ʀᴜɴɴɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʏʟɪɢʜᴛ [ꜱᴀʙᴇʀ&ꜱᴏʟᴏ]

[Saber]

​

It was hard to keep track of days when you're in Azkaban. What little sunlight came through the elongated slits in the dense wall was always washed out and gray, and after a while, you just forget the sun rises at all. Five years had been spent behind the walls of the wizarding prison, and three times Draco had appealed his case to the court at the Ministry. This is how he found himself in courtroom ten once more, locked inside an oblong cage with spikes angled at his body that kept him from moving. There were a lot of people in attendance today for some reason. Perhaps it was because this was his final chance to plead his case and prove that he had only done what he had because he was trying to survive. He had only been a kid at the time and already so much had been expected from him when Voldemort had returned. His past attempts fell on deaf ears and he was hoping, praying to whatever omnipotent being that existed that he would be expelled from Azkaban.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy," The Wizengamot's voice boomed throughout the chamber and the idle chatter of the audience simmered to barely audible whispers. "We are here to discuss your release from Azkaban. This would cut down your sentence of two hundred years, down to four." There were a few boos from the crowd and Draco's silver eyes flitted back and forth in an attempt to find a familiar face. "Now, we have heard your previous appeals over the years and you have failed to provide anything of consequence to prove your innocence. So what do you have to offer now?"

Draco sighed heavily, he swallowed hard and looked up at the Wizengamot before speaking. "In the past I tried to offer names of Voldemort's spies and supporters." He cleared his throat again as the murmuring around the room began to get louder. "I-I don't have anything to offer now, except to plead my innocence and that I only became a Death Eater to keep myself alive."

"He's lying!" He hadn't seen who had shouted, but it started a clamor of squabbling that the Wizengamot had to calm by slamming his gavel repeatedly to gain order once more. Draco took a deep breath before the old man nodded at him to continue.

"My father was a Death Eater before I was born and I was expected to follow in his footsteps." The young man continued as he lifted his shackled wrists and gently grabbed the bars of the cage. "Please, I never killed anyone. I only took the mark because it was either that or my life!" There was a slight pain in his chest and he looked down to see one of the pikes barely piercing the filthy robes that draped loosely over his frame, a drop of blood staining the dingy fabric. "I am begging, release me to the aurors, or to the Minister of Magic himself! I would do whatever is asked of me to prove that I did not willingly follow Voldemort!"

More whispers and muttering as the Wizengamot began speaking with two aurors. Two aurors that Draco recognized rather well, although it took a double take for his brain to register the familiarity. Of course Harry Potter and Ron Weasley would become aurors after school, it was rather fitting, if not a little cliche. He so desperately wanted to roll his eyes, but Harry was watching him, with what looked like a bit of pity. Ronald, on the other hand, looked like he was about ready to send him back to Azkaban at that very moment, without hearing what the Wizengamot had declared. It didn't help Draco's case that his father was...well, hated would be a kind word, amongst the Ministry. Having people that had worked so closely with him and called him friend, learn that he had aided in the death of a minister didn't bode well for him.

"Do you think you could be rehabilitated, Mr. Malfoy?" The elder wizard asked as he adjusted the glasses that sat so low on his nose, Draco didn't understand how they stayed on his face. "If you were to be released from Azkaban and put on a...uh, probation. Do you think you could integrate back into society?"

Did they think he was the Dark Lord incarnate? Of course he could be a decent member of society. It's not like he craved the blood of muggles or he wanted to rise up and take up Voldemort's mantle. Though, all the trauma from his childhood and most of his teen years, he supposed he could understand where the concern came from. Not to mention that most wizards and witches went insane during their stay in Azkaban, though he wasn't there quite yet.

"Yes, sir." Draco nodded, his voice a little lighter than before as he took a half step back. "I swear it on my life." He expected there to be another uproar of protest, but all he heard were the hushed whispers of discussion. No out right arguments at the suggestion of him being allowed to be released on probation, which lifted his spirits just a bit. Maybe this would work.

"Then would anyone here be willing to be Mr. Malfoy's handler?" Oh fuck. Draco's heart dropped at the question as he looked around the crowded chambers and for the first time, it was completely silent. "This will only work if someone volunteers to keep a watch on you, Mr. Malfoy. Obviously any blood relatives are not applicable."

Draco swallowed hard again as his eyes scanned the audience. There was no friend in the bunch that he could tell and suddenly, he felt his one chance at freedom slowly slipping through his fingers. It was a last ditch effort, perhaps this was just his karma for being a stuck up brat most of his life. Though that didn't help calm his nerves any as he felt a cold sweat bead on the back of his neck.

 

[Solo]

The sun hadn't yet risen when Hermione dragged herself from her bed in her small flat near Muggle London, and it was just barely peeking over the rooftops when she walked the familiar route through the womens' bathroom, flushing herself into the Ministry proper. From then on, the only light she would see was enchanted to mimic the outside world, even long past the hours where one would normally see sunlight, when Hermione found herself still at her desk, papers piled towards the ceiling. It wasn't what she'd envisioned when she'd accepted a job in the Ministry, but she had certainly started far above anyone else freshly out of Hogwarts; she still remembered the horror stories Percy would tell before cleaving from the Weasley family in their Hogwarts years, of long nights spent sleeping next to his desk just to finish all his work in a timely manner. It may be late when she returned to her dark flat at night, but at the very least, she hadn't been forced to sleep anywhere but in her own bed.

