Chapter 22

just someone who wants my company

The most terrible poverty is loneliness.

- Mother Teresa

Hermione followed Ron and Harry to the Burrow. The house, usually bustling with warmth and life, was subdued, wrapped in a heavy fog of grief.

They moved through their days in a blur, tending to their injuries and burying their dead. Hermione could scarcely recall specifics—the faces of mourners blurred together, and her voice sounded distant as she offered condolences.

At night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The creaks and groans of the Burrow kept her on edge, her body still waiting for an unseen assailant while her mind kept her locked in guilt.

While she rested, healed by the comfort of family, Draco sat in a cold, stone cell somewhere, awaiting trial. The thought of him—his face etched with worry, his hands bound, vulnerable to the Ministry's judgment—gnawed at her. The world was moving on, and she was left to rebuild her life. But how could she rebuild a life, or even start an adult life, without the one person she wanted beside her? His absence, the distance between them, was a constant ache.

She would fight for his freedom.

First, she had to endure the week—the funerals, the burials, the publicity meetings with the new Minister of Magic. Then she could plan.

She turned onto her side, clutching the sheets as questions and plans circled, relentless and unwavering.

Ginny gave a low huff, turning in the bed across from her. Hermione's eyes flickered to her friend. Ginny was still awake, too, with insomnia plaguing her as much as Hermione. Ginny had her own burdens, her own grief. No one came out of the war unscathed.

"You're not alone, you know," Ginny said, her eyes blinking open as she gave up the pretense of sleep. "None of us are. I'm here if you want to talk."

Hermione swallowed hard. She wanted to nod, to say that everything would be fine. But she couldn't. She wasn't sure it would be and was sick of placating false promises. The Ministry was giving out enough of those these days for everyone.

"I know," Hermione whispered back.

Ginny didn't reply, but the quiet solidarity in the room wrapped around Hermione like an embrace she didn't know she needed.

The war was over, but the fight wasn't.

And it wouldn't be, not for her, until Draco was free.

After a week, Hermione and Harry moved to Grimmauld Place. Hermione had nowhere else to go; her parents sold their home and moved to Australia, and she didn't have a flat. She briefly considered Grange Manor, but the idea of returning there so soon was a blow. There were too many memories, too many What-Ifs. Hermione wasn't sure she was strong enough to withstand it.

Grimmauld Place remained as it ever was, saturated with old magic and haunted with memories. Harry and Hermione began cleaning, thankful for something to keep their hands busy and their minds preoccupied.

Kreacher's uneven shuffling echoed through the halls, his usual muttering even quieter now.

Hermione sat in an armchair in one of the cleared drawing rooms, clutching a mug of tea long gone cold. It was a rare moment she took to herself. Kreacher was in the corner, fiddling with some ancient Black item she and Harry hadn't sorted through yet. Typically, she tried to ignore the house-elf's presence as much as possible, his bulbous eyes flicking anywhere but toward her.

She didn't need to ask why—she knew.

Harry's anger simmered every time he so much as glimpsed Kreacher. Though Harry hadn't yet unleashed it fully, Hermione saw it brewing and simmering within him. She should say something and defuse the growing anger within Harry, she knew. He was prone to lashing out when he bottled things up.

But every time she tried, the memory of Bellatrix's laugh, of the wand pressing against her throat, rose like bile.

Kreacher let her be taken.

And her anger, though quieter, lingered too.

Hermione sighed, setting down the mug, and Kreacher shot her a dirty look.

His sneer grew as though he could no longer hold it back. "Filthy Mudblood. Desecrating the Sacred House of Black. The Most Noble Bloodline of Black."

Harry stormed into the room, his presence as loud as a thunderclap despite the silence. He didn't bother greeting her. His green eyes locked on Kreacher, the elf freezing mid-step.

"Kreacher." Harry's voice was cold. "Come here."

The elf turned, his wrinkled face twisting into a begrudging scowl as he shuffled closer. "Master called for Kreacher?"

"And you bloody well know why," Harry said, his tone like a whip. "You stood there and let her—" He gestured toward Hermione. "You let Bellatrix Lestrange take her. From my house. And you didn't lift a bloody finger."

Kreacher's lip curled, but he said nothing, his silence infuriating Harry further.

"You should have warned us. You should have stopped it. But you chose not to." He scowled at the creature. "Even when you knew it would displease me. I will ensure you never do that again."

"Harry, don't," Hermione said. Her voice lacked conviction, but the sight of Kreacher, miserable and hunched, stirred something reluctant in her chest.

She might not like Kreacher, but he was still bound in slavery. The house-elf, regardless of desire, obeyed his masters. It wasn't right, even if this house-elf was a vile, nasty thing.

Harry ignored her. "Listen carefully, Kreacher. You must protect Hermione within this house; inaction is forbidden. You are to do everything you can to protect her—do you understand me?"

Kreacher's nose wrinkled, his fists clenching at his sides.

