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Chapter Text

Hermione ran her fingers over the old textbooks, stacking and sorting—Potions, Transfiguration, History of Magic. The last two years of Hogwarts, packed into one dusty trunk.

She really needed to unpack now that she’d officially moved into the Burrow. Where else could she go? The war was over. She was Ron’s girlfriend. Of course she’d end up here.

She paused on the Potions book, memories bubbling up: dinner had been loud and messy, Harry joking about the one time he’d actually beaten her on a Slughorn assignment. Hermione had almost bristled—then remembered. That wasn’t her copy. It was Pansy’s.

She’d forgotten her own book that day and overheard Pansy bragging to Sophie about stealing Slughorn’s special recipe, all smug and triumphant. Pansy had bet that she’d have an advantage in the lesson. Hermione, never one to let a Slytherin win by cheating, had pinched it from Pansy’s bag.

The joke, of course, was on them both. The potion that day wasn’t even the one Pansy had “stolen.” It was all so petty—perfectly childish. Hermione smirked a little. Pansy kind of deserved it. They’d been mean to each other, but that was school.

She flipped through the book now, absentminded, until a single dark strand snagged between the pages—long, fine, unmistakably Pansy’s.

Hermione lifted it between her fingers, raising an eyebrow. A reckless idea began to bloom. She could still hear their laughter echoing from dinner: Harry voting that the best Malfoy moment ever was when he tried to enchant “Harry stinks” badges and got turned into a ferret by Moody—bounced up and down and, if Ron was to be believed, stuffed into Goyle’s trousers for good measure.

Ron, not to be outdone, brought up the time Malfoy froze Harry on the Hogwarts Express and broke his nose—

“That one never got paid back,” Ron grumbled. Harry shrugged, said Ron’s punch in the face during the final battle was close enough.

But Hermione disagreed. How many times had Malfoy called her a slur, or tried to humiliate her, just for existing? It didn’t feel even.

She twirled the hair, smiling coldly.

Her suitcase sat open on the bed. She knelt, opened the little chest where she kept her private supplies—potions, vials, her Polyjuice. Her fingers closed around the familiar bottle. Then, almost as an afterthought, she reached for the time turner she’d hidden at the very bottom. 

“A little prank would be fun,” she murmured, already planning the perfect revenge.

Hermione landed in Hogwarts at the exact moment she’d aimed for—the night when Malfoy broke Harry’s nose on the train. The castle felt the same, cool stone corridors and flickering torchlight. She let herself breathe for a second, the weight of nostalgia sitting heavy in her chest. But she wasn’t here for memories. She was here for payback.

Dinner should be underway in the Great Hall. Perfect. Every Slytherin would be there, giving her a clear shot at Draco Malfoy’s dorm room. Her plan was simple—find Malfoy’s Potions textbook, charm it to scream “I’m in love with Harry Potter!” the moment he opened it in class. The thought made her giggle. Imagine his face. It was almost worth the risk.

She uncorked the Polyjuice and swallowed it down. The familiar rush of transformation hit her—longer hair, slighter frame. Hermione pulled out her compact mirror and grinned. Pansy Parkinson stared back at her, smug and perfectly put together. Two hours to cause trouble.

Hermione strode toward the Slytherin dorms, fighting the urge to roll her eyes at the thought of pretending to be Pansy. Then she realized—she didn’t know the password. She hovered awkwardly until fortune delivered her an answer: a first-year, breathless and awkward, came hurrying up the corridor, dragging a battered trunk behind him. Hermione followed, heart pounding.

He paused at the door, glanced over his shoulder, then whispered, “Pure.” The stone swung open with a hiss.

Hermione muttered under her breath. Of course that was the password. 

Now, to the boys’ side. She scanned the corridor, uncertain which room belonged to Draco’s year. As she hesitated, a door opened down the hall and Theo Nott stepped out. He looked right at her—expression cool, unreadable, dark hair falling over his eyes. If he was surprised to see “Pansy,” he didn’t show it. That was probably a good sign.

She offered her best Pansy-voice: “Evening.”

Theo gave a nod. “Evening. Draco’s not in.”

Hermione forced a casual shrug. “Just needed to borrow his toothpaste. Forgot mine.”

Theo only nodded, apparently used to these visits, and walked past her down the hall. She watched him go, amused for half a second—Slytherin really did have some good-looking boys, if you ignored the attitude.

Hermione shook herself and pushed open the door, heart thumping. Let the real fun begin.

The Slytherin dorm was both familiar and alien—a mirror of the Gryffindor tower but darker, draped in green and silver. Five beds, five trunks. Hermione made a quick sweep, cataloguing clues.

The first bed was a disaster—chip crumbs everywhere and what looked suspiciously like a chocolate frog wrapper mashed into the duvet. Crabbe, obviously.

She glanced at the next. A pillowcase embroidered with a crisp, silver “M.” She almost rolled her eyes. Subtle, Malfoy. She made her way to the desk beside it and sat, feeling a strange thrill. After all these years, she was finally invading Draco Malfoy’s private space.

The desk was organized, but not obsessively so—quills lined up, a stack of parchment, a prefect badge tossed carelessly aside. 

Hermione tugged open the desk drawer, careful not to make a sound. The inside was a small universe of Draco Malfoy’s secrets: parchment folded into neat squares, a half-empty vial labeled “Calming Draught” (she blinked—how many Slytherins needed calming draughts?), a Quidditch pin she’d never seen awarded at any public ceremony.

And then there was a letter, the paper thick and expensive, the M at the top unmistakably Narcissa’s hand. Hermione resisted the urge to read. Not now. She was here for the prank.

She finally spotted the Potions textbook, jammed sideways, as if stuffed in during a rush. As she reached for it, her fingers brushed one more thing—a small, battered black notebook, edges curling, ink stains on the cover. A diary.

Her heart thudded. Malfoy kept a diary?

She hadn’t planned on this.

But when was she ever able to resist a secret?

Maybe she could use the information to come up with a better prank. Hermione opened the diary and scrolled to the last page.

Sept. 1

Pottah.

He was watching tonight. The Chosen One.

I bragged. Loudly. About the mission. Why wouldn’t I? For once, I was ahead of him. For once, I caught him spying on me.

Pathetic, isn’t it? A year ago, I’d have gloated.

Now I just feel…

I don’t know.

Empty? Or just tired.

Maybe Father was wrong. Maybe we all were. The Dark Lord didn’t protect us. He moved into our house like we were… tenants. Stripped the wards. Ordered Auntie Bella to train me—whatever that means. Father is in Azkaban. And now, I’m the prize student. The boy on a leash.

But this is my chance. My chance to make Father proud. I was raised for this. To carry the Malfoy name. I have been a coward all this time. Mother coddled me, never let me even scratch my knees. Now it’s time to grow up.

Maybe this is all wrong. The blood, the power, the pride. But if I don’t believe it—if I don’t tell myself it matters—then what else is there? If I stop believing, there’s nothing left but fear.

I can’t involve my friends in this, as desperate as I am. If I fail, I can’t afford for them to be blamed as complicit. I’ll need to distance myself. Vince and Greg will be upset, but I can dismiss them coldly—they still have Theo and Blaise. Theo’s got his own crisis. I know about his secret, so he won’t ask.

Pansy will be the hardest. She’d follow me to hell. But I can’t let her. 

Maybe if I succeed, things can go back to normal. I just wish—Merlin, I just wish our family was whole again. I’d throw all that blood supremacy rubbish in the bin if it meant my father was safe. I’d even stop competing with Pottah if it got us out from under the Dark Lord’s claws.

Yeah, I broke Pottah’s nose.

And all I can think about is that stupid comment I made about the Astronomy Tower.

I said it like a threat.

But…

I mean it.

Merlin, I really might jump.

Hermione’s brows furrowed as she read, the words blurring, then sharpening again on the page. She hadn’t expected this—this raw ache, this thread of desperation wound through every sentence. The Potions book was still there, right where she’d meant to find it. Her prank, her plan for payback—it was all lined up, ready.

But she couldn’t do it.

Her chest felt heavy, every breath thick. She couldn’t say why. She hated Malfoy. She always had. He deserved a little humiliation, didn’t he? So why did she feel so twisted up inside, suddenly?

Hermione put the diary back exactly as she’d found it. She closed the drawer and stood up.

She needed air. She needed to get out.

She hurried for the door, leaving the Potions book—her little revenge—untouched.

Hermione walked blindly through stone corridors.

“Merlin, I really might jump.”

She should’ve laughed, called it melodrama. She’d earned that right, hadn’t she?

But instead her chest ached. She’d thought she knew Draco Malfoy. She’d come here for payback. That was all. Not to understand him. Not to… care, not really.

What else didn’t she know?

What if there was also a story behind that time he’d ambushed Harry in the Room of Requirement? She’d never even asked.

She remembered, with a twist of shame, how much she’d enjoyed watching him lose. Every time.

If she’d read that diary at sixteen, would it have changed anything? No, she told herself. Malfoy made his choices. This was all his doing.

Still—her feet dragged her, step by step, up the spiral staircase of the Astronomy Tower. She didn’t know what she expected to find. 

And then she saw him: a flicker of blond-silver hair.

Draco.

He was…leaning forward. Over the edge.

Her breath caught. Before she could think, the word was out, raw and too real.

“Draco!”

Draco jerked at the sound of her voice, but when he turned and saw “Pansy,” he rolled his eyes and smirked—mask sliding effortlessly into place.

“Well, if it isn’t the Queen of Slytherin herself. Come to offer moral support, Parkinson? Or just hoping for a better view if I decide to jump?”

He looked smooth as ever—hair windblown, black shirt immaculate, voice dry and sharp. But his eyes were tired, the joke clinging too hard to be real.

Hermione, in her borrowed skin, hesitated. “You shouldn’t be up here alone, Draco. It’s… dangerous.”

He arched an eyebrow, the old swagger flickering. “Please, Pans, don’t tell me you’ve suddenly developed a conscience. Not tonight.”

She stepped closer, struggling to sound like Pansy but only managing something soft. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He laughed—low and hollow. “Ah, but what else would I do? Anyway, shame we’ve never managed to christen the Astronomy Tower. All these years and not a single scandal for the history books.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. But before she could answer, Draco closed the distance in two strides, tangled a hand in her hair, and kissed her—hard and unhesitating, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her first instinct was to shove him away—her palms flat against his chest, breath coming too fast.

“Draco, stop—” she gasped, heart pounding.

He caught her wrists, pinning them easily above her head against the cold stone post, his laugh soft, almost affectionate.

“What’s wrong, Pans? Changed your mind?”

She almost slapped him—almost—but something in his eyes flickered, and she remembered: she wasn’t herself. 

He leaned in, pressing a line of kisses along her jaw, fingers already at her shirt buttons. She wriggled, panic seeping in, and tried to pull away.

“Please, Draco, no—”

He didn’t stop, just murmured, “You’re being dramatic,” and kissed her again, slower, rougher.

Her hands trembled as she tried to escape his grip. “I’ll scream, Draco.”

He stilled, pulling back just enough to search her face, his grip firm but not cruel.

“Say the safeword,” he said quietly, voice suddenly gentle.

Hermione froze. The world seemed to tilt beneath her.

The safeword.

She didn’t know it.

Damn it—this was their game.

Her mouth went dry. 

She froze, startled—every instinct screaming at her to push him away. But Draco only smirked, that old, practiced arrogance softening into something sharper, more intimate. It wasn’t the smugness of a boy eager to bully her and her friends; this was… handsome, magnetic. Dangerous.

His silver hair caught the moonlight, glinting pale and perfect. Up close, he smelled like green apple juice, crisp and fresh, but there was something else, too—a darker note, something that set every nerve on edge.

He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear.

“You love pretending you’re not in control. Helpless.” His voice was low, wicked, each word sinking into her skin. “Let me take care of you, darling. I’m going to make you scream right here, on top of the Astronomy Tower.”

Hermione’s breath hitched. The words left her dizzy, exposed—somehow seen, even as she wore someone else’s face.

Draco pulled her shirt off with practiced ease, the cool air prickling her bare skin as his lips found her neck, teeth nipping gently, teasingly. His hands slid around her back, unclasping her bra with confident familiarity. She felt the silk slip away, leaving her exposed, vulnerable.

“You’re safe, Pans,” he murmured against her throat, voice firm but gentle. “Let go. I’ll catch you.”

His palms cupped her breasts, fingers kneading softly. Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut, and she moaned involuntarily.

This wasn’t her fault, she told herself frantically. It was the Polyjuice—had to be. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like the way his touch sent heat pooling low in her stomach. She didn’t like the way his commanding whispers made her heart race. That wasn’t her kink, it was Pansy’s. She was just feeling Pansy’s desires—nothing more.

But Draco’s mouth moved lower, trailing a line of kisses along her collarbone. His voice was steady, reassuring, yet completely dominant. “Such a good girl,” he praised gently. “See, you’re perfect when you stop fighting.”

She arched instinctively, thighs trembling. Why did that make her pulse quicken? Why was her heart pounding so wildly? She’d think about it later—much later—when she wasn’t so overwhelmed, when Draco’s voice wasn’t humming softly into her skin, when his touch wasn’t making her forget whose body this was.

His hand slipped downward.

Her breath hitched. She hated how much she loved it. How badly she wanted to surrender—to let herself be taken care of by the very boy who’d tormented her childhood. But this wasn’t her. It couldn’t be.

She’d blame the Polyjuice later. She’d have to.

Draco’s hands gripped her waist, strong and certain. He lifted her and set her on the cold stone ledge of the tower. Her skirt stayed on, bunching up around her thighs.

He stepped between her legs, spreading them apart with his knee. His hands were firm, keeping her in place.

“Good girl. I knew you’d listen,” he said, voice low and confident.

Hermione shivered. She could feel how high up they were, the air chilly on her bare skin. Draco didn’t let her look away from him.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he ordered.

She obeyed, breathing quick and shaky.

He slipped his hand under her skirt, fingers moving with practiced ease. He brushed against her, found her wet, and grinned.

“Already so ready for me. You’re perfect,” he murmured, thumb circling gently, teasing her open.

Hermione moaned, surprised by how much she wanted this—how good his rough praise felt. He leaned in and kissed her, hard and claiming.

She reached out and started unbuttoning Draco’s shirt. He froze for a second, staring at her hands. This wasn’t what he expected. His eyes narrowed, and he grabbed her wrists, pinning them against his chest.

“Getting bold tonight, are we?” he said, voice low and dangerous. “I don’t remember giving you permission.”

He let her go, just long enough to slide his hands under her skirt. He hooked his fingers into her knickers and pulled them down her legs in one quick motion, then off completely. Before she could react, he took her knickers and used them to tie her wrists behind her back, knotting the fabric tight.

“Much better,” he smirked, looking her over. “Keep those hands right there darling.”

She felt the stone at her back, her legs still spread on the ledge. Draco moved close again, mouth at her ear.

“You’re not in charge. I am.”

He slipped his fingers between her legs, rougher now, making her gasp. His other hand squeezed her thigh, holding her steady.

“You like it when I make the rules, don’t you?” he murmured, teasing her with every touch. “You love being my good girl.”

She moaned, unable to move, unable to do anything but the need was overwhelming.

Hermione wrapped her legs around Draco’s waist and pulled him closer. The move was desperate, needy.

Draco stilled, surprised. He looked down at her, eyebrow raised, smirking.

“Well, is it the stars making you out of character tonight, or is this a new version of begging you’ve invented?”

She flushed, cheeks burning. “Please, Draco…”

He leaned in, lips close to her ear, his hand still working between her legs. “Now that’s more like it,” he murmured, his voice pure heat. “Beg for it, Pans. Tell me what you want.”

She gasped, hips rocking forward, trapped and helpless but needing more.

“Please,” she whispered, almost sobbing, “I want you. Please—please, Draco—”

His smile was pure victory. “You sound beautiful when you beg for me.”

Draco didn’t waste any more time. He flipped her over, and bent her forward over the stone railing of the Astronomy Tower. Her skirt bunched up around her waist, the cool air rushing over her bare skin.

“Look down, Pans,” he ordered, his voice rough in her ear. “Look at Hogwarts. Let them see how good you are for me.”

She stared down at the castle below, lights twinkling in the distance, her body exposed and trembling with anticipation. Draco pressed up behind her and, with one strong thrust, slid inside. She gasped, moaned loud enough for the sound to echo.

“Fuck—” she blurted, breathless, “Merlin, how deep you are…”

He laughed, low and wicked. “Careful, someone might hear how filthy you sound from up here, princess.”

Hermione moaned again, the thrill of being so exposed making everything hotter, sharper, more desperate. She pushed back against him, wanting more, needing it.

A sharp slap landed on her arse. She jolted but a moan escaped her lips anyway.

Draco leaned in, lips at her ear. “That’s it. Let them hear you. Be my good girl and scream for me.”

She didn’t care who heard. For once, all she wanted was to obey.

Every moan that tore from her throat was proof that this was her need, not just Pansy’s. She wanted to blame the Polyjuice, but the truth was louder than any spell.

Draco’s thrusts got rougher, faster, and Hermione felt the moans rising louder than she could control.

He reached up, slipped the insignia ring off his finger, and pressed it between her lips.

“Bite down,” he ordered, grinning. “At this rate, the whole castle’s going to hear you.”

She obeyed, biting the cool metal, muffling her cries as he fucked her hard against the railing. The ring dug into her tongue, sharp and cold, but it only made everything hotter.

Draco laughed low. “Always so dramatic, Pans.

Draco grabbed her hair, tilting her head so she was looking out over the Quidditch field.

“See that?” he breathed, thrusting into her harder. “Gryffindor’s goal posts. Hope Potter’s not out for a midnight fly. He might get the wrong idea about what kind of seeker you are.”

Hermione choked out a laugh, her moans muffled by the ring still wedged between her teeth. The sound only made him fuck her rougher, his hands digging into her hips.

Suddenly, he spun her around, untied her wrists, and sat back on the stone ledge. He pulled her into his lap, making her straddle him. He slid his ring back onto his finger, then grabbed her hips, guiding her rhythm—controlling, unyielding.

He looked her in the eye, cocky as ever, smirking up at her.

“Careful, Pans, if you keep making that face, someone might mistake you for a Gryffindor—bold, desperate, and a little bit lost.”

She was so far gone it was almost funny. Riding him harder, she let her head fall back and moaned—loud and reckless, loving every second. He squeezed her hips, holding her still, not letting her set the pace.

“If you moan any louder, even the lions in their tower might take notes,” he teased.

She gasped, then managed a filthy, breathless grin.

“Maybe I want Potter to see me now. Maybe I want all of Gryffindor to know who’s making me scream.”

Draco laughed, low and wicked, and pulled her down for a kiss that shut her up—and made her even hungrier for more.

His ring found her clit and pressed, slow circles, just the way she didn’t know she needed.

Hermione’s cheeks burned. She couldn’t hide—she was wide open, straddling him, skirt bunched, exposed to the night and the whole world if anyone cared to look up.

He leaned in, teeth scraping her throat, his words dirty and soft.

“Anyone could see you right now. You want them to hear you? You want the whole castle to know what a good girl you are?”

She whimpered, desperate, every touch and word winding her tighter.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded. “Say it.”

Her voice broke. “I want you to make me come. Please—please, Draco—”

He pressed his thumb harder, fucking up into her with hard, deep thrusts. “That’s it. Scream for me. Let them all know.”

Hermione couldn’t stop herself. Her moan was loud, ragged, her body shaking as she came. Draco didn’t stop. He kept rubbing her, kept thrusting, kept whispering praise—“Perfect, so beautiful, don’t you dare look away, take it for me.”

She gasped, overstimulated, the pleasure cresting again, more intense than she’d ever felt.

Draco’s hands tightened on her hips, his thrusts growing sharper, rougher. He buried his face in her neck, breath hot on her skin.

“Fuck—That’s it. You’re so good, so fucking perfect,” he groaned, voice breaking as he spilled inside her, holding her down tight.

They stayed like that for a moment, tangled together under the stars, bodies shaking, everything quiet but their ragged breathing.

Draco pulled her against his chest, arms strong and steady. He stroked her hair, pressed soft kisses to her temple.

“Shh. That’s it. Breathe, darling. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

After a minute, Draco gently moved her off his lap. He stood, zipped up his trousers, and picked up her bra and shirt from where they’d fallen on the cold stone. He helped her get dressed—quiet, like this was just another routine night.

Hermione let him slip the shirt over her shoulders, fingers brushing her skin. Her brain was still reeling, body shaky, heart racing.

This was the best orgasm she’d ever had in her life. And it had been with Draco fucking Malfoy.

The thought hit her like a slap—half mortification, half dark, secret thrill. How the hell did she get here? She’d just let herself be ruined, taken apart and put back together by the boy she used to…no…still hate. And now, here he was, buttoning her up, not a trace of romance, not a word about love. Just quiet care and that familiar, smug grin.

Her hands trembled as she tried to fix her skirt, mind spinning.

Best sex of her life—and she was going to have to blame Polyjuice for it.

She almost laughed. Almost cried. This was completely insane.

Hermione drew her knees up to her chest, staring out at the dark sky, still trying to process what had just happened. She could still feel Draco’s hands on her skin, the echoes of pleasure buzzing through her body.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the wind and their quiet, uneven breathing.

Draco broke the silence first. He didn’t look at her, just kept his eyes on the sky. His voice was quieter, softer than she’d ever heard.

“You know, Pans… you’re bossy and loud but not ugly. You never believed me when I said that, so I let you kiss me. You always want to be wanted—even if it’s just pretend.”

He let out a small, crooked smile, eyes shining silver in the moonlight.

“You’re my best friend. If you needed me for this, I didn’t mind. Not then, not now. But… I think it’s time you let Blaise have a go. He’s been staring at you for ages, and I think you’d be happier with someone who actually fancies you.”

He finally glanced at her—at Hermione, perfectly Polyjuiced as Pansy, heart twisting with stolen understanding.

“So, this is the last time, alright? Promise me you’ll take care of yourself. Promise you’ll be confident, so you don’t have to act like it anymore.”

He squeezed her hand gently, and Hermione almost broke character right then, tears burning behind her eyes.

She’d spent so many years seeing only what she wanted to see—Pansy the bully, Draco the arrogant enemy. Now, the pieces rearranged themselves: Pansy, desperate to be wanted, hiding her fear behind a sharp tongue. Of course, when you love yourself and are confident, why would you bully others? And Draco—shielding his friends even as he broke apart.

She felt stupid for not noticing before. For thinking everything was simple.

Draco shifted beside her, pulling her back to the moment. She glanced over and saw him holding something in his palm—a silver snake pendant on a thin chain, glinting in the moonlight.

He looked at her, expression serious. “I want you to have this, Pans. It’s charmed—if you squeeze it tight for three seconds, it’ll hide you for a few minutes. Don’t be stupid. Use it if you need to. Promise me?”

He reached over, slipping the chain around her neck, the pendant cold and solid against her skin.

Draco squeezed her hand once more. “Promise.”

She nodded, unable to trust herself to speak, heart pounding with everything she’d learned. 

Draco watched her, brow furrowing, then smirked a little.

“Don’t stare at me like that, Pans. Even your hair’s starting to curl up like Granger’s.”

That jolted her out of her thoughts. She reached up and felt her hair—sure enough, it was starting to frizz and tighten at the roots. The Polyjuice was running out.

Panic spiked. She got to her feet in a rush, muttering something that sounded enough like “Goodnight” as she turned away. She couldn’t let him see her change—not like this.

She hurried down the steps, leaving Draco behind in the moonlight, heart pounding.

Hermione stumbled into the nearest bathroom, breath shaky, heart still racing. She splashed cold water on her face, gripping the sink until the world stopped spinning. The Polyjuice was gone; her hands were hers again, her hair fully wild and brown.

She heard voices echo down the hall. Instinctively, she ducked into a stall and pulled the door shut.

Pansy’s voice floated in, sharp but worried.

“Did anyone see Draco at dinner? He wasn’t in the dorm, either.”

Daphne’s reply was softer, anxious.

“He probably needed space. You know how he gets...given his Father’s situation.”

Their footsteps moved down the row. Hermione heard a bag drop to the floor—Pansy’s purse, open and tempting. When the door closed behind them, Hermione crept out. She stared at the little velvet pouch, the snake pendant still in her palm.

It would be so easy to slip it inside. Give it back. Do the right thing.

Her hand hovered, but she couldn’t let go.

Instead, she drew out her time turner and turned it—once, twice—until the bathroom dissolved around her and she was home again.

She sat at the edge of her bed, fingers running over the cool silver snake at her throat. 

The door creaked open. Ron stepped in, grinning, cheeks flushed from the kitchen.

“How’s the unpacking going, love?”

She forced a smile, letting the pendant fall against her collarbone.

“Almost done,” she said quietly.

Ron plopped down beside her, catching sight of the necklace. He frowned, poking the little silver snake with one finger.

“What’s this? Didn’t notice you wearing that before.”

Hermione swallowed.

“Oh, just a little souvenir from the Muggle world. I brought it over.”

He snorted.

“Looks a bit petty, doesn’t it? Slytherin style. Only someone like Malfoy would like a thing like that.”

She smiled, small and secret.