A recent promotion had settled her firmly in the upper echelon of the Ministry, working in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and working closely with the Minister himself. At the very least, it meant a more spacious office with a more comfortable chair, and recently, she'd begun sitting in on trials of previously convicted Death Eaters. It was rare that she would be asked for input - most of those on trial were far before her time involved in the war, or so far removed that she had to double-check how to spell their names - but every once in a while, a name or a face would ring a bell, and she'd be able to add first-hand testimony to either remand them to Azkaban or recommend them for the rehabilitation program. Gregory Goyle, surrendering freshly from the Battle of Hogwarts, was one of their pet success stories; his lower-than-average intelligence had still been evident at the time of trial, and since being put through a rigorous program, he had begun working at a wizarding bakery, crafting some of the most delicious Pumpkin Pasties Hermione had ever tried.

It was certainly risky, she knew, sending those with tendencies towards Dark Magic anywhere but the wizarding prison, but she had to believe there was good in people still.

In fact, she'd seen it firsthand.

Taking her seat towards the back of the courtroom, Hermione settled herself primly on the edge of the bench, quill and ink and parchment spread out in front of her, already charmed to capture exactly what was said. There were no Skeeter-esque embellishments in the Wizengamot, after all, and she'd have to keep an eager eye on the words appearing on the page to ensure their accuracy. It was her keen attention to detail that had awarded her this important responsibility, and it was one she took seriously; if Goyle could be a success story, who else could be?

It seemed fate would have her receive her answer sooner rather than later, she realized, as a familiar shock of blonde hair was immediately visible on the stand. It was dirty and unkempt, far from the slicked-back coif that always sat perfectly during their school years, and the expression on the usually smarmy face was not one of contempt, but one of contrition. There was still no mistaking him, even before the name was read out to the near-silent court: Draco Malfoy was on trial.

The first and second of his appeals hadn't been witnessed personally by her, but of course, she'd pored over the records, as though needing to know every detail. Flashes of their time spent together in Malfoy Manor during her capture tormented her, following her home from the Ministry and taunting her in her sleep. Thinking of him locked up in a cell barely bigger than himself, alone with his thoughts - it was difficult to push from her mind at first, once she'd heard of his sentence, but she'd forced herself to push on. After all, if positions were reversed, she was then convinced that he wouldn't do the same for her.

But still, seeing him so small and so desperate, pleading with all his might for any chance at penance - there was n0 possible way for her to remain as stock-still as all of her colleagues when the call for a handler was made.

"I will." The words, though spoken with a wavering voice, sounded like a solemn oath in the silent room, and she felt indignant eyes turn towards her as soon as they left her lips. "I am willing."

"Miss Granger?" hissed a woman to her right, glaring daggers at her from where she sat. Hermione paid her no mind.

"Well," spoke the judge after a long pause. "It is settled then. Miss Granger, please join us in the chambers for your instructions. Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, please escort Mr. Malfoy."

Without a second glance at any of her fellow jurors, Hermione waved her wand to pack her things in her bottomless purse - one thing she'd kept handy since the war - and stalked out, doing her best to appear with a confidence she wasn't sure she fully felt.​

 

[Saber]

The ringing in Draco's ears was almost overwhelming as he squeezed his eyes shut to try and gather his thoughts. Who would vouch for him if his family couldn't? Not that his mother would even attempt to come to his trials anymore. The first time that his appeal had been refuted, she had fallen apart after hearing the ruling and rushed out of the court room. She had written him since, but had ignored any information he gave her about his trial dates. He inhaled deeply, feeling his muscles stretch in his chest before exhaling and frantically combed his fingers through his greasier than normal hair. What he wouldn't do for a shower...

"I will. I am willing."

Draco stopped breathing for a moment as the ringing cleared and he stood up as straight as he could, craning his neck towards the voice that had broke through his fog. His eyes widened when he caught a glimpse of someone he honestly never thought he'd see again. A memory flickered in his mind during the war, in the darkened cellar at Malfoy Mansion and he shook his head. It was a memory that would haunt him forever. His home would never be a home again and he had thought several times while in Azkaban, if he ever got out, where would he go?

Before the blonde could say anything, the screeching of rusted hinges filled the air and he was pulled (aggressively) out of the cage. He was practically dragged to the judge's office where he was sat down in maybe the most uncomfortable chair he had ever sat in. There was an mild outburst of dissent amongst Ron and Harry as Draco's eyes wandered to the woman that had taken up the responsibility of being in charge of his rehabilitation.

It was more then surreal for him to be staring at Hermione. From a different point of view, someone would think he was glaring at her, but he was just confused. There was very little reason for her to be helping him at all and his mind was reeling with what she could possibly gain from all of this. While Harry and Ron were trying to convince the Wizengamot to reconsider, Draco finally found the composure he'd been looking for and addressed the brunette.

"Why did you do that?" He half whispered, half hissed, a few stray hairs falling in front of his narrowed silver eyes as he tried to search Hermione's for an answer. "Do you realize what you've agreed to? I am going to have to be monitored by you all. the. time."

"Mr. Malfoy," The judge sighed as he sat back in his chair. The chatter from the two aurors had finally died down and they both looked rather miffed. Which, as petty as it was, gave Draco the smallest amount of happiness. Something that he was savoring as a smug smirk grew on his lips as his eyes locked with the seething gaze of Ron Weasley. For a moment, he'd forgotten that Hermione and the weasel were dating at the end of the war. Were they still? "Miss Granger has offered to be your handler. If you'd like to be released from Azkaban, you have to give your consent."