"Master Harry commands, and Kreacher must obey."

"And if she's ever taken again and you're unable to stop it," Harry continued, stepping closer, "you will notify me immediately. No delays, no excuses. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Master." Kreacher bowed low.

Harry stared him down for a long moment before stepping back, his nostrils flaring.

"Harry, he's not—" Hermione began.

"No, Hermione. I'm not letting him get away with it. He had a choice, and he chose wrong. I'm making sure he doesn't get that choice again."

He doesn't get the choice again.

That's what it all boiled down to, right? Harry didn't have a choice but to become the prophesied saviour. Draco didn't have a choice to become a Death Eater. Kreacher didn't have a choice now but to protect her either.

Hermione bit her lip, unsure whether to push further. She glanced at Kreacher, whose hunched figure seemed smaller than ever, and then back at Harry, whose jaw was tight, his hands still trembling.

"Clean the third floorproperly this time." Harry sighed down at Kreacher, unclenching his fists. "I don't want to see you for at least a week unless you're summoned."

The house-elf popped away.

Hermione's gaze lingered on the spot where Kreacher vanished. Guilt gnawed at her, a cold knot twisting in her stomach, mixed with a fragile sense of relief. That could have gone much worse.

Harry sighed, his anger ebbing as he collapsed into the chair beside her. He cast a quick heating spell on her abandoned tea.

Steam rose in lazy curls, a peace offering.

"I know you didn't like that, 'Mione," he said, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "But I needed to. I won't endanger my friends and family in my home."

Hermione lifted the cup to her lips, the warmth soothing her chilled fingers.

"I understand, Harry."

She did understand—perhaps too well. Loss carved its mark on both of them, and fear became a second heartbeat.

They sat in companionable silence, the past weeks settling around them. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls of Grimmauld Place. Hermione curled her legs beneath her, the tea cradled in her hands as she watched the flames dance.

Harry leaned back, his eyes distant, tracing patterns in the ceiling.

"Do you think it'll ever stop feeling like this?" he asked, his voice rough like it had been pulled from somewhere deep inside. "Like everything's… just teetering on the edge? Like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop?"

Harry's shoulders sagged like the years had carved deep lines into him. His eyes, shadowed with something older than his age, spoke of battles fought, of a past with little room to breathe. She recognized the strain he carried—too much for too long.

"Maybe not entirely," she admitted. "But it'll change. It has to, Harry. We've survived too much for it not to. We need to give it time."

He nodded, his gaze dropping to the fire. "I hope so."

The silence returned like a shared understanding. Two orphans, grasping at the frayed edges of their lives, finding solace in the simple fact that they still had each other.

They were alive. They weren't alone. And that was a start.

Hermione exchanged letters with Narcissa, and their correspondence was terse initially, but gradually grew in depth. A common goal united them: ensuring that Draco and Lucius wouldn't be forgotten or locked away forever. Their mutual understanding was cautious, but it gave Hermione a strange sense of focus.

The aftermath of the war was a time of confusion and lack of direction. Solving the Dark Mark and building the Malfoys' defence gave her a purpose. Somewhere to divert and direct her anxious energy.

They'd contacted the Wizengamot first to arrange a visitation. Draco wasn't permitted visitors, other than an attorney.

So, they hired the best defence attorney in the Wizarding World.

Narcissa assured Hermione that Cassian Warrick, Esq., was a highly skilled wizarding barrister renowned for taking on controversial cases. Known as "The Devil's Advocate" in legal circles, Warrick was a master strategist, unafraid to challenge ministry bureaucracy or public opinion. His career was built on navigating the most tangled webs of magical law, and he had a reputation for uncovering flaws in prosecution arguments with razor-sharp precision.

Narcissa requested Hermione to meet in person with each letter, the two together with Mr. Warrick. But every time Narcissa suggested they meet at Malfoy Manor, Hermione wavered.

The mere thought of setting foot in the Manor sent an icy tremor through her. Memories lay in wait like predators in the shadows of her mind: the searing pain of the cursed blade, Bellatrix's high-pitched laughter, and the suffocating fear of staring down death in that cold, sprawling house.

She gripped the edge of her desk during those moments, steadying herself as the phantom pain flared through her body. The healed scar on her forearm throbbed with ghostly echoes of the letter carved there, M for Mudblood, and her breaths turned shallow.

The Manor wasn't just a place—it was a battleground etched into her soul.

Hermione often hesitated over her parchment, quill hovering above the page, trying to compose replies to Narcissa's letters without betraying her terror. She couldn't let Narcissa know how deeply the idea of returning to the Manor unsettled her, not when Draco's freedom hung in the balance.

Narcissa didn't leave the Manor, always sending house-elves on any errands needed. With both her husband and son being tried as Death Eaters, she was persona non grata in most public places in the Wizarding World. Even if she wasn't met with utter contempt in public, a scathing hit piece in the Prophet followed any outing.