“Yeah. Only someone like Malfoy.”

And she didn’t take it off.

Chapter Text

“Granger, they’re after Muggles,” Malfoy had said. “D’you want to be showing off your knickers in midair? Because if you do, hang around… they’re moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh.”

Hermione turned on her side. Was that supposed to be a warning?

No—it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. He was mocking her, just like always. Draco Malfoy was cruel. A coward. A brat.

But her mind kept spinning. The image came unbidden: his arm around her, pulling her in. The soft rasp of his voice at the Astronomy Tower—

That’s it. Breathe, darling. You’re safe. I’ve got you.

Her thighs clenched under the sheets. Hermione groaned into her pillow, knuckles white against the fabric. She was doing it again—projecting, justifying, rewriting his history like some obsessive author. What was wrong with her?

She had betrayed Ron. For that.

The first couple days, she blamed the Polyjuice. She told herself it had scrambled her judgment. A one-time hallucination. But then the dreams came. Always the same: him on the tower, wind in his white-blond hair, eyes unreadable. Her heart pounding.

Now she was rewriting him. Replaying old insults, trying to extract kindness from sneers. Turning cruelty into secret signals of care. Anything to lessen the guilt.

Because the truth was unbearable. She had cheatedon her boyfriend.

Ron—her childhood best friend, her post-war fairytale. They were supposed to heal together. To move on. Instead, she shattered everything in one night for a boy in a black shirt and one open page of his diary.

Hermione rolled onto her back. Her fingers brushed absently over the pendant resting against her collarbone. A silver serpent, coiled and smug.

Why had she kept it? Worse—why was she still wearing it?

Maybe if she took it off, she’d stop thinking about him. Forget that night like a bad dream. Right. That’s what she’d do. 

Hermione sat up and reached behind her neck, fingers fumbling at the clasp. The chain gave way.

A soft knock came at the door. “Mione?” Ron’s voice was warm, cheerful. “You awake? Mum made breakfast.”

She cleared her throat, trying to sound steady. “Alright. I’m coming.”

She stood, glanced at the pendant in her palm, walked to the vanity, opened the drawer and placed it inside with shaky fingers. The drawer shut with a quiet click. 

And still, her pulse wouldn’t slow.

Hermione stared at her reflection. She inhaled sharply through her nose, held it, and exhaled slow through parted lips. Her palms were braced on the sink. Her eyes were rimmed red. She turned the tap and splashed cold water onto her face.

Behind her, the door suddenly flung open.

“Merlin’s knickers, Ginny—” Hermione started.

Ginny breezed in, all freckles and fire, and wrapped one arm around Hermione’s shoulders like she owned the air in the room. “You look like you’ve been up all night,” she said brightly. “Some angsty book? No, wait. Dark and forbidden? You’ve been… weird all week.”

Hermione gave a tight-lipped smile and rolled her eyes, hiding the pinch in her expression. “Just tired,” she muttered.

They walked down the stairs together, Ginny already chatting about how Harry wouldn’t stop snoring lately. The scent of bacon filled the Burrow’s kitchen like a warm hug. Arthur sat at the table, flipping through the Daily Prophet. Ginny slid into the seat beside Harry, nudging his arm playfully.

Ron emerged from the kitchen, balancing a tray of cheeses and sliced fruit. He leaned in and kissed Hermione’s cheek, smiling. “You’ve been staying up late again, love?”

Hermione shook her head a little too quickly. “No,” she said. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

She stepped past him into the kitchen, toward Molly who was already stirring something in a copper-bottomed pot and began loading toast into the toaster. Plates clinked. The sound of butter knives scraping against toast filled the kitchen like a rhythm everyone had fallen back into too easily. 

Hermione was by the toaster, fingers hovering over the lever, when Arthur’s voice cut across the table. “There’s a new Ministry proposal to reexamine all Slytherin family vaults. Malfoys, Notts.”

Ron didn’t even look up from his eggs. “Good. They should’ve been shut down the second they ran.”

Hermione’s hand stilled mid-air.

Harry leaned back, brows slightly furrowed. “So they want to seize the properties?”

Arthur nodded, folding his copy of the Daily Prophet. “Especially those with known Death Eater connections. They’re calling it reparations. Compensation for the war.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Harry murmured.

Ron snorted. “Death Eaters rot in Azkaban, but that’s not compensation. That’s a bloody discount.”

Hermione walked over with the tray of toast and set it down a bit too gently.

George grabbed a slice, speaking through a mouthful. “They should be executed. Still get food in Azkaban, don’t they?”

Hermione’s eyes flicked to him. The scarf around his neck—Fred’s old red-and-gold one—was wound too tightly, the fringe frayed where his fingers kept worrying the threads. He laughed, but the sound didn’t reach his eyes. Every time someone said “Death Eater,” his jaw twitched, just once, before he swallowed hard and smiled wider.

Ron muttered, “Besides, some even got away from Azkaban…”

Hermione sat, hands curling around her fork. Her focus stayed on the eggs in front of her, but her thoughts were drifting—familiar, guilty. Malfoy. He had been one of the ones who got away. Pardoned, along with his mother, because Harry vouched for them. 

Arthur flipped a page. “There’s another clause. All former Death Eaters under home arrest must submit their wands for inspection. Monthly.”

Ron let out a laugh. “Oi, Harry, you ever give Malfoy his wand back? Might’ve slipped through the cracks.”

Harry chuckled, rubbing his eyes. “It’s still in my room. But I think he bought a new one anyway.”

Nobody noticed how Hermione’s throat worked as she swallowed nothing.

Ron leaned back in his chair, popping a slice of toast into his mouth. “Maybe we should engrave ‘Property of Harry Potter’ on it,” he said, mouth half-full. “Make sure he remembers who owns his dignity.”

Ginny snorted. “Anything Harry Potter is copyright. He doesn’t deserve that.”

George grinned. “Fine. Then how about: ‘I survived by begging’.”

Everyone laughed—even Harry’s lips curled.

Molly sighed, buttering her toast with restrained grace. “Enough about the Malfoys. They got their lesson. Lucius is in Azkaban—probably beaten and tortured by the other Death Eaters for his cowardice. And Narcissa? I heard she hadn’t gone out of the manor for months.”

Ron scoffed. “And the pathetic coward prince?”

Arthur turned the page of his paper. “He’ll never get a future. Who would take him for any job?”

Ginny exhaled with exaggerated pity. “He got what he deserved. Used to be smug and call Hermione slurs—and now even a Muggle girl wouldn’t go out with him. Imagine! Who could even look at Draco Malfoy?”

Hermione’s hand tightened around her glass of juice.

It wasn’t just guilt. It was shame. Not only had she looked at Draco Malfoy that night, she had—Merlin—

She felt sick. Dizzy. Disgusted at herself. 

Around the table, laughter carried on, almost normal. Almost. If she didn’t look too closely, she could almost pretend none of them were broken. But George’s knuckles were white around his cup, Ginny’s smile too sharp, Ron’s laughter too loud. Grief disguised itself well here.

She stood so abruptly her chair screeched. “I’m feeling a little dizzy,” she muttered. “Excuse me.”

Before anyone could speak, she bolted upstairs.

Hermione pushed open her door and went straight to the bed. She collapsed forward, burying her face in the mattress. The sob tore from her like something uninvited. Shame, thick and metallic, sat in her throat.

She had cheated on Ron. The war hero. Her hero.

And not just with anyone—but with him. A war criminal, a coward, a former Death Eater. Worse—she had empathized with him. Tried to understand him.

What did that say about her morality?

Malfoy’s aunt tortured her. The Death Eaters killed Fred. George still hadn’t put his bathroom mirror back because he flinched at his own reflection. How could she ever feel pity for someone like Malfoy when the Weasleys were still bleeding from the war he helped start?

There was no excuse. There would never be a justification.

She should forget that night. Forget what she thought she saw in him. Forget the softness in his voice, the way he said “You’re safe.”

That wasn’t real. She was projecting, making excuses for her weakness.

Ron was her boyfriend. Brave. Kind. Cute. He held her hand in the hospital wing. He cried with her at Dobby’s grave. He told her he loved her like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Right. No more weakness.

Hermione shoved herself up and stumbled to the bathroom. She washed her face again, this time scrubbing harder—like she could peel the shame off in layers.

A soft knock. The door creaked open.

“’Mione?”

It was Ron.

She dried her face with a towel, not trusting herself to speak. He stepped inside, quietly, and pulled her into a soft embrace. One hand found her cheek, brushing a flock of hair aside with gentle fingers. “You alright?” he murmured. “Need some pills?”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m fine. Just… lack of sleep.”

Ron nodded. “Then rest. It’s okay. Me, George, Harry and Ginny—we’re heading to Fred’s grave. You can stay if you want.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. Today was the anniversary. One year since the war ended. One year since Fred died.

She steadied herself. “I’ll go with you,” she said. “I’m okay.”

Ron looked uncertain. “You sure? It’s completely fine if—”

“I’m sure.”

His eyes softened. He leaned in, slowly, his eyes already fluttering closed. Hermione closed hers too. She kissed him. And it was everything it was supposed to be—soft, warm, loyal.

But beneath it all, curling around her like smoke—Was guilt. And shame. Ron didn’t deserve this.

The morning sun was supposed to warm everything up. It painted golden light over the grass, over the headstones, over the Weasleys walking quietly through the cemetery. But Hermione didn’t feel warm. Her hand was in Ron’s. His thumb brushed the back of her hand occasionally, as if that would soothe whatever heaviness she was carrying.

Harry and Ginny walked just ahead, fingers laced together.

George held a bunch of lilies in one arm, his steps quieter than usual.

They reached Fred’s grave. George knelt first, placing the flowers gently beneath the carved name.

Hermione stared at the gravestone, at the dates, at the silence Fred had left behind.

Harry finally spoke. “He was the bravest of all of us,” he said. “Didn’t hesitate. Not once.”

Ginny smiled faintly. “He used to prank Mum with fake howlers just to see if she’d turn red.”

Ron added, “He told me once that life was too short to do boring things. That’s why he left school.”

George cleared his throat, eyes a little glassy. “He always loved going against the rules. So—how about we walk back a different way?”

Ginny groaned. “George, this is a cemetery, not a secret mission.”

But they followed anyway, quietly, through the side path that curved behind the old stone wall.

Then they heard it.

Flesh on flesh. A sickening thud.

Then another. And another.

Hermione turned first.

A boy was straddling someone pinned to the ground. His fists moved in relentless rhythm. 

“You let her die! She waited for you, and you weren’t there.” he roared.

“It was all your fault—all your fault! And now you come to her grave? Why?!”

“You don’t deserve to bleed at her grave. You should’ve been in it beside her.”

He grabbed a bunch of carnations off the ground and flung them into the dirt.

The person beneath him didn’t move. For a second Hermione thought they were dead. Then the boy above—chest heaving—stood.

He clutched his head with both hands like he was trying to rip something out, then staggered to the side, picked up a half-empty bottle of firewhiskey, and stormed toward the exit.

“That’s Blaise Zabini,” George muttered.

Hermione squinted. “Yes… that looks like him.”

They walked slowly past the grave. And there, lying on the cold earth, bloodied and barely conscious, was Draco Malfoy.

His blonde hair was matted with dirt, strands plastered to his pale face. His black coat hung open, no scarf to shield him against the wind. He looked thin—starved, almost. His face was swollen. His lip split. One eye nearly swollen shut.

He didn’t see them. He didn’t even flinch. Instead, he rolled over slightly and laid his forehead gently against the gravestone.

Hermione’s breath caught.

She narrowed her eyes—

And froze at the name carved into the marble.

Pansy Parkinson.

Hermione’s eyes dropped to the carved dates.

Her heart skipped.

The death date was—

Exactly the same as Fred’s.

A sharp chill ran down her spine.

She felt Ron squeeze her hand absentmindedly, but her body had gone still.

George’s breath hitched beside her. He took one look at the gravestone. And then at the boy kneeling against it.

“Pathetic. Fred’s gone and he’s still here.”

He suddenly straightened, turned, and said briskly—

“Let’s go. Unless you all want to stand here gawking at a whiny brat crying over his pureblood girlfriend.”

Ginny scoffed, her lip curling. “Pathetic.” She turned on her heel and followed George.

Ron sneered under his breath. “Serves him right.” He tugged Hermione forward.

Malfoy still hadn’t noticed them. His head was pressed to the stone like he was trying to disappear into it. His hand reached blindly to retrieve one of the crushed carnations. He placed it back at the base of the grave.

Like it meant something.

Hermione turned her back, but the image of Draco Malfoy—broken, silent, and mourning—burned in her skull.

Chapter Text

The dishes clinked cheerfully around the table.

Ron and Harry were already in a competition — shoveling meatballs in, trying not to choke while counting aloud.

Ginny, unimpressed, flicked her wand. Ron’s fork behaved itself, but George yelped when his turned to slime, collapsing every time it touched the food. He swore loudly; Ginny only smirked.

Arthur barely looked up from his paper, eating in silence.

Hermione stared at her plate. She couldn’t shake the image of Draco Malfoy. Kneeling at a grave. Bloodied, thin, ruined — pressing his forehead to cold stone carved with the name Pansy Parkinson. He looked broken, not the confident, dominant boy on top of the Astronomy Tower that night. 

Her fork scraped across porcelain. She hadn’t eaten more than a bite. 

“Ron!” Molly’s sharp voice snapped Hermione back. “Napkin, on your lap! You’re making a mess again.”

Ron groaned, but obeyed, dabbing his mouth with exaggerated drama.

Hermione blinked. Her surroundings returned: the smell of gravy, Ginny’s laughter, the bright kitchen sunlight. But the grave still burned behind her eyes.

“You alright, Hermione?” Arthur’s voice cut through the noise. He adjusted his glasses, looking at her kindly. “You don’t have to be at today’s intern training if you don’t feel well.”

Her chest tightened. Right. Today was supposed to be her first day at the Ministry. She and Ron, Aurors-in-training. She had dreamed of this moment for years.

There was no way she would miss it.

Hermione shook her head. “No. I’m fine. I want to go.”

—--

The Ministry loomed above them, tall and gleaming in the morning sun.

Ron brushed a stray curl behind her ear. “The suit makes you look like the Minister already.”

She laughed softly, embarrassed.

“With Hermione’s intellect,” Arthur said proudly “that would be the near future.”

Everyone chuckled.

Ron turned pink. “Then I’ll have to catch up to my smart girlfriend.”

Hermione sighed quietly, looking at him. He meant it as a joke, but she knew Ron always felt that way — always trailing behind, always measuring himself against others and always felt pressured to be “good enough” for her. She wondered if this internship would ever shape him into the kind of man she wanted him to be, or if it would only prove what she feared: that he was here because she’d begged him into it. She’d poked and persuaded for weeks, promising they’d spend time together every day. He hadn’t cared much for the program on its own. He’d only agreed because of her.

She smiled anyway, because he was trying. And he was Ron.

The Ministry atrium was pristine, sunlight gleaming off polished tiles. Everything Hermione had once dreamed of. They followed Arthur to a small office on the first floor. A young Auror stood as they entered, beaming.

“Mr. Weasley, what an honor. And here must be our war heroes—Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her generation.”

Hermione smiled politely. Ron beamed, chest swelling.

Arthur inclined his head. “Alan Creevey, I trust they’ll learn a great deal from you. Thank you for agreeing to take my son as an extra slot. I appreciate it.”

“That’s alright, Mr. Weasley,” Alan replied smoothly. “I didn’t congratulate you on your recent raise—consider this as one.”

“You’re being generous, Alan.” Arthur’s voice was warm as he excused himself, heading toward the lifts.

Hermione glanced around. Four other interns stood waiting. Her face lit when she spotted Luna. They hugged quickly, hands linking without hesitation.

A brown-haired girl smiled. “My name is Crystal.”

The two boys straightened their shoulders. “Tim,” said one. “Oliver,” said the other.

Hermione smiled back. “Hermione Granger.”

Ron lifted his chin. “Ron Weasley.”

Alan clapped once. “Alright. During this first month you’ll be doing small supporting jobs. The Ministry has just launched reviews of families tied to Death Eaters. We’ll help with property recounts, wand checks, and assisting in interrogations. After that you’ll be sorted into your chosen departments.”

Hermione turned to Luna. “What department did you sign up for?”

“Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,” Luna said serenely. “You?”

“International Magical Cooperation.” Hermione smiled.

Alan gestured toward the corridor. “This way.”

They followed him to a stark chamber. Outside the interrogation room, a long line of people sat clutching wands. Some stared at the floor, some leaned with eyes shut, all pale with exhaustion. These were the “lucky ones”—pardoned from Azkaban but still branded, still watched.

Inside, another Auror sat behind a desk. Alan nodded to him. “This is Mr. Mulciber, our interrogator. Interns, take the opposite bench. You’ll observe wand inspection while Mr. Mulciber questions the subject. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused.

Ron dropped into a chair first. Hermione sat beside him, then Luna, Crystal, Tim, and Oliver.

Mr. Mulciber barked, “Next!”

The door creaked. A heavy-set figure shuffled inside.

“Gregory Goyle,” Mulciber read off the file.

Hermione froze. 

Goyle. One of Draco’s shadows. A brute who had loomed behind her in corridors, sneering as Draco spat “Mudblood” in her face. 

Ron muttered, “Didn’t know this prick was tied to Death Eaters.”

Goyle’s eyes stayed down. He looked thinner, sallow, hollow. The swagger was gone. He placed his wand on the desk without meeting anyone’s gaze. Alan picked it up, handing it to the interns for inspection.

Mulciber leaned forward. “18 years old. Father—Gregory Goyle Sr.—Death Eater. Died during the Battle of Hogwarts. True?”

“Yes,” Goyle mumbled.

Mulciber’s wand cracked against the desk. “You will address me as sir. You are not in your Death Eater piglet farm.”

Hermione’s spine stiffened. 

Ron leaned forward, voice dripping with contempt. “Where’s Malfoy now, Goyle? Can’t hide behind his robes anymore?”

Mr. Mulciber tilted his head, amused. He tapped his wand once. With a faint pop, Goyle’s ears swelled into drooping pink pig’s ears. “What’s wrong, are you deaf? Need bigger ears?”

The room burst into laughter. Ron slapped the desk. Oliver snickered. Tim snorted so hard he nearly choked. Even Crystal grinned.

Hermione’s lips curled; a giggle slipped out before she could stop it. Only Luna stayed still, head tilted, watching with detached curiosity.

Goyle stumbled in his chair. His voice was low, ashamed. “I don’t know where he is.” His hands clenched his jacket, knuckles stark white.

Hermione leaned back slightly, satisfaction pooling in her chest. Let him taste it. All the times he laughed when I was humiliated — now he knows.

Mulciber turned a page in the file, quill scratching. He didn’t even look up. “Mother. Status.”

Goyle’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Passed away. A week ago.”

Tim let out a bark of laughter. “Dying early runs in the family, huh?”

Mulciber smirked faintly, uncapping his pen. “Cause of death?”

Goyle swallowed hard, his pig ears burning red. “Not diagnosed. No healer agreed to see her.”

Mulciber scribbled with deliberate slowness. “Great. Now. How many times have you used your wand in the last month?”

“Three, sir.”

Alan turned sharply toward the interns, smile too wide. “Who knows the spell to check wand usage count?”

Hermione raised her hand. “Prior Incantato,” she said evenly.

Alan’s lips curved. He slid Goyle’s wand toward her with a flourish.

“As expected from the brightest witch of her era. Miss Granger, please inspect the wand.”

Hermione’s fingers brushed the wood — heavy, clumsy, nothing like her own. She raised her wand, murmured the spell. Goyle’s wand glowed softly three times.

She lifted her eyes. “He didn’t lie, sir.”

Mulciber smirked. “Then let’s see what he’s been doing. What spells, piggy?”

Goyle turned his face away. His ears, still swollen and pink, flushed even redder.

Ron leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Let’s find out. Hermione, you know the spell, right?”

Alan nodded, almost too eagerly. “Go ahead, Miss Granger.”

Hermione raised her wand. This was justice. She should have hexed him more at Hogwarts.

He had loomed beside Malfoy every time they blocked her way, laughed when “Mudblood” cut her like a knife. And the last time—flanking Malfoy in the Room of Requirement, ambushing Harry with wands drawn—that one had gone unpunished. Until now.

Her hand tightened on her wand. “Prior Incantato!”

A thin beam flared. The first echo shimmered faintly in the air: Lumos.

Tim snorted. “Lighting candles, Goyle? Pathetic.”

The second echo glowed warmer, a ripple of orange drifting into view. Hermione’s brows furrowed. A Warming Charm.

The third appeared jagged and weak, flickering like it was failing even in memory. Episkey.

Mulciber leaned back, smirking. “And who did you use the warming spell and Episkey on?”

Goyle’s jaw clenched. His pig ears twitched red. “…My mother.”

For a moment, the room was quiet. Hermione felt it twist in her chest — a boy fumbling to keep his mother alive, with nothing but half-baked charms. Pathetic. Desperate.

Her pity soured quickly. His father had been a Death Eater. His mother had probably cheered for the same cause. The Death Eaters tortured her. The Death Eaters killed Fred.

Alan leaned forward, sneer sharp. “And still, you couldn’t even save her.”

The laughter roared again, crueler this time. 

Ron’s scoffed, turning away, but Hermione noticed his inner conflict too. Ron had every right to be angry. His brother and ex-girlfriend died to the Death Eaters, and maybe Goyle’s father was among them.

Goyle’s fists shook on his knees. His pig ears twitched scarlet. “Shut up,” he growled.

Alan didn’t hesitate. A quick flick of his wand, and Goyle’s nose ballooned into a snout. The only sound that came out now were pathetic, squealing oinks.

The room howled with laughter. Even Mulciber smirked. “You are dismissed,” he said flatly. “Return next month.”

Alan tossed the wand onto the floor with a clatter. Goyle crouched, fumbling to pick it up, and without looking back shoved open the door.

More laughter drifted in from the corridor as people caught sight of his piggy face.

Mulciber lifted another file from the stack. “Next.”

The door opened again. This time, a tall, thin boy entered, shoulders straight despite his slight frame. Chocolate-brown hair fell into his eyes.

Hermione’s breath stilled. Theodore Nott. 

She remembered him at Hogwarts: always on the edges, quiet, detached. Never jeering like Goyle, never boasting like Malfoy. Just watching.

He sat down smoothly, placed his wand on the desk.

Mulciber scanned the file. “Theodore Nott, eighteen years old. Father—Edmund Nott—rotting in Azkaban. Mother died long before. Correct?”

Nott’s voice was calm, almost bored. “Correct, sir.”

From the interns’ bench, Oliver piped up, smirking. “I heard rumors your father killed your mother. Wouldn’t be surprised if that was true.”

Nott didn’t flinch. His gaze drifted lazily toward Oliver, then back to Mulciber.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if rumors stayed rumors? But if you ask me—my answer is I don’t know. She died before I learned to walk.”

Mulciber raised his brows, intrigued.

Ron snorted. “This Slytherin still has wit left.”

Luna’s breath hitched softly beside Hermione. Her fingers tightened on her skirt. Strange. Hermione leaned in, whispering, “You know him?”

Luna’s pale eyes stayed fixed on Nott. “Yes. I saw him around.”

Hermione straightened slowly. 

Mulciber flipped to the next line of the file. His quill scratched. “And how many times have you used your wand in the past month?”

Nott’s voice didn’t waver. “None, sir.”

Alan frowned, then turned with deliberate slowness. He plucked up the wand from the desk and held it out. “Lovegood. Your turn.”

Luna blinked, serene as ever, and accepted it. Her fingers closed delicately around the wood. She raised her own wand and whispered, “Prior Incantato.”

The Slytherin wand remained silent. No glow. No echo. Nothing.

A ripple of surprise passed over the interns’ bench.

Alan’s brows knit. Mulciber’s eyes narrowed.

Luna set the wand down gently. “He told the truth,” she said simply, as if announcing the weather.

Nott leaned back in his chair, unbothered. His expression was unreadable. 

Mulciber’s quill paused. He lifted his gaze slowly, eyes narrowing.

“No spells in a month? You call yourself a wizard? Pathetic. Weak. Spineless.”

Nott didn’t blink. His tone stayed even, quiet but sharp.

“Then you have nothing to fear from me, sir.”

A hush rippled through the room. Mulciber’s smirk faltered, just slightly, at the refusal to flinch.

Ron snorted, unable to hold his tongue. “Your House produced cowards, traitors, and corpses. What does that make you, Nott?”

Nott finally tilted his head, meeting Ron’s eyes with a look that was calm to the point of unnerving. “Still alive,” he said simply. “That’s more than some can say.”

Crystal let out a startled laugh. Tim and Oliver exchanged glances, impressed despite themselves. Luna’s hands tightened in her lap, and Hermione caught the faintest flicker of admiration in her friend’s wide eyes.

Hermione herself…she couldn’t decide. He was nothing like Goyle. Nothing like Malfoy either. He wasn’t trying to charm them, or crumpling under humiliation. He was simply enduring, silent and self-contained.

Mulciber shut the file with a snap. “You are dismissed.”

