Preface.
"Prisoner number 3872 is to be released to his wife, under the Writ of the Vows Unbound," Kingsley's voice resonated through the wizengamot courtroom, a grim declaration that echoed like a death knell.
Gasps rippled through the assembly, a chorus of disbelief that filled the heavy air. In the heart of the room stood a man, shackled and broken, his long, silver-blonde hair cascading like a shroud around him. His silver eyes, vacant and hollow, stared into an unfathomable distance, as if searching for a world that had long since vanished. He remained stoic, an empty vessel, while the storm of outrage roared around him, each shout a blade slicing through the silence.
From her place beside Kingsley, whiskey-colored eyes locked onto him, burning with an urgency that spoke of despair and fleeting hope. She felt the weight of the room's animosity press down like a suffocating fog, threatening to snuff out the fragile flame of his freedom.
In the shadows, another pair of silver eyes—a son—watched, the air thick with unspoken grief. Relief washed over him, but it was a bittersweet tide, crashing against the jagged rocks of his anguish. His father, once a vibrant soul, was now a mere shell, shackled by the memories of torment that would never truly release him. The cacophony of dissent pierced his heart, each shout echoing the pain of years stolen, years that had turned a man into a shadow.
He knew he could never repay Granger for this act of defiance, for bringing his father back from the brink. But gratitude twisted into something darker within him—an awareness that freedom came stained with sorrow, and her sacrifice would haunt him like a specter. What was this victory if it only deepened the wounds of the past?
As he stood amidst the uproar, the gravity of their shared fate pressed heavily upon him. They were bound not only by blood but by the chains of despair that clung to them like a second skin. He realized then that his father's release was merely the opening of a door—one that led into a labyrinth of unhealed scars, where the shadows of their past would forever linger, and the price of freedom would be measured in the heartache that remained.
He was rotting, a mere husk of the man he once knew. Draco couldn't bear to watch as his father crumbled into a shadow of his former self. Ten years. Ten relentless years of venomous hate directed at their family, ten years of his father trapped in Azkaban, enduring days without food, spittle raining down on him from guards who took pleasure in his suffering. And God only knew what other horrors had invaded his mind.
His father had been a Death Eater, yes, much like Draco himself, but he had made choices in the dark, seeking redemption too late. No one cared to see the man behind the crimes; they only saw the monster. They didn't know the man who had taught him magic, who had loved him. But that was all forgotten now.
Not long after the trials, his mother had moved on, seeking solace in the arms of a new partner—someone untainted, someone who hadn't been sentenced to life in a hellish prison. To her, his father had become nothing but a burden, a reminder of betrayal that she refused to see in herself. She had turned her back on him, on them, as if her own past was spotless, a delusion wrapped in self-righteousness.
Fury boiled inside Draco, a seething anger that made him want to lash out. Biting his cheek until he tasted blood, he forced himself to breathe deeply, fighting against the tide of despair that threatened to pull him under. His fingers flipped through the old law texts in the manor's library, pages yellowed with age, filled with the ghosts of forgotten hopes and lost battles.
He would find a way to free his father, no matter the cost. If it was the last thing he did, he would shatter the chains that bound him and unleash a fury that would make the world remember. He would not let his father rot away, nor would he allow his mother's betrayal to define them. The legacy of the Malfoys would rise again, and he would see to it that the world felt their wrath.
Chapter One
She had endured enough hell to ensure that the wizarding world felt like a distant nightmare. With her family erased from existence, their memories of her smiling face nothing more than phantoms, she sought refuge in the pages of books, the only companions that wouldn't betray her. The Order of Merlin still granted her a meager allowance, barely enough to keep a small studio above a nondescript clothing shop. It was a humble existence, but within those four walls, she could weave her own reality.
In that solitude, she found escape. Her days blurred into a tapestry of words, each line a fragile barrier against the horrors that haunted her. Recently, she had taken to writing, transforming her nightmares into a young adult novel, a twisted reflection of the life she'd left behind. The first book had surprisingly sold well, providing her with just enough to splurge on trivial comforts—a large cat tree for Crookshanks, who was aging and needed softness in his final days.