But as much as Hermione tried to suppress her fear, it whispered to her late at night, curling around her thoughts like smoke.

What if stepping back into the house shattered her progress?

What if she lost herself in the memories the house held?

How could she become Lady Malfoy if the Manor was barred because of her mental feebleness?

Yet, beneath her terror, an unwavering resolve burned.

Draco was still imprisoned. Narcissa was counting on her.

Fear wouldn't stop her—not forever.

She needed to muster the courage to return to Malfoy Manor.

The Black Library was a labyrinth of forgotten wisdom. Dust wafted in the drafty room. Hermione moved with reverence, her fingers trailing over the spines of tomes whose titles whispered of ancient magic.

It was her first time entering the library since their return to Grimmauld Place. She avoided it like a dark stain on the house, the place where Bellatrix had abducted her. Every inch of this place was suffused with memories she hadn't yet reconciled—sounds of footsteps, a cruel laugh, the sharp sting of helplessness. The air still felt thick with it, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on her with each step.

This was the first step to return to Malfoy Manor. Facing this—another place where Bellatrix subdued her. It wasn't the same, but it felt like it.

With its cold, looming presence, the library echoed those dark moments like repeating the events on replay, stirring the pain and fear that still clung to her. Her body tremored, hands beginning to shake as if to remind her that no matter how many times she'd survived, the scars remained.

Was it too soon to do this? Did her mind need more time to heal?

But then, the thought of Draco—trapped and alone—propelled her.

This was the way forward, wasn't it? A slow, painful process of facing the shadows. She wasn't sure she was ready, but wasn't this the only choice? To keep walking, even when it felt like the ground beneath her feet might give way?

And then her breath caught.

Nestled among the volumes was a familiar shape—the slender, vine-wrapped wand she thought she'd never see again.

Her fingers trembled as they wrapped around the wood. The instant connection sent warmth radiating through her, like a limb reawakened. Her body relaxed, almost weightless, a bond returning that she couldn't replicate with any other wand.

This was more than a tool; it was her essence, her strength. A way to direct the overflowing magic within her in the manner she wanted.

Her magic pulsed at her fingertips, an intimate greeting between old friends. The world seemed brighter and more vivid, as if every colour and sound were muted without her noticing.

She exhaled shakily. The library's oppressiveness lightened, its shadows retreating, if only by inches. Her wand was taken from her in a moment of helplessness, a symbol of her vulnerability—now it was back in her grasp, a reclamation of power she believed she had lost.

Slowly, she tested it, giving it the slightest flick. A wisp of golden light curled from the tip, illuminating the dust motes in the air. Her magic sang in response, effortless and whole. A lump formed in her throat. Bellatrix had stolen much from her, but she hadn't won. She was still here. She was still standing.

And she had work to do.

The return of her wand filled Hermione with a renewed sense of purpose. She couldn't just sit around and wait to hear from Narcissa or the lawyer, Mr. Warrick.

She tried to appeal directly to Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new Minister of Magic, for Draco's release. Denied. She didn't expect it would be approved, but at least she tried. Then, she demanded a bail hearing. Denied. The Malfoys were a significant flight risk. Followed by a request for visitation. Denied again. Not that she expected otherwise.

If they released a Death Eater like Draco Malfoy, who else would they use to prove that the Ministry was all-powerful again? She struggled not to let out a derisive snort as her last request was rejected via owl.

She'd have to work on something else if she couldn't convince the Ministry. Something else for Draco's future. Their future.

Hermione turned her focus back to the Dark Mark. She had puzzle pieces now: Voldemort's magical signature extracted from Hufflepuff's cup, the venom-laden basilisk fang, and her research notes.

But she wanted to study the potion that Lucius developed more. She was confident she could alter it. Even though she knew how to brew it now, dozens of vials were still stored at Grange Manor. Readily accessible, made with quality ingredients, and brewed by Lucius himself.

The temptation was too much to resist.

Hermione convinced herself that it was just another test. A next step to Malfoy Manor. Although Grange Manor only held bittersweet memories of Draco and Hermione together, she needed to know she could get a handle on herself. She didn't want to flounder at the Manor and accidentally destroy half a wing during a panic attack.

Apparating to Grange Manor was as easy as flexing a muscleinstinctive and familiar.

Grange Manor loomed before her, a silent witness to the happiness and loss they experienced there. Hermione's breath hitched as she stepped through the door; everything remained exactly as they'd left it, a bitter reminder of the loss of Draco. The hall was dim, but the shadows seemed to pulse with memories, stretching and bending as though they were alive with the echoes of their time there. The air was thick with it—Draco's cologne, the faint traces of Firewhiskey and Lucius' potion, the sound of laughter—laughter that felt so foreign now.

She headed toward the bathroom, her hand brushing against the wallpaper, and for a moment, it felt like nothing changed. She could almost hear his voice calling for her from the bedroom or feel his touch on her arm as they read together on the couch.

