Chapter Text
“Wand, please.” Hermione grabbed nervously at the wand tucked away in her robe’s pocket, gripping it with a death vice before handing it over to the Azkaban guard. She flashed him what must’ve been a panicked look because he chuckled softly before murmuring, “All part of the process.”
“Ah - yes, I suppose it is.” She flushed softly in her cheeks, she could feel the heat radiating off of them as she mustered her best smile.
“It’s always nerve wracking the first time, love. Who are you here to see?”
“My appointment is with Draco Malfoy.” The guards eyebrows popped up. Her words felt firm as she said them, but she trembled underneath her robes and tried to steady the tips of her fingers so she didn’t give herself away.
He appraised her thoughtfully and she wished she could laugh and commiserate, I’m just as surprised as you are. But she did her best to keep her face forward, confident, cool, collected - all attributes she was ironically happier to attribute to Malfoy than to herself.
McGonagall had assured her in good confidence that she must reach out to Malfoy, must see him in person, and must request that he leave with her. Hermione had raged against her professor, uncharacteristically mistrusting.
“Malfoy?” Hermoine spit the word out as if it tasted bad on her tongue, “You realize who you’re asking for, professor? He killed Dumbledore, used an unforgivable curse, and you’d like me to go traipsing about with him as if I’m on holiday?”
McGonagall held her face, revealing nothing. “He didn’t kill him, Hermione. Snape did.”
Hermione gawked dumbly, her mouth open and her breathing ragged. She was sure her messy hair made her look even more heated and frantic as she paced in McGonagall’s Hogwarts office.
“That’s impossible, he’s been put in Azkaban for killing Dumbledore. They watched his memories, they saw it, they-”
“Mr. Malfoy was trained by Snape in occlumency, he showed the trial what he wanted to show them.”
Hermione felt empty, shocked to her core that it was Snape who pulled the death blow. “How do you know this? I thought Snape was on our side, I thought he was a part of the Order.” Everything from the trial she had trusted, everything she had read hungrily in the papers now tasted like soot. The Malfoy boy put himself on Voldemort’s radar by killing Dumbledore, the young Death Eater eager to prove himself to the Dark Lord.
“I need you to trust I’ve seen the memories.” McGonagall was unrelenting, “He failed his mission, Hermione. He failed He Who Shall Not Be Named.”
“Why would he lie?”
“Hopeful that he’d be given the opportunity to fade away in Azkaban instead of facing the Cruciatus Curse, I’m sure.” McGonagall’s eyes fell dark.
“So what, we’re supposed to just trust him now?” Hermione wracked her brain for a better alternative, one that didn’t require her to ever come eye-to-eye with Malfoy again. “It seems too soon, why can’t we leave him in there and revisit this when the war is over?”
McGonagall breathed deeply, finally softening to Hermione’s panic. “Hermione, I need you to trust me. I have this on good authority that he may have information for us, he may be able to help you find the Horcruxes. He Who Shall Not Be Named has resided in his family’s manor for the past year, he must’ve seen something. Anything.”
“Don’t you trust Harry and Ron to find them without him? Don’t you trust me, professor?”
“I trust all three of you immensely. But this is war, we cannot afford ourselves the luxury of trust.”
“And why me? Why does he have to accompany me?” Hermione felt suddenly bereft, alone. Her heart hammering in her chest so loudly she worried McGonagall would hear it.
The softening in McGonagall’s face only increased, warm eyes staring into Hermoine’s franticly searching ones. “I wouldn’t give this to just anyone, Hermione. I know you can hide the both of you, I know that you can help Harry and Ron this way. I know you can do it, and I know you can protect yourself against-” The word ‘him’ nearly dropped into the conversation.
Hermione’s face betrayed her, the deep hurt stinging. “So you know he may hurt me. He hates me, Professor, he truly hates me. He and his family want people like me on a registry. He wants people like me dead.” Her heart felt as if it had been wrenched open, and as much as she tried to reason with the professor her orders were staunch and set in place. There was no convincing McGonagall otherwise, and she felt the pressure of the Order pressing fervently against her. If she were to believe in the cause, believe in the Order, she would accept this assignment with a firm nod.
But tears pricked at her eyes as she tried pathetically to talk McGonagall through each potential way this horrible partnership could end. He could torture her, crucio her until her bones popped and she died of suffocation. He could imperio her, force her to walk into McGonagall’s familiar, warm, glowing office and commit the ultimate sin of magic. He could throw a bright green stream of light her way while yawning, the twist of his wrist lazy as he stole her breath from her lungs.
Hermione was trailing the guard closely even as her mind wandered, her nerves haywire. She could feel her brain cataloging everything as she went, nervously sorting information in the bookshelves of her brain.