Nott stood without a word, crossing to where Luna still held his wand. She lifted it with both hands like an offering. Nott accepted it, nodding slightly. Their eyes met for a fleeting second, then he turned toward the door.

Alan’s voice followed, sharp and mocking. “Your father rots in Azkaban. You’ll follow him eventually.”

Nott didn’t turn. “Then you’ll see me there. Until then—” his tone stayed flat, unbothered, “—you waste your breath.”

The door closed behind him with a decisive click.

Alan muttered, “Should’ve turned his head into a balloon so he didn’t look so smug.”

Luna tilted her head, voice soft. “He wasn’t smug. He was surviving. There’s a difference.”

Before anyone could respond, a sharp knock rattled the door. It swung open, and an Auror stepped in dragging a chained figure.

Draco Malfoy.

His coat hung open, wrinkled and torn. His blonde hair was matted, streaked with dirt, strands plastered to his pale face. Blood clung at his temple, his lip still split. 

Her heart thundered — not with pity, but with the reminder of where her shame lived.

Another man followed behind, carrying a file.

Mulciber’s mouth curled. “Well, well. Isn’t this the infamous coward’s son?”

Ron didn’t miss a beat. “This one is also a coward. Like father, like son.”

Laughter rippled across the room.

The Auror shoved Draco into a chair. Chains rattled. He lowered himself without resistance, without even lifting his eyes. 

“This one was reported for illegal use of Polyjuice,” the Auror said briskly.

Ron leaned forward, smirking. “What’d he do, turn himself into a ferret? I’d advocate for that.”

The room broke into laughter again.

Oliver leaned forward, eyes bright. “Ah, I heard about the famous ferret scene.”

Tim snorted. “A ferret in a Death Eater’s trousers.”

Hermione glanced at Malfoy. Back then, even the mention of “ferret” had made him bristle, his pale face twisting in rage.

But now—nothing.

He sat motionless. No glare. No retort. Just silence. 

Lifeless.

The man with the file stepped forward and set it down with a heavy thud. “Reported by witnesses in Diagon Alley,” he said briskly. “The brat walked into a flower shop, asked to buy white carnations. The shop owner refused—told him they don’t sell flowers to the wrong sort.”

The Auror flipped a page. “Moments later, he was spotted outside. Someone saw him revert from another form. Polyjuice. And he was carrying the flowers.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. With guilt. She had seen those carnations crushed at Pansy’s grave. She had seen him grieving, and she knew she should forget it. Instead, the memory kept dragging her under.

The file lay open on the desk, pages rustling as Mr. Mulciber read aloud.

“Reported for illegal use of Polyjuice. Purpose: purchasing carnations.”

Tim barked out a laugh. “Couldn’t buy flowers without cheating.”

Oliver smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe he wanted to plant them on his grave early.”

Alan crossed his arms, eyes hard. “Illegal potion for carnations. That’s what you’ve been reduced to? Your father killed for the Dark Lord, and you sneak about for flowers like a rat.”

The laughter rippled, cruel and careless.

Hermione’s eyes drifted back to Malfoy.

He didn’t twitch. Didn’t glare. Didn’t spit back a word. 

Around her, laughter rolled on, louder than ever. 

Mulciber’s quill hovered, his eyes gleaming with mean delight. “And who,” he asked smoothly, “were the carnations for?”

Malfoy’s head stayed bowed. His voice was flat, quiet, but every word carried. “For Pansy Parkinson.”

The room went still for a heartbeat.

Ron shifted uncomfortably on his chair, looking away at first, but then broke the silence with a harsh laugh. “Oh, spare us the tragic romance.”

Mulciber’s chuckle was colder, deliberate. He jotted a line into the file, his quill scratching. “White carnations for a traitor’s daughter. Fitting.”

“And why,” he asked, savoring the words, “did you dare use Polyjuice for something so pathetic? Buying carnations?”

Malfoy’s voice was flat, toneless. “I paid for them.”

Mulciber smirked. “No, you haven’t. You will pay for the illegal use of Polyjuice with a month in Azkaban.”

Alan barked out a laugh. “That’s not a punishment. He gets to visit his pathetic father.”

Mulciber’s grin widened. “Oh, that’s not the only way he’ll pay.”

He lifted his wand. With a flick, a small white ferret appeared on the desk, twitching its nose.

Malfoy didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Hermione’s fingers clenched hard against her skirt. 

Alan raised his wand and flicked it. Malfoy’s chained body lifted into the air, limbs dangling. Crystal gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Malfoy’s expression didn’t change. His face remained utterly indifferent, like this was nothing new — like it had been done to him too many times to matter.

Mulciber’s wand twitched, and the ferret dropped with a squeak. He levitated it, then grinned viciously as he guided it down — into Malfoy’s open coat, squirming into his trousers.

Alan roared with laughter. “Come on, Malfoy, don’t tell me you’re not nostalgic!”

Oliver smirked. “Maybe we should’ve turned him into a ferret instead.”

The room cackled.

Malfoy’s head turned slightly, chains rattling as he hung suspended, but his eyes stayed dull — empty.

Hermione’s chest was tight. Merlin. How pathetic. And she had looked at him differently that night…

The door banged open.

Narcissa Malfoy stood in the frame, frozen for half a second at the sight. Her pale face blanched, then sharpened like a blade.

Two Aurors stumbled in right after, huffing, faces flushed as if they’d been running. 

Narcissa’s wand snapped upward. A sharp incantation cracked through the air, canceling the hex instantly.

Malfoy collapsed into the chair, limp, chains clattering against the wood.

“How dare you!” Narcissa’s voice rang sharp as glass. “Is this what passes for Ministry protocol now? Torturing prisoners for your amusement?!”

Her gaze cut to Mulciber, venom dripping from every syllable. “I know your kind — scavengers who waited until the war ended before growing a spine.”

She whirled on Alan next. “And you — Alan Creevey, isn’t it? Proud, are you, hexing boys who can’t lift their wands? Do you feel like a man now?”

The laughter died instantly.

The two trailing Aurors shifted uncomfortably, one stammering, “Mrs. Malfoy, you weren’t cleared to enter—”

Narcissa’s eyes flashed. “I am his mother. You will never bar me from defending him.”

Mulciber’s mouth twisted into a mock smile. “Narcissa. Remember at whose mercy you stand now.”

Her hand twitched against Malfoy’s shoulder, but she forced it still.

Alan stepped forward, voice oily. “Your son illegally used Polyjuice. He’s getting his sentence right now.”

Mulciber leaned back, savoring it. “One month in Azkaban.”

Narcissa’s voice cut, sharp and furious. “I’m paying.”

Mulciber’s mouth twitched in distaste, then curled. “Good for you, Malfoy. Relying on dirty money. Though after the property seizures…” his eyes gleamed, “…we’ll see what’s left for you to scrape from.”

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tight. She held his gaze without flinching.

Beside her, Malfoy didn’t react at all. His eyes were hollow, fixed on nothing.

Narcissa straightened. “Let’s go, Draco.”

Alan slid a step forward, blocking her path. “We haven’t finished, Mrs. Malfoy.” He drawled the name with mock sweetness. “Malfoy.”

Mulciber flipped through the stack of files, pulled one free, and spread it open. “Ah. Narcissa Black Malfoy. Forty-two years old. Husband—Lucius Malfoy—rotting in Azkaban. Correct?”

Narcissa’s sigh was low, contained. “…Correct.”

Mulciber tilted his head like a hawk. “You know the protocol, Narcissa.”

Her movements were sharp, practiced, resigned. She placed her wand on the desk.

Alan stepped forward eagerly, plucking it up. “Let’s see.” His wand hovered above hers. He whispered the incantation, and a glow pulsed from the wood. Once, twice—five times.

Alan’s smirk widened. “Five uses in a month. My, my.”

Alan squinted at the wand as the faint glow flickered with each incantation revealed.

“Protego,” he announced. Another pause, then again: “Protego… Protego.” His smirk deepened. “Muffliato. And—” his voice trailed as the glow faded, softer, weaker than the rest. “Expecto Patronum.”

The room was quiet for a breath, then the sneers began.

Mulciber leaned forward, lips curling. “Protego, over and over. Shielding empty air, shielding her broken manor. What a tragic little farce.”

Alan laughed sharply. “Muffliato, to keep the brat from hearing her cry at night.”

Mulciber snorted. “And a Patronus? For what? To scare away the dust in Malfoy Manor?”

Narcissa didn’t move, but Hermione saw it—the faintest tremor in the hand still resting protectively on Draco’s shoulder.

Mulciber slid the wand aside and pulled another file free. His eyes gleamed with cruel delight.

“And now—Draco Lucius Malfoy. Eighteen years old. Father, rotting in Azkaban. Mother… still holding you like a fragile damsel in distress. Correct?”

Hermione’s breath caught hard in her chest.

Narcissa’s voice snapped like a whip. “You bastard—”

But before the words could hang in the air, Draco’s voice cut through, flat and indifferent. “Correct, sir.”

Mulciber’s lips curled higher, satisfied.

Alan smirked, seizing the line. “Two boys, same year. One’s a war hero.” He tilted his head at Ron. “The other—still can’t do anything without Mummy’s purse.”

Narcissa’s head snapped toward Ron, her eyes narrowing like a knife’s edge.

But Ron only lifted his chin, unflinching. “Once a spoiled brat,” he sneered, “now a charity case. You’ve really peaked, Malfoy.”

Hermione forced her gaze down, but the hypocrisy stung her ears. Ron was still living in his parents’ house, still propped up by Harry’s name, still depending on others to push him forward. He didn’t even see it.

Mulciber leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming. “Wand, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s voice came at last, flat, indifferent. “I don’t have one now. Lost during the war. Haven’t bought new.”

Mulciber’s brows arched, mock delight sparking in his eyes.

“No wand?” His voice oozed contempt. “So what are you now, Malfoy? Not even a wizard anymore. Just a useless boy playing dress-up in his father’s coat.”

Alan chuckled darkly. “Pathetic. Too cowardly to even buy a new one. Afraid it might bite you?”

Malfoy didn’t look up. He only sat slumped, chains rattling faintly with the rise of his chest.

Narcissa’s voice cut across the room, cold and sharp. “If you are done—”

Mulciber raised a hand lazily, interrupting. “The bail for one month’s Azkaban is ten thousand galleons. Payment at the counter will release the chains.” His grin widened. “Consider it a discount, Mrs. Malfoy. Next time, perhaps we’ll make it twenty.”

Narcissa’s jaw clenched. Her nostrils flared, but her voice stayed steady. “Let’s go, Draco.”

Malfoy rose slowly, the chains dragging as he pushed himself to his feet. His movements were mechanical, his face a mask of nothingness. He did not glance at anyone in the room, not even Hermione.

Narcissa’s hand brushed his elbow, firm, guiding. Together, they walked toward the door.

Hermione realized her knuckles were white, clenched against her knees. 

The door slammed shut behind the Malfoys. 

Then Mulciber exhaled in mock regret, lips twisting. “Narcissa Black, reduced to begging clerks for mercy. I almost miss the arrogance.”

Alan leaned back in his chair, grinning. “The way she fussed over him—pathetic. He’s eighteen, not eight. Guess the baby bird still needs his nest.”

The laughter was still echoing when Ron leaned toward her and exhaled. “Finally,” he said, “the villains got their karma.”

Hermione glanced at him. His grin didn’t reach his eyes. That’s what Ron did when he hurt—he laughed. Because if he stopped laughing, he’d have to remember Fred. He’d have to admit that forgiving the enemy meant admitting his brother died for nothing.

She forced her lips into a sharp smile, her voice steady. “You’re right. About time.”

Ron grinned and turned back.

She stared at the desk, nails carving crescents into her palms. The laughter washed over her, but she barely heard it. She told herself she was agreeing with Ron. But really, she was punishing herself. For still empathizing with Malfoy.

How had she let herself sink this low?

Not just sleeping with a criminal—but this criminal. A coward without spine, dangling like a rag doll while the whole room laughed. Shame burned hot in her chest.

Chapter Text

The clatter of cutlery and the smell of roast chicken filled the Burrow’s kitchen. Molly was bustling between the stove and the table, cheeks flushed with pride, while Ginny buttered rolls with brisk, practiced swipes of her knife.

“So—” Ginny leaned forward, grin sharp, “how was the Ministry? First day as proper little interns?”

Ron puffed his chest. “Brilliant. You should’ve seen it—Goyle came shambling in, looking like he hadn’t washed in a week, ears hexed into pig flaps. And then—” he lowered his voice, eyes glinting, “—Malfoy. Shackled, dragged in like the pathetic coward he is.”

George snorted into his drink. “Malfoy, in chains? That’s a sight worth paying for.”

Ginny giggled. “Should’ve taken a photo. We could hang it in the loo.”

The whole table erupted. Even Molly, trying to keep order, had to press her lips together to stop smiling.

Ron leaned back, clearly enjoying himself. “Exactly. He just sat there—blank as a bloody wall. Didn’t even twitch.”

“Because he’s spineless,” Ginny said matter-of-factly.

George tapped his fork against his plate like a drumbeat. “Spineless Malfoy. That should’ve been his nickname at school.”

The kitchen roared with laughter at Ron’s story. Even Harry cracked a grin, though he shook his head like he knew he shouldn’t.

Hermione felt the old twist in her stomach—the memory of shackles, carnations, Pansy’s grave—but she shoved it down, shoved it hard. She would not sit there silent while everyone laughed. That would give her away.

So she forced her lips into a grin and leaned in. “Honestly, I’m surprised he got to use polyjuice to buy flowers. Its pathetic.”

The table erupted again. Even Molly, trying to hush them, failed to smother her smile.

Ron brightened, clearly delighted. He slung an arm over her chair, triumphant. “See? Even Hermione’s laughing now. Finally, the git’s useful for something.”

Hermione laughed along, her voice higher than usual. Her glass trembled faintly in her hand, but no one noticed. She tilted her head back and swallowed the shame with a sip of pumpkin juice, the heat burning all the way down.

Ron jabbed his fork in the air. “You know what we should do, Harry? Give Malfoy his wand back. He was making excuses today at inspection—claimed he didn’t even have one.”

George snorted. “If we’re returning it, we ought to make it memorable. Maybe carve something into the handle. Make sure he remembers who owns him now.”

Ginny wrinkled her nose. “Why doesn’t he just buy a new one?”

Arthur lowered his paper. “Because no one would sell it to him. Not Ollivander, certainly. And if he tries the black market, it’s illegal—could land him in Azkaban for real this time.”

Ginny’s eyes lit up. “Oh, so if Harry gives his old wand back, it’s practically a gift. A charity case.”

Ron leaned forward, grin wicked. “And we’ll make sure it’s properly returned.”

Laughter rippled again around the table. Even Harry shook his head, smiling faintly though he said nothing.

Hermione shook her head, lips twisting. “Malfoy. Such a low life. He’s not worth wasting breath over.”

She stabbed her fork into her peas, chewing hard. If she kept saying it—if she kept laughing with the rest—maybe one day she’d believe it. Maybe she could forget.

Forget that shameful night.

Hermione slipped upstairs after dinner, her mind still buzzing with laughter she didn’t truly feel. She closed her door behind her, leaned against it for a moment, then crossed to the vanity. The serpent pendant glinted faintly when she opened the drawer. She slammed it shut again, too sharply, and pressed her palms flat against the wood.

A knock came, quick and uneven.

“Mione?”

She turned, startled. “Yes?”

The door creaked open and Ron stepped in, holding something awkwardly in both hands.

“You, uh—left your quill downstairs.” He held it out like it was an offering, though Hermione knew perfectly well she hadn’t brought one to dinner.

Hermione took the quill, suppressing a smile. “Thank you, Ron.”

Ron crossed the room and then flopped down on her bed. Hermione turned, watching him stretch out his long legs like he owned the place.

Without asking, Ron grabbed the nearest book from her nightstand, flipping it open upside down before correcting himself with a sheepish grin.

“Light reading?” he teased.

Hermione’s lips quirked despite herself. He always did this—pick up a random book just to see if she’d scold him.

She shook her head, sliding onto the bed beside him. “That one’s not light. It’s Arithmantic theory.”

Ron groaned dramatically, shutting it without even pretending to read. “Figures. You’d sleep with equations under your pillow if you could.”

Hermione swatted him lightly, but she was smiling. He leaned back on one elbow, studying her face in the dim light.

Ron tilted his head, eyes lingering on her face. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

The words landed with the same earnest weight they always did. No hesitation, no slyness — just Ron, simple and honest.

Hermione’s throat tightened. She let herself smile and leaned into his kiss. His lips were warm, familiar, a comfort she knew she should cling to. His hand skimmed down her arm, curling around her waist. She reached for the buttons of his shirt, slipping them open one by one, while his fingers fumbled at the ties of her nightdress.

They laughed softly against each other’s mouths when he muttered about too many layers. For a fleeting moment, it felt almost normal, almost light.

“Mione,” he whispered again, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’ve been wanting you all day.”

Her smile faltered. He meant it. He always did.

Soon, their clothes lay scattered, and she was on her knees between his legs, her hand wrapped around his length, her lips following. This was their routine. Their rhythm. Ron groaned, his fingers stroking her hair back gently.

Then he tugged her up, kissing her again, and guided her down onto her back. His weight pressed warm above her as he slid into her, careful and steady. She clung to his shoulders, her nails digging lightly into his skin. She let out soft moans for him.

He kissed her forehead. “I love you, Hermione.” His voice was reverent, worshipful.

Her body moved with his, the rhythm familiar, predictable, safe. She wanted to lose herself in that safety, to believe this was enough. This was love. This was what she had always told herself it would be.

Hermione arched beneath him, trying to chase something more relentless. Ron noticed, and adjusted his rhythm, thrusting harder, murmuring against her ear.

“You’re so hot tonight, Mione.”

Her nails curled against his shoulders. She should have felt only warmth, only love. But as the pressure built, her mind betrayed her.

Malfoy pinning her down, refusing to give her what she wanted. The cold night air on her bare skin at the Astronomy Tower. The way he’d made her beg before he gave her release. The silver ring clenched between her teeth as her moans echoed into the sky.

The memory slammed into her, heat rushing through her veins. Her body seized and she cried out, trembling, her climax tearing through her.

Shame crashed into her almost instantly. Because it wasn’t Ron she’d been thinking of.

Ron groaned, clutching her tightly, burying himself deep as he came inside her. His voice was thick with awe. “Merlin, Hermione… I love you.”

She held him, whispered “I love you, too.”

But inside, shame burned. Because she knew why she had come. And it wasn’t him.

Ron rolled onto his back, one arm flung lazily across his stomach as he caught his breath. Hermione flicked her wand for the contraceptive spell and tucked herself into the crook of his arm, her fingers tracing idle circles over his chest.

He exhaled, still smiling faintly. “I think I liked today’s intern training. You might be right after all, Mione.”

Hermione tilted her head up, eyes glinting with quiet pride. “See? I told you. I knew you just had to try.”

He chuckled. “I especially liked the part with Malfoy and Goyle. Felt good giving them a bit of payback. I might even switch to Law Enforcement — proper chance to knock bullies down a peg.”

Hermione’s smile faltered, just slightly. That was his ambition? Getting to hex old enemies? She swallowed the thought and tucked it down.

“You’d be good anywhere,” she said carefully. “But—International Magical Cooperation has more future, Ron. Real opportunities to change the world.”

He huffed a laugh, kissing her temple. “I’ll leave saving the world to you. I just like giving gits what they deserve.”

Hermione forced a small laugh, but inside she was unsettled. She wanted him to see more. To want more. He was brave, loyal, kind—everything she loved. But would he ever aim higher unless she pushed him?

She curled closer, convincing herself it didn’t matter. He loved her. She loved him. That was enough. It had to be.

Ron shifted on the bed, one arm tucked behind his head. “How did Parkinson even die during the battle, anyway? She nearly gave Harry up, then McGonagall shoved the whole lot of them into their dungeon.” He snorted. “Unless Parkinson slipped out for some reason.”

Hermione kept her tone light, casual. “Maybe she didn’t make it down there in time.”

“Or,” Ron pressed, “maybe she ran to side with the Death Eaters. Two-faced, just like Malfoy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You know Malfoy was saying things for survival.”

“So what?” Ron turned, eyes flashing. “He still begged instead of fighting. Do you think he didn’t deserve that punch?”

Hermione sighed, forcing her voice to stay steady. “Right. He deserved it. I wasn’t defending him.”

Ron smirked, satisfied, and kissed her forehead. “Knew you’d say that. Next interrogation, I’ll make him apologize to you—for everything he ever called you.”

She scoffed. “I can stand up for myself, but… thanks.”

“Alright then.” Ron yawned. “I’m off. Goodnight, love.”

“Goodnight, babe.” Hermione whispered back.

Ron stood, stretching as he reached for the doorknob.

The door clicked shut.

Hermione turned onto her side, eyes closing. She loved Ron. She did. He just needed… guidance. A little more direction. He would become the man she always pictured him to be if she helped him along.

As for Malfoy—Ginny was right. Who in their right mind would ever look at Draco bloody Malfoy? He was even more pathetic now than at Hogwarts. Thin, hollow, pale. Whatever had happened on the Astronomy Tower—that was nothing but lust. A freak accident born of a kink she hadn’t known she had. Nothing more.

Then why had she kept the pendant?

A memory? A trophy? Or had she just been too shaken that night to think straight?

Hermione groaned, rolling onto her back. Pansy was dead, anyway. And hadn’t she betrayed Harry? Maybe she hadn’t deserved that pendant.

Still… a thought crept in, insidious, refusing to leave.

How had Pansy Parkinson died?

Hermione exhaled sharply, sitting up. She crossed to the vanity, sliding open the drawer. The silver serpent gleamed faintly in the lamplight. She stared at it for a long moment—then clasped it around her neck once more.

The time-turner chain clinked softly as it settled beside it.

“Let’s see if this thing even works,” she muttered.

Her fingers tightened around the charm.

For a heartbeat, nothing—then the mirror before her went empty. Her reflection had vanished.

She inhaled sharply, spinning left, right, trying to catch herself in some angle of glass. Nothing. Just the room. Just the shadows.

Hermione glanced at her watch. She sat down on the edge of the bed and counted the seconds. Five minutes. Ten.

And then—she was back. Her reflection swam into focus again.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

She squeezed the pendant again. The glass went blank. She raised her hand, waved it—nothing. Invisible.

This time, Hermione smiled, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards despite the knot in her chest.

“Perfect.”

She released the pendant. Set the timer to 10 minutes. 

Her hand went to the time-turner and turned.

Hermione’s feet slammed into stone.

She staggered, bracing against the wall, lungs burning.

Chaos exploded around her. Screams, spells ricocheting like lightning, the acrid bite of smoke clawing at her throat. The war—she was back in the war.

Her heart pounded so hard she thought her ribs might crack. For a moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

The Great Hall was somewhere above her, but down here the air was heavy, damp, echoing with distant shouts.

Not again, she thought, not again—

Hermione forced herself to draw in a sharp breath. Her fingers found the pendant, cold and solid against her collarbone. She pressed it once again.

Invisible. Safe.

“Focus,” she whispered to herself.

Hermione clenched her jaw and quickened her steps. She had one reason for being here, and it wasn’t to relive the war.

The Slytherin dungeon.

If Pansy hadn’t made it there… then Hermione would see why.

Hermione slowed as she neared the Slytherin dungeon. A cluster of green robes huddled together, voices sharp with fear.

“…Did you see Pansy?” Blaise’s voice, uncharacteristically tight.

Daphne shook her head, arms crossed hard against her chest. “No. She slipped off—bathroom, I think. While we ran here.”

Hermione’s stomach knotted. She glanced once more at the terrified group of Slytherins, then turned down the side passage.

Inside, the sound of muffled sobs.

Hermione froze.

Pansy Parkinson knelt by a cracked sink, clutching at her own reflection, her black mascara streaking down her cheeks. Myrtle hovered just above, wringing translucent hands, her voice soft and almost maternal.

“…I heard them,” Pansy whispered hoarsely. “Vince—he said the Dark Lord was furious about his father. Furious that he died. And he…he gave Vince the task.”

Myrtle tilted her head. “What task?”

Pansy’s voice cracked. “To bring Potter. Said if he failed, his mother would be fed to Nagini. Vince was shaking. Draco said we’ve no chance. Draco said—said we should hide, keep low, hope the Dark Lord loses. But Vince—he wouldn’t stop. He said this was the only way.”

Her hands curled into fists, hitting the porcelain weakly. “I tried, Myrtle. I tried in the Hall. I thought if I gave Potter away maybe…maybe I could protect them. But I failed. And now—now they’ll go after him. And they’ll die. They’ll all die.”

Myrtle hovered lower, her ghostly form flickering. “And what about you?”

Pansy laughed, a hollow, broken sound. “What about me? No one cares about me. If I go back, they’ll call me a coward. Even the Slytherins hate me now for making them look bad.”

Her shoulders shook violently. “I’ve never seen Vince like that. Never. And Draco—he doesn’t even look like himself anymore. He begged us to stay. He begged.”

She pressed her palms to her eyes, sobbing harder.

Hermione’s heart clenched. Without thinking, her fingers tightened around the pendant at her throat.