"I..." He looked at Hermione again and furrowed his brow. Did he want to be watched by Hermione Granger twenty-four seven? Would it be any better than being patrolled by Dementors? "Y-yes. Yes I give my consent." At this point, being under the watchful gaze of the former Gryffindor was going to be a walk in the park compared to being in a tiny cell with barely any clothes. "Does that mean I don't have to go back?"

"Once both of you sign this official document, you are free to leave with Miss Granger." The judge was busy adjusting his glasses and writing something on parchment before he flipped the document and moved it towards Draco with a flick of his wrist. "You, Mr. Malfoy, must sign in blood to make the contract binding. If you break any of the conditions or rules that Miss Granger demands, your magic will be suppressed and you'll be apparated back to Azkaban immediately."

"Grand." Draco dead panned as a quill floated over and quickly pricked the tip of his right index finger. He didn't even have time to react before a bead of blood was forming. He quickly signed the hovering parchment and as soon as his finger left the paper, a red stain in the form of a chain wrapped around his wrist to his forearm. "I didn't think the Ministry dabbled in blood magic?" The judge just nodded as Draco rotated his arms slowing to inspect it. "I would like to take a shower, as soon as I possibly can."

 

[Solo]

The way Draco was looking at her, one would almost think he would rather be sent back to Azkaban than sign his freedom over to her. It reminded her of the glares he would fix on her during shared classes, and the longer it laid on her, the more it transported her back to their Hogwarts days. Suddenly, she was frizzy-haired and blushing, eyes trained to the ground as the word "Mudblood" rang out over an otherwise silent Quidditch Pitch, but soon enough, it was a year later and she was rushing him in the courtyard, smacking him with all her might.

In that moment, she channeled her thirteen-year-old self and sat up a little straighter; if he would be displeased with her as his company, he was more than welcome to send himself back to prison. Never mind what it would do to her reputation — but, as some had already proven, anything was repairable.

But to her astonishment, in what felt simultaneously like no time at all and years and years of her life, they were bound in blood as far as Draco was concerned, and Hermione felt herself, out-of-body, ink her own signature next to his in only a slightly shaking hand.

It was official. Draco Malfoy was now her responsibility.

The gravity of the situation hit her, and she could only hope no Ministry official kept a keen eye and saw her hand shake as she laid the quill back on the desk. Walls were beginning to close in, and suddenly, she was yet another version of her younger self, mouth going dry as the goblin at Gringotts stared down at her, disbelieving her terrible impression of Bellatrix Lestrange. "Come." The command was sharp, and she didn't wait to see if he obeyed; she stood abruptly from her chair and stalked out, walking stiffly in an effort to keep her knees from buckling.

Once she could be sure she was out of earshot of anyone who had just sealed their fate, she let out a breath that had begun to burn in her lungs, a sigh of disbelief the only noise in the empty hallway. Soon, she was joined by her new constant companion; wordlessly, she beckoned for him to follow, and he did, all the way to her office. "Muffliato," Hermione muttered, waving her wand at the exit, ensuring no one outside the door would be able to listen in on them. As soon as the room was protected, as soon as she had no more reason to hold up a pretense of strength, as soon as she could feel her resolve breaking... It still didn't. As though they were in a casual meeting about the menu to serve at the Minister's quarterly employee banquet, she gestured toward the chair on the opposite side of her desk while sitting primly in her own.

"If this is going to work," she began, steadying her voice with a quick clearing of her throat. "We'll need to have some... ground rules. I won't treat you like a house elf." The 'even though it may be what you deserve' hung unspoken in the air; though she didn't believe any being, magical or otherwise, deserved that kind of treatment, she couldn't deny that there had been moments of her life where she'd vividly imagined him getting a taste of his own medicine. Well, she supposed that was what he was doing now; being forced to leave his immediate future in her hands had to have him squirming in his seat, even if he'd die before admitting it.

"I won't set foot in the Manor." That much, she had already decided, and her tone left no room for argument. Though it had been where they had once connected — a brief memory of their few days flashed through her mind, but it was quickly overtaken by blood trickling onto cold marble and the deranged eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange — Dark magic still hung heavy over it, and would likely never dissipate.

She wouldn't go back there. Not physically, and certainly not mentally.​

 

[Saber]

Draco opened his mouth to speak when Hermione finished signing her name, but promptly shut it when he was ordered to follow her. And he did, with not a retort or a hint of snark. He wasn't really in the position to offer sarcasm since he basically had just signed his life away to Hermione Granger, Gryffindor know-it-all extraordinaire. A sharp, snide chuckle escaped him as they left the judge's office, as well as the two slack jawed aurors that Draco couldn't help but cast a smug smirk at over his shoulder before the door closed. Ron had been a quite pleasing shade of red. Being out of Azkaban was a weight lifted from his very exhausted shoulders and now that the adrenaline from his trial had worn off, his body felt about ten times heavier than normal.

He shook his head lightly as he continued to follow behind Hermione's conviction fueled steps. As he did so, he couldn't stop the evaluation that began to stir in his head as he watched her. She looked shorter than the last time he'd seen her, or he had possibly grown, but he wasn't sure if that was possible since he'd been living off a very limited menu for the past few years. Still, he stared at the back of his handler's head as they moved through the Ministry until they reached, what he assumed to be her office. She was different, of course she was. War changes people, but at least she ended up much better than himself.

After she had charmed the office to mute any noise that could be heard from outside, the brunette gestured for Draco to sit, and he did. When had he become so obedient? And to a mudbl-... No. That was a thought process he had to extinguish. If he was going to survive at all, that particular term had to die with his old self. If he could manage to kill it. He supposed there were worse people to order him around in the world. Imagine if he'd been given to Weasley or Potter. He frowned at the thought and suddenly, Hermione Granger wasn't so horrible. Or so he thought.

