Chapter Text
Deep breath.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Draco paced in front of the Floo, his pulse hammering beneath his skin. He tried to steady it, tried to breathe through the nerves tightening in his chest, forced his shoulders down, and shook out his hands— but the anxiety wouldn’t lessen.
Today was the day.
Gringotts.
He and Granger were going together to meet with his mother, with Potter, his ever-present security detail, close behind. It was all planned out, arranged to every detail, and yet his stomach still twisted. Something inside him didn’t feel quite ready. Not fully.
Are you alright?
He looked up, expecting to see Granger, but instead Not-Granger stood there. Draco closed his eyes, resting an arm against the mantle, head tipping forward to try to steady himself.
A long, shaky exhale slipped out.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, though the words sounded more like a wish than a truth.
I know I’m normally hard on you—pushing you to be better—but today…
Her words faded when he glanced sideways at her.
He lifted his head, brow lifting.
“What?” he asked dryly. “Decided to be nice to me now?”
Not-Granger scoffed as she crossed her arms, and he bristled at the way she rolled her eyes.
I’m always nice. Sometimes you just need a good swift kick in the arse to get you—
“You are the pain in my arse,” he muttered.
Takes one to know one.
Draco scowled slightly and shook his head once, trying to clear out the thoughts creeping up from somewhere deep. Threatening to spin his emotions out of control.
It wasn’t about leaving the cottage. He’d done that. Slowly, and in small steps.
But this?
This was about where they were going that had him so unsettled.
Diagon Alley.
Crowded streets.
Familiar faces.
Too many eyes that remembered him— eyes that still held judgment. Or worse… hatred.
And he was preparing to walk straight into the middle of it.
You did well at the coffee shop.
Not-Granger moved to stand in front of him, smiling softly.
“It was a Muggle village,” he countered. “That was…”
His thoughts drifted back to that quiet outing. Granger had coaxed him into it, promising it would be good for him. It was a small village, not too far from the cottage. She’d led them into a small café with fogged windows and mismatched chairs. He’d still felt anxious then.
It hadn’t been easy, not at first, but when he’d braced himself for the familiar sting of sharp stares and condemnation in whispers that still sounded too loud. But… there had been none.
Nothing.
No one recognized him.
No one cared.
And as he sat across from her in that cramped shop, sharing a cuppa and smiling at Granger’s antics, he forgot everything else.
He almost hated to admit he’d enjoyed it.
Almost.
“Fine,” he finally said. “It was fine.”
You’re starting to feel more.
“Yes—no, I mean I’ve always…” he hesitated, debating his next words. “I’ve always felt. It’s just always been… too much.”
It came out as a soft admission.
Not-Granger tilted her head slightly, knowingly.
Then I guess I should say you’re processing your feelings more. Luna seems to be helping.
“She is,” he agreed. “Granger is, too.”
Good.
Not-Granger took a step back, studying his expression warily.
You know today will be fine, right?
In. Out.
“Yes. I do.”
Just remember, I’m here if you need me.
And with that, she was gone. Blinking, Draco turned away from the hearth. The real Granger was in the doorway, watching him quietly. Her curls clung softly to her flushed cheeks, still damp from the shower. She wore a pale blue blouse paired with jeans, simple and comfortable.
“Afternoon,” she greeted. “I’ve, um… been meaning to talk to you about something…”
The soft hesitation in her tone threw him off, only adding to the tension in his chest.
“What is it?”
She exhaled slowly, hand drifting to the back of her neck. A tell he’d started to recognize from living with her. “So… our apartment at Gringotts is at three. I figured it might take a couple of hours. Maybe more. And Harry—”
She stopped, taking another steadying breath as she looked up towards the ceiling as though it would offer some sort of help.
Draco’s voice sharpened. “Potter what?”
“Harry invited us for dinner after,” she rushed out. “You can say no. I know it’s a lot—people, noise, and you’re usually… usually not comfortable—”
“Who’s coming?”
Her gaze dropped to the floor. “Harry—and Ginny. And their son, James, of course. Blaise will be there, and I think Theo. Pansy.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Oh—and…” she winced, looking at him almost apologetically, “... Ron.”
“That’s a lot.” Draco raked a hand through his hair. “Are Greg and them coming too?”
“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “Just the ones I mentioned.”
“Why aren’t they?”
“It’s Daphne’s turn to host their—uh, group session.”
Draco frowned. “Group session?”
She shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “Once a week, the four of them get together. They have dinner and talk. I don’t really know what to call it—it’s just something they do.”
Draco’s expression darkened, the pieces clicking into place with slow dread.
They got together. Regularly.
Talked.
And he’d never been asked to go.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked, voice low. “Why wasn’t I—”
She stepped forward quickly, her face falling. “Malfoy, you’ve always been invited. Every time I brought up Marcus or Goyle—or any of them—you’d shut down. You’d leave the room before I could finish the sentence. Even Luna’s tried…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.
