Chapter 23

tell me it'll be okay

War does not determine who is right - only who is left.

- Bertrand Russell, British philosopher

The atmosphere in the sitting room of 12 Grimmauld Place was heavy.

The Order of Merlin, First Class ceremony just concluded, and the trio returned to the solace of Grimmauld Place. It was a lot: the crowds, the clapping, the people. Their nerves were all on edge, flighty and jittery, ready to jump at any noise or movement. She anticipated that the images in the Prophet the following morning would resemble the shell-shocked soldiers from the World Wars.

She played with her necklace, twirling and untwirling it over her finger.

Harry and Ron sat across from her, worn and weary. The war was over, but its scars were raw and deep. Voldemort was dead. The Wizarding World was free. And yet, the relief that Hermione expected never came. Perhaps it was the same for Harry and Ron.

The medals, still gleaming around their necks, felt heavy—not with pride, but with expectations.

Ron tugged off his medal, tossing it onto the coffee table with a dull thunk. "Well, that was something. More speeches, merits, and still no bloody clue what to do with us now."

"Could've been worse." Harry shrugged. "At least they didn't ask us to give speeches. You'd have hexed the Minister in your mood, and Hermione would've recited a dissertation."

Hermione managed a tight smile as she perched on the sofa's edge opposite them. The lighthearted banter should have been comforting—familiar—but it didn't reach her tonight. Her stomach twisted, a weight pressing against her ribs. They'd faced war together and endured horrors no one else could understand, yet this felt different.

This was Draco Malfoy. He had a long history with them no one could deny. Most of it was horrendous.

She twisted her hands in her lap, forcing herself to breathe steadily. Would they hear her out? Would they understand?

"I need to talk to you both. It's… important."

Harry's gaze sharpened while Ron tilted his head, sensing the shift in her tone. "What is it, 'Mione?"

"It's about Draco's trial." She watched their reactions. Harry's expression darkened while Ron's jaw tightened. "He needs witnesses. Testimonies that can prove he wasn't a willing participant in Voldemort's plans."

Ron straightened, his eyes narrowing. "And you're asking us? To testify for him?"

"Yes," she said. "Both of you are aware he was coerced into this. You were there—at Malfoy Manor. You know what he did for Harry, what he did for me."

Ron leaned forward, his tone incredulous. "Malfoy took the Dark Mark. They saw him fighting on their side. He let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts in sixth year."

"We've already been through all of this, Ron." Hermione sighed. "They forced him—he had no choice. You know better than anyone, Harry, what that's like."

Harry looked away.

He knew Draco didn't want any of this, despite his behaviour and prejudice as children. Harry must understand that circumstances beyond Draco's control ensnared him.

But Hermione could read it on his face: Harry also understood how it all appeared, how people would view it.

She'd seen the look in Kingsley Shacklebolt's eyes when they took Draco away, the distrust, the suspicion. Harry noted it, too, no doubt.

The world was eager to punish those who followed Voldemort, and Draco Malfoy was an easy target.

Harry remained silent, his emerald eyes unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. "It's not just about what we saw. If we testify, we're putting our reputations on the line. The Wizengamot will scrutinize everything—our intentions, our loyalties."

"I know," Hermione said. "But he doesn't deserve to spend a decade in Azkaban for trying to survive. That's what it comes down to—he survived, like us. And I can't just sit back and let the Ministry destroy him because it's the easiest way for them to save face."

Ron crossed his arms, shaking his head. "I don't know, Hermione. I'm all for justice, but maybe the law should take its course. Maybe—"

Harry cut him off. "The law isn't perfect, Ron. We've seen that." His gaze flicked to Hermione. "If we testify, it has to be because we believe he deserves it. Not just for Hermione's sake."

Hermione's throat tightened. "He does. Please, Harry… Ron. I wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't truly believe it."

Harry sighed, his shoulders sagging.

"Mione," Ron argued. "I know you think Draco isn't like the rest of them, but we can't just march into the Ministry and demand they let him go."

