Chapter Text
The Humble Flat in London
London, June 1998
Draco Malfoy had barely slept through the night for the past month. Dreamless Draught didn’t seem to work anymore. He blinked a few times, staring at the ceiling of his room. His new flat room. He had left Malfoy Manor after the Battle of Hogwarts with his Mother, Narcissa Malfoy.
His new flat was humble—painfully so compared to the Manor.
The room was small, claustrophobic even. All of his belongings were crammed into one corner, stacked beside a large window that let in the grey London light. His bed was narrow, barely enough for him to stretch out—he had to curl himself up to sleep.
When he looked up, there was no intricate art or enchanted fresco on the ceiling. Just plain plaster, stained in places. One brown spot near the corner looked vaguely like a rabbit, he thought, bitterly amused.
There was a tiny lavatory attached, barely big enough to turn around in. The mirror above the sink was too small to ignore and too close to escape. Everything about it felt tight, confined. It felt suffocating.
The usual headache began to pound in his skull the moment consciousness returned. It seemed to love him too much to ever let go. It made him nauseated.
His face was pale and gaunt. The bluish tone beneath his eyes made him look like the walking dead. He felt a strange sensation in his left arm—his Dark Mark still throbbed from time to time, despite Voldemort’s death. He had tried a few spells with his wand, but nothing seemed to ease it.
He exhaled and reached for the glass of water on his bedside table, taking a small sip.
Then he stood and approached the large window. He pushed it open. A breeze rolled in—not calming, not refreshing—just cold. It sent a shiver down his spine.
Draco gazed out at the city of London.
He searched for something—anything—calming. His eyes wandered to the large garden below, where Muggles were running around, some with dogs. Then, at a nearby crossroads, he spotted a mother holding hands with her young son.
He tried to find comfort in the scene—but found none.
He stepped up to the edge of the window.
He had been thinking about this for a while now.
He inhaled deeply, eyes closed. He didn’t feel afraid. He listened to his heartbeat—steady.
There was almost no hesitation in him.
To end his life.
Tears pricked at his eyes, threatening to spill. He didn’t know why he wanted to cry — only that something inside him ached so deeply it felt bottomless. His life didn’t mean anything to anyone. Not really. He was yearning for a peace he’d never known — like mourning something he wasn’t even sure had ever existed.
He couldn’t remember the last time his heartbeat felt like it mattered.
He had failed. As a son. As a friend — if anyone had ever truly thought of him as one. He had failed as a human being. He hadn’t spoken up for what he believed. Hadn’t even tried .
He believed in the afterlife. And he wished — he begged — to be born again. As someone with choice . Someone with an easier life.
Just a quiet one, he prayed.
The cold breeze didn’t stop him. It almost felt like the wind itself was ready — like it had prepared to catch his body before it slammed into the hard streets of London.
He was ready.
He loosened his grip, breathed in sharply — then again, softer, steadier.
He wanted to savor his last breath.
This would be the final day of Draco Lucius Malfoy.
And he would be gone. Forever.
Forgotten.
Hopefully —
Forgiven.
Then a soft knock came at the door.
“Draco, son, are you up?” His mother’s voice stopped him—again for that week.
He clenched his jaw, steadying himself with a hand against the wall. The sobs nearly escaped — but he forced them down. He cleared his throat, swallowing the ache.
Cowardice had saved him one more time — or so he told himself.
But deep down, he knew better.
It was her voice — soft as velvet — that had saved him. Again. Just like before.
His mother.
She had shielded him from the Dark Lord. From the war. From himself. In every way that counted, she had been there. Quiet. Unwavering.
She was the only pure love he had ever known. The only thing that had ever made his heart sing — even if that song was mostly silent now.
“Yes—yes, Mother. I’m up.”
“Breakfast is ready, love.” Her voice was silky and low. He could barely hear her.
He moved slowly to the lavatory and changed out of his pajamas. He brushed his teeth and washed his face, trying his best not to look into the mirror. He hated the face staring back at him.
Nausea rolled through him, and he vomited into the toilet—again, only yellow acid burning his throat. He had barely eaten in days. He did not even bother to brush his teeth again.
His mother had been insisting he needed to go outside sometime.