What would it be like to see him again? Would he still look haughty, indignant, and pleased with himself? That’s the way she remembered him best, sitting with a satisfied smirk in his desk, chair popped up to teeter on two hind legs as he balanced himself. It didn’t take many words for him to control the room, a hissed “Mudblood” usually did the job. White teeth glinted in a cruel smile as if he were more wolf than human.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck as they rounded corners, her demure shoes clicking along the way like an anxious metronome.
The guard brought her to his cell and gestured at her to step aside as he waved his wand wordlessly across the door that had no lock, no handle, and no window. The stones shifted, rippling gracefully to pull back a confined space she could walk through. She glanced at the guard who assured her, “He can’t use no magic in there, love. He can barely stand as it is.” His eyes revealed tracks of concern in the deep creases at his eyes, but she gave him a tight smile and nod before turning to the door with finality.
The cell was small, empty. She could only assume he didn’t spend most of his time here, perhaps this was a meeting room instead. She had hoped there would be shackles chaining him to the wall, pulling him back from where she was sure he’d be snarling with hate and dark magic. But all that resided in the cramped room was a thin body sat gracelessly against the wall. He had the same shock of white hair she remembered, same smooth skin, but his shoulders drooped and his face looked serene as if he slept. She heard the wall solidify once more behind her and she took a shaky breath, coughing to announce her presence.
If he was interested in who his visitor was, it didn’t show on his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, unused to the dull light of the room, and his head leaned back against the wall.
He looked grimy, his white hair matted to his forehead and his skin ashen. This was not the boy she remembered from school, if anything it was his corpse.
“Malfoy…” She introduced herself.
“Golden Girl.” The nickname of the tabloids set her mouth in an unhappy frown. His words were soft even in the quiet, a whisper. “Come for a bit of fun?” She wanted to fire back at him, but the hoarseness of his voice unsteadied her.
Seeing him this way made Hermione uncomfortable, acutely aware that she hadn’t anticipated feeling bad when she saw him. She expected to be engulfed in flames of rage, standing tall in front of him as she demanded answers and retribution for the attempted murder of Dumbledore. Even if he hadn’t landed the killing curse, the pity brewing deep in her throat felt unexpected. Her lips quivered as she held them tightly, not trusting herself to speak to the ghost of her bully.
He cracked an eye up at her and winced, as if he were looking up at the sun for the first time in a long time. “Pity looks awful on you. Even worse than usual.” His tone was flat and annoyed.
Aha, there he was.
“Funny, I’d say Azkaban doesn’t suit you much either.” The familiar fire from before flickered back to light as she scowled down at him.
He closed his eyes again but a frown sat smartly on his lips. “What the fuck could you possibly want?”
“Answers.”
She half expected this to get a rise out of him, but he kept breathing slowly. The only clue he heard her was the cracking of his knuckles in response, loud pops that filled the cold space between them.
“Such the Gryffindor, you think I’ll tell you what you want to hear?” His smirk turned into a self congratulatory smile, “Just ‘cause you’ve got me here doesn’t mean I’ll tell you anything. I’m not quite as pathetic as you lot.”
She fumed softly, “I don’t think you have much of a choice, Malfoy.”
“Entertain me.” He rolled his shoulders and opened his grey eyes to look up at her mockingly, expectantly. In another world she might have blushed.
As soon as his eyes were on her face he was alive once more, taunting once more, every bit as smug as he had been the last time she saw him. Gone was the pathetic corpse hunkered against the wall, too tired to open his eyes. Suddenly they were both 15 again and he had just called her a Mudblood across the classroom, eyes laughing at her. She could picture him nudging one of his cronies, Crab or Goyle, and they’d join in by laughing loudly. But he never had to laugh, not really, his eyes did it all for him.
A pang of anger gripped Hermione’s heart as she explained between gritted teeth, “I’ll hardly be entertaining you.”
“Pity.” Another private joke at her expense.
“But if you want to leave here, I’d humor me.” She did her best to feign a sweet voice, “Of course, that’s only if Azkaban hasn’t grown on you yet. I hear it becomes popular with inmates over time.” She blinked softly at him, her own smirk playing at her lips as the joke in his eyes crumbled to a steely glare.
“Joke’s over, Mudblood.” Ah, yes, that term of endearment she had so missed. It sent an angry tingle down her spine as her own joke died and she returned his glare. “Don’t play with me, I know I’m never walking out of here alive as long as your Order has anything to do with it.” He braced himself against the wall. Even only at partial height he loomed menacingly, not to be underestimated.
Pushing back the retort already springing to life in her brain, “I’m serious. I can get you out of here.”
“Why would Potter’s Golden Girl do that?”
Again, that nickname. He could tell she hated it.
“Are you really in a position to question my motivations? You look like you can barely stand.” Hermione straightened her back. “You’re dying.”