"Mate," Harry said, turning to Ron, "she's right. We've all had differences with Malfoy, but he did some good. He didn't have to help. And he didn't have to save me when I was dying, either." His voice softened as he turned back to Hermione. "And you… you love him, don't you?"

Hermione's breath hitched, and she bit her lip, nodding.

"Yes," she admitted. "I do. I know it sounds mad, but he's different. And I… I can't just let them take him without a fight. I can't."

Hermione watched Harry's jaw tense, his fingers curling against his knee. She saw the conflict warring beneath the surface—the way his brows knit together, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Remembering all the times Draco could have turned them in, could have chosen his father's path, could have been everything they expected him to be. But he hadn't. Again and again, despite the fear and how easy it would have been, Draco chose differently. And now Harry was struggling with what that meant.

He swallowed hard, an imperceptible nod when he came to a decision.

"Alright," Harry said, his eyes meeting Hermione's. "I'll help you. I'll go to the Ministry and talk to Kingsley. We'll get him a fair trial. And we'll testify, all three of us." Harry shot Ron a pointed look.

Hermione's breath left her in a rush, a sob escaping as she covered her mouth with her hand. "Thank you, Harry."

"Yeah, well." Ron's face softened into a small, tired smile. He ran his hand through his already messy hair. "We never want you to be unhappy."

Hermione stood, crossing the room and pulling them both into a hug. They grumbled, but neither pulled away, their arms tightening around her.

"And if he's released, and he does do something to make you unhappy, we can always kill him ourselves," Harry offered, more enthusiastically than necessary, as they broke apart. Ron nodded, and the two fist-bumped.

"I'll be sure to warn him." Hermione let out a choked laugh, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. "Either way, I owe you both. And so does he."

"You don't owe us anything." Harry placed a hand on her shoulder. "We're with you, Hermione. Always."

She refused to let Draco be lost in the darkness, not after he fought so hard to elude it. They fought for a better world, a world where people could change, where they could choose their own path.

Where the fates could get fucked.

And she wasn't about to let anyone take that away from them now.

Plus, she couldn't wait to tell Draco that, despite his earlier derision, the power of friendship had saved him. His reaction would be priceless.

"Then, may I have my husband's wand back, Harry?" Hermione reached out her hand, palm upward.

"Blimey, I'll never get used to that." Ron looked a little green in the face.

Harry pulled the wand from his cloak, setting the sleek hawthorn wand in her hand. Vine-like wood patterns wrapped her wand, but Draco's wand was smooth, elegant, and precise.

"Thank you." Her grip on the wand tightened before she slipped it into her cloak, feeling closer to Draco with it nearby.

Even with Harry and Ron standing beside her, a knot of doubt remained. Convincing them was only the beginning. The battle ahead stretched long and uncertain, and no matter how many allies she gathered, she couldn't shake the fear that it wouldn't be enough.

Hermione found herself at yet another crossroads. For weeks, she balanced two worlds—dividing her time between Grimmauld Place and Malfoy Manor. Nights were spent at Grimmauld, where the walls carried the echoes of a war that still clung to her skin. But several times a week, she made the deliberate journey to the Manor, stepping into a place that once embodied everything she fought against.

Each visit to Malfoy Manor felt like stepping onto uncertain ground, forcing her to reconcile the past with the uneasy alliance she forged in the present. But each visit also made it a little easier to breathe, a little easier to exist within the Manor.

Neither party pressured her to decide on her living arrangements, but she felt nomadic. Neither place felt like home, but she had nowhere else to go. Nowhere else she wanted to go.

Today, she found herself once again in the Malfoy library. It was a cathedral of ancient knowledge—walls lined with leather-bound tomes whose spines gleamed in the flickering candlelight. Hermione sat at one of the long mahogany tables. The parchment spread in a disorganized sprawl. Notes, sketches, and references surrounded her like a fortress, her quill moving as she muttered calculations under her breath.

The cleansing spell and the potion she'd developed should work.

It needed to work.

But one minor error, one misplaced rune, and the spell could strip away more than Voldemort's magic—it could flay Draco's skin or, worse, obliterate his magical core.