"And here I thought you were going to take me somewhere I could wash up." It was easy to slip back into his pompous personality. He slouched in the chair and folded his arms over his chest, much like a defiant child before speaking again. "I didn't expect you to ever go back to the manor." His voice was softer than he'd intended, but he couldn't wipe the scowl from his face. As much as he wanted to add the spice of sarcasm to this conversation, the memories of the manor weren't pleasant for him either. And while he'd never say it to Hermione Granger, he never wanted to step foot in his former home again.

Though he tried to relax the sneer that was carved into his face, it was difficult. The walls he'd built around himself were the foundation of his coping mechanisms. Bite back with sarcasm and disparage those "lesser" than himself. That was how he ignored the darkness that ate away at his soul. How he handled the disappointed father that criticized his every move and that had murdered any self confidence he'd ever had. The only person who had seen a glimpse of him at his most vulnerable was sitting across from him with a look of antipathy, and how could he blame her? He'd made her life a living hell while they were in school and then became a Death Eater. His home was where she had been tortured and held captive for days as he would deliver scraps of food every other day to keep her alive. His aunt had scarred her with dark magic. No, he couldn't blame her one bit.

Draco exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. A twinge in the back of his neck caused him to flinch as he thought of that cellar and the days he'd been a prisoner in his own home. And the screams, the cries of agony. They haunted him day and night and sometimes, in the darkness, he couldn't remember where he was. Regardless of the light that leaked through the window of Hermione's office, whether real or magically conjured, it never seemed to fall on him.

"The only thing I'm concerned about at this precise moment," Draco said calmly as he opened his eyes and did his best to relax his face. "is having something cushioned to sleep on, whether a sofa or a bed, and taking a very long, very hot shower." It wasn't a lie. Those were the two things (other than Hermione) that were at the forefront of his mind. He wanted to wash the grime and despair from his body and psyche, followed by a very long nap. Food wouldn't hurt either. Draco cleared his throat softly before leaning forward, folding his hands and resting his elbows on his knees before raising his silver gaze to the brunette. "Will I be able to buy another wand?"

It was a stretch. He'd lost his wand to Potter during the war and he'd not felt whole since. Not that it would've mattered, his wand would've been taken after he was arrested anyway. Of course he could do wandless magic, but it wasn't as capable and not as precise. Though it was possible that Hermione wouldn't even allow him to perform magic while he was being rehabilitated. But he needed something, anything that could make him feel even the slightest bit normal again.

 

[Solo]

From the moment of her outburst in Draco's favor, Hermione had been operating on autopilot. It wouldn't do for anyone to see her falter; she was known throughout the Ministry as a stalwart, stone-faced hard worker, not as someone who would ever act on impulse. Working under Kingsley Shacklebolt left no room for error, making it the perfect position for someone of her caliber, but sometimes — especially after trials, which were taxing on the most unbothered of witches and wizards — she missed the nights where she'd hide away in the library, so lost in her schoolbooks that emotions couldn't break down her walls. More often than not, she'd fall asleep on an open text, waving her wand to dry the slight puddle of drool that formed on the parchment before dashing off to class. But classes and schoolyard drama had long since given way to paperwork and office politics, and there was no extra credit that would fix the situation she now found herself entrenched in.

At his question, Hermione paused; technically, there were no restrictions on him using magic, but she had to admit, she didn't quite feel comfortable putting a wand into his capable hands so soon. While she fully believed in the rehabilitation program, and even mainly believed that he would be an eligible candidate for it, the ghosts of their past would never stop haunting her, and it would take time for her to learn to share her space with them amicably. "The Ministry recommends a waiting period before permitting you to use magic." The answer wasn't a lie, so-to-speak; the Minister proper rarely got involved in the rehabilitation of lower-level ex-Death Eaters, but the Wizengamot was outspoken in regards to keeping them under practical lock-and-key.

Still, she couldn't leave him with no hope.

"You'll have something like the Trace on you, to make sure that wandless magic can't be developed or used, but this will be removed eventually. It will depend on your participation in the program, of course — not just with me, but with the group and individual therapy. The Ministry wants no doubt left that you will be able to rejoin society safely... So that's what we'll aim to prove."

How they were going to do that was still beyond her. While she had seen some of the success stories since the implementation of the program, she'd never been so directly involved in one of them, and she'd certainly never had someone with a faded Dark Mark enter her personal home. It was normally just her that stumbled through the door late at night, only her that mussed up the sheets on her queen-sized bed (the only comfortable place to sleep in the flat, she suddenly realized; she'd have to rearrange her living room and potentially finally get rid of her awful, old, uncomfortable couch so she could conjure a place for him to sleep). There were rarely visitors. Harry and Ron would occasionally make time in their busy Auror schedules to join her for tea, and she, Ginny, and Luna had monthly meet-ups that they rotated in hosting, but those were planned. Had she even picked up her dirty laundry after her shower that morning? She couldn't remember, and her cheeks flushed at the thought of him seeing her ratty sweatpants she often slept in.

"If you're ready, we can go directly to my flat. You can shower, while I work on... preparing a place for you." Where that room would come from in her tiny one-bedroom flat was another hurdle to clear, but she had been meaning to declutter anyway, and it wasn't as though she didn't still have her bottomless bag for emergency storage if needed. It would lodge itself in the back of her mind, it being so cluttered, until she found a more suitable spot to keep her things while she hosted him, but that was far from the worst of her worries.