They had been so close to something, hadn't they? This was the closest they'd got to finding a place of peace.

But that peace was shattered. It was an illusion, a haven never meant to last.

She swallowed hard, blinking back the tears blurring her vision.

The ache in her chest was a living thing, squeezing her heart, pulling it in two. She hated this feeling—the helplessness, the desperate need to retreat, to shut everything out. Yet, there she was, standing in a place she once thought of as home, fighting the urge to run.

But she couldn't. She wouldn't. She needed to do this.

This place wasn't home. Draco was home.

She continued toward the bathroom. The door was closed, but she knew what was inside. The vials, the potion, Lucius's work, still waiting for her.

This wasn't just about Draco, about Grange Manor. It was about her. About proving to herself that she wasn't broken. She could still be who she was before—before the war, the horrors, and everything that shattered her.

She couldn't keep running from this, from the ghosts in every corner of the house, from the memory of their whispered words and the warm pressure of him above her.

She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling sharply, grounding herself in the familiar scent of the house.

And then, just as quickly, she pushed the memories away.

She had work to do. She would find clarity here, in the place that once held so much of her happiness. And maybe, just maybe, she could find herself again.

Hermione entered the bathroom and gathered the remaining potions into her beaded bag before steeling herself and entering their bedroom.

The bed was a mess, blankets flung from where Draco rose the last day they were there, likely panicked at the absence of his wife. Hermione was unable to move more than a step into the room, her body frozen and mind stuck on what-ifs. Memories played out like a sad song: whispered secrets, fleeting smiles, and unhurried lovemaking. A glimpse of what they could have.

She didn't linger; the ache in her chest was too sharp.

The pain of Draco's continued absence gnawed at Hermione, but the Dark Mark removal research offered a sense of purpose, a distraction from the unbearable ache of waiting.

If only Draco were here to tell her she wasn't chasing shadows. To help refine her ideas and guide her down the right path. His mind always kept up with hers, and his playful flirting would coax her away from the endless work when she refused to stop.

Nights were the hardest.

She pushed herself further each evening, burying herself in equations, spells, Muggle medical journals, and magical theory until the words blurred into nonsense. She'd often pass out at the table, only to wake when Harry gently nudged her, urging her to return to her room. She'd promise sleep, but once he was gone, she'd crawl back into bed with her notes, reading until morning.

She wandered the quiet halls if she couldn't sneak a book with her. Often, she found herself standing before the Black family tapestry, tracing the thin red thread connecting her name to Draco's. It both mocked and comforted her. A reminder Draco was out of her reach, but he was still her husband.

A reminder. A challenge. A promise she wasn't ready to break.

Hermione sat in the coziest living room of Grimmauld Place, her fingers tracing the edges of the letter from Mr. Warwick as Harry shifted furniture around near the windows. He'd recently taken the time to rearrange the rooms wherever possible.

The words were polite, requesting a meeting to discuss the next steps in Draco's defence, but there was an urgency wrapped in the cold professionalism of a lawyer's request.

Warrick finally met with Draco. He wanted to talk to them both in person at Malfoy Manor.

She closed her eyes, suppressing the memories that tried to fight their way to the surface. A cruel laugh, the sharp sting of a knife against flesh.

She breathed in deeply and out slowly, pushing the memory back.

Draco needs me. Narcissa needs me.

She was a Gryffindor, for fuck's sake.

She couldn't hide from the fear any longer. She conquered the Black Library. She conquered Grange Manor. It was time to face the shadows of the past to ensure Draco's future.

She promised to do whatever it took to help Draco, despite the thought of setting foot inside Malfoy Manor gnawing at her insides.

The scar on her forearm throbbed as though it, too, was trying to remind her.

Her quill hovered above the parchment, her mind rebelling.

How could she possibly return to that place and keep it together?

She gripped the edge of the small desk.

Despite its dark history, the Manor remained a potential lifeline for her—a key to freeing Draco not only from imprisonment but from the Dark Mark with its vast and ancient library she hadn't accessed yet. But it also threatened to break her.

What if, in that house, she lost everything she worked to rebuild within herself?

What if the fear was too intense?

What if her return to the Manor proved impossible? Hermione Malfoy, unable to return to her husband's family estate.

She refused to let that happen. Draco was still locked away, and Narcissa was relying on her. She needed to be strong for him, the Malfoys, and the life she chose to fight for. Fear might have a hold on her, but it wouldn't win. Not forever.

With a shaky breath, she finally dipped her quill into the ink and began writing, her resolve steeling with every word. Afterward, she sealed the letter with wax, staring down at the address on the front. Narcissa Malfoy, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire.

"I'm going," she said. Harry dropped the end table he was shifting and turned towards her, confused. "To Malfoy Manor."

Harry frowned. "Do you want me to come with you?"