But Merlin —she must be out of her mind. Who would want to see Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, walking freely in Diagon Alley?
Heaven knows I’m miserable now , he thought bitterly.
His father, Lucius Malfoy, had already been summoned by the Wizengamot multiple times, awaiting trial for his involvement as a follower of Lord Voldemort.
Draco knew his time was coming too.
He had read the owl—he’d been summoned by the Wizengamot as well. The hearing would likely be within the next two days.
He didn’t know what was going to happen to his life.
He’d probably spend the rest of it rotting in Azkaban, alongside his father.
The thought made him nauseous all over again.
He found his mother sitting at the small table.
The flat was nothing compared to the Manor, but somehow, it brought more comfort to Draco and his mother in the aftermath of the war, even just a little. Narcissa was sipping a cup of chamomile tea when she glanced at him and called for their last house-elf.
“Mippy, can you bring more tea, please?”
Mippy appeared within seconds, preparing a fresh cup for Draco. She had refused to leave the Malfoys, despite everything that had happened. Mippy had always believed she belonged to the Malfoy family.
Kreacher had stayed at Malfoy Manor, dusting and packing the remnants of their old life. Narcissa was still determined to preserve every family keepsake—Draco’s little shoes, his first mini-broom, his first-year Slytherin robe. Everything was kept safe.
Draco sat beside his mother. She offered him a plate of scones, but he shook his head.
“Draco, dear… you’ve barely eaten in weeks. Please, have something,” her voice was soft, almost pleading.
He hesitated, then finally took a bite of a small sandwich. He chewed slowly. The burn of stomach acid still lingered in his mouth, killing whatever appetite he might have had. Swallowing was a struggle. The lump of food nearly came back up. He took a sip of water and gently placed the remaining sandwich back down.
Narcissa reached across and held his hand. Her voice trembled.
“We’ll get through this, love.”
Her eyes spoke a thousand unspoken truths. She knew.
She knew how hard it was for her son to even stay alive.
She knew Draco had buried himself deep in the abyss — clawing for light, but never quite brave enough to reach it. The war hadn’t just changed him; it had carved into him, left him bleeding where no one could see. A wound left open, festering. Waiting. Hoping someone might heal what was broken.
She held his hand longer than necessary, as if her grip could anchor him. Her eyes studied his long fingers — once strong, now thin, almost skeletal. He was wasting away. He barely ate. And it shattered her.
She loved him more than life itself. But the truth was... Narcissa Malfoy didn’t know how to save her own son.
And that desperation clung to her like a second skin.
Draco didn’t answer. He stood, left the table, and retreated to his room.
He lay down, eyes fixed once more on the ceiling.
What would life be like after this?
After the Wizengamot decided his fate?
His silver eyes, once bright, were now empty. Hollow. There was a flicker of something—maybe revenge, maybe just bitterness. He was still young. He had a whole life ahead of him. So why had his father dragged him into this? Why hadn’t his mother stopped it? Why did he have to be the Malfoy heir?
He never asked for any of it.
But then… he wasn’t a child anymore.
He could have run. He could have said no.
He knew that killing Dumbledore was wrong. That’s why he never followed through. And he didn’t regret that—not one bit.
He knew, deep down, that blood status meant nothing.
He knew it—yet he still followed orders.
He could have saved that girl that night. Hermione Granger. He could’ve stopped his aunt—Bellatrix. But he didn’t. He had stayed silent, tears sliding down his face as her screams echoed through the Manor. That scream still haunted him.
Every time he dreamed it, he wanted to die.
And maybe, he thought, he already had.
But in time, he began to understand: the only reason he hadn’t revolted, hadn’t run, hadn’t fought harder… was because of his mother.
He had only ever wanted to protect her.
He knew that if he rebelled, her life would be the price.
She had sacrificed everything to protect him. And here he was, drowning in regret, hating himself for every choice, every silence, every cowardly breath.
His anguish consumed him. It never stopped.
And in that moment, he reached a painful realization:
Draco Malfoy was never destined to be happy.
His eyes turned cloudy.
Two days passed in much the same way.
Each one heavier than the last.
Draco was growing weaker—not just physically, but mentally. The war had ended for the world, but not for him.