As she absentmindedly ran a hand through her thick curls, she let a soft hum escape her lips, a fragile melody in the stillness. Sipping her tea, she savored the calm, the routine that had become her lifeline. After years of simplicity, she had managed to silence the ghosts of her past—at least for now. Yet beneath the surface, an undercurrent of dread churned, reminding her of the dark corners of her mind where the nightmares still lingered.
Her friends had respected her need for isolation; Ginny had stopped reaching out long ago, their connection severed by the rift that opened after her breakup with Ron. Not that it bothered her—her soul felt like a barren wasteland, hollowed out after the war. The trials had been even worse, laying bare the raw wounds she thought had healed. Harry, knowing her struggles, retreated into Grimmauld Place, visiting only occasionally, forever tied to a world she had forsaken. He had never chosen to disappear; he hadn't blood on his hands from failing to save someone who had given everything for them.
Closing her eyes, Hermione drew in a shaky breath, forcing herself to find peace. Another sip of tea, another page turned, each one a desperate attempt to convince herself that she was happy. But deep down, a longing clawed at her insides, a visceral ache for the warmth of connection she had relinquished. Each story she wrote felt like a lie, a mask to hide the truth: she was drowning in isolation, yearning for a life that had slipped through her fingers, and the quiet around her felt less like solace and more like a haunting silence, echoing with what could never be reclaimed.
Her stupor shattered at the sound of a soft knock on the door. Furrowing her brow—no one ever knocked—she rose to her bare feet, heart pounding as she crept toward the door, wand in hand. The familiar pull of magic felt strange, unused. Peering through the peephole, her breath caught in her throat.
"Granger." The voice, all too familiar yet filled with pain, sent a shiver down her spine. Draco's tone was raw, and she almost gasped at the depth of sorrow woven through it.
"Please," he whispered, head bowed as if bearing the weight of the world. Her instincts screamed to close the door, but against her better judgment, she opened it.
"Malfoy?" Her voice came out almost a whisper, as if saying his name would summon the ghosts of their past.
"Please, may I come in?" His eyes, searching hers, were filled with an urgency that cut through the silence like a knife.
"Wand," she stated firmly, raising her palm. There was no way she would let him in armed. To her shock, he pulled his wand from his sleeve, placing it gently in her hand. Fear and longing flickered in his gaze, and for a moment, she was taken aback. But she nodded, opening the door wider, letting him step into her small sanctuary.
"It's not much," she started, her voice faltering.
"It's comforting," he interjected, his tone devoid of its usual bite.
"Thank you," she murmured, leading him to the small sofa. She had built a false wall to block her bed from view; it felt safer that way, even if no one ever came to visit besides Harry.
"May I sit?" His request surprised her, and she widened her eyes, but offered the seat beside her anyway. He sat down, hands wringing nervously, taking in the modest space that had become her refuge.
"Why are you here?" she asked, breathless. The nerves hummed beneath her skin as she faced the boy—now a man—who had once tormented her. He wore a black suit coat, matching slacks, and a turtleneck, his chest broader than she remembered. They were both twenty-nine now, but the weight of the years felt heavier than ever.
"I—I need your help," he stammered, avoiding her gaze, the desperation in his voice palpable.
"My help? You realize I'm not part of that world anymore?" Her incredulity echoed in the small room.
"I know, but you're the only person I have a chance with," he murmured, vulnerability spilling from his words.
"For what?" Hermione asked, taking a sip of tea, not even thinking to offer him any. She wanted him to leave, wanted to push him away, but her heart betrayed her.
"My—my father is rotting away," he said, his voice trembling on the edge of breaking. It was a tone that was nearly a sob, raw and heart-wrenching.
"And you think that would upset me?" Her brow furrowed in disbelief. Lucius Malfoy had done nothing to save her back at the Manor. He was as guilty as Draco.
"No, I don't think it would. But I—I think if you saw him, saw who he really was, maybe…" His words faltered, his panic palpable. She could see him struggling, the desperation radiating off him.