“Well, boys are foolish,” Myrtle sniffled, drifting closer to the sink. “They’ll get themselves killed one way or another.”

Pansy’s knuckles went white around the porcelain edge.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Myrtle was not helping.

Then a ripple of cold swept through the air as the Grey Lady drifted in, pale and rattled. Her voice was sharp, almost breaking.

“The Room of Requirement… it’s burning. I heard screams.”

Myrtle gasped, eyes wide. “Do you know who’s in there?”

“I saw Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle go in,” the Grey Lady said gravely. “But I don’t know if they got out.”

Pansy’s breath hitched. She gasped and bolted past them, skirts swishing in a blur of green.

Hermione startled, almost reaching out to stop her before remembering—she couldn’t be seen. She was nothing but a shadow, invisible. So she followed, her own feet quick behind Pansy’s.

They tore down the corridor toward the Room of Requirement. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione caught a flash of red hair. Two boys. Two twins.

Fred. Alive.

Her breath caught like a blade in her chest.

Fred turned, brow furrowing. “Was that Parkinson?”

“Looks like,” George muttered. “Where the hell’s she running? Death Eaters are thick on the west wing.”

Fred scoffed, his mouth twisting. “She tried to hand Potter over earlier. If she meets one, she’ll just tell them what she already tried to do.”

George gave a small shake of his head, and the twins veered east, vanishing into the chaos.

Hermione’s stomach dropped. Her throat felt raw.

She looked once more toward the west wing—where Pansy had gone, where fire and screams still echoed—and forced her feet to move. She ran.

The corridor rang with distant screams, with the dull roar of fire.

Then—

A scream.

High, raw, shattering.

“DRACO!”

Pansy’s voice.

Hermione skidded around the corner, her heart in her throat.

Ahead, Pansy was sprinting, her green robes catching against the stone. Behind her, a masked Death Eater lifted his wand, his voice cutting like a knife—

“Expelliarmus!”

Pansy’s wand spun from her hand, clattering uselessly against the flagstones. She stumbled, eyes wide, then bolted forward again, desperate.

Hermione’s body reacted before her brain caught up—her arm shot up, her voice cracked raw.

“Protego!”

The shield charm burst forward, blue light arcing from her wand—

But halfway to Pansy, it shattered.

The air cracked like glass breaking underwater, shards of light scattering into nothing.

The recoil slammed back into her hand, numbing her fingers. Her breath stuck in her throat.

The time-turner would not let her change it.

The Death Eater’s voice rang again, colder, final.

“Avada Kedavra!”

A blaze of green light split the air.

Hermione gasped.

Pansy crumpled mid-step. Her body collapsed to the stone with a dull, terrible thud.

The Death Eater lowered his wand. For a heartbeat he loomed over her fallen form, then turned sharply and Disapparated with a crack, leaving only silence and smoke behind.

Hermione stood rooted to the spot, her chest tight, tears spilling hot down her cheeks. 

A voice behind her tore through the air, ragged and desperate:

“PANSY!”

Hermione turned in time to see Blaise appear, face pale, eyes wide.

He came thundering down the hall, breathless, wild-eyed. He dropped to his knees beside her body, hands trembling as they hovered helplessly over her.

“No, no, no—come on, come on—wake up!” His voice cracked as he gathered her into his arms. His hands shook so violently he nearly dropped her, but he clutched her tighter, rocking her limp body against his chest.

His face pressed to her hair as sobs ripped from him. “Don’t leave me, Pans, don’t—you can’t—you can’t do this—” His voice broke into a wail. “Please. Please.”

Hermione’s vision blurred, her tears falling unchecked. The pendant at her throat felt suddenly heavier than stone.

This was it. This was the truth.

If Pansy had had the pendant—just three seconds—she could have vanished. She could have run. She could have lived.

Hermione’s knees weakened, her body trembling as she pressed herself back against the cold wall, the sobs echoing in her ears. Blaise’s cries. Pansy’s last scream.

Hermione’s fingers shook as she clutched the time-turner. A hairline crack ran through its glass, faint but jagged, a reminder of her failed Protego. It didn’t matter. She had to try.

She turned it. The world spun.

The bathroom solidified around her, cool and quiet.  Her reflection returned in the mirror. The night of the Astronomy Tower. The night Draco had given the pendant.

Hermione’s breath caught. This was her chance. 

She knew Pansy would be here soon. All she had to do was slip the pendant into her purse, undo the mistake. She grabbed the chain, tugged—

It wouldn’t unclasp.

Her breath faltered. She yanked again, harder this time, but the clasp wouldn’t open. It was sealed to her skin.

And then—

Footsteps.

Hermione’s pulse spiked. She stumbled back, slipped into one of the stalls, and held her breath.

The door creaked open.

It was herself.

Her other self stormed in, face pale, eyes frantic. She went straight to the sink, bracing her palms against the porcelain, staring into the mirror. The pendant glinted at her throat.

Hermione’s hand flew to her own neck. Same pendant. Same chain.

“Hermione!” she blurted, stepping out of the stall.

But the other version of her didn’t hear. She just stared harder at her reflection, chest rising and falling in panic.

Hermione’s steps faltered. The mirror—her reflection—was gone. 

Not the pendant this time.

This is the time-turner’s doing.

It was refusing her. Refusing to let her change what had already happened.

Outside, voices echoed. Her other self darted into a stall—the exact same one Hermione had just hidden in.

The bathroom door opened again. Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass stepped in.

Hermione’s stomach dropped. She remembered this. Exactly this.

Pansy tossed her purse on the counter.

Hermione’s heart leapt. The purse.

Her other self hovered over it, hand trembling, pendant dangling. For a breath, Hermione thought—please, please fix it.

But then the other her faltered, lips pressed tight, and snatched the time-turner instead. With a twist of the glass, she vanished.

Hermione stayed frozen where she stood.

Her pendant glinted faintly against her collarbone.

Her knees trembled. Her throat burned.

The truth pressed down heavy and merciless.

She had always left Pansy without the pendant. Always stolen it. Always doomed her.

Hermione crumpled against the stall wall, shaking, as the scene played out exactly the way she remembered.

The bathroom stalls creaked open. Daphne stepped out first, Pansy right behind her, tugging at her sleeve. Hermione’s eyes blurred. She was here. Alive. Oblivious she would be dead in less than a year.

Daphne leaned against the sink, smirking. “Zabini stares at you every meal. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Pansy gave a short, awkward laugh, twisting a ring on her finger. “Of course I’ve noticed. But his mother would hate me. I’m not… beautiful and grand enough for her standards. I’d rather he never said it aloud than watch her cut me down.”

Daphne arched a brow. “Then how about Malfoy? You spend half your life worrying about him. Honestly, you should just marry him and be done.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, bending toward the mirror. “Stop it, Daphne. Me and Draco are best friends.” Her voice softened. “He’s been so distant. When I heard his father was arrested, I went to visit. The elves said he wasn’t home. Every time after that, the same. He’s ghosting me.”

She sighed, smoothing her hair back, her reflection frowning at her. “Honestly, I’m jealous of Granger. She’s always by Potter. And Draco… he won’t let me stand by him.”

Daphne crossed her arms, but her voice lost its edge. “Well, he cares for you in his own way, Pans.”

The bathroom was quiet again, only the drip of a faucet echoing.

Daphne tilted her head, lips quirking. “But… do you actually like Zabini at all?”

Pansy’s hand rose almost automatically, brushing over the faint line of pimples at her hairline. Her voice dropped softer, as though confessing a crime. “I do. I even saved the blue carnation he gave me last summer and pressed it in my diary. Hid it behind my desk so Mother would never find it.”

Daphne gasped, eyes wide. “That accidental blue carnation? The one he conjured on our group trip?”

Pansy’s smile was small, almost shy. “Yeah. Every time I eat bubblegum ice cream now, I remember him.”

Daphne nudged her elbow into Pansy’s ribs. “Girl, you should just start dating him already.”

Pansy laughed lightly, shaking her head. Together, they pushed open the door and walked out into the corridor. Their voices faded with their footsteps.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

Her knees buckled, hitting the cold bathroom tile with a muted thud.

Her whole body shook. The pendant at her throat burned.

Her other hand clawed at it uselessly, fingers slipping on the clasp that would not open.

She had stolen it.

She had stolen Pansy’s one chance to run.

She had stolen the pressed carnation hidden in a diary, the shy smile about Blaise, the future that might have been.

And Blaise — Merlin, Blaise. She could still hear his scream as he cradled Pansy’s body, blood on his hands, tears streaking down his face.

Her sobs wracked her chest, doubling her over.

It wasn’t just Draco’s grief she had taken.

It was theirs.

All of it.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat back as she finished arranging the files on her new desk and looked out the window. The last leaves still clung stubbornly to the trees. Her fingers lifted, almost unconsciously, to trace the serpent pendant around her neck.

She still couldn’t remove it.

Even after returning to the present, even after all her research, the chain wouldn’t come off. She’d read about charms layered over protective enchantments, and this one fit the description too perfectly: once the disillusionment feature had been activated, only the magic of the original caster could undo the clasp. Typical Malfoy, she thought grimly — Draco must have built the failsafe in case Pansy was ever caught, so no enemy could strip it away.

Now Hermione was the one trapped with it, a constant reminder of what she had stolen.

And there was no way she could go to him and ask for help. How could she possibly explain the Astronomy Tower? That it had been her under Polyjuice, not Pansy? And worse: what if he bragged about it? A war hero moaning under a criminal. Not just any criminal — Draco Malfoy. The boy who had tried to kill Dumbledore.

She sighed heavily and pulled her scarf tighter around her throat, hiding the cursed chain. Her eyes flicked to the photo in the corner of her desk — her, Harry, and Ron during their Hogwarts years. She forced herself to smile at it, then reached for the first stack of paperwork as a secretary in her in-tray.

International Magical Cooperation.

She skimmed the bold header: All citizens with relatives tied to Death Eaters must apply for a permit to leave the country before applying for a visa.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. Not that any country would approve such visas anyway. Still, this law would slam doors shut forever. Families like the Malfoys, who had likely squirreled away dual citizenships, would now be trapped here, unable to run.

The door opened. Ron strode in, grinning like a menace. “Guess who got the fun part today?” he asked, dropping into the chair opposite her. He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Goyle turned up again — pig ears and all. Bloke nearly cried when Mulciber asked what spells he’d been using. And Narcissa Malfoy — Merlin, Hermione, you should’ve seen it. Mulciber and Creevey practically loved tormenting her. She flinched worse over losing that blasted manor than over the confiscated vaults. Didn’t even cast a single spell last month. Pathetic, really.”

Hermione kept her face neutral, nodding faintly as he went on.

“And Nott — cool as ever. Didn’t blink, not even when Mulciber sneered about him living under a bridge. But Narcissa? She squirmed. Rich lady, now poorer than the Weasleys ever were.” He puffed his chest a little. “Poetic justice, if you ask me. After all those years Malfoy sneering at my robes.”

Hermione pressed her lips into a smile. That does sound like justice. 

Ron leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “And speaking of Malfoy — didn’t even show up today. No wand, apparently. Pathetic excuse, right? I’m convinced I should tell Harry to just give him back his old one. Not as a favor, mind. Just so he’ll have to drag himself here every month and squirm properly. Imagine him, wand in hand, still useless.”

Hermione let out a small laugh, forcing herself to nod. “That would be something.”

But inside, her thoughts turned sharp. Ugh. He’s still a boy. Not the man I want him to be.

Then she said softly, “You’re cleverer than you give yourself credit for. You could do more than wand inspections, if you wanted to. When all these checks calm down—if you still want to stay in Law Enforcement—you could even aim for investigator.”

Ron groaned, flopping back in the chair across from her. “Hermione, I agreed to join the Ministry because I wanted us to be together every day. Give me some fresh air to enjoy where I’m at, will you?”

She smiled, conceding. “Of course. I’m just saying—if you spent half as much energy on International Cooperation as you do on Malfoy, you’d already be ahead of me.”

Ron groaned again and grabbed the picture frame of their trio. He muttered, “I’d rather join George at the shop. At least there, I’d get to make people laugh.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but turned toward the window. Her expression shifted. Narrowed. Across the courtyard, Narcissa Malfoy was leaving the building—flanked by Theodore Nott and Gregory Goyle. Interesting.

Hermione’s chair scraped softly as she stood. “You know, I just remembered I need to fetch supplies for the Head of Office,” she said quickly, reaching for her coat.

Ron looked up. “I can come with you.”

She shook her head. “Work hours haven’t ended yet. Even for war heroes.”

Ron chuckled, waving her off. “Fine. I’ll see you at dinner.” He leaned over, kissed her cheek, and went back to flipping the frame absently in his hands.

Hermione slipped out the door, her pace quickening. Her scarf tugged tighter over her neck, her eyes locked on Narcissa and the two boys as she followed them out of the Ministry.

A small house tucked between narrow streets came into view. Nothing like a manor—no wards humming faintly in the air, no grandeur. Just brick and wood, weathered and plain. Hermione squeezed the pendant, her body slipping invisible as she followed the trio up the steps. Goyle fumbled out a key and pushed the door open. Hermione slipped inside before Nott closed it behind them.

The space was cramped, the kitchen bleeding into the living room. A sagging sofa, a low table stacked with newspapers. Narcissa’s eyes darted nervously around, her voice sharp. “Draco? Are you home?”

Hermione half expected a slurred answer, a drunk boy staggering out. Maybe Malfoy collapsed in rumpled pajamas, bitter and filthy.

But no.

He stepped from one of the rooms—thin, yes, pale, yes—but dressed in clean joggers and a gray shirt. His hair, though unkempt, wasn’t wild. His eyes were clear. “I’m here, Mother.”

He moved to the sofa, dropping beside Goyle. Nott drifted to the kitchen, setting a kettle on the stove.

Narcissa’s gaze snagged on the Prophet folded open on the table. Her hand trembled as she picked it up. The “Open Jobs” page. “Owl post office”, “Magical menagerie assistant”, “Daily Prophet clerk” positions are crossed. “Ministry records clerk” was circled in ink. Her lips parted, then pressed thin. “Don’t apply. You’ll only be mocked. I can sell my jewels.”

Hermione’s breath caught. Malfoy? Applying for a job?

Goyle hunched smaller into the cushions. Nott busied himself with the kettle, shoulders stiff.

Draco sat straighter, jaw taut. “You’ve sacrificed enough. If they want me to stand in line like a peasant, I will. If they laugh, let them. But I won’t let you sell the last thing you have left of Father’s legacy just to feed me. If I can’t do this, then what am I? Nothing.”

Narcissa’s hand twitched. “Draco…”

But he rose and crossed to her, laying both hands gently on her shoulders. His voice was steady, almost calm. “Mother, you’ve cared for me all my life. But I’m eighteen now. I want this. I’ve gone mad sitting in the Manor for a year, trapped in shame. Let me take over now. Let me care for you.”

She sighed, eyes glossing, and pulled him into an embrace.

Hermione’s eyebrows nearly shot into her hairline. This was not the pitiful ruin she had pictured. No slouch, no bitterness—only fire, raw and defiant. It stirred something inside her she hadn’t wanted stirred.

Nott returned with a tray of steaming cups. He set it down, seating himself beside Goyle. “Then I think I’ll apply as well,” he said quietly.

Draco blinked. “Really?”

Nott nodded. “Greg was generous enough to give me his roof. But we’ll need more than kindness to pay bills.”

Goyle scratched at his neck, mumbling, “This house wasn’t seized ’cause it was from my grandmother. She passed it to Mum. I didn’t do anything. Just luck.”

Narcissa turned, her tone softer. “You still welcomed us, Gregory. That is something.”

She drifted to the kitchen, pulling out pans. “I’ll see to dinner.”

Draco called after her, “Boiled eggs over rice is fine, Mother. We don’t need anything complicated.”

She scoffed. “You think Narcissa Black Malfoy can’t cook?”

Nott muttered under his breath, eyes closed, “The roasted chicken last time was edible… though.”

A faint smirk tugged at Draco’s lips.

The kitchen clattered with awkward sounds. Narcissa Black Malfoy—once the picture of aristocratic poise—lifted a bag of flour with a grimace. She shook it once, too hard. The bag erupted. A white cloud burst across the counter, coating the stove, the kettle, the floor—and Narcissa herself. She coughed, blinking through the haze, her immaculate robes dusted head to toe. “This,” she sputtered, voice sharp with outrage, “is barbaric.”

Nott pressed his lips together so tightly his shoulders shook. Goyle stared in horrified awe, as if flour were Dark Magic itself. Draco didn’t even flinch. He leaned back against the couch, eyes steady. “I told you eggs would have been fine.”

A sudden snort cracked through the silence. All three boys turned their heads. Hermione froze where she crouched in the shadow of the living-room corner, her whole body going rigid. Her hand shot up to clutch the serpent pendant, knuckles white. Please. Please still invisible.

Draco stood. His steps were deliberate, the floorboards creaking under his weight as he approached her direction. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might shake her free of the charm.

And then—

Children’s voices giggled outside the window. Small hands thudded against the glass as a group ran past, laughing, chasing each other through the narrow street. Draco paused. His eyes lingered on them. For a fleeting moment, the corner of his lips twitched upward. The ghost of a smile—gone as fast as it came. His shoulders sank, the light dimming. He muttered under his breath, almost bitterly: “Just neighborhood kids.” Then he turned back, slumping into the couch again.

Hermione exhaled silently, her whole body trembling.

Goyle leaned back heavily, the job listings crinkling in his hands. His voice was low, defeated. “Even the animal shop won’t take criminals like us. What makes you think the Ministry would accept you as a clerk?”

From the kitchen came a sharp snap, like glass breaking in air. “You are not criminals!” Narcissa’s voice cracked, brittle with fury.

Draco exhaled slowly, head bowing for a beat before he lifted his eyes. “Mother… please.” His voice wavered, unsteady. “We tried to ambush Potter. And I—I almost…” The words caught, his throat tight. He pressed forward, staring back at the paper with forced calm. “They’re going to accept us because they’ll love to see us humiliated. They’ll command us, sneer at us. People who once feared my father will relish it.”

Narcissa’s footsteps swept closer, flour trailing from her ruined robes. Her eyes were wide, desperate. “If you know that, then why would you still apply? You are a pureblood heir, Draco. You—”

“—Because maybe I want to repay the karma.” Draco cut across her, voice firm now. “I want redemption. I’m done hiding from society. And being a pureblood heir means nothing. Not anymore.”

Narcissa faltered, lips parting soundlessly. Her hand twitched against her side, then she turned with a hiss of silk and swept toward the bathroom, leaving white smudges on the doorframe as she passed.

Goyle swallowed hard. His knuckles whitened around the Prophet. “I’m sorry.”

Theo frowned. “For what?”

“I know I should apply too,” Goyle mumbled, eyes fixed on the paper. “But I’m afraid I won’t… endure the hexes.”

Draco tilted his head, gaze softening. “It’s alright, Greg. We’ll be fine.”

Greg shrank further into the cushions, voice breaking. “Thank you. I’m grateful you moved in here, actually.”

Theo balanced a teacup on his knee, tone lighter than his eyes. “We have each other. Besides, what could be more amusing than sharing a room again, like dormmates?”

Draco chuckled faintly, shaking his head. He pushed to his feet, reaching for his coat. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back by dinner.”

Hermione trailed a careful distance behind, her body hidden by the shimmer of the pendant. The streets narrowed here—half-broken cobblestones, the stink of spilled ale, shadows thick where the lamps didn’t quite reach. Ahead, Malfoy stopped at the mouth of an alley. He leaned a hand against the wall, pale knuckles tight, and pulled a small vial from his pocket. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as he tipped it back. The faint tang of calming draught drifted even to her, and then—barely audible—his voice. “I can do this this time.”

Pathetic, Hermione thought. A boy rehearsing to step out of his own shadow.

But then he did. Malfoy straightened his shoulders, smoothed his coat as if it were armor, and walked toward the light. Hermione followed, curious despite herself. Up ahead, Katie Bell crossed the lane, her arms full of groceries. A cluster of men lounged nearby, rowdy with drink.

“Pretty girl,” one slurred.

“Smile for us, sweetheart,” another jeered, stepping into her path.

Katie stiffened. “Stay away from me.” Her voice was sharp, but Hermione could see the tremor in her grip on the paper bags. She clutched her wand, ready to strike.

Malfoy’s stride hitched—just for a second. Then he forced himself forward, planting himself between Katie and the men. “Leave her alone.” His voice was low, almost calm.

The men blinked, then recognition spread. One spat on the cobblestones.

“Well, look who it is. The coward prince.”

“Where’s Daddy now, Malfoy?”

“Thought you lot were rotting in Azkaban.”

Katie’s eyes widened. For a beat, confusion and disgust mingled there. But she took the chance—slipping sideways, hurrying past Malfoy toward her door.

The men turned their jeers into fists. Hermione flinched as Malfoy staggered under the first blow, blood springing at his lip. He didn’t fight back. He only braced himself, taking the beating, his body a barrier until the sound of Katie’s door slammed shut behind her.

“Pathetic,” one spat, kicking him to the ground. “Not even worth the trouble.”

They shoved him once more for good measure and drifted off, laughter echoing down the lane.

Malfoy stayed on the cobblestones, one hand pressed to his side, breath shallow. Then—slowly, stubbornly—he pushed himself upright. 

Hermione realized her nails were biting into her palms. Draco Malfoy, pale and bleeding, choosing humiliation and pain for someone else’s safety. She squeezed the pendant at her throat until it hurt. Why couldn’t she stop watching him?

He pressed a sleeve to his lip, wiped the blood away, and reached into his coat and pulled out a folded scrap of parchment and a stub of quill.

His hand shook faintly as he wrote, the strokes uneven but deliberate. 

“I know I nearly ruined your life,” Hermione read silently, peering over his shoulder. “I can’t erase that. I came to apologize. But if you ever… need something, owl me.”

When he finished, he folded it once, twice, and walked stiffly up Katie Bell’s stoop. He bent, set the parchment carefully against her door, and straightened with a hiss of pain. He didn’t linger. He didn’t knock. Just turned away and walked down the street. 

Hermione walked slowly back to the Burrow. She could have Apparated but chose not to. The air was cold, biting, but she welcomed it. Anything to clear her head. She wasn’t hungry. And she certainly didn’t want to sit behind the dining table listening to Ron boast about another “successful” wand check session, laughing along with George as if tormenting Goyle or Malfoy was the pinnacle of justice.

Her mind raced, replaying what she had just seen. Malfoy in the alley. The bottle of potion. The parchment left like a coward’s apology. What was she doing watching this? She scoffed to herself. Cowardice, nothing more. Leaving scraps of paper instead of facing Katie properly. Typical Malfoy. And yet—her steps slowed. The image clung to her. That strange, raw determination in his face, the way his hand had trembled when he wrote. She should dismiss it. She should. But something in her gut burned with curiosity, a pull she didn’t want to name.

The Burrow rose ahead of her, warm light spilling from the kitchen windows. Ron. Safe, loyal Ron. The Burrow should have been her sanctuary now. Instead, she was walking slower and slower, because some part of her felt…thrilled. Thrilled at seeing Malfoy — pathetic, ruined Malfoy — trying, however feebly, to redeem himself.

Hermione exhaled sharply, forcing herself up the final stretch of the lane. She pushed open the door quietly, hoping to slip upstairs before anyone noticed. But Ginny burst out of the kitchen at that exact moment, grinning wide. “There you are! We were about to send an owl.” She planted her hands on her hips, voice lilting with amusement. “Ron swore you’d gotten kidnapped by Malfoy of all people.”

Hermione froze for half a second, her stomach lurching. Then she forced a laugh, brushing her hair back from her face. “Kidnapped by Malfoy? That’s ridiculous.”

Ginny chuckled, shaking her head. “I told him it’d take at least three Death Eaters to drag you anywhere against your will. One Malfoy wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Hermione smiled weakly, muttering something about needing air. Ginny didn’t press, just rolled her eyes fondly and slipped past toward the stairs, humming.

Hermione pushed open her door, scarf still looped at her neck.

Ron was already on her bed, sitting cross-legged with a half-finished Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes trinket in his hands — something that sputtered and whistled like a broken kettle until he dropped it on the nightstand.

“Thought I’d test George’s new line,” he said with a grin. “Nearly blew my ear off, so I reckon it works.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her lips tugged upward. “You’re impossible.”

He leaned over, pulled out a Chocolate Frog from his pocket, and pressed it into her hand. “Peace offering. Don’t say I never bring you sweets.”

She giggled softly, sliding onto the bed beside him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you like it,” Ron teased, bumping his shoulder against hers. He studied her for a moment, the playfulness softening. “How was your… er, shopping mission?”

Hermione tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I skipped dinner. I was searching for a special book. Didn’t find it.”

Ron frowned, brushing her hair back with rough gentleness. “You should eat more, you know. You run yourself ragged.”

Her heart gave a small twist. He meant it — he always meant well.

She kissed him, slow at first, then with more insistence. His hand cupped her cheek, reverent, like she might break if he pressed too hard. When they parted for air, he murmured, “You are so beautiful.”