Today, he was to appear before the Wizengamot.
He didn’t know what to expect, or what to say. He simply rose—though he hadn’t truly slept—brushed his teeth, vomited uncontrollably, then dressed in his black suit.
He went downstairs and found Narcissa in her usual spot, quietly sipping her tea. She, too, had been summoned.
Today, their fate would be decided.
They didn’t even have the energy to speak.
Together, they stepped into the Floo.
And disappeared into the green flame.
London, September 2000
Hermione Granger had graduated from Hogwarts, after returning to complete her 8th Year following the Battle of Hogwarts. She was now working at the Ministry of Magic as a Wizarding Historian, where she would study the history of magical artifacts, understanding their significance and origins.
Naturally, with her new role, if there was anything related to Ancient Artifacts or Cursed Family Heirlooms, she would be the one to call.
It was around early September, when London was a bit chilly. She jolted out of bed, waking up hungover. Her welcoming party the night before, celebrating her acceptance into the Ministry, had been pretty chaotic. She was never a fan of Firewhisky. Hell, she thought, after everything she had been through in the past couple of years, she deserved to have a little bit of fun.
But her head hated her for that decision. It was thumping like crazy.
She found Crookshanks at her feet, sleeping soundly.
“I think I should take a vow of secrecy to myself that I’ll never drink Firewhisky again in my life, Crookshanks,” she muttered—mostly to herself. She sat up and tried to find her wand, then Accio -ed a glass of water.
After a few minutes composing herself, piecing together fragments of last night’s memories, and feeling slightly better from the water, she stood up and prepared herself for real work. She walked past her mirror and saw her giant hair—frizzy like bushes that had never been tended. Drool traced down her cheek. She looked at herself.
“I am one lucky woman to still have Ron,” she thought to herself.
Although, she couldn’t deny that her relationship with Ron had grown apart over the past year. Ron hadn’t continued his 8th Year at Hogwarts—nor had Harry. Both had accepted offers as Auror apprentices almost immediately. Hermione thought it was understandable not to want to return to a place that had basically felt like hell for the past couple of years.
But for her, she chose to pursue her love of education. She was the Brightest Witch of Her Age.
Just like everything else in life that grows up, they have grown apart too. Hermione was still with Ron, technically, but she barely saw him. Ron and Harry had been traveling across England as Alastor Moody’s apprentices. Sometimes Hermione went to the Burrow and found no one there but Molly and Arthur.
George had left for Romania with Charlie since the catastrophic event with Fred during the Battle of Hogwarts. Percy was still in London, having returned to the Ministry as Head of the Department of Magical Transportation. Bill had left England with Fleur, moving back to France.
Ginny had returned to Hogwarts, but she’d also been offered an athlete scholarship—as the upcoming youngest Seeker in the Quidditch World Cup. Her days were packed with practice, and she barely had time to play.
That brought everything back again to the lonely Hermione. The emptiness she felt was foreign. That’s why she was so ecstatic when she got accepted into the Ministry of Magic. Her life wouldn’t be so boring anymore.
After taking a quick shower, she got dressed and went to the Floo, heading to her office.
The Ministry of Magic
London, September 2000
Hidden far beneath the bustling streets of London, the Ministry of Magic stretched like a grand underground city. The entrance—discreet and cleverly disguised—led to a descending journey through enchanted lifts and winding passages until it opened up into the Atrium, the Ministry's grand central hall.
The Atrium was vast, echoing with footsteps and the low murmur of conversation. Its ceiling arched high above, bewitched to shimmer like dark marble flecked with gold, mimicking a night sky frozen in time. Golden light spilled from floating orbs, casting a soft glow over everything. At the center of the hall once stood a statue—long since replaced after the war—with a new monument: witches, wizards, and magical creatures standing together, a quiet yet powerful symbol of unity.
The floors gleamed black, polished to a mirror shine, so smooth they reflected the flowing robes of Ministry workers. Magical memos fluttered like origami birds overhead, zipping through the air on urgent errands. Fires roared in emerald green along the side walls, providing access via the Floo Network—constant bursts of green flames announcing arrivals and departures in every direction.