She was grateful for the offer. Harry was unusually perceptive with her recently, either because he promised Draco to take care of her or because he could finally pay attention without the constant threat of death looming over him like an axe.

"No. I should go by myself."

"Alright." Harry wiped his palms on his jeans. "But if you need me, just let me know, and I'll come. Yeah?"

Hermione nodded. She walked over to the owl, attached the reply to the leg, and watched the bird alight into the sky.

It was done. Hermione was returning to Malfoy Manor.

A house-elf greeted Hermione at the door, bowing low. The cold walls of Malfoy Manor towered around her as she followed the elf down the ornate corridor. The marble floors hummed with history, each step heavy with the ghosts of the past—whispers of fear, desperation, and the choices that led her here.

Her chest tightened.

Could she really do this?

Three weeks since the final battle, and the scars were still fresh. She was still shaky, both in body and mind. Malfoy Manor felt like a living thing; its silence was oppressive, and the memories were too close and raw. She couldn't shake the image of Bellatrix's face, of Draco's haunted eyes.

Could she stand in this place again without breaking?

But she promised Draco she would stay with his mother.

Narcissa was alone and staying in this massive manor. The echoes of centuries-old ghosts and recent atrocities were vivid in her mind. Narcissa was here longer and witnessed far more than Hermione could fathom under the thumb of Voldemort, who commandeered the Manor as a base.

Hermione's cheeks burned, and her shoulders hunched. She'd left Narcissa alone, battling the demons of the past and unable to escape due to public scrutiny.

The house-elf pushed open a heavy oak door, leading Hermione into a secondary drawing room. Her eyes landed on Narcissa standing by the fireplace, her posture rigid, her face pale and drawn but composed. Her hair, always immaculately styled, was pulled back into a tight bun. Her eyes flicked up as Hermione entered.

"Narcissa," Hermione greeted.

"Hermione," Narcissa replied, a slight nod of acknowledgment. She gestured to a chair across from her. "Please, sit. Mr. Warrick will be with us shortly."

Hermione sat in the warm, plush chair, Narcissa's eyes on her, scrutinizing, analyzing, studying her. They hadn't seen each other since the final battle.

"How have you been, Hermione?" Narcissa's face softened.

Hermione swallowed hard, trying to let out the same line she used with everyone else. A false placation, but it wouldn't come. "Inot well."

Narcissa's face was drawn and tired. A wave of shame overwhelmed Hermione, threatening to drown her.

"Mipsy." Narcissa's voice pulled Hermione from under the wave of guilt.

A house-elf appeared. "Yes, Mistress Malfoy?"

"This is Hermione Malfoy, Draco's wife. Inform the other house-elves and ensure they treat her with respect and care."

Hermione shifted as the house-elf bowed low to Narcissa, then to her. "Of course."

"And please bring us tea and an extra cup for Mr. Warrick, who will join us."

The house-elf disappeared, returning a moment later with the requested tea before leaving again. Hermione doubted she'd adjust to a house with house-elves but remained silent.

"Before Mr. Warrick arrives, I'd like to extend the invitation again for you to stay at the Manor." Narcissa's voice was sharp, but something softer lingered beneath. "Draco's rooms are available to you, of course. I'd prefer you here rather than that dusty old mausoleum of Grimmauld Place."

Draco's rooms. She had never been in his bedroom at the Manor. What would it be like? Would it be drenched in Slytherin green, cluttered with house memorabilia? Would it feel calm or like a dungeon? Every place they shared had been shaped by someone else, touched by someone else's hand.

What would it be like to stay in a place that was wholly Draco?

Would it be like being next to him?

"I… I'll think about it."

Narcissa opened her mouth to reply, but the fireplace flames grew large, turning blue. In the next second, a large, burly man entered the sitting room.

"Good afternoon, ladies."

Cassian Warrick brushed soot from his tailored robes as he strode into the room, his dark eyes scanning the space with an assessing gaze that made even Narcissa's composed demeanour falter. His sheer physical presence was overwhelming, but his reputation loomed larger.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Warrick greeted Narcissa with a nod, his voice a rumble that commanded attention. His gaze then shifted to Hermione. "And you must be Hermione Granger. The war heroine trying to free renowned Death Eaters."

Hermione straightened her spine, bristling. "I wouldn't call it that. I'm doing my best to help Draco."

"Good," Warrick replied curtly, pulling a chair to the small table near the fireplace and sitting with a deliberate thud. "Because his case is a minefield."

Narcissa poured tea with steady hands, though her lips pressed into a thin line. "What is the latest from the Ministry?"

"They're rushing things. They must make quick and sweeping judgements to regain the people's trust." Warrick accepted a teacup but didn't drink it. "The prosecution is leaning heavily on Draco's Dark Mark and his documented presence at various Death Eater operations. They'll argue he was more than just a victim of circumstance."