He looked away, jaw tight, wounded pride flickering behind his eyes.
“I wasn’t ready,” he said quietly.
“No, I know. And that’s okay.” Granger reached out, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “The offer is there when you are.”
She gave him a soft, reassuring smile.
“We don’t have to go tonight. I’ll tell Harry we’ll come another time.”
“No!” he called out, then cleared his throat. “Don’t.”
Draco pulled away quickly, and her hand hovered in the air for a moment before dropping back to her side. Agitation stirred beneath his skin as he started to pace, but the feeling was more towards himself than anything else.
“I want to be able to go,” he snapped. “I want to be okay enough to see Greg. To talk to him. Maybe… maybe I just need to see more people.” He stopped pacing, jaw tensing. “If I do... maybe I can go on Friday nights.”
Not-Granger’s voice drifted from across the room.
You’re making the right choice. You’ve got this.
“Malfoy. I never want you to feel pressured…”
“I want to.”
***
The cart ride down to his family’s vault was exactly as dreadful as he’d imagined it would be.
Draco sat stiffly between his mother and Granger in the cramped metal cart. It zipped quickly along the tracks, rattling and jolting with every turn. Bogrod, their escort, remained unfazed by the speed. Their comfort seemed not to be of any concern to the goblin, and he remained unaware of the nausea churning in Draco’s stomach.
Potter had left the other Aurors behind in the lobby and now sat on the other side of the cart, quiet but observant.
The identity and verification process when they arrived had been lengthy and tedious. It had taken over an hour for wand inspections, and all the necessary paperwork to be completed before everything had been settled. Hand now aching, Draco watched as his last signature shimmered faintly with Goblin magic.
His mother’s name was back on the vaults.
And something in him settled. Just a little.
As daunting as it was to be away from the cottage, he’d managed. More than managed— he’d held it together through every minute.
Part of it, he knew, was from falling back into old habits and keeping himself cold and aloof.
No panic attacks, no spiral. Even the Aurors hadn’t unsettled him the way he had expected. His history with guards was far from positive or comforting. But the team Potter had chosen had kept their distance. Close enough to protect, but far enough not to feel invasive or triggering.
So far, nothing had gone wrong.
And that was what kept him on edge.
He couldn’t help it. He kept waiting for the moment it would. Because something always did.
The cart screeched to an abrupt halt, and everyone lurched forward in their seats from the momentum. He gripped the cold metal edge next to him, fighting off the bile rising with a slow breath through his nose.
Beside him, Granger clung to his arm in the same way, as if she was bracing herself for the cart to take off again.
Their eyes met.
Realizing what she was doing, she let go instantly, and he watched the flush creep up from her neck to her cheeks.
“Vaults five through twenty-nine, Malfoy Family,” Bogrod barked, his gravelled voice echoing through the stone tunnels.
He hopped down from the cart with surprising agility, holding out a long-fingered hand to Narcissa, who accepted it with practiced elegance.
“I’m sorry—” Potter said, blinking. “Did you say vaults five through twenty-nine?”
“Yes, Mr. Potter,” Bogrod murmured, pride curling in his tone. “Welcome to the oldest section of Gringotts. Take a good look—this might be the only time you see it.”
Draco caught the bewildered look on the other wizard’s face. Potter rubbing at his eyes under his glasses, clearly still trying to process what he’d just been told.
Granger stood beside him, brows drawn tight in confusion.
“That’s—that’s an entire floor,” Potter breathed, stunned.
“Tunnel section,” Bogrod corrected.
“That’s mental,” he murmured, grunting as Granger’s elbow dug into his ribs. The exasperated look she gave her friend was a warning.
“The Malfoy family was one of the original investors in Gringotts Bank,” Narcissa explained. “We hold some of the oldest vaults because of it. The Black family is two levels up—though I suppose you already knew that…”
“Mother,” Draco hissed.
She raised a brow, eyes sharp. “Yes?”
The look she gave him, one only a mother could master, silenced him instantly.
Bogrod stepped forward, holding out his hand again. “Keys.”
Both Malfoys produced theirs at the same time, dropping the twin keys into his awaiting palm. The sound of the key catching the lock was followed by the heavy grinding of gears turning.
His mother turned to Potter. “The wards won’t let you enter unless a blood member of the family accompanies you,” she explained, expression composed. “We’ll have to… touch you in order for them to allow you to pass through.”
Potter blinked, clearly trying not to grimace, and Granger rested her hand against his arm.
“That’s fine,” Granger answered swiftly. “Right?”
Potter pressed his fist to his mouth as he let out a sharp cough. “Right. Yes.”
Narcissa looked at him, patient but expectant, and he quickly stepped forward, linking his arm with hers as the next layer of locks started to click open.