Her chest warmed. Their hands moved to undress each other, familiar motions, practiced after a year together. She slid down, parting his belt and kissing her way lower, the routine as natural as breathing. Ron groaned, tilting his head back. She focused, because this was what she’d always done — the rhythm they always fell into.

When he pulled her up again, it was to lie back, his weight hovering over her. The same position, the same slow thrusts, the same occasional kisses. Worshipful. Gentle.

And yet — she arched against him, chasing a sharper rhythm. He noticed, his grip tightening, and gave it to her. “I love you so much,” he muttered, voice thick with affection.

Her body responded — heat flooding her skin, her thoughts straying where she didn’t want them—Malfoy. She pushed them back, clinging instead to the boy above her, the boy who had faced Horcruxes and nightmares at her side. Ron. Brave, loyal Ron. Her anchor. Her muse.

Ron deepened the kiss, his hand sliding down her arm. Hermione caught his wrist and guided it higher, guiding towards her wrists above her head. For a heartbeat, she thought he might pin her there. But instead Ron smiled against her lips, lacing their fingers together, and squeezed her hand warmly. He lifted it to kiss her palm like it was something sacred. 

Her chest tightened. She bit her lip, moaned louder than usual, trying to bait him into roughness, into control. Instead, Ron chuckled softly, leaned down, and kissed her forehead. “Shhh,” he whispered. “You’ll wake everyone.”

She arched against him, desperate, the words slipping out as a plea disguised as passion. “Don’t let me move.”

Ron groaned at her urgency, wrapping his arms tighter around her, but only in an embrace. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, pressing his cheek to hers, holding her as if she might shatter.

It was tender, safe, everything she should want. Yet heat coiled inside her chest, twisted with shame. She closed her eyes. Ron was perfect—warm, protective, brave. But some darker part of her wanted what he would never think to give.

Ron groaned low against her shoulder, his rhythm faltering, his body tightening. He pressed one last kiss to her lips before shuddering, collapsing into her with a quiet, satisfied sigh.

Hermione held him, brushing her fingers gently along his back as his breathing slowed. When he finally rolled to the side, spent and drowsy, she reached for her wand at the nightstand. A whispered cleansing charm.

Ron pulled her close again, tucking her head under his chin. His hand stroked lazily through her hair. “You’re incredible, Mione,” he murmured, voice already heavy with sleep.

Hermione’s lips curved into a sly little smile. “You’re too good to me. Maybe next time… don’t be.”

Ron blinked, eyebrows shooting up. “Oi, what’s that supposed to mean? You like it when I’m not good?”

She gave him a look, playful but just sharp enough to sting. “Maybe.”

Ron huffed a laugh, rolling onto his side to face her fully. “You’re mad, you are.”

Hermione’s grin widened, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Mad enough to think you could boss me around if you tried. You spoil me, you know.”

Ron chuckled at her challenge but didn’t answer. Instead, he tugged her against his chest and kissed the top of her head. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, soft snores already starting. Hermione lay stiff in his arms. She turned her head slightly and studied him. Ron’s mouth was parted, a faint snort escaping every few breaths. She sighed, gently disentangled herself, and slid off the bed. Pulling on her night robes, she spotted the chocolate frog he’d brought earlier and slipped it into her pocket.

The house was silent when she padded down the creaky Burrow stairs. In the kitchen, she set the kettle on the hob with a practiced flick of her wand. The air smelled faintly of Molly’s bread from supper, and the soft hiss of the kettle filled the space. Hermione unwrapped the frog, biting off a leg absentmindedly, and stirred hot chocolate into her mug. Steam rose, curling in the dim light. She wrapped her hands around the warmth and sat at the table, staring at nothing, her mind spinning restless circles. 

The house she had spied on earlier refused to leave her mind. Narcissa fussing with flour like she’d never seen a kitchen, Theo pouring tea like it was the most natural thing in the world, and Draco muttering nervously over a job application. It looked almost domestic. Almost normal.

Hermione wondered if all that “fire” Draco showed — the speech about redemption and repaying karma — is genuine, or just another pureblood performance. Would Narcissa ever truly give up her pride as a Black? Or was she just biding her time until they clawed their way back?

And yet… there had been nothing grand in that room. Just a mother flustered by dinner, boys talking about bills, Draco speaking of humiliation like he meant to embrace it. Not like the old Malfoys at all. It didn’t look like Death Eater ideology. It looked… ordinary. But wasn’t ordinary the best disguise of all? 

Her fingers brushed the pendant absently, guilt pooling low in her stomach. And what did that make her? She was the one tethered to Draco Malfoy now, invisible in his kitchen, listening to his plans, still wearing the necklace that should have belonged to Pansy. If Narcissa and the others hadn’t truly let go of their old beliefs, then she was the bigger fool — the one sneaking around, unable to unclasp a chain she herself had stolen.

If they really wanted redemption, they should have started with the people they hurt. They should have asked forgiveness. But then again, if Narcissa Malfoy stood before her tomorrow and begged for it — would Hermione ever give it? Could she forgive Draco for what he nearly did to Katie Bell, for all the years of slurs and sneers? Worse, could she forgive herself for lowering to him?

The questions tangled, sharper and darker, until her stomach lurched suddenly. Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth, bolted for the bathroom. Knees braced against the cold tile, her body heaved, retching until nothing was left but a sour taste and trembling arms.

Hermione sat back on her heels, panting. Her mind raced. Food poisoning? Nerves? She pressed her palm against her clammy forehead, forcing herself to think. And then the realization struck. Her period hadn’t come this month. Her blood ran cold. Memory slammed into her: the night she had returned from the time travel. Ron had been with her all evening—helping her sort her belongings, laughing when Ginny joined them, playing games until they’d all collapsed in exhaustion. She hadn’t done the contraceptive spell until the next morning.

Her hands shook. What if…

Hermione forced herself upright, gripping the sink. In the mirror, her pale face stared back. She thought about seeing a healer tomorrow, but her chest constricted. How would it look? A war hero, sneaking into St. Mungo’s for a pregnancy confirmation… without her boyfriend Ron by her side? Worse—what if someone saw her, and word got back to him?

Her fingers touched the serpent pendant unconsciously. Shame and panic coiled together like a vice. No. She couldn’t risk it here. Decision snapped in place. She would Apparate to the Muggle world. Buy a test. She grabbed her cloak, shoved trembling hands into the pockets, and Disapparated with a crack.

Hermione pulled the hood of her cloak lower, the bell above the door chiming far too loudly as she stepped into the Muggle pharmacy. Bright white light stung her eyes after the quiet night street outside. The aisles smelled faintly of disinfectant and mint. Her pulse was a hammer in her throat as she walked briskly past rows of medicine, cough syrup, cosmetics. Just grab it. Just grab it and leave.

She stopped at the tiny shelf tucked in the corner. Rows of pastel-colored boxes stared back at her, lined neatly like they were waiting for her. Her hand hovered, fingers trembling, before she snatched one and clutched it to her chest.

At the counter, the cashier — a woman not much older than Hermione herself — scanned the box with a little beep. Her eyes flicked up, amused, lips curling with a glint. “Long night, yeah?” she teased lightly, bagging the strip.

Hermione’s face flamed. “It’s—it’s for a friend,” she muttered, fumbling for coins she hadn’t touched in years. The words tumbled out far too quickly.

The cashier chuckled, not unkind. “Sure. They all say that.” She slid the bag across. “Don’t worry, love. Happens to the best of us.”

Hermione grabbed the bag so fast she nearly tore it. Her ears rang as she bolted out into the cold night, the bell jangling cheerfully behind her. On the street again, she pressed the little paper bag to her chest, heart pounding. Merlin’s ribs, what am I doing? 

Her shoes clicked too loudly against the tiled floor of the Muggle grocery store. She kept her head down, scarf pulled high, as though anonymity could shield her from the panic twisting her insides. The restroom. Three stalls, two already occupied. She ducked into the farthest cubicle, and locked the door with trembling fingers. 

She tore open the box. The plastic strip clattered onto the toilet-paper dispenser. Her breath came fast. Ron’s voice echoed in her head—I’ll make him apologize to you—for every name he ever called you. His laugh over Malfoy’s ruined life. His steady hand pressed warmly to her back. Ron. Safe, reliable Ron. And yet… the Astronomy Tower rose unbidden in her mind. Blonde hair, a smirk carved in shadow, the sting of a sharp smack on her arse that made her whole body jolt, the sudden heat blooming low in her stomach, the hard press of a ring between her teeth.

Her stomach lurched. She sat down quickly. Followed the instructions mechanically, as if she were watching someone else’s hands. Then she set it down on the lid, pulled her knickers back into place, and stood. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she stared at it. One minute. Two. Her breath hitched.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Oi, hurry up in there!” a woman barked from the other side of the door. Hermione jumped, hand jerking. The strip slipped, clattered once—and fell straight into the toilet bowl.

“Merlin,” Hermione gasped. She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers braced on the metal partition. Don’t look. Don’t think. Just—wait.

Her gaze dragged back anyway. She could see it, floating in the water, faint lines darkening—crossing. Positive. The world tilted beneath her feet. Her mind reeled. Not Ron. It can’t be Ron. She always used the spell. Every time. Except… that night. That night when she came back shaking, too tired, too distracted…

Her breath quickened until she thought she’d choke. Not Ron’s. Draco Malfoy’s.

Her stomach flipped again, bile searing her throat. She pressed her palm flat against the stall wall, knuckles white. Finally, she raised her wand. With a whispered charm, the strip lifted, dripping, from the water. She murmured a cleansing spell, though her hand still shook. The little thing hovered for a moment before she tucked it into her coat pocket, as though hiding the evidence might silence the panic roaring in her chest.

She pulled the scarf tighter around her throat and unlocked the stall. The woman waiting outside gave her a scornful look, but Hermione didn’t even look back.

Chapter Text

Draco sat hunched on the couch, the lamp steady beside him. The house was quiet; the sun had not yet risen. Everyone else still slept.

He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from the stack and dipped his quill.

Weasley,

I insulted you, your family, and your friends countless times, and none of it can be justified. I write to tell you that I regret it. You may not accept this, and I don’t expect forgiveness, but I want you to know I acknowledge the harm I caused.

He read it back once, lips thinning. Too formal. Too much like Father. He crumpled the parchment and dropped it to the growing pile of wasted letters at his side.

A second try.

Weasley,

I know you think me spineless. You’re not wrong. But I

He froze. His jaw tightened. Defensive. Weasley would laugh at that. He crushed the letter into another ball and tossed it down.

Exhaling sharply, he pulled another sheet.

Weasley,

You always said I’d end up nothing. Congratulations, you were right. If it makes you feel better, laugh at me. But I wanted you to know — I am sorry. For everything.

His hand trembled just once before he folded the parchment, slipped it into a plain envelope, and slid it into the box beneath the couch. The box was already full of folded letters — apologies unsent, confessions never spoken. 

Draco pulled out a new parchment, the quill trembling faintly in his grip. He pressed the tip to the page and wrote:

Father,

I will go to the Ministry today for an interview. A clerk’s post. Nothing you would have chosen for me, I know. It feels like walking into battle without a wand. But Theo is coming too. Having an ally makes me feel less nervous. I’ve rehearsed all night what I’ll say if they laugh.

I just wanted to tell you I’m still trying. I will not let Mother pawn the last jewels for our meals. I will be strong. I don’t want to disappoint you again. I hope you’d nod, just once, and say, “Well done, Draco.” That would give me more courage than anything else.

I miss you, Father.

Then he folded the parchment carefully and slid it into an envelope and placed it inside the wooden box on top of the letter for Weasley.

He sat back, staring at the pile of crumpled balls. With a sigh, he swept them all into his hand, carried them across the room, and dropped them into the waste bin.

Draco pushed to his feet and padded toward the narrow bathroom. He knows the name “Malfoy” is now spat out like an insult. Where once it carried fear and respect, now it’s shorthand for coward, traitor, or Death Eater. Mother still clings to the name like armor, while he sees it dragging them down. 

Steam still curled from the old shower as Draco buttoned his shirt. He tugged his sleeves straight, combed his damp hair into some semblance of order, and finally lifted his chin to the mirror.

The boy staring back looked thinner than he remembered — jaw sharper, eyes hollower. He ignored it. Instead, he straightened his shoulders and spoke aloud, voice low and precise. “My name is Draco Malfoy. I’m here to apply for the clerk position. I am organized, punctual, and willing to—”

“—kiss the boots of anyone who doesn’t hex you on sight?”

Draco’s words died. His reflection arched an eyebrow before he even turned.

Theo’s voice came lazily through the cracked bathroom door. “Very convincing. You’ll have them crying with sympathy before they drag you out by the collar.”

Draco exhaled through his nose. “Bugger off, Theo.”

But the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching faintly.

Theo leaned against the doorframe, still in his undershirt, arms folded. “Go on then. Say it again. Louder this time. You want them to hear you past their own laughter, don’t you?”

For a moment, Draco just stared at him in the mirror. Then he squared his jaw and repeated, “My name is Draco Malfoy. I’m here to apply for the clerk position—”

Theo cut in with mock solemnity. “I promise not to run at the first sign of a cupboard that looks like Potter’s scar.”

Draco turned then, finally letting out a short laugh despite himself. “You’re insufferable.”

Greg’s voice cut in, pitching low in a mock-auror growl. “Mr. Nott, why do you want this job?”

Theo tilted his head lazily. “Because I need food?”

Greg snorted. Before he could press, Draco cleared his throat and pitched his voice into a perfect imitation of Theo’s flat monotone. “Why do I want this job? Because maybe Luna Lovegood will see me filing papers and finally think I’m husband material.”

Theo didn’t even blink. “I hate you.”

Greg clutched his stomach and howled with laughter. “Merlin, that’s good. Too good.”

He wiped his eyes, still chuckling, then leaned forward. “But on a more serious note though—” he sobered, glancing between them.

“I saw your crush during the last wand check. She’s certainly working there now, after the internship. So…maybe this isn’t all a joke after all, eh?”

Theo rolled his eyes. “It was childish. A schoolboy fancy. She never even knew I existed. And now? I’d rather she didn’t.”

Draco felt the sting despite himself. For a moment he regretted dragging Lovegood into the joke at all. He cleared his throat, smoothing over the silence. “Alright, boys, go shower. I’ll make breakfast for us.”

Greg stretched his arms and said, “Theo, you go first. You’ve got the interview ahead.”

Theo’s mouth curved dryly. “Don’t think showering early will wash off the Dark Mark smell the Aurors are going to sniff out, but thanks.”

Draco chuckled under his breath and stepped out with Greg toward the kitchen. He put the kettle on the stove and reached for the eggs in the fridge. Greg was already on the toasts. 

Then he heard soft footsteps. Narcissa stepped out into the hall, her nightgown still drawn around her shoulders, eyes rimmed dark from another sleepless night. “Draco,” she said softly, almost a plea. “Please don't go.”

He glanced at her, then back to Greg who was noisily setting out mugs. “Mother, it’s just an interview.”

“An interview that could end like last week,” her voice cracked. “Do you expect me to forget the state you came home in? Beaten in the street like—” She pressed a hand to her mouth, trembling.

Draco’s jaw tightened. “It won’t happen again.”

Narcissa moved closer, lowering her voice. “I never should have dragged you into all of this. Your father and I—our families—never questioned the beliefs handed to us since childhood. We called it tradition, purity, duty. And now you pay the price for our blindness.” Her hand shook against his sleeve. “If I could go back, I would undo it all.”

For a moment Draco said nothing. Seeing his mother stripped of her armor—no jewels, no hauteur, just regret—was almost unbearable. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight. “It’s done, Mother. What matters is now.”

Her tears dampened his shoulder. “I just want you safe.”

“I know.” He brushed his thumb over the Malfoy insignia ring still heavy on his finger, the last relic of a name that felt more curse than crown. “But safety isn’t enough. I have to stand up. If I don’t, we’ll never crawl out from under this shadow. Everything is going to be alright—I’ll take Father’s place while he’s gone. That’s my duty now.”

Narcissa drew back, searching his face, startled by the steadiness in his eyes.

“Please,” Draco urged, guiding her toward the table. “Sit down. Have some coffee. Eat something. Sleep, at least once this week. Be strong for me, Mother—just as I’ll be strong for you.”

Narcissa let herself sink into the chair, the faintest of nods breaking through her exhaustion.

Theo’s voice came from the doorway with that impossible calm of his. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said. “I’m coming with Draco. If anyone tries to raise a hand on him, I’ll turn into a ferret and tickle them until they drop.”

For a heartbeat the room was still. Then Greg barked out a laugh, Narcissa let out a watery, disbelieving chuckle, and even Draco’s mouth softened into a real smile. The sound broke the tension like a window thrown open; it was ridiculous, and exactly what they needed.

Draco ruffled Theo’s wet hair as he passed and murmured, “Don’t make me owe you, Nott.”

Theo shrugged, mock-offended. “You owe me nothing. Just survive the humiliation and bring home wages, yeah?”

They all laughed again. Greg pulled the toasts from the toaster, arranged neatly on a tray and disappeared toward the bathroom. Draco slid a steaming mug across the table toward his mother, then another to Theo. He turned back to the stove, butter hissing in the pan as he worked the eggs with careful, deliberate strokes. It was strange, yes—but strangely satisfying, too—to know he could actually cook something. Astoria had brought him a stack of Muggle cookbooks last week, and he’d been quietly enjoying experimenting with them. Even his mother had started baking, flour disasters and all.

A soft knock at the door. Draco didn’t lift his head. “Speaking of devils,” he muttered.

Theo chuckled and went to answer. Sure enough, the Greengrass sisters breezed inside, arms weighed down with grocery bags.

“Morning,” Daphne called, grinning as she crossed to Narcissa.

“Thank you, girls,” Narcissa said at once, intercepting the bags. She dug into a drawer, pulled out a pouch of galleons, and pressed it into Daphne’s hand.

Daphne hugged her tightly. “We brought you a pack of face masks. Soothing. You’ll love them.”

The sisters had been grocery shopping for them once a week ever since the Malfoys and Theo moved into Greg’s place. Draco was grateful, more than he could ever say but there was a prick of pride in him too. He wanted to start doing these errands himself, despite the risk of being refused.

Astoria slid up beside him at the stove, propped an elbow on his shoulder, and smirked. “Mr. Malfoy,” she said in her best haughty voice, “why should we hire you?”

Draco arched an eyebrow, half a smirk tugging at his lips as he plated the eggs. “Because,” he drawled, “my dear father sends his regards from Azkaban.”

Daphne snorted. “Intimidating. Straight to promotion—Auror chief, clearly.”

Theo groaned from the table. “Then I qualify too.”

“Please,” Daphne said, ruffling his damp hair as she passed, “you don’t have enough insult points.”

Theo flicked toast crumbs at her in response. Greg stepped out from the bathroom and joined everyone at breakfast.

By the time the plates were cleared and Narcissa pressed a trembling kiss to her son’s cheek, the air had shifted. What felt like laughter over toast and eggs was now armor for the real battlefield. Moments later, Draco and Theo were stepping through the tall doors of the Ministry.

As expected, all eyes were on them. Draco had checked three times that his trousers were without wrinkles, his black coat spotless. Still, he knew every glare was not for any stain on his clothes, but for the stain on his name. His hands trembled in his coat pockets, though he kept his posture straight.

They reached the HR section and sat in line with the other applicants. The door creaked open and, of all people, it was Ron Weasley who appeared, smirking as he called, “Theodore Nott.”

Draco’s pulse slammed against his ribs. He dropped his gaze instantly. Theo, calm as ever, rose with deliberate ease, but Draco caught the tightness in his jaw. They both knew this was bad. The door clicked shut behind Theo, leaving Draco with nothing but his racing thoughts.

He didn’t notice at first how his fingers scratched nervously at the inner pocket of his coat.

Breathe, Draco. Breathe. You’ve written apologies for this, countless ones. The one you wrote this morning wasn’t bad at all. Of course, Weasley would laugh, mock you, maybe even punch you again.

But perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.  He exhaled slowly, forcing himself steady. Then he made the mistake of lifting his eyes—and met Granger’s.

Recognition. Something fierce in her expression, so sharp it felt like she might hex him on the spot. Draco’s chest tightened. Why couldn’t this bloody interview go smoothly? He dropped his gaze back to the floor at once, heat rising up the back of his neck.

Then footsteps closing in. He braced his shoulders tight, waiting for it—a punch, a hex, whatever Granger thought he deserved.

But the voice wasn’t hers. “Oh, look who this is. Looking for work? Try the Dark Lord’s old grave, maybe he’s hiring.”

Draco lifted his eyes. A random Auror stood there, clipboard in hand, smirk curling as he reached for the cabinet handle.

Draco blinked once, then answered evenly, “If surviving the Dark Lord taught me anything, it’s to choose the living over the dead.”

The Auror’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe you’ll last longer at clerking than you did at murder.”

Draco’s pulse roared in his ears, but he let out a small smirk. “Mock me if you must. At least I’m willing to face it.”

The Auror held his stare for a beat before scoffing and pushing into the room.

Relief loosened Draco’s chest. He leaned back against the wall, steadying his breath—until he realized Granger was still watching. She snapped her gaze away and turned on her heel, disappearing down the corridor.

The door clicked open and Theo stepped out with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Draco’s eyebrows shot up, their eyes locking for a heartbeat. Theo gave a subtle nod — “good luck” without words — and strode down the hall. His face said it all: he’d passed.

The Auror who had mocked Draco earlier slipped out behind him, clipboard tucked under his arm. He didn’t spare Draco a glance as he passed. Good.

Then came the voice. “Malfoy.”

Weasley stood in the doorway, smirk firmly in place. He said the name like a joke, like a word he could spit out and still taste victory.

Draco rose smoothly, refusing to flinch. Their eyes met as he crossed the threshold.

Inside, Dawlish sat behind the desk. The man looked older, deeper lines cut into his face, but his posture was still rigid. Father used to say Dawlish was malleable, easy to twist. Father used to smirk about how quickly he fell into line when Lucius pressed. But that was before the war. Draco inclined his head, the picture of restraint. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

Dawlish gave a sharp gesture at the chair opposite. “Sit.”

Weasley lounged at his side, arms folded, grin stretching wider. Like he was waiting for the entertainment to start.

Dawlish flipped the file open and read with slow drawl. “Draco Lucius Malfoy. Applying for Ministry clerk position.”

Draco inclined his head. “Correct, sir.”

Dawlish hummed, eyes flicking up. “Why should the Ministry entrust you with sensitive records, given your family’s… history?”

Draco had rehearsed this in a dozen small versions the night before. He let the silence stretch a second, drew a steady breath, and said, “Because I know what happens when power is misused. If you place me among those records, I won’t forget their weight. My family’s history is proof enough of what not to do.”

Dawlish’s eyebrow gave the tiniest lift. He moved on. “What skills do you believe qualify you for clerical work — besides your surname?”

Weasley’s smirk slid in at the edges. “Or the famous line-starter, ‘My father—’”

Draco didn’t look at him. He kept his voice flat and exact. “My father began teaching me management when I was ten. At the time, it was meant to keep our name polished. I intend to use those skills now in service of the Ministry. I can read, sort, and manage records as well as any clerk here. I don’t lose track of detail, and you won’t find me cutting corners.

Weasley’s smile thinned. Dawlish’s jaw loosened a fraction, like a small, grudging credit. Then he asked the question Draco feared most: “What would you do if you were asked to retrieve documents related to a Malfoy trial?”

For a heartbeat his mind flashed the worst — Lucius in chains, dementors around him. His hand tightened in his pocket and the image hardened him. “I would bring them promptly,” he said. “And I would not look away. If the Ministry decides my name belongs in those files, I’ll carry them myself. Better to face it than to hide.”

The room held that answer a second, as if testing its weight. Dawlish leaned back. “Weasley. You’re in training. Ask a couple questions. Consider it practice.”

Weasley’s grin was instant, sharp with the same edge “Gladly, sir.”

He crossed his arms and fired the first question without hesitation. “What happens if the files you’re sorting belong to your Death Eater friends? Wouldn’t you just hand them back?”

Draco’s jaw flexed once. He kept his voice steady. “If they’re in Ministry custody, they’re not my friends anymore, are they? I’d handle them like any other.”

Dawlish’s eyes flickered but he didn’t interrupt.

Weasley leaned forward, voice biting. “You stood by while Death Eaters tortured students. Why should I believe you’ll stand for justice now?”

The words struck like blows. Draco inhaled once, slow. “Because I’ve already learned what silence costs. I didn’t stop it then. I regret that every day. But I won’t be silent in the face of orders here. I’ll do what’s asked. Every time.”

Weasley scoffed. “Fine. Then tell me this—” his voice dropped, a little less cruel, almost curious— “What do you regret most about your actions in the war?”

Dawlish’s lips parted slightly as if wanting to intervene but stopped. Draco’s pulse pounded. This question was not related to the job. His eyes flicked, just once, to the grain of the wooden desk. Then he looked up, meeting Dawlish’s gaze, not Weasley’s. “That I let fear decide who I was. I regret every time I chose survival over doing the right thing.”

For the first time all morning, Dawlish leaned forward. “At least that’s an honest answer.”

Weasley scowled, but Draco held his spine straight, refusing to drop his eyes.