Branching out from the Atrium were long corridors and stairwells that led to the different departments. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement hummed with tension, full of crisp robes and clicking boots, while the Department of Mysteries was cloaked in silence, behind doors that whispered and pulsed faintly with ancient enchantments.
Everything felt orderly, purposeful—yet the magic was always there, humming beneath the surface, in the floating quills, the charmed lifts that spoke in calm tones, and the paper that filed itself. It was a place of both great power and heavy history, especially for those who remembered how it had once been shadowed by darker times.
Hermione arrived at the Ministry of Magic and went straight to the Department of Magical Artifacts, where she was greeted by none other than Sage Bragnam, a magical historian specializing in examining artifacts and runes—and her boss, as he was the Head Curator.
“Miss Granger! How was the welcoming party? I’m so honored to have you—the Brightest Witch of Our Age—here in our department. I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the party yesterday, Shacklebolt called,” he said cheerfully. His bubbly personality didn’t reflect the seriousness he held as a department head. Hermione felt her cheeks flush.
“Please, just call me Hermione, Mr. Bragnam. It’s lovely to meet you. And honestly, the party was just filled with Firewhisky. You didn’t miss much, really.”
“Please, call me Sage,” he smiled.
He motioned for Hermione to follow him to his office. A maple door with a small note reading ‘Knock slowly’ opened, and all of a sudden, a wave of foul stench came wafting out.
“Please excuse the smell, I’m currently working on something,” he said, ushering her in.
He welcomed Hermione to sit down. He walked to his table, picked up his wand, and swished it. The smell vanished.
“Well, Hermione, I think it’s an understatement to say that I’m truly happy to have you here in my department,” he continued.
“After Ronald and Harry went straight to Alastor Moody, everyone in the Ministry was waiting to see who would be lucky enough to have you by their side.”
Hermione smiled and nodded humbly. “It’s an honor to be here. I’ve always wanted to work in this department.”
“Truthfully speaking, becoming a Wizarding Historian specializing in ancient runes and artifacts isn’t something people are drawn to lately. My chin was held high when I found out you decided to become one—and to work with us. As you can see, we barely have anyone here. Well, except Dorry—Dolores Smith. I believe you met her yesterday.”
“But that’s not the reason I called you to my office,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, with a bit of hesitation.
“Shacklebolt called me last night. There was an ambush in one of the oldest wizarding estates in France. Our current suspicion is that someone was trying to retrieve a family heirloom from there.”
He looked at her, clearly waiting for her response. But she was still wondering where this conversation was going. She just nodded slowly. After a brief pause, he continued.
“As you can imagine, I’m currently tied up with a project here. I’m close to finishing, and I can’t afford to leave it at this stage, and Dorry needs to be here, helping me. So…”
She knew now where this was leading.
“We’d like to send you to France.”
London, June 1998
When Draco arrived at the Ministry of Magic, reporters were already waiting, their questions loud and invasive. Everything was a blur. Draco couldn't remember what was asked—he only remembered moving forward, shielding his mother from the chaos as they pushed through the crowd.
To Narcissa, Draco would always be her good son—her precious boy, no matter the world’s judgment. Her eyes were still full of belief. She had faith that her son would one day walk freely after the war, living the life he should have had.
They arrived at Courtroom Ten, escorted in silence to join Lucius Malfoy. The chamber was dark, the air thick with tension, broken only by the occasional rustle of parchment. Cold stone walls echoed with the ghosts of past trials. Today, it was the Malfoys who stood at the center, beneath a hundred watching eyes.
Madam Bones, presiding over the Wizengamot, cleared her throat.
“Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. You stand accused of knowingly supporting the Dark Lord, harboring fugitives, aiding in illegal imprisonment, and endangering lives in your attempt to undermine the Ministry of Magic. How do you plead?”
Lucius, pale but proud, raised his head. His voice was hoarse and half-dead.
“Guilty... under duress.”
His voice cracked like brittle parchment. Gasps echoed from the gallery above. Narcissa flinched. Draco looked down, ashamed and exhausted.
Madam Bones raised an eyebrow. “Explain yourself.”
“I acted… under threat. My family would have been slaughtered otherwise. You all think we were loyal—” he paused, voice breaking, “but we were hostages too.”