With that, she beckoned him to follow her, eyes glued to them as they traced the familiar path towards the exit of the Ministry. Shuddering as they shot through the fireplace, Hermione waited until they could turn a corner into an unused alley, where she grabbed his arm without warning and Apparated them away, putting them just inside her front door.

It wasn't as messy as she'd thought she'd left it, though there were unmistakably dishes from breakfast resting in the sink. Flicking her wand, she sent her clothes from the night before into the hamper — she still preferred to do some things the Muggle way, and while she allowed herself the convenience of washing the dishes with magic, she'd do her laundry over the approaching weekend. It would give her a reason to remain in the common area of the home, where he would be temporarily staying, without obviously looming over him. As much as she'd gone out on a limb to host him, that didn't mean that she immediately trusted him.

"Well. Home sweet home," Hermione broke the silence with, followed by a mirthless chuckle. "You're welcome to use the shower if you'd like. Some of your things have been sent over — " She gestured toward a small trunk resting in the hall near the bathroom's entry. " — but anything else you'd like to send for, we can send an owl to the Ministry in the morning."

Pausing as she set the dishes to dry, she regarded him again for the first time since they'd entered her home. "Is there anything else you need, for now?" The question was quiet; though others would likely disagree, the least she could give him was basic courtesy. In all the hustle and bustle of the evening, she hadn't thought to stop and see if he was even doing alright.​

 

[Saber]

Draco's heart dropped a bit when Hermione mentioned he wouldn't be getting a wand, or practicing magic any time soon. He sighed heavily as he massaged his forehead. One supposed a Trace was...reasonable since he was a former follower of Voldemort. Though, thankfully, he hadn't engaged in the more horrific atrocities his colleagues had committed. He went to open his mouth when she mentioned group therapy, but again, he bit his tongue. Now was not the time to focus on small trifles. He was sure he'd be able to muddle through therapy enough to be deemed 'fixed'. Fingers anxiously combed through his greasy hair which he internally cringed at. He just wanted to feel human once more, even if that meant he had to follow the law of Hermione Granger and the Ministry. Anything to be rid of all traces of Azkaban.

"If you're ready, we can go directly to my flat. You can shower, while I work on... preparing a place for you."

"Finally." Draco muttered under his breath as he followed Hermione out of the Ministry via floo network. When they were a bit more secluded, Hermione reached out to grab him and he flinched, not prepared for the contact. Apparating wasn't the most pleasant sensation a witch or wizard could experience, even less so when you're not ready for it. So when they landed in Hermione's flat, Draco had to focus on the floor for a moment to regain his equilibrium. When his world stopped spinning, he stood up straight and looked around the modest flat. There was nothing extraordinary about it and somehow, it wreaked with the essence of Hermione Granger.

When she gestured to the trunk near the bathroom, a breath that Draco hadn't noticed he was holding released and the fatigue of the day finally hit him like a grand piano. Instinctively, he waved his hand to levitate the trunk, and felt the empty, magic-less feeling as if he was just waving his hand in the air...which he was. He rolled his eyes before releasing an aggravated groan, walking into the bathroom and shutting the door. Draco was too annoyed and exhausted to mention anything or even complain out loud. All he wanted was to bathe so he could ruminate on his current situation.

Draco leaned back against the door and ran his hands over his face. When he finally managed to open his eyes, his brow furrowed as he saw a room that was...much larger than the average washroom and far more elaborate than the flat itself. "What..." He whispered to himself as he saw a large garden tub on one side of the room and a spacious shower with a glass door on the other. There was shelving on the wall against the tub where, shocker, books were stacked tightly together with a few hovering near the tub, open to a page where Hermione must've left off.

The whole room was so...bright. So much so that Draco had to squint his eyes and as if the room could sense his mood, the lighting dimmed just a touch and suddenly, the scent of rain filled the space. "Nice touch, Granger." Draco exhaled slowly as his body began to relax. He moved to stand in the middle of the bathroom, his silver eyes flitting back and forth to the shower and the tub, ultimately settling on the tub. Once he had adjusted the brass faucet to the perfect temperature, he pressed down on the drain and pulled the tattered, disgusting robe up over his head and tossed it on the floor. The trousers were next and he did the polite thing and shoved the filthy garments in a pile near the door.

While the tub was filling, he moved to the vanity and looked at his reflection in the mirror. His face was gaunt, more so than normal and he almost didn't recognize himself as he'd grown older. His shoulders were broader and his hair had lost some of it's golden luster to a very pale blonde. He'd gained some mass due to the fact that there wasn't much to do in Azkaban but exercise to occupy your time, and he was taller than he was when he entered the prison, or at least he thought. It was strange the things you missed when you were left without a mirror for several years.

When the tub was finally full, the water stopped running on it's own. Another charm Hermione must've added in case she forgot herself reading, or so he assumed. There was a light steam rising from the surface as he stepped in and hissed at the heat before holding his breath and submerging his body. He didn't remember making the water this hot, but it had been a long time since he'd actually bathed in any water that wasn't room temperature or colder. The tub was deep enough, barely, for him to dip his head under while his knees broke the surface. With his hair drenched, he wiped the water from his face and looked at the tile shelf to see several bottles.

"Shampoo, conditioner, body wash..." Draco muttered to himself as he grabbed a couple of them to inspect. "Rose Hips." Another bottle. "Vanilla Birthday Cake?" He rolled his eyes as he grabbed the rose scented shampoo and squeezed some into his hands before massaging it into his hair. The scent wasn't as bad as he thought it'd be. After rinsing the shampoo, the vanilla scented body wash came next and he drained the tub to avoid sitting in filthy water before doing so. Rinsing under the faucet itself.