Dawlish tapped his quill once against the margin, then signed the form with a brisk stroke. He slid the parchment across the desk. “You are accepted. You’ll start tomorrow in the archive section. All necessary information is in here.”

For a heartbeat Draco thought he’d misheard. His chest tightened, then his lips twitched into the smallest of smirks—control, don’t gloat. He reached for the parchment, inclining his head. “Thank you, sir.”

Dawlish leaned back, expression unreadable. “You may go.”

Draco rose, spine straight, the chains of nerves replaced by something steadier—resolve. He turned just enough to nod once to Dawlish, then to Weasley.

Weasley’s smirk lingered, but Draco didn’t let his eyes waver. Hand closing firmly around the parchment, Draco crossed to the door and pushed it open.

His steps felt light, almost airy, parchment clutched tightly in his hand. The stares no longer mattered. He had a job—his first real job. Two thousand galleons a month. Enough to buy Mother her face cream. Enough to buy Astoria a birthday present next month. A smile tugged at his mouth despite every lesson of restraint drilled into him.

But then—a prickle down his spine. That sensation he knew too well now, the instinct that had kept him alive through hexes hurled at his back. Someone was watching.

He turned. Granger.

No coat, no stack of files in hand, just… walking. Toward the exit. She froze when his eyes found hers. Then, almost too quickly, she veered left—toward nothing but a blank wall.

Draco’s pulse jumped. Awkward heat crept up his neck. But this—Merlin help him—this was also his chance.

“Granger.”

Her shoulders stiffened mid-step.

Draco shifted his stance, parchment still clutched in one hand, the other flexing at his side. “Uhm… I want to tell you something. You have a minute?”

Granger froze and turned to him. She didn’t hex him, didn’t walk away—just waited. He took that as acceptance.

He stepped closer. The words came out smoother than he had rehearsed a hundred times: “Look, I can’t undo the names I called you. What I can do is stand here. Face you. Say it plainly.”

His breath hitched, but he pushed through. “I was wrong. You deserved better—from all of us, and especially from me. You were always the better one. I regret every word I threw at you. And standing by when my aunt tortured you.”

Her eyes flickered at that—sharp, remembering. He didn’t let himself falter. 

“You have every reason to hate me. But if I’m to start again, I had to say this at least once: I’m sorry, Granger. For everything. Whether you believe me or not—I’ll keep saying it with how I live now.”

For a heartbeat, silence. His heart pounded in his ears. Then she blinked, lips parting like she meant to answer—but instead, she only gave the faintest nod, her jaw tight, her eyes unreadable.

Draco inclined his head once, formally, and turned back toward the exit. As he walked, a sudden ease settled in his chest. He had done it. He had apologized—to one of them, at least. One wrong acknowledged, one step taken. Perhaps this was the start of his redemption.

“Malfoy.”

The voice was quiet, but unmistakable.

He stopped, turned. This time, there was no tremor in his stance. He faced her with more confidence than he expected to feel.

Granger was closer now, her eyes fixed on his face. Her cheeks were flushed—not with anger, as he had braced for. Her hands folded awkwardly before her, and for once, Draco couldn’t read her. Something was wrong with this picture.

He cleared his throat. “Uhm. If you feel like calling me out for what I called you in the past would help you heal… you can do so. I’m not afraid to take responsibility for my actions.”

Her eyes widened, lips trembling. Granger—the always righteous witch was trembling like a leaf. What in Merlin’s name was happening?

She exhaled sharply. “I—uhm, the thing is—I’m—”

Draco’s brow arched. For the briefest moment, curiosity flared. What could possibly throw her off balance?

“Hermione.”

Weasley’s voice cut through the air. He strode up, his steps heavy and quick. His eyes flicked to Granger’s flushed cheeks, then snapped to Draco like a curse. In an instant his arm hooked tight around her shoulders, drawing her against him as if she needed protection.

“Oi, Malfoy,” Weasley spat, his voice loud enough to make heads turn. “Still can’t keep your mouth shut around her, can you? Repeat them—go on—and I’ll see if your ferret legs can still run.”

Granger’s breath hitched. “Ron, it’s okay,” she said quickly. Her voice was steady, but her eyes still wide. “He actually… apologized to me. For everything.”

Weasley’s head snapped back to Draco, disbelief sparking hot in his eyes.

Draco exhaled, pulse roaring. This was his chance. “Weasley,” he began, his voice low but steady. “I know an apology from me won’t mean much to you. You’ll think I’m angling for sympathy, or trying to save face. Think what you like. But I am sorry—for insulting you, your family, for every filthy word I threw at you.” He forced himself to meet Ron’s gaze. “I’m not that person anymore.”

Draco nodded once more, not waiting to see Weasley’s reaction. He turned and strode toward the exit. His chest felt lighter than it had in years. Two apologies—spoken, not rehearsed, not crumpled into a pile of parchment balls. Two people he had once loathed had heard him admit the truth.

Not that he liked them now. They would never be friends. But at least…perhaps they could walk away from him knowing he is not that person anymore. That was enough. 

Theo leaned back against the wall outside, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. To his surprise, Daphne and Astoria were waiting too, their eyes snapping up as soon as Draco appeared. For a moment, all three pairs of eyes seemed to weigh him, expectant.

Draco held the parchment aloft like a trophy. His grin broke through before he could stop it.

Astoria squealed—unable to help herself—and launched forward, arms tight around his neck. He caught her easily, spinning her once before setting her down again. The sheer warmth in her face lit something steadier inside him.

Daphne smirked and offered a fist bump. “So,” she asked coolly, “how many times did you use the ‘My father’ line?”

Draco smirked back. “Once.”

Theo let out a low chuckle. “Impressive.”

Draco slapped his palm in a high five, and the four of them turned down the street together, heading home.

They stepped inside the house and the smell of something warm and faintly sweet drifted from the kitchen. On the table sat dinner already laid out—roast chicken, simple greens, bread rolls a little too dark at the edges. And at the corner, as if she couldn’t resist trying, a small chocolate cake leaned slightly to one side, its icing uneven but unmistakably celebratory. Greg sat near the cake, grinning like the devil himself.

Narcissa stood behind the table, still in her dressing gown, her hair pinned back too hastily for her usual elegance. But when her eyes landed on the parchment in Draco’s hand, her hand flew to her mouth. “You did it,” she whispered.

Draco nodded, the words catching in his throat. He set the parchment down on the table and crossed to her. “Yes, Mother. I did.”

Her composure cracked. She fumbled for him, pulling him into a tight embrace, brushed his hair back like when he was a child whispering, “My dragon… you did it.” Her voice trembled, but pride threaded through every syllable.

Theo, Daphne, Astoria and Greg politely looked away, giving them space. Draco, for once, didn’t fight the hug. He wrapped his arms around her thin frame and thought, This is why I’ll keep walking into the fire. For her.

Narcissa smoothed her gown, as if she wanted to restore some semblance of elegance after breaking down. Then she straightened and gestured to the table. “Come, all of you. Sit,” she said, her voice firm but soft.

They gathered—Theo pulling out a chair with exaggerated gallantry for Daphne, who rolled her eyes but sat anyway; Greg settling heavily into his seat; Astoria slipping into the chair beside Draco.

Once everyone was settled, Narcissa folded her hands neatly in her lap and announced, “Astoria and I baked the cake.”

Astoria beamed. “And Daphne and Greg played with the dough for the rolls.”

Greg ducked his head, but a faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I always helped Mother with rolling dough.”

Daphne smirked and, without hesitation, wrapped her arm through his shoulders and tugged him closer. “Which explains why the rolls didn’t collapse entirely.”

Greg turned red, but he didn’t pull away. Draco snorted into his napkin, and Theo leaned back, muttering, “Merlin help us if you two start baking together regularly.”

For the first time in a long while, dinner filled with this much warmth, his mother was actually eating and not just mechanically chewing and Draco was happy just by the sight of this. When the dishes emptied, Daphne and Astoria stood, thanked for dinner, and walked to the door. Mother hugged them both and thanked them for coming.

Then Theo turned to Narcissa and said they would see the girls off, since they needed to do their evening walk routine anyway. Draco smirked. Theo’s daily anti-nightmare three laps around the block sounded ridiculous, but Draco had come to enjoy it.

All five stepped out of the house together and started walking. Daphne exhaled, “Well, should we expect you two to pay for drinks off your first paycheck?”

Theo smirked. “You’ll drink my entire first salary.”

Astoria snorted. “And still would be sober the next day.”

She looped her arm through Greg’s. “And Greg will go down first.”

Greg scoffed. “Oi, don’t underestimate me. Let’s see how you handle it.”

Draco chuckled. “Yeah, Astoria’s turning sixteen next month, right? Greg might actually come out on top.”

Astoria rolled her eyes but didn’t protest.

Draco elbowed Theo. “By the way, why did you smirk when you stepped out from the interview?”

Theo scratched the back of his head. “Well, the interview was relatively boring until an Auror came in and told Dawlish they needed a nutrition preparist for the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Weasley commented that preparing food for animals suits me. For once—I agree with him.”

Greg beamed. “Oh boy, you’re going to work in the same department as Lovegood.”

Astoria clasped her hands together with mock delight. “I always thought you liked her… you used to watch her in the Great Hall.”

Daphne smirked, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “That explains the dreamy looks, doesn’t it?”

Theo murmured. “It was a childish thing. Forget it.”

Greg snorted. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing. Could be the best thing.”

Theo let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “You lot are insufferable.” His voice matched the banter, but when he turned away, his smile faltered. Draco caught it. For once, Draco didn’t joke back. 

They walked on in silence for a bit then Daphne’s voice dropped lower. “I visited Blaise yesterday,” she murmured. “He’s… still drinking.”

Draco stopped in his tracks. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting his palms. A hollow ache spread through his chest.

Astoria looked between them, worry flickering across her face. “We need a way to pull him out from this.”

“I don’t know,” Daphne admitted, shaking her head. “I even proposed a trip to Verona—me, Astoria, Theo, Greg—but he said no.”

The guilt pressed down harder, curling sharp inside Draco. He stared at the cobblestones, fighting the sting in his throat. He didn’t know what to do for Blaise—how to fix something so broken when he himself was still clawing for air.

Astoria hesitated, then offered softly, “What if I invite him to my birthday party? I mean… he can’t hate Draco forever, blaming him for—”

“Astoria,” Daphne hissed, elbowing her sharply.

Too late. Draco’s jaw had already locked so tightly it hurt. The old blame, the old wound, pressed heavy on him. He exhaled raggedly, his voice rough. “You invite him,” Draco said. “I’ll just not come. If my absence means helping his state of mind, I’m down.”

Astoria’s eyes shimmered as she immediately looped her arms through his, clutching tight. “No. I want you both there. I want our group whole again. You did not kill her, Draco. We all know that. We all loved her, and Blaise…” her voice cracked, “Blaise needs to open up and face it. He can’t keep burying it—and neither can you.”

Draco swallowed hard, the ache in his chest heavier with every step. Pansy’s laugh, Pansy’s sharp tongue, Pansy’s loyalty—ghosts he couldn’t shake. And Blaise’s grief sat like a blade pressed to his throat and he had no idea how to deal with this.

Astoria tugged at Draco’s hand again, her voice quiet but steady. “Honestly… he’s in denial. He beat you last time just for visiting her grave.”

Daphne exhaled, guilt flickering across her face. “We should have followed you after Vince’s grave. But we lingered, thought you’d want the time alone with Pansy.”

Draco shook his head, jaw tight. “No. I needed him to purge his anger out on me. It was… fine.”

“Fine?” Daphne’s tone softened. She set her hand on his shoulder, warm and grounding. “Draco, I’ll try to work with him. Just don’t let it weigh you down more than it already does. I didn’t tell you this to make you spiral.”

Draco met her gaze, the knot in his chest loosening just a little. He nodded. “Thank you. For checking on him.”

She gave him a small smile in return, and he accepted it with a faint one of his own.

At the corner, the Greengrass sisters wrapped each of them in brief hugs before turning down the opposite street.

The three boys stood there a moment longer. Greg sighed, heavy and wistful. “I miss the days before we turned sixteen.”

Theo exhaled sharply, almost a laugh, almost a groan. “Same.”

Draco couldn’t say a word; a lump stuck in his throat. He turned on his heel and walked ahead. Greg and Theo fell in step behind him, silent shadows.

Then a sudden rustle from the rubbish bins at the corner broke the air. Draco’s eyes flicked lazily sideways, expecting rats. Instead, a large, fluffy cat leapt down with the grace of a small panther. Its fur shimmered black-silver in the lamplight, ears tufted high like little spears.

Theo’s voice was low. “That’s a Maine Coon.”

Greg snorted. “Of course we’ve got our resident magical creature expert here.” He crouched, extending a hand.

Draco tilted his head, noticing the cat’s swollen belly. His tone softened without thinking. “She’s pregnant.”

He crouched too, reaching out. The cat padded closer, rubbing her body against his hand before curling against him as if she’d known him forever. For the first time that evening, Draco’s chest loosened. A small chuckle escaped him, surprising even himself. He rose.

“Oi,” Greg said, still grinning, “let’s take her home.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “What if she belongs to someone?”

Draco smirked faintly. “Then she wouldn’t follow us, would she?”

Greg straightened, hands shoved into his pockets. “Merlin, I hope she does.”

And so they walked on. The lamplight stretched their shadows across the cobbles, and behind them padded the cat—silent, steady, following them.

To Draco’s surprise—and relief—the cat padded right in as though she already belonged there. Her paws made no hesitation crossing the threshold.

Greg lit up like he was thirteen again, the grin stretching across his face the way it used to when a Chocolate Frog jumped into his lap. Theo, ever the calm one, didn’t gush, but Draco caught the faintest flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

From the kitchen came Mother’s sharp gasp. Within moments she was bustling about, gathering towels, a bowl of water, and even setting down leftover roast chicken on a plate. 

Draco knelt and stroked the cat’s swollen belly. She gave a soft, pleased mewl and curled onto her side, purring loud enough to fill the small living room. A new life, he thought, his hand still on her flank. A new future.

Greg crouched beside him, eyes shining. “How should we name her?”

Draco’s voice came almost absently, softer than he meant it to: “Mira. I like Mira.”

Greg blinked. “Mira?”

“Miracle. Also short for Mirana,” Draco said, his hand still on the cat’s fur. “Princess of the moon.”

Greg stroked Mira’s fur gently, his big hands careful on her side. “Don’t worry, Mira,” he murmured, almost shy. “We’ll take care of you. You’ll deliver great kittens and become a great mum.”

Theo, leaning against the back of the sofa, added in his dry tone, “And we wouldn’t give her kittens away. They’ll grow up with her. All of them.”

Narcissa’s gaze flickered between the two boys. Her hand trembled slightly on her teacup before she set it down and said, very softly, “Both of you… if you ever need it—call me Mother. You’ve no one else now, and I would be proud to answer.”

Theo’s mouth twitched. “Careful, Mrs. Malfoy. You’ll end up with more children than you bargained for.” His voice carried its usual dry bite, but under it was something else—something he didn’t hide well.

Greg, though, froze. His cheeks flushed red. His mother’s death was still raw, the wound barely two months old. He couldn’t answer.

Draco understood. He reached over and placed a steady hand on Greg’s shoulder. “You’ve always been like my brother anyway,” he said, quietly but firmly.

Greg’s throat worked as if to answer, but no words came. 

Draco stroked Mira’s fur, feeling her heartbeat under his palm. Life insisted on going on, even after loss, even after disgrace. His thumb brushed over the Malfoy ring again. A year ago, he would have spat, hidden, or lied. Now, he wanted to face forward—toward work, toward redemption, toward something of his own.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat stiffly at the Weasley table, spoon chasing carrots she had no appetite for. Malfoy’s apology replayed in her mind like an echo she couldn’t silence. She had tried to bury her empathy for him under shame, under loyalty, under everything she owed this family. She had wanted to feel nothing. Instead, she felt everything. 

Harry dove into the roast beef, head down, but noticed Ron wasn’t joining their usual race for seconds. His fork just hovered, eyes fixed wide on the dish.

“What’s wrong, Ron?” Harry asked, frowning.

Ron’s voice came clipped, almost disbelieving. “Malfoy. Apologized. To me. And Hermione. At the Ministry today.”

George raised an eyebrow. “Right. And next week the Dark Lord will send us Christmas cards.”

“I swear it wasn’t some fever dream,” Ron shot back.

George scoffed. “Well, bully for him. Does that bring Fred back? Does that erase years of torment?”

Ginny leaned in sharply. “George is right. He’s just saving face. It’s what the Malfoys always do—change sides when it’s convenient. Why should we believe a word out of his mouth?”

Hermione’s voice was soft, betraying her. “He seemed… sincere.”

Ginny’s eyes flicked to Molly. Molly’s knuckles had gone white on the tablecloth at the mention of Fred’s name. Hermione’s breath caught—she knew what no one else did: that Ginny had seen their mother crying herself to sleep each night, clutching Fred’s scarf. Of course Ginny was fierce now. Of course she couldn’t stomach the thought of forgiveness.

“You think Mum can sleep easier because Malfoy says ‘sorry’?” Ginny’s voice shook with steel.

Hermione couldn’t answer.

The silence pressed heavy until Arthur cleared his throat. “I’m not saying we forgive him. But words are easy. If he means them, let’s see it in his actions. One apology doesn’t clear a ledger like his. Actions speak louder than apologies. Until then, best we watch.”

Harry set down his fork, quieter than the rest. “I’m not saying he’s a saint. But he reminded me a little of Dudley, actually. Same poison in his house, same weight of family name. Dudley apologized, in the end. Maybe Malfoy’s trying to do the same.”

George scoffed but didn’t argue.

Ron’s tone softened, though disbelief lingered. “I just never thought he’d do this. He said he isn’t that person anymore, that he’s sorry for every insult he threw at me, at our family. And considering how prideful Malfoy is…”

Arthur nodded slowly. “Their assets are frozen. Perhaps he finally understands what poverty feels like. Dawlish gave him a Ministry clerk job, I heard. That means he must have impressed him—Dawlish hated Lucius. We can’t live on hatred forever. The war’s done, whether we like it or not. If the Death Eaters change, good for them. If not, they’ll end up in Azkaban.”

The argument wound down into uneasy silence. Forks scraped. Someone cleared their throat. The air was heavy with grief and disbelief, with Fred’s ghost sitting at the table just as surely as the rest of them. Hermione forced herself to chew, to swallow, to smile faintly when Ron nudged the plate closer—but her stomach only twisted tighter.

Later, when the house grew quiet, she slipped outside.

The swing creaked as she lowered herself onto it, knees drawn up against her chest. The field stretched out in silver moonlight, the grass bending with the wind. Her fingers dug into the rough wood of the seat as her mind spun.

A child.

His child.

It wasn’t the baby’s fault. Innocent—but innocence cut the deepest. To carry Malfoy’s child was to carry every contradiction inside her: loyalty and betrayal, guilt and tenderness, shame and secret longing.

She thought of St. Mungo’s. She could end it. Walk in and erase the mistake before it had a face, before it had a name. But could she? After everything she had fought for—every speech about justice, about valuing life—could she destroy one?

Her breath hitched.

Ron deserved better. But if she told him, she would break him. And Malfoy—what would he do if he knew? Brag? Mock her? Or crumble? She didn’t know which thought scared her more.

Her hand drifted to the pendant on her neck. One trinket that bound the lie together. 

She bowed her head to her knees, hair falling forward like a curtain. The swing rocked softly under her weight. Shame pressed hot at the back of her eyes, but the tears refused to fall.

Hermione Granger, the righteous one. And here she was: liar, betrayer, hypocrite. Carrying a secret child she could neither destroy nor confess.

She felt the swing shift beneath her, nudged gently from behind.

Harry’s voice followed, soft, almost careful. “Still thinking about that apology?”

Hermione’s throat tightened. She didn’t look back, only let the swing creak forward again. “You noticed,” she murmured.

Harry came around and sat on the other end of the swing, leaving space between them. His hands dangled over his knees, and his gaze stayed fixed on the field as if giving her permission not to meet his eyes.

“Hard not to,” he said quietly. “You’ve been… somewhere else all evening.”

Hermione hugged her knees tighter. “It doesn’t make sense. He meant it. I could feel it. But… why should I let myself believe him? After everything?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He let the silence sit.

Finally, he said, “Because sometimes people change. And sometimes… they don’t. But the hard part is figuring out which it is.”

Hermione closed her eyes. “What if believing him makes me the fool?”

Harry gave a small shrug. “Then at least you erred on the side of mercy. That’s better than the other way around.” He glanced sideways at her, green eyes soft in the moonlight. “I know what it feels like. Dudley said sorry once. And it was real. I didn’t think he had it in him either.”

He tilted his head, studying her profile in the moonlight. “I’ve noticed you’ve been quieter lately,” he said gently. “And not just today. Something happened?”

Hermione’s nails dug into the fabric of her sleeve. For a heartbeat she thought about spilling everything—the truth like a dam breaking—but shame pressed it all back down. “I’m fine,” she lied softly. “Just… tired. It’s been a long week.”

Harry didn’t call her out, though his eyes told her he didn’t believe it. He leaned back against the swing, giving her space. “Alright,” he murmured. “But you know you don’t have to carry it alone, right?”

The swing swayed again, the silence heavy with everything she hadn’t said. But then her lashes betrayed her, a single tear slipped past. She inhaled softly trying to be subtle but Harry noticed.

He still didnt look at her when he said: “You can tell me the worst thing, and I won’t flinch. I’ve seen… a lot. I’m not here to judge you. I’m here.” 

Silence stretched. 

She swallowed. “It’s about… Malfoy,” she whispered, like the name itself might bite.

“Okay,” Harry said. Neutral. Steady. “You don’t have to defend him. Just tell me what happened to you.”

Her hand went to her throat again. Harry’s eyes flicked there and back, asking without pressing. “I did something stupid,” she said. “Awful.” A breath. “I used a Time-Turner.”

He didn’t move. “Go on.”

“I wanted to… to pay him back. For what he did to you, for breaking your nose that night. I—used Polyjuice. Took Parkinson’s face. I went to find him.” Her voice thinned. “I found his diary. He was… not what I expected. He was going to do something stupid on the Astronomy Tower and I— I stopped him. He thought I was her. He asked for a safe word and I didn’t know it and I didn’t say who I was and we—” She broke off, eyes burning. “It was wrong. I know it was wrong.”

Harry’s jaw set, but his voice stayed quiet. “Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head, hard. “No. He didn’t. That’s not—” Shame shuddered through her. “I stole something from him. No, from Pansy, he meant this for her. A pendant. It’s… stuck. I can’t take it off.” Her fingers curled over the scarf.

“May I?” he asked.

She nodded. He lifted the edge just enough to glimpse silver, coiled like a snake against her skin. “Alright,” he said softly. “We’ll figure that out.”

She shook her head, voice cracking. “That’s not all. I used the Time-Turner again.”

His eyes widened, startled, but he stayed quiet, letting her go on.

“I found out she died because she didn’t have the pendant. He meant it for her. If she’d been wearing it, she might have lived. But the Time-Turner wouldn’t let me change it.” Shame coiled like a knife in her chest. “No matter what I tried.” 

Harry’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm. “That’s a heavy truth, Hermione.”

Tears blurred her vision. “There’s more.” Her voice came out small. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Harry’s breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale. He didn’t jerk away. He just slid his hand over hers on the swing chain and squeezed. “Have you seen a Healer?”

“No. A Muggle test. It was—positive.” She stared at the dark. “And it’s Malfoy’s.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it was the only time I delayed the contraceptive spell. With him. Once.” Her breath hitched. “It can’t be anyone else’s.” Her eyes filled. “Ron will hate me.”

“He’ll hurt,” Harry said, honest. “But he deserves the truth—from you. And Malfoy does too. Not because he’s earned your gentleness, but because a child deserves two people acting like adults.”

She let out a jagged laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “You’re very calm about this.”

“I’m not, actually,” he said, mouth twisting. “But I learned a while ago that hiding a mess makes it worse. And… I’ve done things I’m not proud of.” His gaze drifted toward the orchard. “Sectumsempra. I can’t throw stones from a glass house.”

Her shoulders shook once. He went on, quiet: “You’ll decide who to tell first. If you want my take: tell Ron before he hears any part of it from someone else. Then tell Malfoy quickly after. I’ll be nearby for both, if you want backup. I won’t say a word until you’re ready.”

Hermione pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “What if it ruins everything?”

“It might,” he said. “But so will lying. Malfoy apologized today without knowing any of this. That doesn’t fix the past. But it suggests he can face hard truths.” He squeezed her hand again. “And you— you’re brave enough to face yours.”

She nodded, a tiny motion. The swing creaked, moving them together and apart, together and apart.

“Harry?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

“Always,” he said. 

Then, after a beat, softer: “Whatever happens—we’ll make a plan. And we’ll keep going.”

—----

Draco stepped out of the shower, towel knotted around his waist, damp hair falling into his eyes. He brushed it back, lifted his chin, and met his reflection in the mirror.

“Good morning. My name is Draco Malfoy. I’m… here to learn. To work. Nothing else.”