Silence fell. Madam Bones made a note. Then her gaze shifted.
“Narcissa Malfoy. You are accused of aiding and abetting the Dark Lord’s regime, and remaining silent while your home became a dungeon. What say you?”
Narcissa stood tall, prepared to answer—but before she could speak, a voice rang out.
“I will be giving testimony on behalf of Narcissa Black-Malfoy.”
Heads turned. Gasps followed.
It was Harry Potter— the Harry Potter—stepping into the courtroom, flanked by Hermione Granger. The gallery erupted into whispers and excited chatter. Madam Bones had to raise her wand for silence, the magical hush falling over the room like a blanket.
Lucius straightened in his chair. Something about the presence of the Boy Who Lived changed the air. He no longer looked defeated. He looked... aware.
“Calm down. Sit,” Madam Bones said sharply. “Now tell me—what brings you here, Mr. Potter and Miss Granger? Interrupting my court, are we?”
Draco blinked in disbelief. His heart raced. He didn’t know what to say—only that someone was here to help. Someone was here for his mother. Maybe... even for him.
Harry stepped forward calmly. “My apologies, Madam Bones,” he said, glancing down at her nameplate. “But Hermione Granger and I would like to offer testimony on behalf of Narcissa Malfoy.”
He paused, letting the room breathe.
“And Draco Malfoy.”
Draco froze. His mouth parted. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. A sob tore through his chest—loud enough that some in the gallery turned to look. But Hermione heard it first. Her head snapped toward him, concern in her eyes. Their eyes met.
And in that moment, Draco felt as though an arrow had pierced clean through him.
The girl he once hated. The girl who had nearly died in his home... had come to save him.
He looked away, but his shoulders trembled from the effort of holding it together.
Narcissa turned toward Harry. Their eyes met, and she smiled through her tears.
Madam Bones gestured for Harry to take the podium.
“Well then, Mr. Potter. Are you here to defend Death Eaters?”
Harry inhaled. When he spoke, his voice was clear and stern.
“We fought a war to end this kind of vengeance. If we truly want peace, we have to let people come back from their mistakes.”
The gallery fell into stunned silence.
“I’m here to defend Narcissa Malfoy because she chose love over evil. On the night Voldemort tried to kill me, she saved my life. She lied to Voldemort, telling him I was dead—knowing full well what the consequences could be—because she wanted to protect her son.”
He reached into his pocket and held up a crystal vial.
“I have my memories as evidence, which I am prepared to submit to the Pensieve. I also consent to Veritaserum, so you may confirm that I’m not under any coercion or enchantment.”
Madam Bones took the vial and set it aside. She made another note, then nodded.
“That will be all for now, Mr. Potter. Narcissa, do you wish to speak?”
Narcissa’s voice trembled. “Only to say thank you, Mr. Potter. I will be forever in your debt.”
She bowed her head. Harry nodded, humbly.
Madam Bones moved on.
“Draco Lucius Malfoy. You were sixteen when you received a mission from the Dark Lord. You let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. You stood by while a girl was tortured in your home. That girl is here today, defending you.”
She gestured to Hermione Granger.
Hermione approached the podium. Her voice was soft, but unwavering.
“My name is Hermione Granger. I’m here because...” She paused, her gaze locking with Draco’s. “I defend a boy who was born into a war he didn’t choose.”
Draco’s world shifted. Her eyes, filled with strength and honesty, calmed the storm inside him. He didn’t look away.
He paid closer attention to her thick, curly hair—it looked magnificent, almost like a lion’s mane. It didn’t drown her; it made her look even stronger. He glanced at her hands—no trembling, no fidgeting. She was truly confident. Draco was left in awe.
Hermione turned back to Madam Bones.
“I was tortured in the Malfoy home. But even then, Draco Malfoy never raised his wand. He was a boy drowning in a life he didn’t choose. And over time, he chose what he could—when he could.”
She laid out her case: evidence, timelines, Pensieve memories, and witness accounts of Draco’s quiet resistance. Every word she spoke rang with conviction.
Madam Bones looked over her glasses at Hermione.
“Anything else to add, Miss Granger?”
Hermione looked back at Draco, her golden-brown eyes locking onto his silver-grey ones.