Hermione's jaw tightened. "He didn't choose to serve Voldemort. He was a pawn—used, threatened—"

Warrick raised a hand to halt her. "That's our angle, Miss Granger, but it's not enough to win this case. The Wizengamot thrives on spectacle. They'll demand more than your testimony of his character. We need tangible evidence that he worked against the Death Eaters."

"It's Mrs. Malfoy now." Hermione sat straight, not liking his dismissive tone.

Warrick's sharp gaze flicked to Hermione at her correction, his expression shifting.

"My apologies, Mrs. Malfoy," he said, his tone careful but without losing its edge. "It seems congratulations are in order. I wasn't aware of the change in your marital status. I must have missed the announcement in the Prophet."

"It will be a year in September. You and I both know it wasn't in the Prophet." Hermione leaned forward. "My husband doesn't deserve to be judged for Voldemort's crimes."

Warrick arched a brow, reading her like reviewing a case study.

"That passion of yours might be an asset in court," he said. "But only if tempered with precision. We'll need verifiable proof, clear recollections, and solid witnesses. The Ministry won't accept mere good intentions."

"And what about the other families?" Narcissa interjected. "The Greengrass, the Notts—can they speak on his behalf?"

"They can," Warrick agreed, "though we'll need to ensure their testimonies aren't dismissed as biased. But Mrs. Malfoy here,"—he gestured toward Hermione—"has a unique position. She's the war hero, the Golden Girl, and his wife. That juxtaposition alone makes her testimony powerful. The public will listen, especially if we present the evidence effectively."

Hermione's fingers tightened on the edge of her chair. "I'll do whatever it takes. Just tell me what you need."

Warrick's nod was sharp. "Good. Start by documenting every moment you remember of Draco's resistance—every subtle act of defiance, every risk he took. We'll cross-reference it with what we can find from others."

"Draco risked his life to help me escape from Malfoy Manor. He saved Harry Potter's life when we were on the run."

Warrick's sharp gaze fixed on her. "Good. Then we must present those instances clearly and find credible witnesses to corroborate them."

"And if we can't?" Narcissa tilted her head up more with the question, her back stiffening.

Warrick's eyes darkened. "Then Draco may spend the next decade in Azkaban."

The room fell into a tense silence.

"What about Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley?" Hermione offered. "What if they testify for Draco?"

Warrick's posture straightened as Hermione's suggestion registered.

"Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley?" he repeated, a note of intrigue creeping into his tone. "If we could secure their support, it would carry considerable weight. Harry Potter's testimony alone might sway the entire Wizengamot."

Hermione nodded, biting the inside of her cheek. "Harry and Ron know the truth about Draco. They've seen him risk himself to protect us."

Well, protect her, but she wasn't going to add that.

Narcissa's lips parted, hope lighting her features for the first time. "Do you think they'll agree to speak for him?"

Hermione hesitated. Harry would understand the importance of this, but Ron's history with Draco made him a more unpredictable factor.

"I'll convince them. Harry will want to see justice, not punishment."

Warrick leaned back in his chair, his expression assessing. "If you can secure those testimonies, combined with your own, we'll have a stronger case. But this isn't just about proving Draco's innocence—it's about framing the narrative. Every word they say must emphasize his resistance to Voldemort."

Hermione clenched her hands together, determination stiffening her spine. "I'll talk to Harry and Ron. We'll make this work."

Warrick's intense gaze lingered on her, his approval subtle but clear. "Then we might just have a fighting chance."

Warrick and Narcissa shifted gears, moving to Lucius' defence. Hermione knew neither Ron nor Harry would speak for Lucius, not after his stunt with Tom Riddle's diary in the second year and what happened to Ginny because of it.

She tried to keep her attention steady and offer input, but her mind wandered. Plans for others she could gather for Draco, who would paint him in the light she saw him.

It was a while later when Warrick stood and gave his regards.

"I have a message to pass on from Draco before I leave." He withdrew a folded piece of parchment and passed it to Hermione. "I understand now why he insisted you attend this meeting and wrote you a letter."

Hermione nodded in thanks, tucking the note safely in her pocket. She didn't trust herself to read it in front of an audience.

Warrick said his goodbyes and left via the Floo.

"We'll need to show them, show everyone, that there's more to this story. Draco was under immense pressure from both sides. He was just a boy trying to protect his family. And Lucius… he cooperated in the end, didn't he? He didn't fight back. He could've done worse. We can argue for leniency."

Narcissa set down her teacup and sighed. "Do you believe that will matter to them? Mercy? These are people who lost children, brothers, sisters. They want retribution. They want to see someone pay."

"I know." Hermione's voice caught. "But we'll find people willing to testify on their behalf—people who saw Draco hesitate, who saw him fight back in his own way, who saw Lucius try to save his wife and son rather than serve Voldemort—we can build a case. Maybe we can get them house arrest instead of Azkaban."

Narcissa's expression wavered, her composure cracking for the first time. She took a shaky breath, her voice breaking as she spoke. "Draco is my son, Hermione. I'll do anything for him. Anything."