Her hands trembled as she flipped through another grimoire, frustration simmering beneath her calm exterior.

"Still an unrepentant bookworm, I see."

The smooth, familiar voice startled her. She looked up to find Theo leaning against the doorway, his dark eyes studying her with an easy smirk. He dressed sharply, though he rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms covered in faint scars she couldn't recall noticing before. But then again, she wasn't sure she saw him with his sleeves pulled up.

"Theo," she exhaled, forcing herself to relax. "You scared me."

"I'm a Slytherin, Granger. Sneaking is in the blood." He crossed the room, his footsteps muted on the stone floor, and sat opposite her. "Draco asked me to keep an eye on you if anything ever happened to him. I take vows very seriously. You look like you haven't slept in days."

Hermione huffed, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I've been busy."

"Obviously." He gestured to the chaos of books and notes around her. "How's the brilliant plan coming along? What are you cooking up now?"

"I'm going to remove the Dark Mark."

Theo stilled, his eyes shooting at her face.

Hermione hesitated, glancing at the spell she was working on. "There's one part I can't figure out. I have a potion to trigger an internal signal to the body and magical core to fight off the Mark, but I also need to do a topical cleansing spell. I found an ancient one that could work but is too volatile. It risks—" She faltered, swallowing hard. "It could injure him. Permanently."

Theo's brows knit together as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You'll figure it out. You always do."

"Not this time." She sat back, rubbing her temples. "Theo, if I don't find a solution—"

"Then you'll keep looking," he said firmly.

Hermione exhaled sharply, frustration and doubt tangling inside her. How could he be so sure when she wasn't? Every path she'd taken led to more complications and more risks. She was working with magic that had no precedent, pushing the boundaries of what was possible. If she failed, Draco would live with the consequences—if he lived at all.

And she wouldn't be the only one left to pick up the pieces.

Her mind drifted, unbidden, to Hogwarts. Theo, Pansy, Blaise—they hadn't fought for the war, but they fought for him. In the aftermath, they searched for them, but the group vanished.

She hadn't thought much about it after Draco was taken. There was too much else—too much grief, too many wounded, too many dead. But now, sitting across from Theo, the absence gnawed at her.

"Where did you go after the battle? You and the others—Pansy, Blaise—you all just disappeared."

Something dark flickered in his expression. He sat back, folding his arms across his chest. "You don't want to know, Granger."

"Theo—"

"Trust me." His tone was low, final. "There are things better left buried."

The words lingered, an unspoken confession. Hermione's eyes flicked from his face to his scar-covered arms. She knew little about Theo's past, just bits Draco shared.

Then, as if shaking off a shadow, he plastered his usual grin. "Now, let's see what you're working on, shall we?"

Hermione blinked, startled by the shift.

Theo leaned over her shoulder, humming as he skimmed her notes. "You've got the theory down, but you're missing something practical. Give me a second."

Theo stood, scanning the shelves with a confidence that suggested he'd spent a fair bit of time in the Malfoy library. He pulled a book from the topmost shelf and placed it on the table with a flourish.

"Here."

Hermione stared at the ancient tome. Cracks and fading marred the cover, making the title barely legible.

"This has a section on Ancient Runes," Theo explained. "I think there was an obscure one in this that could contain the burn of the cleansing. It should keep the spell from going too far."

She opened the book, scanning through the pages. Theo was correct—a diagram for balancing magical cleanses with protective wards lay within.

"This…" she whispered, her voice trembling. "This could work."

Theo grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Told you. Now, do us a favour and sleep before you pass out here."

Hermione didn't answer, already engrossed in the book.

"Don't thank me all at once, Granger," Theo teased.

"Thank you, Theo," she murmured, not looking up.

"You can thank me by taking care of yourself." Theo pulled the book away from her. She cried out in alarm and reached for it, but he held it out of her grasp. "You can go to bed now; the book will be waiting for you when you wake up. Or I can hide it somewhere in Nott Manor. It will take you years to find it. Your choice."

Sleep. The mere thought of it made her stomach twist.

