quick jog.
Draco ran his hand over his mouth, his mind racing.
Femi had seen this dream.
He hadn't said anything.
Why hadn't he said anything?
"Now, what am I to do with a Mudblood?"
It had been his own voice, but there was another voice layered over it, soft and cloying.
He had recognised it instantly.
He would recognise his aunt's voice anywhere.