Granger turned to Draco, one brow lifted in quiet challenge.
He offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Without hesitation, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, her fingers light but steady, her body warm against his side. He froze, glancing down at her.
That scent hit like a spell— soft, floral.
Then the vault doors creaked open, and the four of them stepped inside.
Familiarity crashed over him.
His father’s footsteps and the sharp tap of his cane echoing across the stone. Instructions murmured low over his shoulder. Gold— stacks and stacks of it gleaming under the lights. Heirlooms tucked into the shadows. Power. Legacy.
Every single piece coated with expectation.
The main entrance of the vault tunnel had been transformed into a reception-like sitting area, with polished floors and high-backed chairs surrounding the long mahogany table in the center. Down the hall, the tunnel split into a series of arched alcoves, each leading to an individual vault. The air was cool, humming with ancient magic and heavy with the wealth that spanned generations.
“Wow…” Granger breathed, eyes taking in every detail with fascination.
Draco realized that she was still holding onto his elbow, but he was in no rush to have her let go.
“Malfoy, I knew you were wealthy…” Potter’s eyes swept across the enclosed space. “But this is just—I mean, bloody hell.”
He shook his head, lost for words.
Bogrod looked up expectantly. “Which of the vaults are you wishing to view?”
Draco turned to his mother, only to catch the flicker of something in her expression as she glanced at Granger’s hand resting against his arm. Suddenly feeling exposed, he cleared his throat and took a half step back to untangle himself.
“Mother?”
“The family jewels and my personal vault,” Narcissa answered crisply. “And whatever Draco requires.”
“Just the heir’s vault.”
He just wanted to get this over and done with.
“As I mentioned earlier, Mr. Malfoy, you’ll eventually need to address the matter of the heir’s vault. You are now, by title and inheritance, Lord Malfoy. The heir’s vault should have closed to you the moment that transfer occurred.”
“My father is still alive—albeit in prison.”
“Indeed.” Bogrod gave a sharp nod. “Which is the only reason you still have access. We had to apply a few… creative workarounds to bypass the ancient family magic. But, until you name an heir of your own, the vault remains in limbo. Technically open, although against tradition.
Draco’s eyes widened, color draining from his face. “Fat chance of that happening.”
“Draco,” his mother hissed under her breath. He ignored her.
Twenty minutes later, Draco was standing inside his vault, Granger beside him. Potter had accompanied his mother, and so he opted to go directly to his own, wishing to move the process along quickly. He hadn't expected to be alone with her again so soon, but now here they were.
Granger stared out across the vast space, filled with galleons and various other items.
“What are you looking for?”
“My broom.”
“Your broom?”
“I stashed it here before the final battle. I didn’t want anything to happen to it.”
She followed him toward an antique sofa, running her fingers along its curved edge. “Couldn’t you just buy another? I’m sure there are better ones now.”
He gave a lazy shrug. “Probably. But I like my broom.”
Finally, he spotted it, tucked neatly in the corner, untouched by time. He picked it carefully, weighing it in his hands.
“Most of the things that used to matter to me... don’t anymore,” he admitted quietly. “But this does.”
She was silent for a beat, and he hadn’t noticed that she’d moved closer until her shoulder brushed against his.
“I can understand that.”
“I stored everything here that I didn’t want the Ministry getting their hands on.” Draco crouched beside the dusty corner where his Firebolt had rested, lifting a worn leather satchel. “Books, journals, writings—even back then, I had a feeling we’d lose the war. One way or another, I knew there were things I needed to keep hidden.”
His hand trembled slightly around the bag’s handle.
Without a word, Granger placed her hand gently over his. Their eyes met. Hers, warm and steady, his flickering with doubt.
“Are you alright?” she asked, her voice hushed.
She was warm in a way he wasn’t, and the contrast between them was grounding, keeping him steady.
“I don’t want to go back to how I was.”
Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I caught myself slipping earlier,” he admitted, eyes darkening. “That edge in my voice when I spoke to Bogrod—the way I shut down. It felt familiar. Too familiar. Like I was becoming him.”
“Malfoy,” Her grip on his hand tightened slightly. “You are not your father. If you were, I never would’ve let you into my home.”
He let out a bitter laugh.
“It’s frightening how easy it is, though. To just… detach. To let the coldness take over. It’s always there. Just under the surface.”
“You’re getting stronger every day.” She didn’t look away, thumb smoothing across the back of his hand. “Sometimes we use unhealthy coping mechanisms to get by. That doesn’t mean you’re turning into your father.”
“I’ve always behaved this way, Granger.”
He walked over to the sofa, dropping the satchel with a heavy thud. “Distant. Defensive. Pushing people away. It’s how I’m built.”