Hermione clenched her fists, forcing herself to breathe evenly. The exhaustion ran deep, settling into her bones, but closing her eyes meant opening the door to memories she couldn't escape. The flash of green light. The scent of burning stone. The screams—Merlin, the screams—still clawed at the edges of her mind. Every time she let herself rest, the war found her again.

She licked her lips, throat dry. "I… I can't sleep," she confessed.

"Can't sleep?" Theo's grin faded. "Yeah, that tracks. I can practically feel your nerves from here."

Hermione dropped her gaze, her fingers brushing the edges of the notes scattered before her.

Theo's face softened. "You're lucky the Malfoys always keep a full apothecary on hand. Mipsy!"

"Mister Theo!" Mipsy greeted them as she popped in.

"Hello, Mipsy." Theo beamed at the house-elf. "Can you please get Hermione a Dreamless Sleep potion?"

Nodding, Mipsy disappeared.

Theo's teasing façade melted as he crouched beside Hermione's chair. "I know what it's like to be haunted by the past and terrified of the future."

Hermione turned towards him, the confession slipping through her lips unbidden. "Despite being surrounded by people, it's like I'm drowning in a sea all alone."

Theo sighed, straightening, as he set the book on the table with a decisive thud. "Well, tonight, you're not doing it alone, alright? Sleeping potion is on its way. No arguments."

Mipsy reappeared with a tiny vial clutched in her hands.

"Mipsy has brought the potion for Mistress Hermione," the house-elf announced, bowing low.

"Perfect timing." Theo smiled at her and took the vial. "Thanks, Mipsy. You're the best."

"Mister Theo is too kind," Mipsy squeaked, popping out of sight with a faint crack.

Theo turned back to Hermione, holding the vial between his thumb and forefinger. "Drink this, and I'll walk you back to Draco's rooms. I'll even stay until you're asleep if that helps."

Hermione hesitated, staring at the draught as though it might bite her. "I hate asking for help."

"Well, luckily, you didn't ask," Theo said. "I'm forcing it on you. Now come on, bottoms up."

With a reluctant sigh, she took the vial from his hand and downed the potion in one gulp. The bitter aftertaste made her wrinkle her nose, but warmth soon spread through her limbs, dulling the edges of her anxiety.

Theo guided her to her feet, steadying her with a hand on her elbow as they walked toward Draco's quarters.

"You're not alone, Hermione," he said, his voice serious again. "No matter how messy it gets, we've got your back."

The words struck something deep inside her, unraveling a knot she hadn't realized had formed. It wasn't panic tightening her chest this time—it was something softer, something she hadn't let herself feel in too long. Relief. Gratitude.

As they reached the door, her vision blurred slightly with exhaustion. She turned to Theo, her voice quieter now but no less sincere. "Thank you."

"Get some rest, Granger. You'll save the world again tomorrow."

He stayed until her eyes closed, her exhaustion finally overtaking her. Then, with a last glance to ensure she was at peace, he slipped out, leaving her in the safety of Draco's sanctuary.

She woke with a start, her breath hitching, fingers clenching the sheets. The shadows stretched long across the ceiling, the room steeped in the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp. Her heart pounded against her ribs, her mind clawing out of the lingering grasp of the dream—no, not a dream, a memory.

Her throat ached, dry and raw. Her fingers clenched the sheets as she tried to grasp where she was.

Her room, Grimmauld Place. She was here, safe. Safe.

A soft knock on the door made her jolt.

"Hermione?"

She tensed, then exhaled slowly.

Harry.

She sat up, rubbing her face. "Come in."

The door creaked open, and Harry stepped inside, shutting it behind him. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes deeper in the faded light. He wore an old hoodie and joggers, his hair messier than usual, as if he'd run his hands through it too many times.

"Did I wake you?" she asked, her voice raspier than expected.

Harry shook his head. "Didn't sleep."

Hermione sighed. "Yeah. I guess that makes two of us."

He hesitated before moving to sit on the edge of the bed, studying her in that quiet, knowing way of his.

"Are you okay, Hermione?" Harry asked. "And I don't just mean right now."