After thoroughly cleansing himself of every speck of dirt and grime he thought there was, he wiped down the tub before grabbing a plush towel and began patting himself down before doing a quick tussle to dry the excess water from his hair. He wrapped the towel around his waist before moving towards the trunk to retrieve whatever clothes were sent over. The trunk that he had left sitting outside of the bathroom door. Of course.

"Shite." Draco huffed as he tried to tighten the towel around his waist and opened the bathroom door, poking his head out to make sure that Hermione wasn't nearby before grabbing the handle of the trunk, attempting to pull it in. Unfortunately, the trunk was much heavier when you couldn't charm it to be weightless and hover. "You've got to be kidding me." Draco opened the door fully and took a step outside before squatting to open the trunk. He grabbed the first shirt and pair of sweatpants that he spotted and slipped back into the bathroom as quickly as he could.

He fidgeted annoyedly as he tried to pull his shirt down over his head, but it didn't reach the waistband of his black sweatpants by a good three inches. Could this day get any worse? No, it couldn't. Worst case scenario was that he would go back to Azkaban. Some ill fitting clothes shouldn't be something that bothered him so much, but he was in a flat that wasn't his own, in clothes that didn't fit, and living with someone he didn't want to love with.

"Granger," He called when he finally exited the bathroom. "I need to go shopping." Draco was positive the image of him was less than flattering. His green t-shirt was too tight and short, while his sweat pants barely made it past his knees. "Can you at least charm these for me so I don't look like I'm wearing children's clothes?"

 

[Solo]

As the door shut behind Draco, closing him off from her vision for the first time in hours – hours that felt like days at that point, with how taxing their interactions had been thus far – Hermione sighed, exhaling every bit of short, beleaguered breath that she'd drawn since initiating the Apparition. It wasn't her favorite way to travel, but then again, in the Wizarding World, there were few manners of getting from one place to another that she didn't entirely despise. Floo Powder could be bearable once she got over the anxiety of what would happen if she misspoke, but other than that, she found herself traveling via Muggle means often. There was something about a long walk that helped to clear her mind, and it certainly didn't leave her stomach turning like Apparating did – though, if that was the Apparition or him, she wasn't entirely sure.

There was little to do to make the place more presentable; he'd already gotten a full view of her tiny flat when they'd arrived, and trivial things like clearing the few dishes out of the sink or picking up the scattered books arranged haphazardly on the coffee table hardly seemed to matter when in a matter of minutes – or possibly hours, with how filthy he'd been when they'd arrived – she'd be confronted with the stark reality that Draco Malfoy was in her home. And it wasn't as though he was just stopping in for tea, which by itself would be odd to say the least, but no – he essentially lived there now.

What on earth was she going to tell… well, everyone?

News didn't take long to spread through the Ministry like wildfire, and her two closest friends had born witness to her vouching for him. Hermione was surprised they hadn't beaten her to her flat, but she had an inkling she had Kingsley to thank for that. The Minister was nothing if not attentive to every detail, and they were in the unique situation that he had been present for most of their teenage years. How Ron and Harry would feel about Hermione taking Draco in would be obvious to anyone who'd ever met them, and Hermione doubted her boss wanted her to fail by allowing the two to follow them home and take vigilante justice on their old school nemesis.

It wasn't just Ron and Harry that had been tormented by him in school, of course – Hermione would argue that she had gotten it the worst, with echoes of "Mudblood" circling through her thoughts as much as she tried to block them out. That version of him had been so prominent in her early school years – and yet, seeing him struggling to cling to what little pride he still had was such a dramatic contrast from the smarmy, self-assured, invincible Draco Malfoy of their early Hogwarts years that it was difficult to see them as the same person.

Would the person locking themselves away in her bathroom, washing off years of grime and blood and unimaginable thoughts, say the same words to her today? A brief flashback to their days alone in Malfoy Manor made her heart settle on "no", though her head wouldn't let her put her full conviction in that belief just yet.

Even though Hermione thought it pointless, she wasn't just going to sit on her hands and wait for him to reemerge, so instead, she went through her normal motions upon arriving home from work. The heels she'd donned that morning were placed on the rack near the door next to the other pairs she'd circulate throughout the week, her jacket was hunt on a hook near the door, and she moved into the kitchen to begin scrubbing her breakfast dishes by hand. Sure, there were charms to do so – but not only did she prefer the minutiae of chores to the instantaneous problem-solving of magic, having long since been used to doing things the Muggle way, but she felt it almost cruel to flaunt her usage of magic in his face.

Would he have ever given her the same consideration if the roles were switched? Would he even do so now?

Thankfully, the thought spiral was soon broken, after Hermione had washed and dried the day's dishes and begun a load of laundry, when Draco exited the bathroom.

Hermione couldn't help but burst out in laughter.

Nearly doubled over, her hand clutching the kitchen counter to keep her upright, her eyes screwed shut as she giggled, soon turning into full belly laughter, at the sight of Draco in his shrunken clothes. It was as though all the stress of the day was washing itself out through her derisive howling, and she didn't even try to choke out words in between peals; she knew she'd be utterly unable to.

When it finally subsided, one hand swiping tears from her eyes as she nearly panted for breath, Hermione took pity on him and raised her wand, the clothes instantly stretching themselves to cover much more of his body, though in her haste the sweatpants were still left slightly short, hitting just above the ankle instead of sagging to his feet.