His gaze slipped sideways, uncomfortable. “I don’t expect anyone’s trust. Just the chance to prove myself.”

He frowned. “Fuck. Eye contact, Draco.” He straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin again.

“Yes, I’m aware of my past. I’m not here to argue it. You have every right not to trust me. That’s fine. Watch me instead.”

His shoulders sagged. Too defensive. Preemptive. No.

He tried again. “Could you point me to where the quills are kept?” He grimaced. “No, too stupid.”

“Nice weather we’re having.” He rolled his eyes. “Brilliant, Malfoy. Talk about the bloody clouds.”

He closed his eyes, then forced them open to meet himself again. “You can do this. One day at a time. Survive the sneers. Prove yourself. For her. For Mother.”

A smirk ghosted over his lips. Good enough. He pulled on his trousers and stepped into the common bedroom.

Greg hunched in the corner of his mattress, Daily Prophet open on his knees. Mira purred, curled beside him, her swollen belly rising and falling. Theo was already dressed, grey joggers and a blue shirt stretched neat over his frame.

Draco huffed a laugh. “Ravenclaw colors on the first day. You really know how to make an impression.”

Theo tossed the nearest pillow at his head without looking up.

Draco caught it and dropped down beside Greg, peeking over the Prophet. Mira bumped her head against his hand, and he absently stroked her fur. Job listings filled the page. Greg closed the newspaper too quickly, muttering, “I… err, I’m thinking about applying for produce sorting. In the grocery store. No one will see my face there.”

Theo tilted his head. “You have the strength for it. If that’s what fits you, apply.”

Draco elbowed Greg lightly. “You can do this, Greg.”

A soft knock rapped against the door.

“Come in, Mother,” Draco called.

Narcissa slipped inside. She carried his best robe draped over her arms, and laid it neatly on the mattress in front of him. Her hands smoothed invisible wrinkles from the fabric, each pass of her fingers more about steadying herself than perfecting the cloth.

“I’ve picked your first-day outfit,” she said, voice poised but too careful. “This one will make you look… professional, Draco.”

She tried for composure, but he noticed the way her fingers lingered on the material, as if she were sending him off to school again. Only heavier this time.

He smiled, soft and genuine. “Thank you, Mother. I’ll wear it.”

Narcissa nodded once, her chin tilting high, and then turned to Theo. She withdrew a pair of open-fingered gloves, fine dragonhide but practical, and held them out.

“These should protect your hands from animal feed contamination,” she said.

Draco bit his lip, trying to not wheeze.

Theo arched an eyebrow. “Thank you… Mother. Now if I lose a hand to a rabid kneazle, at least it’ll be clean.” But he took the gloves anyway.

Draco smirked faintly. “See, Mother? Between your robes and Theo’s gloves, we’ll look like a pair of underpaid Ministry officials already.”

Narcissa’s chin lifted, regal as ever despite the trembling in her fingers. “You are still royalty in my eyes,” she said, smoothing the robe one last time. Then, softer—like it was a secret she was almost embarrassed to share: “Anyway, breakfast is ready. I made… banana bread. No flour disaster this time.”

Greg looked up from scratching Mira behind the ears, his voice quieter, almost shy: “I’m glad you’re… helping us, Mother.”

For just a flicker, Narcissa’s composure faltered. Her eyes glistened as though the room had grown brighter. Draco caught it, tucked it away like a fragile treasure, and carried it with him all the way to the Ministry.

The lift clanged open onto the archive floor—a long, echoing corridor lined with shelves that reached too high, as if the weight of history might topple onto anyone foolish enough to linger. The air smelled of dust and stale ink. A stack of parchment drifted by, carried on a lazy enchantment. Draco tightened his grip on his satchel. Finally no more hiding. I’ll face them. I’ll prove it.

“Look who crawled in,” a voice drawled. Tim—the sharp-eyed intern from the first wand inspection—was leaning against a cabinet, arms folded. “Didn’t expect you’d lower yourself to desk work, Malfoy. Thought you’d be polishing goblets in your manor until the end of time.”

Draco’s jaw twitched. He forced his voice level, steady. “I’m here to work. Not to argue.”

Tim snorted. “Fine. Careful with those boxes, wouldn’t want you to chip a manicure.”

Draco ignored him and strode toward the shelving, where enchanted files writhed in their slots. He tugged one free—only to have it snap shut on his fingers. Pain lanced through his hand, sharp and immediate. He hissed under his breath, shaking it out.

“Tap the spine twice first,” came a voice beside him—quiet, almost reluctant. A man in his twenties. He didn’t quite meet Draco’s eyes as he demonstrated with another file. Tap, tap—click, the folder obediently opened. He slid it into Draco’s hands like one might handle a jar of venom. “Otherwise they bite.”

Draco swallowed, nodding. “Thank you.”

The man gave a small, stiff nod back. His gaze still lingered warily, but he didn’t step away.

Behind them, Tim scoffed. “Merlin help us all if Malfoy’s the one preserving our records. Whole archive’ll go up in smoke before Christmas.”

Draco pressed the file to his chest, spine taut. He wanted to spit fire, wanted to say he had survived worse than Tim’s barbs—but the words that came out were softer, tighter. “You’ll see. One day at a time.”

He turned back to the shelves, tapping carefully, forcing his hands to steady. When he finally gathered the stack of files for his first task: indexing wand records, cross-referencing ownership logs and duel reports, he turned toward the exit—only to find Tim leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, blocking his path.

“Where are you going, Malfoy?” Tim drawled. “Isn’t it your duty to fetch files?”

Heat flared in Draco’s chest. For one dizzy moment, the word Cruciatus coiled in his mind like an old reflex. He caught it—ugly, inappropriate—and shoved it down. His throat felt dry when he answered.

“What do you need?”

Tim tilted his head, lips parting for another barb—

But a voice behind Draco cut in. “Tim. You’re a clerk too. We all are. None of us has the right to order the others around.”

Draco turned. That same man who just showed him how to open the files. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady.

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Careful who you’re defending, Edwin. He’s a Death Eater.”

“Former Death Eater,” Draco corrected, forcing his voice not to shake. He met Tim’s stare and refused to flinch.

For a moment, no one breathed. Then Tim clicked his tongue, pushed off the doorframe, and stalked away.

Draco exhaled slowly. His palms were damp, the parchment edges digging into his fingers. He hadn’t realized he’d been sweating.

“Thank you,” he said, turning to the man.

The other clerk hesitated, then offered his hand. “Draco Malfoy, right? Edwin Carroway.”

Draco’s breath caught. His fingers twitched once against the files before he forced them to obey. “Err—yes. Nice to meet you, Carroway.” He shook, too stiff, too late. Idiot. He did not rehearse for this situation.

“You can call me Edwin,” the man said, a little awkward. “I’ve been here two years. If you have questions, let me know.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Ah—sure. Thank you. And… you can call me Draco.”

Edwin gave a small nod. “See you around, then.”

Draco adjusted his robes as he stepped into the Ministry corridor, the sound of his boots echoing sharper than he intended. On weekly rotation, every clerk took a turn at the Archive Duty Post—the quick-access station for file requests from other departments. Today, his very first week, it was his turn. Some might have groaned at the assignment. Draco took it as a challenge.

He’d been lazy once, at Hogwarts—living in his father’s shadow, leaning on his family’s name. That name meant little now. This was his chance to prove something of his own.

The hum of conversation dimmed as he passed. Eyes tracked him—some openly hostile, others curious, all sharp with judgment. Draco kept his chin lifted, just a fraction. Not arrogance. Not anymore. Just survival.

And then, in the corner of his eye—her.

Granger.

She was standing near the far wall of the clerk section, posture taut, those same fiery eyes locked on him as they had been in the Ministry hallway days before. For a moment, the air seemed to thin. Did she work in this department too? Or was she only watching? Why was she staring at him like she could set him alight with a glance?

He shoved the thought down hard. Let her stare. Let her doubt. Perhaps she was still reeling from his apology. Either way—he wouldn’t waste time on it. He’d show her, and everyone else, with actions. Every single day.

The files clinked down as he stacked them neatly on the duty table. Draco walked the perimeter of the room once, eyes sweeping the shelves. The Archive Post wasn’t large, but it housed the most commonly requested records: wand ownership logs, duel records, confiscation slips, case references. He’d need to know them all by heart.

His memory, at least, had never failed him. Within twenty minutes, he had the layout fixed in his mind—what was here, what was stored in the larger back archives, how quickly he could fetch either if called upon.

It was simple work. Mundane, even. But Draco felt the faintest thread of pride wind through him as he straightened the last stack. For once, he wasn’t failing.

For once, he was doing something real.

Draco walked back to the desk and stacked the last bundle of parchment when the door creaked open. He stiffened instinctively, hand tightening on the files. Mulciber filled the frame, broad shoulders cutting the light. He wasn’t holding requisition slips. He wasn’t here for work.

“Well, well.” Mulciber’s smirk curled sharp. “The Malfoy heir. Filing papers. Fetching scraps. You do fetch, don’t you?”

Draco’s jaw worked, but he kept his chin angled, eyes on the stack before him. Breathe. Survive. Don’t rise to it.

Mulciber strolled closer, plucking a quill from Draco’s desk, tapping it lazily against the parchment Draco had just catalogued. “Funny, isn’t it? A year ago you were strutting around Hogwarts with your nose in the air. Now you’re cataloguing wand logs like a secretary.”

Draco slid the parchment back, careful, deliberate. “Do you need something?”

A flick of Mulciber’s wand—silent, subtle. The inkpot tipped, splattering black across Draco’s cuff. Draco swallowed hard, forcing his hands to still.

Mulciber leaned in, voice low, taunting. “Your mother must be proud. From silk gowns to rags, while her darling boy files other people’s messes. Did she weep when they froze your accounts? Or does she just clutch at the walls of that crumbling manor and pretend it’s still Versailles?”

Something inside Draco snapped. His breath hitched, chest burning. He looked up—actually looked up—and forced his voice out through the tremor. Be brave, Draco. You can do this.

“Careful, Mulciber.”

The smirk faltered, just a flicker. Draco pressed, heart hammering.

“You think no one remembers? You hid. The Dark Lord allowed you to supress your Mark so you can be his useful spy inside the Ministry. You sat safe in your little Ministry chair, waiting to see which way the wind blew. At least I didn’t pretend to be loyal to anyone but myself.”

Mulciber’s face darkened. “Watch your mouth, boy. You’ve no proof.”

Draco’s nails dug crescents into his palms. He felt the sweat prickle down his back, but he didn’t drop his gaze. “I don’t need proof. You know it.”

For a beat, the air thrummed with tension. Mulciber’s wand twitched like he might hex him right there. He gave a low, ugly laugh instead.

“No one will believe you,” he whispered, but his tone had lost its edge. “Not after everything your family’s done.”

He turned on his heel, stalked out.

Only then did Draco realize his legs were trembling, breath coming sharp. He sat back down heavily, pressing his fists to his knees to stop the shake. His chest ached with the terror still rattling in him.

But under it, something else flickered. He hadn’t run. He exhaled with a shaky breath. His first day of work is going better than he expected.

He had been at it for hours. Indexing, cross-referencing, sorting. It wasn’t glamorous work, but every time someone pushed the door open with a request, Draco’s pulse sharpened with the challenge. And every time he found the right file—quickly, neatly—he felt a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in years. Pride, however small.

By late afternoon, the room was quieter. He stacked the last logbook and straightened the pile with a sharp tap.

The door creaked again. Without looking up, he allowed a small, professional smile to slip across his face. “Yes, what file do you need?” he said smoothly, already half-rising.

Then he looked—and froze.

Granger.

Her hair caught the light from the corridor, her hand tight around the folder she carried like it might bite her. The fierceness in her eyes hadn’t dulled since the Ministry hall. His own smile faltered, instinct tightening his chest, but he forced himself upright, smoothing his robe.

“Granger,” he said, formal, careful. He rounded the table, steady steps, posture set as though it were nothing. “What is it you need?”

Granger didn’t speak at first. Her lips parted, then pressed shut again. The file in her hand trembled just enough that he noticed.

Draco took her silence for hesitation—the kind of wall he’d seen before when people didn’t know how to talk to him without spitting. His shoulders drew taut, but he forced himself into stillness, measured.

“You don’t have to,” he said, voice clipped but steady. “If it’s… difficult to look at me, I understand. But if it would help—” He drew a slow breath, eyes fixed somewhere just past her. “If it would help for you to say whatever you’ve wanted to say, about school, about me—then I’ll listen. No excuses. I won’t interrupt.”

Her throat bobbed. She looked at him like she wanted to speak, like words clawed at her chest but caught on her tongue. Her fingers tightened around the scarf at her neck, as though it were the only thing holding her together.

Draco shifted awkwardly, trying to keep his voice neutral. “I’ve…done enough damage for a lifetime. If hearing me take it could give you a fraction of peace, then—” He gestured, almost formal. “Say it. I’ll take it.”

The offer hung between them, heavy, almost unbearable.

Granger turned sharply. “I came for records,” she said, but her voice caught halfway through. She spun toward the shelves, but her fingers trembled so badly that the file edge bit into her palm. Draco’s brow arched. What is wrong with her?

“Let me help,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “Tell me what you need.”

She ignored him, yanking random files from the shelf. Papers slithered loose and spilled to the floor. Hermione dropped to her knees at once, gathering them in a frantic heap.

Draco sighed, crouching beside her. “Granger, let me—” he started, reaching for the stack.

And then he saw it.

Her scarf had slipped loose with her sudden movements, and underneath, pressed against her collarbone, gleamed a flash of silver. A serpent coiled into a pendant, coiled and unmistakable.

The files slid from his hand, forgotten. His breath stalled. He knew that piece.

He snapped his eyes to her face, heart thudding once in his chest. She froze, sensing his stare.

Draco whispered it first, hoarse: “Where did you get that?”

Hermione jolted, tugging her scarf higher. “It’s nothing—”

“No,” he snapped, louder now, surging forward so fast she pressed back against the cabinet. His hand slammed against the wood beside her head. His breath came sharp, ragged. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Granger. That pendant was never yours.”

Her lips parted, no sound escaping.

“Answer me!” His composure shattered, years of practiced drawl dissolving into raw, desperate fury. “Where. Did. You. Get. It.”

Her hands shook around the fallen papers. She tried to lift her chin, but her eyes betrayed her. Fear? Guilt? He didn’t know. He only knew that the sight of that pendant on her throat was unbearable.

“Enough.” The word tore out of him. His wandless hand shot forward before he could stop himself, fingers brushing the chain at her throat. The contact burned. His vision tunneled. And before she could shove him back, the incantation was already in his head, spilling from his lips.

“Legilimens.”

Images slammed into him—

Her face melting into Pansy’s.

His diary in her hands.

The Astronomy Tower.

His own voice, broken: the safe word?

Her silence.

Her body under his, not Pansy’s at all—Granger’s.

His own hand pressing the chain around “Pansy’s” neck.

Her fingers hovering over Pansy’s purse. Hesitation…

And then—deliberate. She slid the pendant away, her eyes hard with a secret choice.

The turn of the Time-Turner.

Draco ripped out of her mind with a gasp, stumbling back like he’d been struck. His hands trembled, knuckles bone-white.

“You—” His voice cracked, jagged. “You took it.”

Granger pressed her back harder into the cabinet. “Draco—”

“That pendant wasn’t yours.” His chest heaved. “It was meant for her. For Pansy. I gave it to save her. And you—” His words strangled. “You stole it.”

Her eyes glistened. “I didn’t understand. I thought—”

“You thought what?” His fury came sharp, brittle. “That it was a trinket? That you could meddle with her life? She died without it, Granger.” His voice broke on the name. “And you let it happen.”

“I tried to save her,” she burst out, tears streaking. “I used the Time-Turner again. But it wouldn’t let me.”

Draco’s breath fractured. His mind reeled with the Tower, the prophecy, the flowers at her grave. The pendant glinted beneath Hermione’s scarf like a wound.

“You wear her death around your neck.” His voice dropped, gutted. “And you dare stand here.”

Hermione shook, but forced the words out: “I didn’t want this, Draco. I— I think I’m pregnant.”

Silence detonated between them.

Draco’s rage faltered into shock, his face hollowing out. His gaze dropped from the scarf to her stomach, then back up, lost between grief and disbelief.

“…Pregnant,” he rasped. His throat bobbed once, a dry swallow. “With—” His voice cracked. “Tell me it’s Weasley’s.”

“Do you think I wouldn’t wish it was his? Do you think I haven’t prayed for that? But it isn’t. It was the only time I… delayed the spell. It’s…yours.” Granger snapped.

Something broke in him. “No,” Draco snarled, stumbling back a step like the ground itself betrayed him. “You’re lying. You’d say anything to ruin me, wouldn’t you? To drag my family down even further. A Malfoy bastard—” His voice fractured, sharp and raw. “That’s what you’d pin on me?”

His hand fisted in his hair, chest heaving. “You think I’d believe this? That after everything—after Azkaban took my father, after my mother can barely sleep without a draught—you’d waltz in with this?”

But then his eyes caught on the pendant. His voice dropped, strangled. “That. You—” He staggered forward, pointing, trembling with fury and grief. “You stole that from her. From Pansy. That was meant for her.”

Hermione’s eyes shimmered, lips parting, but no sound came.

“You took it!” he roared, voice echoing off the archive shelves. “You had it and she died. Don’t you see? You didn’t just—” His voice broke, collapsing into something hoarse. “You didn’t just take from me. You took from her.”

Hermione’s voice cracked as she spat it out, each word like glass in her throat. “You think I wanted this? If you hadn’t been so desperate, you wouldn’t have touched me at all. Don’t act like you didn’t want it—you kissed me first.”

Draco’s eyes went wide, a sharp, wounded scoff tearing free. His jaw clenched. “You could have just told me. I wouldn’t have touched a hair of you if I knew it was you.”

Her lips parted, breath coming shallow and ragged, shame curdling into fury. “I didn’t know the fucking safe word! Carrying your child is the last thing I’d ever choose. Besides—if it weren’t for me, your bloodline would be finished. Maybe you should thank me instead.”

Something inside him snapped. His composure ripped wide open. His voice was raw, venomous, nothing left to mask the fracture. “You. Foul. Loathsome. Evil. Little. Cockroach. You raped me. You fucking raped me!”

The words rang between them, jagged and final, like a curse that couldn’t be recalled.

His vision blurred, rage and shame pounding like blood in his ears. He didn’t notice his footsteps carrying him out of the Ministry, down the cobbled street. He didn’t care who stared. He just walked—fast, frantic—until the weight in his chest dragged him to a halt.

The sight froze him.

Blaise, slouched against Pansy’s grave, a bottle of firewhiskey dangling from one hand. His face was half-shadowed, sharp, unreadable. He hadn’t seen Draco.

For one reckless heartbeat Draco almost stepped forward. Almost threw himself at Blaise—let him beat him again, break his bones, shatter him into pieces for what he’d failed to do. For what Pansy had lost because of him.

Instead his knees gave out. He sagged back against the rough bark of a nearby tree, chest heaving. He closed his eyes. Memories crashed in, unbidden.

Father behind Azkaban’s iron bars, eyes hollow and ruined.

The Dark Lord’s hiss, branding him with a cursed mission he couldn’t refuse.

Mother’s sobs muffled against Aunt Bellatrix’s chest, Bellatrix’s sharp voice cutting through: “The war is coming and there is nothing you could do.”

The stench of incense in Trelawney’s tower, her milky eyes glazing as she croaked the prophecy that had damned him: his best friend would not survive the war.

He had begged. Researched. Crafted the pendant with shaking hands, praying it could alter fate. He had forced himself to distance from Pansy, to make her despise him, hoping it would keep her out of the crosshairs.

And still… she died.

She died and it was his fault. His failure. His cowardice. His curse.

A ragged sound tore from his throat. He buried his face in his hands. He should have known that night it was Granger. He should have known.

Chapter Text

Hermione lay flat on her back, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling until they blurred. The morning light spilled through the curtains in thin, accusing lines. Her hand rested over her stomach, motionless, like she could will the truth to change under her palm.

The pendant pulsed faintly. Malfoy’s voice replayed in her head—shattered, venomous, raw. You raped me.

She flinched and turned on her side, curling tighter beneath the blanket. Her brain clung to excuses like a drowning hand reaching for driftwood. He used Legilimency. He forced his way into her head. It was wrong—what he did. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

The memory of her own words — “Maybe you should thank me instead” — hits like acid.
She provoked him. She wore Pansy’s face. She let him touch her. Hermione pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. She had no right to be angry. He had every right to hate her. 

Three days. He hadn’t shown up to work for three days. He was probably fired. Part of her hopes he was. The other part aches to see him again — even if only to hear him scream at her again.

A sharp knock startled her. She sat up, quickly tugging her scarf higher around her neck.

“Mione? You awake?” Ron’s voice, muffled but unmistakably gentle.

She cleared her throat. “Come in.”

The door creaked open. Ron leaned against the frame, a slice of toast clamped between his fingers. “You’ve been quiet all week,” he said, walking in and perching on the edge of her bed. “Figured you were still mad about me not switching to that bloody International Cooperation post.”

Hermione blinked, the words taking a second to land. He thought that was why she’d been distant. For a moment she wanted to let him keep thinking that — let him stay in that harmless misunderstanding where things were still simple.

He took another bite of toast and added, half-teasing, “If you want me to run for Minister next, just say it.”

That almost made her laugh. Almost. But it came out as a sigh instead. “It’s not that,” she said quietly, tracing the seam of the blanket.

Ron tilted his head. “Then what is it?”

Harry’s voice echoed in her skull: Tell him before it’s too late.

She looked up, meeting Ron’s bright blue eyes — so open, so trusting it hurt.

“Ron,” she said, and her voice trembled before she steadied it. “Can we talk later? Just us? Maybe by the lake behind the Burrow?”

He brightened immediately, his whole face lighting up. “A picnic, yeah? Merlin, it’s been ages since we did something just the two of us.”

She nodded, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “A picnic sounds… nice.”

Ron leaned over, brushed a kiss to her forehead, and grinned. “Right then. I’ll tell Mum we’ll nick some of her tarts. Noon by the lake. Now let's go to breakfast.”

Hermione nodded and followed Ron downstairs. The Burrow smelled like butter and cinnamon, sunlight spilling through the crooked windows in lazy golden stripes. Hermione sat at the table, half-listening to the chatter as Molly hummed along while flipping eggs with her wand. Ron was grinning about something Harry had said, Arthur was buried in The Daily Prophet, George already went to the shop early this morning. Weekends are usually busy.

“Dear,” Molly said suddenly, turning from the stove with a look that made Hermione’s stomach dip, “you’ve been looking pale these days. You’re working too hard, aren’t you? You should eat more, love.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, I—yes, thank you, Mrs. Weasley.”

Molly tutted fondly, setting a plate piled with eggs and fried bread in front of her. “You’re skin and bones, Hermione. We can’t have that.”

Ron chuckled. “Told you, Mum. She gets lost in her books and forgets meals. Always has.”

Hermione managed a small, polite smile and lowered her eyes to the plate. If only they knew.

From upstairs came Ginny’s voice — bright, rushed, and echoing down the crooked staircase.

“Hermione! Can I borrow your mascara? I’m heading to the shop to help George!”

“It’s in the bathroom drawer!” Hermione called back, trying to sound casual.

A moment later, “Oh my Merlin.”

The whole kitchen went still.

Ginny thundered down the stairs, clutching something small and white in her hand.

She burst into the kitchen, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with excitement. “Hermione! You didn’t tell us!”

Hermione froze. The world narrowed to that thin plastic stick in Ginny’s hand. Her breath caught — no sound came out. Ginny must have looked into her bag.

Molly gasped first, her hand flying to her mouth. “Is that—?”

“A pregnancy test!” Ginny beamed, brandishing it like a golden ticket. “She’s pregnant! Oh, Hermione!”

The room erupted. Chairs scraped, Arthur blinked furiously as if to confirm what he was seeing, and Ron’s fork clattered to the floor.

He stood slowly, eyes darting between Hermione and the test. “That’s what you wanted to tell me, wasn’t it?” His voice was hoarse, but already softening into awe. “Blimey… Mione, you’re— we’re—”

Molly let out a tearful laugh, pressing a hand to her heart. “Oh, my darling girl, this is wonderful!”

Before Hermione could breathe, Ron caught her around the waist, spun her off the ground, laughing like he hadn’t in months. “We’re gonna be parents!”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. The room blurred. Everyone was cheering — Arthur fumbling for his glasses, Molly already rattling off baby name suggestions, Ginny squealing and clapping — but all she saw was Harry, across the table. He just watched her, calm and silent, green eyes steady with understanding.

Hermione tried to smile. It wavered, splintered. “Ron…” she managed, voice shaking.

Ron set her down, still beaming, his freckles glowing from the excitement. “This is bloody brilliant,” he said, voice bubbling over with laughter. “Mum, you hear that? We’re having a baby!”

Molly wiped at her eyes, smiling through the tears. “Oh, sweetheart, I can’t believe it. My little boy, a father!”

Arthur leaned forward, dazed but smiling. “Well, I’ll be— congratulations, you two.”