Her stomach twisted. She wasn't sure if it was embarrassment or something else, something heavier.

"I'm fine, Harry."

He snorted. "Yeah. And I'm the bloody Minister of Magic."

She huffed, but it lacked actual irritation.

Silence settled between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Harry leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees.

"You know, for a long time, I thought the war ending would mean the nightmares would stop," he admitted. "That the weight would just… lift." He let out a humourless chuckle. "Didn't quite work out that way."

Hermione watched him. Harry had suffered nightmares his whole life, a side effect of being a living horcrux. Now, he still suffered from them, but a different sort. It wasn't fair. But she now understood in a way that only shared trauma could bond people.

"Sometimes I wake up, and I swear I can still hear it," he continued. "The screams. The spells. I hear him." He swallowed, staring at his hands. "I see people who aren't there. I dream about the ones who are gone. And then I wake up, and for a few seconds, I forget it's over. That we made it out." He finally looked at her. "But we did, Hermione. And no matter how much it still feels like we're stuck in it, we're not."

She sucked in a breath.

Harry reached over, squeezing her hand. "You're not alone in this. And you're not broken. We're figuring it out. We can do it together, yeah? Like we always have."

Her fingers tightened around his, grounding herself in the warmth of his grip.

She nodded. "Yeah."

Harry let out a breath, giving her hand one last squeeze before leaning back. "Good. Now, let's get you some tea or something. You look like you could use it."

Hermione let out a soft laugh. "Only if you're having some, too."

Harry smirked. "Yeah, yeah. C'mon."

And for the first time since the war, she felt like maybe—just maybe—they were going to be okay.

Hermione deemed Malfoy Manor the best setting for her next request.

She stood in one of the many sitting rooms, the heavy curtains drawn shut, giving the space a claustrophobic, tense atmosphere. Four pairs of eyes fixed on her: Theo, leaning against the mantelpiece, Blaise sitting in a high-backed chair, his expression inscrutable, and Pansy perched on the edge of a chaise lounge, her posture stiff and guarded with Daphne sitting beside her.

Other than Theo, they were almost strangers, except for the rare moments of interaction during classes at Hogwarts and the awkward encounter in the Slytherin dorms at the war's end.

And yet, here she was, ready to plead for their help to save Draco. And based on what she knew of their friendship, they would.

"Hello, Theo," Hermione greeted. She turned to the others, offering a nod. "Blaise, Daphne, Pansy."

Blaise acknowledged her with a slight tilt of his head, his dark eyes narrowing as if trying to assess her every move.

Pansy, however, crossed her arms, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"Granger," she sneered. "Look at you, inviting us here. Trouncing around the halls of Malfoy Manor like you own the place."

Hermione clenched her jaw, biting back the clever retort at Draco's petty ex-girlfriend. Pansy saw her ring at Hogwarts. Draco had admitted to their marriage. But it wouldn't help her case to remind Pansy that Hermione did own the place now. At least partially.

Pansy's head might have exploded in rage. And Hermione needed her as a character witness, so she held her tongue.

"Shut it, Pansy," Blaise warned. "Clearly, Narcissa doesn't mind. What is it you need from us, Granger?"

Pansy jostled, looking at Hermione like dirt under her shoe, but held her tongue.

"We're here because of Draco, right?" Theo studied Hermione, his eyes flicking between her and his friends. "We want to help him, but we need to know what exactly you're asking of us."

Hermione nodded, her gaze shifting to the others. "Draco's trial is coming up soon. The Wizengamot will decide his fate, and given his family's history and everything that happened during the war, they won't show him any mercy unless we provide solid evidence."

"Evidence?" Blaise asked with a hint of cynicism. "And what kind of evidence do you expect us to provide, Granger?"

"Your memories," Hermione replied without hesitation. "Testimonies. We need anything to prove to the Wizengamot that Draco was not fully aligned with Voldemort's ideals. That he was coerced, that he hesitated, that he made choices to protect rather than harm."