"I'm – I'm sorry," she managed to cough out, attempting to disguise another giggle as a clearing of her throat, but likely failing miserably. "But you have to admit – "

Hermione cut herself off, knowing he likely wouldn't agree with her that it was funny, after all, and she didn't want to start an argument, not in her own home. "We can go tomorrow. If… if you think Diagon Alley is… an option for you, right now."

There was no beating around the bush – being seen in public would be risky for him, and though Hermione knew that no sane witch or wizard would haphazardly cast curses in as public a space as Diagon Alley, especially after the war when more security measures were taken in public places, the protections in place wouldn't save him from public opinion.

Nor, she supposed, her, by association, but it couldn't revolve around her just then.​

 

[Saber]

Draco's face fell even more, if that was possible, when Hermione burst into a fit of laughter. His eyes rolled dramatically before she finally charmed his clothing to the correct fit, while she was still stifling her amusement. "Yes, I admit my shrunken clothes were...comical." He admitted as he crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes closed as he turned his head ever so slightly to show his displeasure, but he kept his mouth shut. His younger, more fragile ego would've said something to protect his pride. Most likely something overly insulting and harsher than needed. While his matured sense of self could handle a bit of teasing, old habits died hard and the biting of his tongue was almost painful.

The thought of going to Diagon Alley hadn't really crossed his mind with everything that had gone on today and in the past. The people that would stare at him. He inhaled deeply as he opened his eyes and moved to sit on the sofa. He really hadn't thought about how the general public would react to his release or to Hermione who was now housing a former Death Eater. Draco was used to being known his whole life. Being a Malfoy meant that he would have a reputation even if he hadn't been a Death Eater, his father made sure of that. Was he ready for the unwanted attention that would assuredly come with being out and about in public?

"I don't think anyone would attack me during the day." A lighthearted joke, but also a very real possibility, and not just good wizards, dark wizards could have a chip on their shoulder for his betrayal to Voldemort. "Besides," He glanced at Hermione with a meager smirk. "my handler will be around and you're pretty well loved among the people, I assume."

Now that Draco had sat down on something so soft and comforting, his body grew heavy and he felt himself settling back against the comfortable cushions. It wasn't as luxurious as anything he could've had at home, but it would do. How long had it been since he'd rested on something that wasn't made of wood or stone? The "mattresses" that were provided at Azkaban might as well been made of plywood and burlap. The years of fatigue and stress on his body had been washed away for the most part, but the sofa was slowly swallowing him into a pending sleep that he could tell was finally going to be restful.

"So what do you do for fun, Granger?" He folded his arms over his chest, more so in an attempt to comfort himself. While his mind was in a state of calm enough to fall asleep, he didn't feel completely safe for some reason. Being in Hermione's home, while he was sure it was protected, he wasn't quite sure how to convince himself that a Dementor wasn't going to fly through the window and suck out his soul. "I assume read, board games...other boring things."

It's not that Draco was trying to be rude, he genuinely was curious what Hermione did in her free time to keep herself entertained. His delivery could probably use some work, but to be fair, he was just being blunt and not actively being malicious. While they were at school, when Hermione wasn't following around her friends, he would see her engrossed in a book in the library. Draco only assumed that that was one of her past times. And as she looked around the room with half lidded eyes, he saw the neat piles of books that were scattered on random surfaces and the shelves that held no space for anything other than books. Only proving his assumption. He supposed some things would never change.

His silver eyes roamed the rest of the space before settling on a device that he'd only seen maybe two times in his life and only in muggle London. He knew that moving images, much like the enchanted portraits would appear on the glass screen, but he'd never actually seen it work before. His curiosity peaked and he sat up to look at the brunette with an expression of expected explanation. Even though he knew about a handful of muggle things, he knew very little of their technology.

"How does that thing work?" He asked, sitting forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Are there people living in that box?"

 

[Solo]

It had been obvious from their first meeting that they lived completely different lives. Even if the Sorting Hat had seen more similarity in them and placed them in similar houses, nothing could bridge the gap between being raised in entirely different classes. In the Muggle world, Hermione's parents had been considered well off; dentists didn't make salaries that were anything to turn one's nose up at, and she rarely recalled a time in her youth where she wasn't granted her Christmas or birthday wishes, but the kind of generational wealth that seemed to commonly exist in the wizarding world was much rarer in the world of Muggles.

So, to see him, on her couch that she'd bought from a Muggle store ironically named Burrow, staring at her television — a small, old, box television that she'd allowed Arthur Weasley to learn how to restore in his shed — was almost comical.

Harry, of course, was a wizard well-versed in Muggle technologies; even if he hadn't been permitted to use most of Dudley's things, he at least understood how they worked, and Ron tried his best. In the months following the war, the Weasley family had been making more of an effort to spend as much time together as possible, and she knew Ron often spent time with his father tinkering on Muggle objects in the shed. The last visit she'd made to the Burrow, she'd even seen Percy and Bill puttering around in the kitchen with Molly, dutifully performing the domestic charms needed to clean up after a meal as their mother supervised them.

It made the fact that Hermione had no idea where her own parents were even harder to swallow; at least, in the face of the Fred-shaped hole in their lives, the Weasleys had one another. While Hermione was always welcomed into the fold, there was nothing that could replace the elder Grangers. Eventually, her goal was to attempt to track them down in Australia — but she supposed that would have to wait even longer now.