She followed him, a flicker of amusement as her lips curved into a smile. “I remember in sixth year—you pushed me so hard I nearly bruised. Fought me on everything. I don’t think you ever admitted we were friends.”
Draco looked at her.
“Were we friends?” he asked. “Because I treated you like absolute rubbish.”
“Sometimes,” she said honestly, and he felt the truth of it sting. “But other times—you treated me better than even my closest friends did.”
That admission cracked something in him. He lowered himself to sit, elbows on his knees, head bowed.
“I think I’ll always push people away,” he sighed. “Even Luna. And she’s been helping me without asking for anything in return.”
She lowered herself beside him. “Maybe you do push. But you also let people back in—that has to count for something.”
“I don’t think I ever formally apologized for how I treated you in school.”
“You tried, but you told me that due to your circumstances at home, you couldn’t.”
The day he’d bumped into her in the corridor. He’d wanted so badly to apologize, but he couldn’t. That part was genuine. Living with the Dark Lord left him with no room for error. One wrong move could’ve gotten him killed. And if they’d ever found out about her? She would’ve been too.
“I am sorry, Granger. You didn’t deserve any of it. I was a right prat.”
Granger bumped his shoulder with hers. “Well, thank you for your apology. It means… it means a lot to me, actually.”
Her forgiveness, simple and real, hit him harder than he expected.
“I mean it,” he repeated. “I was cruel, and you were—you were kind. Even when you didn’t have any reason to be.”
“You were scared, Draco. That doesn’t excuse everything, but I understand it now. We were all just kids trying to survive a war.”
He turned to her, studying the freckles on her cheeks, the way her eyes softened when she looked at him.
“You’ve always been too good,” he murmured.
She smiled, a little sad, a little warm. “And you’ve always been too hard on yourself.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Some things don’t change.”
“Some do,” she countered, brushing a curl behind her ear. “You’re not the same person you were then. Not even close.”
“But that doesn’t excuse how I treated people.”
Draco glanced down at the bag beside him, full of pieces from a life he was trying to leave behind, and nodded slowly.
“Did you know I pretended I couldn’t see the Thestrals during third year? When the truth was, I saw them the first time we took the carriages.”
“Why would you—”
“I watched Theo’s father murder a Muggle-born woman when I was—Merlin, six? Seven maybe? I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I heard crying and I…”
He stopped.
“Malfoy.”
“When that oaf—Hagrid,” he corrected, her glare sharp and quick. “When he brought us to them, and I realized that almost no one else could see them, I lashed out. I didn’t want anyone else to know that I’d seen death. I didn’t want to explain how.”
Granger’s expression softened, the glare fading as quickly as it came. “That's awful.”
Draco shrugged, but his voice was tight. “I hid a lot about how I grew up. I wanted to please my father. I thought—I thought that was just how things were for everyone.” He glanced at her. “So I acted the way I always did. Mean. Loud. Untouchable.”
“What about your mother? Did she know what you saw?”
Draco shut his eyes and nodded. “She did.”
When he opened his eyes, Granger was watching him with concern.
Not-Granger stood beside her with the same expression.
Tell her.
He shook his head, refusing to answer Not-Granger’s demand.
Open up to her. It will help.
“Malfoy?” The real Granger whispered. “What’s wrong?”
Ignoring his hallucination, he shifted his body to face the real person. “My thoughts are jumbled. My memories of the past have been tampered with. I don’t—” he swallowed hard. “I don’t actually remember how my mother reacted.”
Keep going.
“The memory of that day is layered with something else. I remember my mother being horrified and comforting me, but then it shifts. Then I remember her reacting the way my father would. Saying things that…”
He bit the inside of his cheek.
A flicker of anger flashed across her face before she quickly masked it. Then, without a word, Granger reached forward and wrapped her arms around him.
“What happened to you should never have happened. Your memories should be the one thing you can trust.”
He leaned back slowly, pulling away from her embrace. Their eyes locked, for just one fleeting moment, but it felt like it opened something between them.
“Granger..”
She looked away, exhaling sharply, then stood. “We should get going. Your mother and Harry will be back soon.”
Draco nodded, reaching for the bag and his broom. “Yeah. You’re right.”
“Granger.”
She stopped, twisting to look at him.
“I am really sorry. Truly. And I do mean for everything this time.”
The smile she gave him made his pulse jump, pinning him in place by how real it was.
She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Thank you, Malfoy.”
They made it to the door of the vault before she looked back over her shoulder again.
“Still up for Harry and Ginny’s tonight? I know today’s been… a lot.”
“I am,” he said. No hesitation this time.
She gave a small nod, biting her bottom lip before stepping out into the hall.
He looked at the stack of Galleons beside him, then unzipped the satchel and scooped a generous amount inside. Zipping it up again before he slung the bag over his shoulder.
“C’mon. Let’s go.”
She reached back for him, grabbing his hand.
And Draco smiled.