Pansy scoffed again. "And you think they'll care about that? They'll listen to the testimonies of a few Slytherins, some of whom have parents who are renowned Death Eaters themselves?"

Pansy shot a dark look to Theo, who flipped her off with a saccharine smile.

"Only for the first war. There's nothing proving he was involved in the second." He shrugged. "It's such a shame that my poor, departed father somehow died before the Ministry came to arrest him. But he was ancient and feeble. It was a terrible, terrible accident, how he ended up falling down the stairs."

"Yes, a terrible accident." Blaise rolled his eyes.

Hermione's gaze shifted between them, a horrifying realization settling over her.

Theodore Nott murdered his father.

Some things should stay buried.

No one else in the room seemed disturbed by that implication, and Hermione tucked it away to analyze it later.

Hermione cleared her throat. "We need to paint a picture of who Draco really is. Not who they think he is."

Theo nodded, but Blaise spoke next.

"And why should we trust you?" he asked, his tone sharp.

Hermione fidgeted under their scrutiny, her hand drifting up to her necklace. The silence lingered as Hermione ran through speeches on how to address this.

Theo laughed. Everyone in the room turned towards him like he was crazy.

"Oh, it's too good," Theo said between breaths, wiping tears from his eyes. "I know you all know that they're hitched. But those two have been shagging since the fifth year."

"Married?" Daphne shrieked. Reminding Hermione that Daphne fled Hogwarts at the first sign of trouble.

"No way." Blaise's gaze snapped back to Hermione in alarm and a new appreciation.

"Draco broke up with me in the fifth year," Pansy frowned, Hermione becoming the victim of her wrathful glare again. "Was it because of you?"

Hermione swallowed hard, her round eyes fixing on Draco's best friend. This was not how she needed this conversation to go.

Ignoring Pansy's demand, partially because she wasn't sure of the answer, Hermione met their gazes.

"I'm doing this because I love him."

A flicker of doubt or curiosity darted across Pansy's narrowed eyes.

"You're asking us to put ourselves on the line, Granger. Or I guess I should say Malfoy now," she said. "To admit that we didn't follow the Dark Lord blindly, that we questioned and were conflicted. You realize what that means, don't you?"

"Yes," Hermione said. "I know what I'm asking. And I wouldn't ask it if I didn't believe it was the only way to save Draco."

A tense silence filled the room as the Slytherins considered her words.

"I'm in." Theo pushed himself off the mantelpiece, moving closer to her. "I've seen Draco hesitate. I've seen him try to protect his family. To protect you. And I'm willing to testify to that."

Pansy's fingers tapped against her knee, a restless rhythm betraying her unease. "And if we do this?" she asked. "If we stand in front of the Wizengamot and admit to our choices, to our doubts? What happens to us then?"

Blaise's gaze sharpened. "We're not Gryffindors, Granger. We don't throw ourselves into battles mindlessly. We need to know this is worth it."

Hermione met their eyes, steady and unflinching. "I won't ask you to lie. But I am asking you to stand beside him. Because you know he doesn't deserve this."

Silence stretched. Then, slowly, Blaise exhaled. "Fine."

Theo smirked. "Merlin, that was dramatic, even by my standards. I should've brought popcorn."

Blaise looked at Theo, his expression still guarded. "I'm not afraid of the truth. But I want to ensure this doesn't blow up in our faces. If we do this, we do it smartly; we do it right."

"I'll get you in contact with our lawyer, Cassian Warrick."

Pansy's brows shot up at the name, clearly impressed.

Daphne nodded, worrying her hands in her lap. She was primarily silent throughout the whole exchange. Perhaps out of guilt for abandoning her friends at Hogwarts.

Pansy's gaze flicked between Blaise and Hermione, her lips thinning before she sighed.

"I'm not doing this for you, Granger," she said, her tone sharp. "I'm doing this for Draco. Because despite everything, he's one of us. And we protect our own."

Hermione nodded, relief flooding through her, though she kept her face calm.

"Thank you. I promise you, we'll do this right. And we'll give Draco the chance he deserves."