"What do you need, Draco?" she whispered, his name falling from her lips like a confession.
"I need to get my father out of Azkaban." The words tumbled out in a rush, and his shoulders slumped as if the admission had stripped him of his strength.
"And this pertains to you being here, how?" Her heart raced, a whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume her.
"I found a law," he said, his body finally turning to face her, as if realizing she wasn't going to kick him out.
"And?" Her voice was strained, a lump forming in her throat.
"I need you to marry my father," he begged, a sob escaping him as his head fell into his hands. The sight of him breaking on her couch shattered her composure, and the flood of emotions she had buried for so long threatened to surface. The room felt suffocating, the air thick with unspoken pain, as memories surged back—betrayal, loss, and an aching longing for a world that had slipped away.
"I—I don't think I heard you right?" Hermione whispered, her eyes stinging with unshed tears as she listened to his desperate sobs.
"I'm begging you, Granger. I will—I will do anything. Anything you want." His voice was raw, trembling as he grasped her cold hands with his. The chill of his touch only heightened the tension between them.
"W-why would I? After everything?" Her voice trembled with anger, but it fizzled out as she gazed at Draco's tear-streaked face, a picture of despair.
"They're killing him," he murmured, his words barely above a whisper.
"He wasn't sentenced to death," she replied, her gaze falling to their entwined hands. A strange longing twisted in her chest, the contact after years of isolation tugging at something buried deep within her. Without thinking, her fingers squeezed his, wide-eyed at the sudden warmth of connection. He seemed to sense it too; his grip softened as he squeezed back, sending a gasp escaping her lips. A need, long suppressed, surged within her—the ache for human touch, for comfort, felt overwhelming. Had she even been held in years?
Sure, she and Ron had dated, but intimacy had been a distant concept, a hollow shell of what it should have been. They were both so withdrawn, so emotionally stunted.
Draco's thumb brushed back and forth against her skin, the touch innocent yet soothing, calming the storm of emotions swirling inside her.
"Please. No one likes my father. Not even those who were within our circle. Everyone is turning a new leaf." His voice cracked as he continued, his thumb moving almost reverently. She pulled her gaze from their hands, seeking his. The desperation in his blue eyes was haunting.
"What law?" she asked, confusion mingling with a flicker of curiosity. She barely noticed the hint of a small smile on his lips; her heart sank at the gravity of the situation. He released one of her hands to pull a book from a bag he had brought, flipping it open with wandless magic—an impressive feat that caught her off guard.
"Writ of the Vows Unbound," he stated, pulling his hand away, and a wave of disappointment washed over her. Ignoring that, she reached for the book, reading quietly at the place he indicated.
The law was archaic, dating back to the 1600s, and seemingly forgotten—probably because most prisoners were already married, or who would dream of marrying? Lucius Malfoy was divorced, an unusual status in the wizarding world. If she married him as an upstanding citizen, he could be released, but it came with a catch—she would hold control over his magic. This wasn't just a marriage; it was a magical binding, and there would be no divorce.
"This is magic binding," she stated, dread settling in as their eyes met once more. The realization hit him hard, and he sagged visibly.
"I know. I promise I will do anything. Money, my seat in the Wizengamot, jewelry, the mansion—I'll be your servant instead of a house-elf." The desperation in his voice sent shockwaves through her.
Hermione jolted as he gently gripped her hand again, the contact sending a shudder through her. She lowered her eyes, grappling with the unsettling emotions rising within her. This wasn't just a problem; Malfoy's touch stirred feelings she hadn't acknowledged in far too long.
"I—I'll give you any and all touch you could want. I will worship the ground you walk upon, kiss your feet. If that's what you wish." His breathing quickened, panic lacing his words, filling the room with an almost suffocating intensity.
"Okay." The word slipped from her lips before she could catch it, driven by an aching loneliness and the raw, desperate need radiating from him. She would never fully understand why she agreed—was it compassion or weariness? But one thing was clear: she never went back on her word. As their hands lingered, a fragile bond began to form, woven from desperation and the hope for something more.