Ron was already rummaging for his coat. “You know what? We should celebrate!” He turned to Ginny, who was still holding the incriminating stick like a trophy. “We’ll go down to George’s shop, yeah? Tell him the news — he’ll lose his mind!”

Ginny laughed. “He’ll probably start designing baby prank products before the day’s over.”

Molly clapped her hands together. “That’s a wonderful idea! I’ll pack up a basket of sweets, and you can bring something to drink. Oh, this house hasn’t had good news in ages.”

Hermione swallowed hard. Her pulse thudded behind her ears. The edges of the room seemed to tilt slightly.

Ron was still talking, still smiling. “Come on, love, it’ll be fun.”

She opened her mouth — she wanted to say no, to tell him the truth, to stop this before it spiraled any further — but the words caught like splinters in her throat.

Harry rose quietly from his chair. “I’ll come too,” he said. His voice was even, but there was a flicker in his eyes that told her he understood exactly what kind of hell she was walking into.

“Brilliant!” Ron said, grinning. He slung an arm around Hermione’s shoulders, completely unaware of the way her body stiffened beneath his touch. “C’mon then. George is gonna flip.”

Hermione’s fingers curled tightly around the back of her chair, knuckles white.

She managed a brittle smile. “Right. Let’s… celebrate.”

The shop was alive with color and sound — fireworks bursting against enchanted ceilings, laughter echoing off candy-striped walls, and little bursts of confetti raining down every time someone bought something expensive.

George stood behind the counter, grinning ear to ear as he animated a new batch of Canary Creams to dance in formation.

Ron, sleeves rolled to his elbows, was in the middle of a crowd of kids, juggling Fanged Frisbees like a born showman.

It was chaos, joy, and noise — the living heartbeat of everything Fred had loved.

Ginny was laughing with a group of Hogwarts students by the fireworks display. 

And Hermione sat on the sidelines, her teacup cooling in her hands.

Harry leaned against the display beside her, watching Ron with a faint smile. “He looks happy, doesn’t he?”

Hermione followed his gaze. Ron’s laughter filled the shop, loud and bright, as George called him “assistant of the month” and threw a bag of glitter over his head. Her heart twisted. “He does,” she murmured.

“Not just because of the baby,” Harry said quietly.

Hermione turned, startled. “What do you mean?”

Harry shrugged, still looking at Ron. “He looks happy when he makes people smile. I think that’s what he’s meant to do. This place — George, the jokes, the noise — it fits him. Not the Ministry.”

Hermione’s throat went dry.

He went on softly, “You always wanted him to be great, Hermione. But maybe this is his kind of great.”

Hermione’s eyes were still at Ron. He laughed, wand flicking clumsily, sparks bouncing off the ceiling as George swatted his shoulder. His grin was wide and boyish, the same one he’d had when he was thirteen and bragging about stealing extra pudding from the Great Hall.

And for a fleeting second, she remembered that version of him — not as her boyfriend, but as her best friend. The one who made her laugh when she was too tense to breathe, who turned essays into pillow fights. Back then, she’d loved watching him happy simply because he was.

But somewhere along the way, after they started dating, she’d started mistaking care for correction. She pushed, prodded, tried to mold him into something ambitious, stable, respectable. The kind of man she thought she was supposed to love. She hadn’t realized that every “You could do more” and every “You’re wasting your potential” sounded a lot like “You’re not enough.”

Now, watching him here — laughing, radiant, utterly himself — she felt the sting of that truth settle deep in her chest.

“I used to love him like this,” she murmured, almost to herself. “When he was just… Ron. Before I started trying to make him something else.”

Harry was quiet for a long moment. Then he said softly, “He’ll understand, you know.”

Hermione blinked at him. “Understand what?”

“Everything,” Harry said. “Maybe not right away — he’ll yell, break a few things, say something stupid. But he’ll come around. You and Ron…” His voice trailed off, gentle, almost wistful. “You’ve always been more than what people think. Not just romance or friendship — something older. Like you grew up with the same heartbeat.”

Hermione looked down at her hands, twisting the hem of her sleeve. “That sounds too kind to be real.”

Harry huffed a soft laugh. “You forget, I’ve watched the two of you for years.”

For a moment, the words eased something in her chest — the smallest pocket of air in a room she’d been suffocating in for days.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He bumped her shoulder lightly. “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until after you’ve told him.”

Hermione stared at the mug for a long moment. Her mind was still turning over Harry’s words — loyalty, love, the kind of bond that outlasts labels.

Then Harry’s voice broke through, touched with surprise. “Oh… is that Daphne Greengrass from our year?”

Hermione blinked and looked up. A tall blonde girl had just stepped through the door. Beside her was a younger dark-haired girl — softer features, sharper eyes — their hands loosely linked as they crossed into the crowd.

“Yeah,” Hermione said, setting her mug down. “It’s her. And that’s her little sister, Astoria, I think. Two years younger than us.”

Harry nodded. “Right. I remember her too.”

George and Ron were already by the counter, greeting the new customers with the kind of natural warmth that always drew people in. George cracked a joke that sent Daphne laughing, light and unguarded, while Ron offered to demonstrate one of the shop’s new prank boxes.

Hermione watched him from her seat. He looked so at ease. Harry had been right; this was his element. Not endless paperwork or memos. This, the laughter — the joy, the sunshine energy. She smiled faintly… until she saw Ron gesture toward her.

Daphne’s expression flickered — surprise, recognition — and then Astoria’s gaze followed, narrowing, sharp as a curse.

Before Hermione could react, Ron turned fully, beaming, and waved toward their corner. “Oi! Hermione! Harry! Come over here!”

Harry rose, smoothing his sleeve. “Let’s go,” he said lightly. “Time to greet our former classmates.”

Hermione hesitated only a heartbeat before standing too, her stomach already tightening. Something in Astoria’s stare made the room feel a little colder.

Harry reached the counter first, flashing a polite, familiar smile. “Daphne Greengrass,” he said, his tone warm but surprised. “Haven’t seen you since the war ended. You look well.”

Daphne’s answering smile was smooth, practiced. “Harry Potter. It’s been a while.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Hermione. “And Granger.”

Hermione nodded, polite, if a little stiff. “Greengrass.”

Harry turned to the younger sister, his voice kind. “We never talked, but I remember you — Slytherin, two years below us, right?”

Astoria nodded once, quiet and unreadable. “That’s right.”

Ron stepped in, easy grin on his face, completely oblivious to the tension tightening around Hermione. “The girls were looking for something to gift their friends. They have a cat that’s pregnant. Due any day now. We need something unique.”

“Right,” George chimed in cheerfully from behind the counter. “We were thinking a little celebratory charm box — something that meows Congratulations every few hours.”

Ron chuckled and added, “So I told them we’re expecting too! Figured it’s a good omen, eh?”

The sisters exchanged a look Hermione couldn’t quite read. The air thinned around her. Hermione’s pulse tripped; she could feel her face draining of color. Her hand clenched around her sleeve as she forced a smile.

Daphne tilted her head, her expression polite. “Interesting,” she said lightly, voice just loud enough to carry over the hum of the shop. “Our friend has just found out he’s becoming a father soon, too.”

Ron grinned, clueless. “Well, what are the odds, eh?”

Daphne’s smile sharpened. “The only difference is… it was without his consent.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped like a stone.

Ron grimaced. “Yikes. That’s not exactly how you want to find out you’re a dad. Some people have no bloody conscience.”

Hermione’s throat closed. She managed a brittle smile that fooled no one but herself.

Harry shifted beside her, sensing the crack in the air. “Right,” he said lightly, stepping in. “I remember we’ve got a few charmed cat beds upstairs — self-warming, glow different colors at night. Might make a perfect gift?”

George brightened, oblivious to the tension. “Ah, yes! Brilliant idea, Daphne, Astoria — you’ll love them. Follow me.”

Ron was already bouncing up the stairs after his brother, calling back, “You too, Harry, Hermione, come have a look!”

Harry gave her hand a brief, firm squeeze before turning to follow, his glance saying breathe. He gestured the sisters toward the staircase. Daphne smiled politely and went after them.

But Astoria didn’t move. “I’ll catch up,” she said sweetly. “I want to check out some hairpins down here.”

Hermione’s fingers twitched. She pivoted toward the small hallway that led to the bathroom.

“Granger.” Astoria’s voice stopped her cold. It was quiet, but laced with steel, far too cold for her sixteen years. Hermione froze, hand half-raised to her scarf, before slowly turning back. “Yes?”

Astoria stood a few feet away, arms crossed, green eyes sharp as glass. “You think this is funny?”

Hermione blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Astoria said, voice low but laced with venom. ”Merlin, how far will you go to humiliate him? What’s this—revenge?”

Hermione’s breath hitched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I know enough.” Astoria took a step closer. “I know you used him like a pawn in one of your little moral experiments.”

“You think I planned any of this?” Hermione snapped, louder than she meant to. “He used Legilimency on me! He’s not some fragile saint—”

Astoria cut her off. “Because you lied to him!” Her voice cracked on the word. “You disguised yourself as someone he cared about, and you let him touch you. What do you think that makes you, Granger?”

Hermione’s face flushed scarlet. Her hands shook. “You don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly.” Astoria’s tone softened just enough to sting. “He was finally doing better. He finally crawled out of that manor. Waking up before dawn to get to that clerk job. Eating again. Smiling again. And then you show up—and now he’s gone again. For what? To prove you could?”

Hermione’s throat closed. “So that’s what he’s  telling everyone now?”

Astoria blinked. “What?”

Hermione’s voice rose, sharp with panic. “Did Draco tell you that himself? Spreading it around to make sure everyone knows how filthy I am?”

Astoria’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut. “You think he’d brag about something like that?”

Hermione let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, please. He’s a Malfoy. Humiliation’s a family art form.”

“Shut up,” Astoria hissed, stepping forward. “You don’t get to talk about him like that after what you did.”

Hermione stood her ground. “What I did? I didn’t want any of this. I regret everything more than you could possibly imagine.”

Astoria gave a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah? You told him you’re having his baby and then turned up here to play happy family with your boyfriend. If that’s not a cruel prank, what is it?”

Hermione’s hand twitched toward her scarf. “No. You don’t understand anything—”

“I understand enough to know you’re cruel,” Astoria shot back. “You didn’t just hurt him—you enjoyed it. You wanted to see if you could break the big bad Slytherin and feel righteous doing it.”

Hermione’s face went pale. “You’re delusional.”

The air went dead still.

Astoria’s hand moved before her brain caught up. The slap cracked through the shop like a whip.

Hermione’s head snapped to the side, cheek blazing. 

“Delusional? You lied to him, you ruined him, and now you call me delusional?” Astoria’s voice shook, equal parts fury and grief. “You broke him just to prove a point. He might never recover—and you stand here pretending you’re the victim.”

Hermione’s fury snapped. She lunged forward, shoving Astoria hard against the counter. A jar of sweets clattered to the floor.

“You don’t even know what happened. You just believe whatever he told you!”

Astoria pushed her back with equal force. “You self-righteous little BITCH!”

They collided again — nails, fists, hair, a blur of frustration and grief masquerading as hatred — until—

“Oi! What in Merlin’s—” George’s voice cut through the chaos.

Harry’s arms wrapped around Hermione from behind, hauling her back.

”You fucking—bitch!” She spat and kicked once more right at Astoria’s chest sending her backwards and Ron caught her in his arms just before she fell on the floor. Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, neither of them breathed. Then Ron guided her up quickly, still steadying her by the shoulders.

Daphne rushed down the stairs, face pale. “Astoria! What on earth— I’m so sorry,” she said quickly to George, Ron, Harry and Hermione. “She’s hot-headed, she didn’t mean—”

Before she could finish, Ginny burst in from the side aisle, hair wild from running. “What the hell is going on?” she snapped, stepping between Hermione and Astoria. “She’s pregnant, for Merlin’s sake!”

Astoria’s lip curled. “Oh, I know,” she said coldly. “That’s exactly the problem.”

“Excuse me?” Ginny’s voice went lethal.

Astoria tore free of Ron’s hands, eyes blazing. “Don’t you see, Daphne? She’s playing a cruel prank here! If she really didn’t want this, like Draco said, then she wouldn’t be here celebrating. The baby isn’t his—”

“Wait, what?” Ron frowned, looking between them. “What are you talking about?”

Astoria’s voice cracked open like a whip. “Granger slept with Draco!”

The words hit the air like a curse.

Daphne paled. “Astoria, enough.” She grabbed her sister’s arm, tugging her toward the door. “We’re leaving.”

Astoria jerked free just long enough to glare at Hermione. “Tell him the truth, bitch.”

The door slammed behind the Greengrass sisters. The sound rang through the shop, sharp and final.

Hermione couldn’t breathe. The room had gone utterly still.

Ron’s arms slowly dropped to his sides. His face was bloodless, frozen mid-expression, eyes flicking from the door…to Hermione. “What did she just say?” His voice came out low, brittle.

Hermione’s mouth opened, but nothing came. The words tangled in her throat — denial, confession, apology — all choking each other.

Harry stepped forward. “Ron—”

Ron’s head snapped toward him. “You knew?”

“Mate, it’s not what—”

“Don’t,” Ron cut in, voice cracking. “Don’t you fucking ‘mate’ me right now.”

Hermione flinched. “Ron, please—”

He turned on her then, eyes glassy and wide. “Is it true?” His voice shook. “Tell me it’s not true.”

Her silence was enough.

Ron’s chest heaved once, twice, then he stumbled back a step, like someone had just punched the air out of him. “Bloody hell,” he whispered. “You—you slept with Malfoy?”

“Ron—”

“Don’t.” His hand came up, half-shield, half-warning. “Just—don’t. I can’t even look at you right now.”

He brushed past her, nearly knocking into a shelf. The bell above the door clanged once as it slammed behind him.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then Ginny tore her gaze from the door to Hermione — the disbelief giving way to something breaking underneath. “Tell me it’s not true,” she whispered.

Hermione’s lips trembled, but the tears had already answered.

Ginny stepped back like she’d been struck. Then she turned and bolted after Ron.

The door banged again.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

George exhaled slowly, the sound rough. “Hermione…?” 

She tried to speak, but the sob hit first — quiet, wrecked, enough to make his jaw clench.

Harry put a hand on her shoulder. “She was going to tell him today,” he said, voice low but steady. “Things just…got out of control.”

George nodded once, eyes fixed on the door where his siblings had gone. Then he whispered, “Yeah. Seems that’s the story of all our lives these days.”

———

The bottle was half-empty by the time Draco realized his hand was shaking. He set it down beside the gravestone anyway.

Moonlight cut pale across the carved name — Vincent Crabbe — the flowers wilted. He hadn’t replaced them this week. 

A dry laugh scraped his throat. “You’d love this, mate,” he muttered. “Me, the hero of irony. Guess I finally got what I gave, huh?”

The wind rustled the weeds around the grave, soft and indifferent.

He dragged a hand through his hair. His head ached from the hangover that hadn’t even finished forming yet. He’d stopped trying to tell whether it was his blood pounding or his thoughts.

Of course it was Granger. Who else would fate choose for revenge? She made him believe for five fucking minutes that redemption was possible.

Draco’s fingers traced the dirt beside Vince’s name until they brushed something cold — the edge of his father’s ring. 

He turned it once, the silver catching the dim light. “Father,” he whispered, his voice rough from the whiskey, “I tried, you know. I really did.”

His throat tightened. “For Mother. For you. Someone had to keep her safe.”

The ring slipped between his fingers, cutting into his palm. “But I failed again. Failed Vince. Failed Pansy. Failed…everything.”

He let out a broken breath and stared at the stars. “You’d say it’s because I stopped being a Malfoy. Maybe you’d be right. Maybe I was never good enough to be one.”

The wind bit colder now. He pressed his knuckles to his mouth, swallowing whatever sound threatened to escape.

He should go home. Mother would start worrying soon. She didn’t know — none of this. She must never know. Theo, Greg, Daphne, and Astoria had found him here that night he never came back from work. They’d dragged him home before dawn, covered for him with half-truths. Mother still thought he’d fallen ill.

If she knew what really happened… she’d shatter.

He dug his heel into the dirt. Maybe he should return to work on Monday. Grovel. Keep his head down. Survive.

But the thought of walking past Granger again made his stomach turn. The story would spread like fire — The Death Eater taints the war heroine.

They’d call it proof. Proof that Potter’s mercy had been a mistake. Proof that a Malfoy never really changed.

He reached for the bottle again, but it was empty. It slipped from his hand and cracked against the stone. A jagged piece skittered toward him, catching the moonlight. He stared at it for a long time.

The thought came uninvited, quiet, logical. End it.

One clean cut, no more pity, no more waking up to his mother’s trembling hands.

He reached for the shard. Cold glass met his palm. His reflection trembled in it — pale, hollow, unrecognizable.

The edge kissed his skin. His hand shook.

He pressed harder — but something inside him wavered, a flicker of his mother’s face, of her voice calling him my dragon.

The glass slipped. It hit the dirt, harmless.

His breath came out broken. “You’d laugh if you saw me now,” he murmured to the empty air. “I told myself it was for her, but maybe I’m just too much of a coward to join you.”

He tipped his head back, the night spinning.

They all whispered the same thing in the streets now. Potter’s charity case. Look how merciful the Chosen One is. Even vouched for Malfoy. 

The words had cut deeper than any curse. If he’d had a shred of his father’s pride, he’d have taken Azkaban. He’d have let them lock him up and rot quietly beside the others.

But he hadn’t. He’d stayed — for her. Because she still flinched at every knock on the door, because she still called out Lucius’s name in her sleep. And the other part was simple—he was a coward.

A bitter laugh followed. “Guess that makes me noble, doesn’t it? Draco Malfoy, the reformed coward.”

The words tasted like rust.

He hated Potter for saving him. He’d mocked Potter his whole life, and now he was living off the man’s mercy like it was oxygen. The irony wasn’t lost on him. The stars blurred. “You were right, Vince,” he whispered. “There’s no redemption. Just longer punishments.”

“You think this is punishment?”

Draco’s head jerked up. Potter was leaning against a nearby tree, the moon catching in his glasses.

“You’re still breathing, Malfoy,” he said. “That’s not punishment. That’s the hard part.”

Draco exhaled through his nose, the sound halfway between a laugh and a curse. “Potter.”

Potter nodded toward the broken bottle by the grave. “That doesn’t work forever. Trust me.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “Did you come here to lecture me?”

“No,” Potter said quietly. “I came because I thought you might not walk away this time.”

Draco’s laugh came out dry, humorless. “Of course. The savior swoops in again.”

He leaned back against the gravestone. “What?  here to check if the monster’s chained properly? Then report back to Granger that you’ve found the broken Death Eater sulking in a graveyard.”

Potter’s brow furrowed. “She didn’t send me—”

“Don’t pretend, Potter!” Draco cut in, voice sharper now. “You always have to play the hero, don’t you? Can’t let one scandal breathe without you polishing your halo over it.”

Potter didn’t flinch. “You think I’m here for her?”

“Who else?” Draco sneered. “You heard, didn’t you? Whatever she told you. And now you’re here to watch me beg, to make sure the story ends with me crawling. Makes for a lovely headline, doesn’t it?”

Potter exhaled slowly, a plume of white mist between them. “You think too much about headlines.”

“Comes with the family curse.” Draco’s voice dropped, hoarse. “We were raised for the papers, Potter—raised to matter. And now I’m here. Talking to my dead friend. While you, saint of the century, get to lecture me.”

“You think mattering ever made anyone happy?” Potter’s voice was low, steady.

Draco’s breath caught.

“You spent your life chasing power. I spent mine running from it. Look where that got us—two ghosts talking to another.”

The words hung between them. For a heartbeat, Draco couldn’t look away. Then he laughed, dry and small. “You really are insufferable, Potter.”

Potter almost smiled. “So I’ve been told.”

He straightened from the tree. “You don’t have to like me, Malfoy. But you’re not done yet. Don’t make your mother bury another ghost.”

For a moment, silence stretched. Draco stared at the dirt until the words stopped ringing.

Then, slowly, he laughed—low, bitter, shaking. “Still preaching,” he muttered. “You really can’t help yourself, can you? The Chosen One, handing out salvation like sweets.”

Potter’s expression flickered, but he didn’t move.

“You talk about ghosts like you know what it’s like to be one,” Draco went on, voice cracking through the chill. “But you’ve never been invisible a day since Hogwarts. The world worships you. You sneeze, and they call it a miracle. You walk into a room, and they stand. You say you hate it, but you don’t stop them, do you?”

Potter’s jaw tightened. “That’s not—”

“Oh, spare me.” Draco stood up. “You’ll never understand what it’s like to spend every bloody day being spat on for something you were born into. I tried, Potter. I tried to start over. I swallowed every insult. And it doesn’t matter.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “It’ll never matter. I’ll always be him. The Death Eater you pitied enough to save.”

Potter’s eyes darkened.

Draco stepped closer, the cold air between them vibrating with fury. “Don’t pretend this was mercy. You bailed me out because of her. Because my mother lied for you. You didn’t save me—you paid a debt.”

Potter shook his head slowly. “You really believe that?”

“I know that.” Draco’s voice cracked into something half-laugh, half-snarl. “You don’t give a damn about me or her. You just couldn’t stomach letting the world think the great Harry Potter let a woman die for him.”

The air froze solid between them.

Potter’s voice came quiet. “You think that’s what this is?”

Draco stared back, breathing hard. “You’re here for Granger, aren’t you? Making sure she’s safe from the monster. Always the hero.”

Something in Potter’s eyes shifted—hurt, anger, pity—all at once. But he didn’t answer.

Draco’s chest heaved. “Go on then. Go tell her you tried. Tell her you found me rotting in the dirt, bottle in hand. She’ll thank you and call you her hero all over again.”

Potter’s breath misted once more in the cold. Then, very quietly: “You really don’t see it, do you?”

Draco frowned, still breathing hard, ready to spit another insult—but Potter reached into his coat. For a second, Draco tensed, half-expecting a wand drawn in warning.

Instead, Potter held something out to him.

Draco froze. The pale wood caught the moonlight. His wand. The one Potter had taken at Malfoy Manor. 

He stared at it, throat tight. “That’s—”

Potter’s answer was quiet. “I’ve kept it. I thought… maybe one day you’d want it back.”

Draco didn’t move. The frost whispered under their boots.

Potter stepped closer and pressed it into his palm. “You’re not bound to me anymore, Malfoy.”

Draco’s fingers curled around the familiar shape before his mind caught up. The warmth of it seared through the cold.

“You—why now?” he rasped.

Potter met his eyes. “Because you keep saying you don’t have a choice. I’m giving it back to prove you do.”

Draco looked down at the wand, fingers trembling. “You don’t know anything.”

Potter’s gaze didn’t waver. “I know enough. You keep blaming yourself because it’s easier than facing the truth.”

Draco’s head snapped up, eyes blazing. “The truth? Don’t you dare—”

Potter cut him off quietly. “You know how the Time-Turner works, Malfoy. You knew Pansy was never meant to live past that night. Hermione didn’t cause it. You didn’t either. The universe doesn’t care how much you hate it.”

Draco’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. “You think that helps? You think that makes it better?”

Potter shook his head. “No. But it’s the truth. And until you stop pretending you can rewrite it, you’re going to keep bleeding over ghosts.”

The air went still again. 

Potter stepped back once, voice low. “Keep the wand. You’ll need it when you decide to start living again.”

Then he turned toward the gate and walked away.

Draco stood motionless, the wand heavy in his hand, the words pounding in his skull.

He wanted to scream after him—to tell him he was wrong, that Pansy could have lived, but his voice cracked and failed.

Only the wind answered, whispering through the graves.

He clutched the wand like a lifeline he hated, and whispered, “You don’t know a damn thing, Potter.”

But even to his own ears, it sounded like surrender.

The gate creaked behind him as he left the graveyard. By the time he reached the house, frost had begun to melt on the doorstep. He slipped inside quietly. No lights from his mother’s room. She must have fallen asleep. Good.

He stepped inside their room. Theo was awake, sitting cross-legged on his mattress with a book open on his knees—Fantastic Beasts: Postwar Rehabilitation and Care. Across from him, Greg hunched over a scrap of wood, carving knife in hand. Little curls of shavings covered his lap. 

Draco blinked. “Couldn’t sleep?” His voice came out rougher than he meant.

Theo looked up. “Could you?”

Greg didn’t glance up. “Mira’s kittens’ll need toys.” He turned the half-formed mouse in his palm. “Thought I’d make one. Easier than thinking.”

Something in Draco’s chest cracked quietly. “You’ll spoil her,” he muttered, pulling off his coat.

“Good,” Greg said simply. “She deserves it.”

Theo watched Draco. “You smell like cold and bad decisions.”

Draco huffed a laugh without humor and lowered himself to his mattress on the floor. “One of those days.”

“Week,” Theo corrected.

Draco didn’t argue. He lay back, staring at the low ceiling. Mira stirred from the corner and padded over, tail curling as she climbed onto his chest. Her warmth spread through the fabric of his shirt, her purr deep and steady.

He exhaled, one hand coming up to steady her. His fingers brushed the small curve of her stomach. A life growing, quiet and unbothered, where everything else seemed to rot.