The room shifted—lighter, uncertain, but no longer wary. She studied their faces, these people who had once been nothing more than adversaries, reminders of the world she fought against. But now, decidedly not enemies but something else entirely—tethered by the war, loss, and the unspoken understanding that none of them had come out of it whole.

It wasn't trust, not yet. But maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning of something that could be.

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the study as Hermione stepped inside, the scent of parchment, ink, and something faintly floral—jasmine, perhaps—settling around her. Narcissa sat behind the grand mahogany desk, poised as ever, but there was a sharpness to her movements as she folded a letter with precise fingers. A half-filled glass of wine rested at her elbow, untouched.

"You look exhausted, Hermione," Narcissa observed without looking up.

Hermione huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing her temple. "I could say the same about you."

At that, Narcissa finally met her gaze, one perfectly arched brow lifting in mild amusement. "Yes, well, securing a future for my son requires a great deal of effort these days. I know you're working just as tirelessly." She gestured to the seat across from her. "Sit."

Hermione obeyed, sinking into the plush chair, only now realizing how heavy her limbs felt.

"The votes?" she asked, already bracing herself.

Narcissa exhaled slowly, her expression unreadable. "Still in flux. I've leveraged our influence where I can—there are favours owed, secrets buried. Many of these people fear the Malfoy name, and you'll find fear is useful when properly wielded." Her lips curved slightly, but there was no real satisfaction in it. "Some will vote in our favour simply to ensure they remain in my good graces. Others require… persuasion."

Hermione's stomach twisted. She knew what that meant. Narcissa wasn't just asking nicely—she was orchestrating, bartering, ensuring that when the Wizengamot convened, the scales tipped toward Draco's freedom.

It wasn't fair that his life depended not on truth but on politics and power plays.

But fairness had no place in a system built by men like Lucius Malfoy.

"I should be doing more," Hermione sighed, more to herself than Narcissa. "I should be helping you with this, not just focusing on the testimonies."

Hermione stared at the elegant script of the letter Narcissa had just folded. Her prolonged absence at the Manor formed a pit in her stomach.

She hadn't wanted to face this side of the fight—political maneuvering, backroom deals, veiled threats hidden beneath polite smiles. She'd been so focused on building Draco's defence that she hadn't considered the quiet war Narcissa was waging on his behalf.

And maybe, if she were being honest, she'd let herself believe it was easier this way. That focusing on law and testimony was better than the corruption of the Wizengamot.

Narcissa studied her, fingers idly tracing the rim of her glass. "Do you think standing before the Wizengamot and fighting for my son's freedom is nothing? That securing the testimony of the boy they revere as a saviour is not enough?"

"No, of course not," Hermione said quickly. "But—" She hesitated, guilt weighing heavily on her. "I should have been here more. In the beginning. You've been doing so much behind the scenes, and I've barely had time to—"

"To sit here and drink wine with me?" Narcissa finished, tilting her head.

Hermione flushed. "That's not what I meant."

"I know." Narcissa's voice softened a rare thing. "But let me be clear, Hermione. I do not resent you for the role you have chosen. Quite the opposite." She leaned forward, the firelight catching in the ice-blue of her eyes. "I know what it is to fight for someone you love. I know the exhaustion, the fear, the ache of it. But you must learn to accept that you cannot do everything. No matter how much you wish you could."

Hermione swallowed hard, blinking against the sudden sting behind her eyes.

Because what if none of it was enough? What if, after everything, they still lost?

Narcissa must have sensed it because she sighed and reached across the desk to Hermione's utter surprise and placed a cool, elegant hand over hers.

"I am not in the habit of offering comfort," Narcissa said. "But I will tell you this—you are not failing my son. And I will not allow you to drown in guilt of what-ifs."

Hermione stared at their hands, the warmth of Narcissa's touch unexpectedly grounding.

"I just—" She took a shaky breath. "I don't know if we can win."

For a long moment, Narcissa said nothing. Then, in a voice as sharp as steel and as certain as the dawn, she said, "We will."

Hermione wanted to believe her.

She needed to believe her.

So, she let herself try.

