Chapter Text
The war was over, but in the wizarding world, nothing ever truly ended. People simply didn't want to admit it. Every morning, newspapers printed triumphant headlines. Hogwarts would reopen. A new era would begin. Harry Potter's name no longer belonged to a person—it belonged to a symbol. People talked about him in the streets, and children reenacted Voldemort's fall with toy wands. But the Ministry was occupied with another task. Cleaning up. Former Death Eaters were being rounded up one by one, interrogated, and sent to Azkaban. Trials lasted for days, and the members of the Wizengamot could hardly stop repeating the word "justice." When symbols are created, monsters are created as well. Some family names had been condemned forever. Like Malfoy.
Draco Malfoy listened to all of this from inside a cell. The Ministry's temporary holding cells were underground. The damp stone walls smelled of mold. Small windows near the ceiling allowed only a dull gray light to seep inside. It was difficult to tell whether it was day or night. Draco had been there for three or four days. Maybe longer. He was still wearing the same clothes. The sleeves of his black shirt were stained with dirt, and his hair was disheveled. The wound on his left hand still hadn't fully healed; he'd cut it on broken stone during the night of the battle. But he barely felt the pain anymore. Since being thrown into the cell, he hadn't slept properly once. Yet he wasn't thinking about his own trial. He was only watching his mother in the cell across from him. Narcissa Malfoy sat perfectly upright. As always, she was trying to appear composed and elegant, but Draco had noticed the tremor in her hands. Her hair was untidy. The dark circles beneath her eyes had become impossible to hide. Since Lucius died, she looked truly old for the first time.
Draco looked away. At first, he had thought he felt nothing when his father died. On the final night of the war, as Voldemort's fury descended upon the manor, Lucius had spoken the wrong words at the wrong time. The Dark Lord had already begun to sense defeat. His paranoia had grown beyond control. And when Voldemort was afraid, he killed people. Lucius Malfoy had realized that far too late. Draco could still remember his father's body collapsing to the floor. Narcissa had screamed. Draco had simply stood frozen. Because sometimes war tears every emotion out of a person and leaves behind nothing but emptiness. Footsteps echoed through the corridor. Two Ministry officials stopped in front of the cells. One of them unrolled a parchment.
"Narcissa Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Your final hearing will take place tomorrow morning."
Draco rose to his feet.
"Has the decision already been made?"
The man shrugged.
"Most likely Azkaban."
Draco's expression didn't change. He didn't care about his own sentence anymore. Draco had already understood that he could never return to his old life. In the eyes of the world, he would always be the same thing: The son of a Death Eater. A Death Eater. A coward. A collaborator. Maybe they were right. But his mother... That was unbearable. His eyes drifted toward Narcissa. She said nothing. She merely lowered her gaze. And in that moment, Draco understood. His mother was afraid. That was the one thing he could not endure. Throughout his childhood, Narcissa Malfoy had always been strong. When Lucius shouted, she remained calm. Even when Voldemort came to the manor, she controlled every expression on her face. Whenever Draco was frightened, she was the one who held him. Now she sat inside a tiny cell. And Azkaban was waiting for her. As the official began to walk away, Draco called after him.
"Wait."
The man turned around.
"What?"
"My mother..." Draco's voice cracked for the first time.
"My mother won't survive in there," Draco said quietly.
The official gave him an indifferent look.
"A lot of people didn't."
Draco gripped the bars tightly.
"My mother never killed anyone."
"She helped the wrong people."
"My mother didn't help Voldemort."
The man let out a short laugh.
"You all say the same thing."
"If Harry Potter is alive, it's because of my mother."
The corridor fell silent. A brief hesitation crossed the official's face. Because everyone knew that story now. Narcissa Malfoy had lied to Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest. By claiming Harry was dead, she had changed the course of the war. But that didn't make her innocent. The Ministry wanted heroes right now, not gray areas. Eventually the official spoke in a bored voice.
"You can tell that to the court."
Then he walked away. Draco rested his head against the wall. His mother's voice came from the cell opposite.
"Draco."
He didn't look at her.
"Enough."
"No."
"Listen to me."
Draco finally raised his eyes. Narcissa stared at her son for a long moment.
"I'm afraid for you."
Draco felt his throat tighten. Because even now, his mother was still thinking about him. Even after everything was over. Even after his father had died. Even with Azkaban waiting for them. Draco let out a bitter laugh.
"I don't care about myself."