There was something in her gaze—conflicted, unreadable. It made Draco uneasy, though he couldn’t look away. She tilted her head slightly, and that’s when he saw it—something warm in her eyes.
“I know what it’s like to have your choices stripped from you. Draco chose differently when it mattered most. Justice is not served through suffering—it’s served through understanding, and accountability.”
The room was silent. No one moved. Draco stared at her as though seeing light for the first time.
The Malfoys had heard their final decision. Draco and Narcissa sat in silence, their hands clasped tightly together. Across the courtroom, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger remained seated. They said nothing either.
Draco found it troubling. Why were they still here, waiting until the trial concluded?
Such Gryffindor , he thought.
But the thought faded quickly. He couldn’t take his eyes off Hermione—not for a moment. He didn’t understand her. Why would she save him? Was her heart truly bigger than her heartache? Was she that naïve?
He remembered vividly what had happened at the Manor. The screams. The look in her eyes. The fear. And yet... she had stood in front of the entire court and defended him.
She looked up and met his gaze.
Draco startled slightly, but didn’t look away. His throat felt tight. He mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
She smiled.
It was the most beautiful smile she had ever given, Draco thought. Her eyes sparkled, untouched by the darkness he had once seen in them. As though the Cruciatus Curse had never touched her at all. As though she was still pure—unchanged.
He didn’t know how to respond. He tried to smile back but fumbled with it. He’d forgotten how to smile. Merlin , he couldn’t even remember what it felt like to smile. His heart tugged painfully, and he lowered his eyes to the floor, afraid that if she looked too long, she’d see something shift in his expression.
But of course, the Brightest Witch of Her Age saw it.
She had that concerned look again. This time, she didn’t look away. Draco could feel her eyes— golden-brown eyes , he noticed—watching him, almost like a spell, like they were trying to pull him out of whatever abyss he was in. It felt like a bridge over troubled water. And for a moment, he let himself feel it.
It was raw. Real.
He didn’t look back again—but he didn’t want her to stop, either.
Then Madam Bones returned, flanked by the members of the Wizengamot. Draco and Narcissa stood. Security brought Lucius Malfoy back into the room.
The Malfoys were about to hear their fate.
For once, they stood a little taller. Hope flickered in their eyes.
Madam Bones cleared her throat.
“Lucius Abraxas Malfoy—Guilty. Sentenced to twenty years in Azkaban, with a parole review after ten years.”
Lucius didn’t speak. But Draco saw the way his father’s grip on the railing relaxed ever so slightly.
The Wizengamot looked satisfied.
“Narcissa Malfoy—Guilty.”
Madam Bones paused.
She looked straight into Narcissa’s eyes. Narcissa met her gaze head-on, unafraid. There was no regret—only acceptance. She wore her guilt like a badge of honor, knowing that everything she did had been for her son. That it had been the best possible choice.
“You are very fortunate Mr. Potter submitted his memories to the Pensieve, Mrs. Malfoy. Your sentence: community service—either in Magical Healing or Civil Reconstruction—alongside travel restrictions for ten years and wand monitoring.”
Narcissa dropped to her knees.
She let out the smallest sob—but it cracked into something bigger. She trembled. Draco moved quickly to help her, holding her steady until she composed herself and stood again.
Then something changed in her.
A light—something like joy—twinkled in her eyes. She turned toward Harry Potter, who was already watching her. He smiled softly. She bowed her head low, pressing back more sobs, and stepped down to her seat.
Madam Bones turned her attention to Draco.
“Draco Lucius Malfoy—Guilty.”
He held his breath. He couldn’t meet Madam Bones’ eyes.
He cast his gaze away—and, again, met the eyes of the Golden-Girl. She was already watching him.
He blinked, then looked down.
“You still have your life ahead of you,” Madam Bones said. “And you owe Ms. Granger your thanks. She spoke for you—despite everything.”
Draco closed his eyes for a beat. He knew he would never forget that.
“You are sentenced to several months of probation and wand monitoring.”
She brought down the gavel. “The Malfoy sentences are final, barring new evidence. This trial is now concluded.”
Draco stood frozen, still clutching the railing. Narcissa stood and pulled him into her arms.
His guard finally crumbled.