He chuckled humorlessly, “And you think I’m dumb enough to think you care? I always pictured you as the first to dance on my grave, Granger.”
She glanced away, “I wouldn’t have.”
“How considerate of you, really.” The joke was gone and again they were two enemies staring daggers at one another.
“I know you didn’t kill him. I know it was Snape.”
A tight lipped smile, “So am I forgiven, then? Absolved of my sins?”
“Hardly. But you could try.”
He took a deep breath, his fist curling and uncurling as he stared at her. “What are you looking for?”
“I need to know why… Before I help you, I need to know why you didn’t do it.” She was going off script, she knew it, but if she was to leave with him she had to be sure McGonagall was right. Even she could have made a mistake, read the memory wrong, had a poor informant. It was Hermione’s job to parse that out here and now.
“Do you know what it’s like to get the Dark Mark, Granger?” His eyes slanted at her and she shook her head quickly. “You think I chose to do it? You think I lined up at His front door and dropped to my knees to beg? Really, I thought you were the smartest witch of our age, can you picture me begging for anything?” The idea tugged at her stomach, a small knot forming deep within her. The feeling of tightness felt foreign. He straightened his back and stood to his full height, pushing the long hair out of his eyes like he used to do when they were younger. “I didn’t choose my assignments, much like I’m sure you don’t choose yours. Or do you usually find yourself at Azkaban?”
“I suppose I don’t.” She took a shaky, full breath, “But if you didn’t want to be a Death Eater, didn’t want to kill-”
He interrupted her roughly, “I should have been the one to kill him, don’t forgive me too quickly.” He bit out his words, “I wanted to be the one to kill him. I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t…” She regarded him cautiously.
“Obviously not.” He turned away from her now, finally giving her reprieve from his staring eyes. “I won’t beg for forgiveness when I fully intended to kill him that night.”
“But, my question still stands. Why didn’t you, if you wanted it that badly?”
He stood very still, and it took everything in Hermione not to rush at him with words to fill the rift ripping between them. “I don’t know.” His words were staccato against his lips, unyielding.
“I think you’re lying.”
He turned slowly again and sunk back down to sit where he was when she entered, “Fine, then. I’m lying.” Disinterested now.
Hermione pulled her lip between her teeth as she swept over him once more. Her task at hand was to determine if they could release him alongside her, if he was a liability, if Dumbledore and McGonagall were wrong.
“You don’t want to get out?”
“I don’t deserve to get out, Granger.”
“I can’t say I remember you talking much about what you deserved back in the day.”
He waved his hand dismissively, “Character growth and all that shit.”
“Hardly.”
Hermione Granger was not a stupid girl, even at the worst of times she was astute and decisive. At the best of times she was sharp-witted, shrewd, and her perception could sting like the edge of broken glass. She hovered at the edge of a decision, at the precipice that was suddenly becoming too large even for her mind. Was this the empathy he had teased her for when she was a child, the muggle in her heart unable to let go of hope? She swallowed dryly. She could almost picture him, 11, sitting on the ground scowling because his house lost the quidditch tournament. Even now, with his tired and sunken eyes closed, the smirk looked so familiar that it almost hurt her to look at.
She took a measured step towards him. “I need your help whether you like it or not.”
His eyes narrowed to slits, “There it is.” He took in a sharp breath, “That bullshit honesty you Gryffindors love to choke on.”
“My assignment is to bring you with me as I search for clues to help Harry and Ron.” His eyebrows creased into a deep “v” when she said their names.
“What makes you think I won’t try and kill you next?”
“That’s simple, I won’t let you.”
He laughed again, a quick crack of sound. “People don’t often let you kill them, Granger. You’ll do well to remember that.”
She pushed past his warning, eager to spit out the words. “Regardless, I’d wager it’s safer to have me alive and hiding you than to brave him.” She lingered on the the last syllable, her voice dropping. “I have good information that you are someone who can help me with what I’m looking for.”
“And what would that be?” She stalled, lips tight again, “How convenient, let me guess - you can’t tell me. Just supposed to jump me out of jail to go on a nameless adventure with you?” He grimaced as if the prospect was worse than wasting away in prison. “Your lot can never win the war.”
Hermione bristled, “If you think I’m a fan of this, you’re wrong.”
“So now you’re good at taking orders?”
“Stop it.” Her voice dared him to keep pushing, her fingers shaking as she knotted them together. “Either you’re in or not, don’t play with me. I’m more than happy to let you rot here, I’m happy to remember you like this.”
Again the pop of his knuckles echoed between them and for a moment she thought he had decided to give her the silent treatment. Just as she was ready to turn on her heal, embarrassed heat collecting at her collar at the prospect of failing, he spoke resolutely with a deep, husky voice. “When can I get out of here?”