It was true. He really didn't. Azkaban? Death? Life imprisonment? None of it mattered. After the war ended, Draco had never become the old Draco again. He had looked into Voldemort's eyes. He had watched people die. He had seen his own home turned into a torture chamber. Most of his arrogance had died in the war. All that remained now was exhaustion. But his mother... He couldn't lose her. Narcissa looked at her son through the bars.
"This is my punishment."
"No."
Draco shook his head sharply.
"It's my father's punishment."
Lucius's name filled the cell with a heavy silence. Ever since childhood, Draco had been raised to become someone like his father. Powerful. Pure-blood. Feared. And in the end, this was where Lucius had led them. Damp cells. Shackles. Azkaban. Narcissa closed her eyes.
"Your father made mistakes."
"Mistakes?"
Draco's voice turned into a painful laugh.
"He brought the Dark Lord into our home."
The woman didn't answer. Because there was no answer. Minutes passed in silence. Distant screams echoed through the corridors. Other prisoners were shouting. The sound of chains rattled against stone walls. Draco leaned his head back against the wall. And unwillingly, he thought of that night. The manor. Bellatrix. Hermione Granger's screams. He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to think about those moments, but his mind wouldn't leave him alone. Bellatrix had been laughing. Hermione had been on the floor. Her arms were restrained. Her face was covered in blood. As Bellatrix pressed her wand against her skin, the girl's screams echoed throughout the entire manor. Harry and Weasley had been tied up. Lucius had been shouting. Everything had been chaos. And Draco...
Draco had done nothing. At first. That truth still made him sick. Because he had been afraid. He knew exactly what it meant to stand against Bellatrix. Making the wrong move on a night when Voldemort was in the house meant death. Then Hermione had looked at him. Draco could never forget that look. There had been something in it beyond fear. Disappointment. As if she had already decided he was a bad person. And Draco had hated that moment. Because for the first time in his life, he had looked truly cowardly in someone's eyes. When Bellatrix leaned over Hermione again, Draco moved. Quietly. Without anyone noticing. He rotated his wand in his palm and cast a small spell that distracted Bellatrix for a few seconds. The chandelier above exploded. Glass rained onto the floor. Bellatrix looked upward in fury. Those few seconds had been enough. Draco loosened the restraints around Hermione's wrists. Then he secretly slipped a wand into Harry's pocket. No one saw. The chaos grew.
Dobby appeared. Screams erupted. And as everyone fled, Bellatrix's knife sliced through the air. Dobby died. Draco could still hear that sound. Crack. When the small body hit the ground, it felt as though the manor had suddenly fallen silent. After the war, people spoke of Harry Potter's heroism. No one ever learned what Draco Malfoy had done that night. Maybe Harry had understood. Maybe Hermione had noticed. But nobody spoke of it. Because sometimes the things people do during war are never given names. Draco opened his eyes. His breathing had become uneven. From the opposite cell, Narcissa watched her son.
"You're thinking about her again," she said softly.
Draco didn't answer. His mother knew him too well.
"The Granger girl."
Draco turned sharply.
"Don't talk about her."
A weary expression crossed Narcissa's face.
"That night changed you."
Draco rose to his feet angrily.
"The war changed me."
"No."
Narcissa's voice remained calm.
"You were afraid before the war too. But that night was the first time you were afraid for someone else."
Draco looked at his mother but couldn't answer. Because she was right. Hermione's screams were still ringing in his ears. And Draco hated it. The thing he hated wasn't just the guilt. It was the memory of Hermione Granger's eyes lingering in his mind. The sound of a door opening interrupted his thoughts. A new official arrived.
"You have the right to request representation," he said in a bored tone. "You may provide a name."
Draco frowned.
"What?"
"Someone who can provide character testimony during your trial."
Narcissa lowered her head. Both of them thought the same thing. There was no one left who would speak for the Malfoy family. Their old allies had fled. Those who remained were trying to reduce their own sentences. Against his will, only one name came to Draco's mind. Hermione Granger. The thought twisted his stomach. He had hated her his entire life. Insulted her. Declared her blood impure. And now... Now she was the only person who might be able to save his mother. Draco closed his eyes. His pride was still fighting somewhere inside him. But war taught people certain things. Pride was useless when someone you loved was dying. Silence stretched on for a long time. Finally, Draco spoke quietly.
"Granger."
The official looked up.
"What did you say?"
Draco's jaw tightened.
"I want Hermione Granger."