He broke.
He sobbed like a boy—deep, wracking sobs that came from the pit of his stomach. Guilt and sorrow poured out of him until he could barely breathe.
When he finally loosened the hug, gasping for air, he looked around the courtroom, searching.
She was gone.
Just like that, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger—who had saved a life without asking for anything in return—had vanished without goodbye, without fanfare, without a trace.
London, September 1998
Draco packed the last of his things. He checked every corner of the flat one more time. He had only lived here for two months, but it felt like a lifetime. Standing in front of the large window, he stared out at the view—great, but depressing. From here, he could see Regent’s Park in the heart of London.
That park had become his refuge.
For the last two months, he had stayed far away from anything magical—birdwatching, feeding squirrels, watching Muggles jog with their dogs. He used to sit on one of the benches and read, pretending he was just another person with nothing to hide, nothing to grieve.
He still looked pale, though better than before. His appetite hadn’t quite returned—he ate just enough to survive—but the headaches were less frequent now. His mind, surprisingly, felt clearer than it ever had. And he no longer woke up nauseous each morning.
His thoughts drifted back to that day—two months ago, right after the Trials.
Madam Bones had approached him quietly, after his embrace with his mother. She tapped his shoulder gently, like she was afraid she might break him further. He turned to her, eyes swollen and red. He cleared his throat and tried to compose himself.
“Yes, Madam?”
“Draco,” she said, “the Wizengamot had further discussions about your sentencing. What you don’t know is—we reviewed everything. Your memories, documentation… even your academic records from Hogwarts.”
She paused, her eyes scanning his face. He looked hollow, lost. Still, she pressed on, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.
“Minerva McGonagall delivered a letter this afternoon. She came to the Ministry but left as soon as I received it.”
Draco blinked, slowly. Madam Bones continued.
“She wrote a recommendation on your behalf. She said that, despite your… past behavior, she always recognized your academic talent. You had exceptional grades, particularly in Potions and Defense.”
He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know what he felt. The silence between them stretched.
“She’s offered to be your guardian,” Madam Bones said gently. “If you're open to joining a rehabilitation and education program in France—specializations like dueling, potions, magical creatures, and more—she will sponsor your enrollment.”
His eyes widened in shock, but still, no words came.
“She’s already begun the paperwork to enroll you in the Centre de l'Adaptation pour Mineurs —CAPM—in Paris. You'll be under her supervision. The Wizengamot agreed to the arrangement. She believes you deserve a clean slate.”
Madam Bones offered a small smile.
“This is your chance, Draco. To start over. To choose a life that’s entirely your own. No one else's choices. No one else's path. Just yours.”
She patted his back softly and walked away, leaving him standing there, mouth agape.
Now, two months later, he stood in the middle of his small flat, surrounded by packed bags. McGonagall’s letter to CAPM was in his hand. His mother had wept when he told her that he would take the offer. Not out of sadness—but relief. Hope. Gratitude. Even if it meant her son would be far away, she was glad he would have a real future.
Narcissa appeared in the doorway, her eyes shining.
“Are you ready, Draco?”
He nodded.
Draco Malfoy was going to start over.
In France.
London, September 2000
Hermione fidgeted nervously, her fingers twisting together as she sat across from Kingsley Shacklebolt.
He was scanning through a stack of parchment, his finger tracing a few lines here and there.
"Alright, Hermione," he said finally, his eyes still on the documents, "I believe Sage has already briefed you on most of the situation."
"Yes," she replied, hesitating for a moment before continuing, "although... I do have a question."
Kingsley looked up, his calm gaze meeting hers. "Go ahead."
"I just don’t understand," she said, furrowing her brow, "if the heirloom is in France, why are we the ones handling it?"
He set the parchment aside carefully, considering his words.
"The heirloom belongs to the Malfoys," he explained, "and the ambush happened on one of their estates—specifically the one in Lozère."
Hermione's eyes widened. She hadn't expected that name.
Still, she pressed on, "And how exactly is my involvement helpful?"
Kingsley resumed signing a few papers, his tone patient.