"I know." Hermione felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. "And I love him, too. We need to be smart."

Narcissa's gaze bore into Hermione, searching for something—doubt, weakness, hesitation. When she found none, she nodded. "Very well. I will work on the Wizengamot. The Malfoys can continue influencing powerful figures, even if Lucius and Draco are unavailable. You can work on gathering witnesses to testify."

"I'll do everything I can." Hermione jaw set, pushing her shoulders back. "Draco deserves a chance to build a life beyond all of this. And I won't let anyone take that away from him."

Narcissa met Hermione's gaze; the two women shared a rare, silent understanding. They shared a common goal: Draco's future.

A future worth every risk and every effort.

"And if that still isn't enough," Hermione said, "the women the Malfoys marry don't just sit and wait."

"No," Narcissa said, a smirk alighting her face. "We make contingency plans."

"Because Malfoys always come out on top," Hermione reaffirmed.

This wasn't just about Draco—it was about challenging a system eager to scapegoat.

And her husband wouldn't be their sacrificial lamb.

The corridors of Malfoy Manor were colder than Hermione remembered, each shadow whispering of her last visit. Narcissa led the way, her figure poised but subdued, offering reassurances that Hermione barely registered.

She'd agreed to spend the night, her guilt eating away at the fear, but now it felt insurmountable.

Every creak of the floorboards sent a jolt through her, muscles coiled, body taut like a bowstring. She kept waiting—waiting for a voice that wasn't there, for the soft drag of a blade against her skin, for the walls to close in and swallow her whole.

Her hands clenched as she followed Narcissa up the grand staircase. The manor breathed around her, an oppressive thing, thick with history and full of the lingering traces of dark magic from the Death Eaters. Every whisper of the wind against the windowpanes made her flinch. Her mind knew better, but her body—her body still believed the danger was real.

When they reached Draco's room, Narcissa pushed open the heavy door.

"I hope you'll be comfortable here. The linens are fresh, and the fires are charmed to stay warm through the night."

Hermione nodded, stepping over the threshold for the first time.

"I'll leave you to settle in." Narcissa lingered on Hermione's face as if she sensed the storm of emotions beneath her composed expression. "If you need anything, you can call for Mipsy."

"Thank you, Narcissa."

Silence fell over her like a blanket as the door closed behind Narcissa.

His quarters resembled flat, sectioned off by doors.

The sitting room was understated but elegant—dark green velvet chairs flanked by a small fireplace. The echoes of Draco's presence cast shadows in every corner of the space.

She ventured into the office, her fingers brushing over the mahogany desk. It was neatly arranged, save for a scattered stack of parchment with Draco's familiar handwriting. The loop of his D triggered a flood of memories—his careful notes in Potions, the sardonic letters he sent her during their strained early days, a softer tone creeping into his writing as they grew closer. She traced a line with her fingertip, an ache resonating within her that was equal parts longing and grief.

She moved into the bathroom, noting the polished marble countertops and neatly arranged vials of potions. One of the bottles bore his initials etched in silver. She picked it up, holding it close. His scent lingered—subtle, clean, familiar.

Of course, he had his own fragrance.

Flashes of their time together surged forward, her nose flaring and eyes watery as a lump formed in her throat.

She pressed the vial back down harder than necessary and retreated to the bedroom.

The bedroom was both personal and austere. The four-poster bed, draped in creams and a warm darker grey, dominated the space, but there were signs of a simpler side to Draco here—a pair of well-worn books stacked beside the bed, a pressed white shirt hung over the back of a chair. She hesitated before sitting on the edge of the mattress, her body sinking into the plushness.

Her hand grazed the blanket, and she closed her eyes. This room was a paradox: a sanctuary, and a prison filled with memories of an absent man.

Hermione pulled her legs up, her eyes falling on a small silver-framed photograph by the bedside. It showed Draco as a child, perhaps eight years old, giggling while a white peacock walked in the background. His grin was wide, carefree—unlike the guarded man she'd come to know. She traced the frame tenderly.

This room wasn't a relic of war, like the manor itself—it was his. The one place in this house where he had been himself.

Her gaze drifted to the bedside table. A small silver box sat beside a stack of books, its latch slightly ajar. Hermione hesitated before lifting the lid.

Inside was a sliver of the enchanted mirror, its jagged edge softened by time. The twin to her own, safe within her beaded bag. She lifted it, brushing her thumb over the surface.

Beneath the mirror was something even smaller: a folded scrap of parchment, its edges worn. She opened it carefully, recognizing her own handwriting, a single line scrawled on homework they'd done together in the Room of Requirement in sixth year. He'd been dour and depressed in his own head more than usual.

You are more than what they made you.

She'd forgotten she even wrote it. He hadn't.

Placing the items back in the box, she replaced the lid carefully.

She was hit with a sudden, renewed urgency to do something.