The Leaky Cauldron bustled with late afternoon patrons, the chatter of witches and wizards mingling with the clinking of mugs and the hearth crackling. Hermione sat at a corner table, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. The warmth did little to ease the chill knotting in her stomach as she waited for Luna Lovegood.

The door swung open with a merry jingle, and there she was, Luna, gliding in with her characteristic dreamy air. Her silver-blonde hair caught the light, and her mismatched earrings—radishes on one side, corks on the other—bobbed as she moved. Spotting Hermione, Luna smiled, her expression serene and unbothered, as though they were meeting for something as simple as tea and not the monumental request Hermione had to make.

"Hermione," Luna said with a wide smile, sliding into the chair opposite her. "It's so lovely to see you. It's been ages, hasn't it?"

Hermione smiled, more than a little guilty. "It has. Thanks for coming."

Luna waved a hand. "Of course. I'm always happy to meet a friend. I've brought some treacle fudge for us to share."

Luna placed the tray between them, the sweet scent filling her nostrils.

Hermione couldn't help but let out a small laugh, though the sound felt forced amidst her nerves. "That's… thoughtful, Luna. Thank you."

Luna tilted her head, studying Hermione with an unerring gaze that often unsettled others but which Hermione found comforting.

"You've been worrying about something," Luna said matter-of-factly. "Your aura's quite frayed."

Hermione's fingers tightened around her cup.

"That's… not wrong. I—" She broke off, unsure how to begin.

Luna waited, unhurried, her pale blue eyes steady. Luna's unending patience compelled Hermione to speak.

"I need your help, Luna," Hermione began, her voice quieter than intended. "Draco Malfoy… he's about to go on trial, and it's not looking good."

Luna's expression didn't change, though a faint flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps—crossed her face. "What sort of help?"

"They're using his Dark Mark as evidence against him," Hermione explained, her words spilling out. "They're saying he wasn't just coerced but complicit, that he was an active participant. But I know that's not true. He didn't have a choice. I need people to testify on his behalf, to talk about what he did during the war, the times he tried to help."

Luna nodded, her fingers playing with a strand of her hair. "You want me to testify?"

"Yes." Hermione's voice cracked. "Luna, I know this isn't fair of me to ask after… after what you went through at Malfoy Manor."

Hermione's war-borne guilt manifested between them. Luna's captivity at the Manor haunted Hermione, a stark reminder of the pain and terror many endured while she, Harry, and Ron fought elsewhere.

For a moment, Luna was silent. Then she reached across the table and touched Hermione's, light but grounding.

"Hermione," Luna said softly, "what happened to me wasn't Draco's fault. He wasn't the one who hurt me. He was quite pleasant to me while he and I were at Malfoy Manor together. And if I can help someone who wants to change, I will."

Hermione's breath hitched, relief warring with the lingering ache of her guilt. "Thank you," she whispered. "You don't know what this means to me."

Luna smiled, her gaze far away yet somehow piercing. "Draco was always a bit of a lost Wrackspurt, wasn't he? He just needed someone to show him how to find his way back. You've done that, haven't you?"

Hermione flushed, unsure how to respond, but Luna continued as though she hadn't noticed.

"I'll testify," Luna said. "And I'll speak to Mr. Ollivander too. He might share what Draco did for him in the cellar."

Hermione sighed in relief, her shoulders sagging. "Luna, I—thank you. Truly."

"Don't mention it," Luna said with a gentle smile. "We all deserve a chance to be better, don't we?"

As they finished their tea, Hermione exhaled, the ever-present weight lifting—an unravelling of the dread coiled too tightly for too long. Luna's quiet certainty didn't just give her hope; it gave her resolve. Because if someone like Luna—someone who had suffered at Malfoy Manor—could see the worth in fighting for Draco, then maybe, just maybe, they weren't fighting a losing battle.

She wasn't naïve enough to believe this was a guarantee. There were still too many moving pieces, too many forces working against them. But she allowed herself to think—maybe. Maybe they had a chance. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't end in another loss.

And that fragile spark of hope was enough.