"You'll be evaluating the heirloom directly. We need to make sure it poses no danger. From what we know, it dates back to the early 1800s, but the extent of its magic is unknown. Originally, I hoped the assignment would only take a month or two—but looking at the data we have now, it might be longer. I trust that's acceptable, Ms. Granger?"
Before she could respond with more questions, Kingsley added, "You'll have all the support you need. Including... Draco Malfoy."
She nearly choked. "D-Draco Malfoy? What is he doing in France?"
Kingsley calmly tucked the remaining parchments into a cabinet with a flick of his wand.
"He completed a rehabilitation programme and further education in Paris under Professor McGonagall’s recommendation. I hear he’s made quite a name for himself—became one of the youngest Aurors in the French Ministry. Highly regarded, from what I gather."
Hermione barely suppressed an eye-roll and settled for a stiff nod instead.
Kingsley handed her a slim folder. "This is the last of the paperwork you'll need. You'll report to the French Ministry first—Malfoy will meet you there, and from there, the two of you can begin."
He clasped his hands on the desk, waiting for her response.
When Hermione remained silent, he prompted gently, "Any other questions, Ms. Granger?"
She shook her head quickly.
"Excellent. Please owl me—and Sage—as soon as you arrive. You can depart as soon as you're packed."
With a final wave of his wand, another stack of documents floated toward his desk.
Hermione stood. "I'll probably say goodbye to my friends first... then I'll leave."
"Safe travels," Kingsley said with a nod.
She left his office, the door clicking shut behind her, her mind spinning faster than ever.
Hermione sent owls to Ron and Harry the moment she got the news, and they arranged to meet at the Leaky Cauldron that night.
She wasn’t sure how to break it to them—especially Ron. Even without Malfoy in the picture, telling Ron she was heading to France for who-knows-how-long felt… heavy.
But she reminded herself, “He’s been traveling all over England for his Auror apprenticeship. Surely I can go to France for a few months.” Then another thought struck her: “How the heck did Malfoy become the youngest Auror when Ron hasn’t even finished his apprenticeship?”
Her curiosity was short-lived, though, as she spotted the familiar redhead and the Boy-Who-Lived entering the pub.
She waved them over.
“Hey—” Ron leaned in for a kiss that awkwardly landed somewhere between her lips and cheek. She ignored it and hugged Harry instead.
“I heard the Ministry threw you a crazy party, Hermione,” Harry grinned as he took a seat. “Didn’t know the Department of Magical Artifacts knew how to party.”
She laughed. “Only Dorry from my department came. The rest were just people looking for an excuse to down Firewhisky.”
Ron plopped into the seat beside her.
“How’s the travel? Last I heard, you two were hopping around all over England,” she asked, munching on a few peanuts.
Ron beamed. “Yeah! We’re about to wrap up our apprenticeship soon. Our next case is in Scotland!”
“That’s great. Speaking of which…” she began, “I’ve accepted an assignment in France.”
She waited. Ron said nothing.
Harry responded first, “On your first week?! That’s great! How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know—could be a few weeks, maybe a few months…” her voice trailed.
“Wait— months ? So you won’t be around when we finish our apprenticeship?” Ron asked.
“Well, yeah, maybe. I’m not sure yet,” she answered, trying to stay casual.
Ron didn’t seem convinced. “Our apprenticeship ends in just a week or two, Hermione. Then I’ll be back in London. I can’t believe you’re leaving me.”
She blinked, surprised by his reaction. “You’ve been traveling across the country for years, Ron. And now you’ll be in Scotland too. Of course I can spend some time in France.”
She didn’t look at him. Instead, her eyes found Harry’s—he looked like a child caught between two arguing parents.
Harry awkwardly fidgeted with his fingers. Before he could interject, Ron snapped,
“Well, that’s different, Hermione. You know I did it for… us.” His voice faltered on the word us .
Her voice shook slightly, but her tone sharpened. “I didn’t ask for your permission, Ronald.”
Harry froze in place.
“You’ve barely been around. I don’t think me being away will change anything about what we have now,” she added softly.
Ron stood up abruptly and left.
Finally, Harry spoke, “R-Ron, wait…”
Then he turned back to Hermione, gave her a quick hug, and kissed her cheek.
“Owl me, Hermione. I’m happy for you—really.” He followed after Ron, leaving her alone at the table.