But her hands were tied for now. It was too late in the evening to send owls, and Narcissa and Warwick were preparing everything else. She felt useless.

She fell back, laying on the bed over the covers.

The fire crackled, its warmth failing to reach her chilled skin. Hermione swallowed hard, willing herself to focus.

He's still here in this house, in these memories. I'm doing this for him.

But as she lay on the bed, staring at the ornate ceiling. The bed was too large, too empty.

Curling onto her side, she gripped the covers. The silence stretched. She kept waiting—waiting for a voice that wasn't there, for the soft drag of a blade against her skin.

Her breathing quickened, pulse roaring in her ears. Her muscles locked up. Panic swelled. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to focus.

You are here. You are safe. This is Draco's room. This is not the drawing room. You are safe. You are safe.

Her fingers twitched, grasping at anything solid. And then she remembered.

The letter.

Hermione bolted upright, fumbling for her pocket with shaking hands. The fabric crinkled as she pulled out the folded parchment Warrick had given her. She swallowed hard, staring at it. The parchment felt heavier than it should, as though it carried Draco's soul pressed between the inked lines.

She inhaled, her fingers brushing over the familiar slant of his handwriting. She couldn't bring herself to read it.

What if it was goodbye?

What if it was despair disguised as resolve?

Or worse—what if it held the same helplessness she'd seen in his eyes as he was pulled from the Great Hall?

Steeling herself, she began to read.

Hermione,

I've tried writing this letter a dozen times, and each attempt has felt like a betrayal of what I want to say. How do I articulate the turmoil in experience whenever you cross my mind? Or the sharp guilt that claws at me, knowing you're shouldering a burden you shouldn't need to carry?

You have always fought for what's right—for justice, for fairness—even when the odds were stacked against you. And now, I bet you're fighting for me. I never imagined I'd be the recipient of that kind of devotion, least of all from you. I don't deserve it. I don't deserve you.

Her vision blurred, tears slipping down her cheeks. She swiped at them, chastising herself for falling apart. But the truth of his words struck a chord she couldn't ignore. Her heart ached for him—the boy forced into darkness and the man still haunted by its shadow.

She continued.

I have so many things I wish to tell you. I regret every cruel word, every sneer, and every time I made you feel less than the incredible woman you are. I admire your strength and your unyielding heart.

Above all, I cherish your allowing me into your life.

I don't know what the future holds, Love. My path was always decided. Perhaps this is much the same. But knowing you're out there—fighting, believing in me—gives me strength.

If it comes to the worst, I need you to promise me something: don't let them break you. You are the fiercest person I know; no matter what happens to me, you must keep living. Keep fighting. The world is better because you're in it.

Thank you for giving me something I never thought I'd have—something worth living for.

Yours, always,

Draco

The letter fell to her lap as a sob escaped. His words wrapped around her heart, raw and unguarded. He believed he might not win this trial, yet his thoughts were of her—of her strength, future, and survival.

Hermione clenched her fists tighter, her nails digging crescent moons into her palms as though the pain could anchor her. The walls shifted around her, the intricate patterns of the wallpaper warping.

Her ears filled with phantom echoes: Bellatrix's high-pitched cackle slicing through her thoughts, the guttural cries of her own agony. The knife again, the searing path it carved into her skin. Her scar, long healed, now throbbed in cruel synchronicity with her pounding heartbeat.

"Stop," she said aloud, squeezing her fist so tightly her knuckles turned white. "You're safe. You're safe now."

But the words felt hollow, the reassurance dissipating like smoke. Her surroundings blurred, her vision narrowing like the room collapsing inward. Her breaths turned into gasps, shallow and rapid. She was suffocating, trapped beneath her memories and Draco's absence.

She was dying. Oh, Merlin, she was dying.

Her hand flew to her chest—whether to steady her breath or convince herself she was still breathing, she wasn't sure. She brushed against her necklace, the crescent-shaped charm cold beneath her touch. With trembling fingers, she lifted the charm, curling a fist around it. The metal warmed as though imbued with Draco's essence, and a faint trace of his magic seemed to pulse through her.

You're not alone, Hermione.

"Draco." Her voice cracked.

The warmth of the necklace spread, its soothing heat cutting through the icy grip of her panic. She focused on it, her mind latching onto the memory of his hands as he fastened it around her neck, the way his lips had brushed her temple. Her breaths began to slow, each one coming deeper, steadier.

The haze of terror receded. The shadows on the walls stopped their threatening dance, retreating into ordinary shapes. Hermione loosened her grip on the charm, her fingers aching.

Resting her hand against the pendant, Hermione sank back against the pillows, pulling the covers over her. Despite not being here for months, the cocoon was like Draco enveloped her, holding her close.

Exhaustion finally claimed her, heavy and insistent, pulling her down into a mercifully dreamless sleep. The crescent charm, warm and steadfast, rested against her skin—a quiet promise that she wasn't alone.