"No, they don't live there," Hermione chuckled, crossing the small living room to press the button on the side of the television, fiddling with the antennae as the staticky screen flickered to life. "It's… well, it runs on electricity, and these help it pick up a signal that's being broadcast from somewhere else in the world. It's quite fascinating, really. I'm sure there's a documentary somewhere that explains it better than I can."

Hermione picked up the remote control and handed it to him. "See, you press these buttons to change what you're watching." Demonstrating a few times, the screen flickered from what looked to be a documentary on World War II to an old cartoon to a replay of a football match. "And this makes the sound louder or quieter."

It dawned on her then how close they were, with her leaning over the side of the couch and showing him the buttons as she pressed them. Blushing, she dropped the device on the arm of the couch, taking a step back. "Well, I imagine you're tired, don't want to keep you up and all. Is there anything you need before I turn in?"​

 

[Saber]

Draco knew very little of muggle technology, or life, for that matter, so he tried his best to listen to when Hermione was telling him how to operate the television. He hadn't noticed that as he was focusing in on how to use the little contraption that controlled the screen so intently, he had leaned closer to the brunette. Even though it was of no consequence to him, when she noticed, she promptly set the remote on the couch before creating some space between them.

He supposed this was going to be a bit awkward for them, no matter how comfortable they could become in each other's presence. Taking into account their past and, conversations they had had during the war, there was a lot unspoken that perhaps Draco should bring up. But not tonight, and probably not this week...or month. He wasn't even sure how to go about bringing up some of the topics that, in his mind, needed to be cleared up.

"I think I'm all set." Draco muttered as he took the remote into his own hand and carefully mimicked what Hermione had done. Firstly, he had turned the television to a moderate volume, one that he hoped wouldn't be too loud for the small flat. Not to mention his own hearing was a bit wonky from being in Azkaban. You were either sitting in complete silence or trying to muffle the shouts and maniacal laughter from the other prisoners. He waited to change the channel until he heard Hermione retreat into her own bedroom and the gentle click of the door shutting.

A breath was released that Draco didn't even realize he was holding as he began clicking through the channels, pausing for a few moments unless there was a program that really captured his attention. He wasn't expecting to be so enraptured with the television, or some of the shows that he'd watched well into the early hours of the morning. A nature documentary, about muggle creatures, of course. As well as a few historical reenactments about the rulers of the Roman Empire and a movie about some fantastical world under the sea that was supposedly based off of ancient myth. If only muggles knew what some merpeople actually looked like. These sort of things were very interesting to Draco, even if he didn't have anything really invested in muggle society. Though the documentaries about their governments were interesting.

While Draco wasn't normally a history buff, he was aware of the very rare occasions where a wizarding war had actually come to fruition, the main one he had been involved in. And while he knew that Britain was not the center of the universe, it surprised him to learn that most other magical societies in the world were relatively peaceful. At some point in the middle of the night, he had wandered into the kitchen and rummaged around before finding a glass to drink some water. He'd actually drank a lot of water, maybe four or five full glasses. Being able to have access to clean drinking water was something he was not used to and some habits from Azkaban were hard to break. Drinking a large amount of water as quickly as possible was one of those habits.

When the sun began to peak over the horizon and shine through the windows, Draco was watching a show that focused on showing the process on how different things were built. For some reason he found the process of forging metal and making chain link somewhat calming. It had been so long since he'd been able to do whatever he wanted, or had anything enjoyable to do, for that matter. So even though he was exhausted, a part of him was afraid to fall asleep in case this was some sort of fever dream that would disappear the moment he closed his eyes and he'd wake up in that damp, dark cell once more.

 

[Solo]

For only the second time since that morning, the door shut behind Hermione, creating a physical barrier between her and Draco. It felt like a lifetime ago that she'd been in that same bedroom, getting dressed for work without a second thought, as though it was like every other morning before it. With how little she'd known about how the day was going to transpire, it might as well have been, but the day had ended with her childhood nemesis in her apartment, living with her for the foreseeable future.

Ron and Harry had always been the impulsive ones, and Hermione had never understood how they could act first and think later, especially with the litany of consequences they'd had heaped on their heads for it over the years. Now, she felt like she owed them an apology, though with how infuriated they'd looked when she'd vouched for him, she doubted that would be an easy conversation.

Not that she had much in the way of easy conversations ahead of her. The tension between her and Draco was palpable, as though each of them was walking on eggshells not to mention even an iota of their past, as though the façade they'd created of his redemption would crash around them if they even thought of it. But it was all Hermione could think of, even as she changed from her work clothes to a comfortable pair of grey active pants and a plain, slightly form-fitting cream-colored tee shirt and slid into bed, eyes open and staring at the ceiling until she became fed up with her overthinking and forced them shut.

Eventually, she drifted off, though she slept restlessly – it felt like as soon as she'd settle into sleep, she'd be jolted back into reality with a start, heart racing until deep breathing exercises restarted the cycle. When the sun was visible through her curtains, Hermione huffed and gave up, throwing the covers off of her with a petulance she hadn't displayed since she was a child.

Quietly, she cracked the door open, making her best effort not to make any noise in case he was still sleeping. Surprisingly, though, she found him awake, transfixed on the television in front of him. Stifling a chuckle, she exited the bedroom, letting the door shut behind her with a bit more noise so she wouldn't sneak up on him and startle him.

"Morning," she greeted him as she passed, stopping in the kitchen to start the Muggle coffee machine. "Coffee? Tea?"

It was such a normal question, as though she were hosting a friend for the first time – her close friends, of course, she already knew what they took in the morning and exactly how they took it, but how could she know how Draco Malfoy spent his mornings? The little things, she supposed, she'd come to learn in time.​