Chapter 12
Draco accompanied Hermione to Cambridge’s Open Community Day, and Merlin, he still wasn’t used to the sheer number of people Muggle events seemed to attract. In the wizarding world, crowds were typically smaller—especially for something as niche as a particular research field. But here? The university was absolutely heaving with people of all ages, milling about with curious eyes and endless questions.
Naturally, Granger had them all utterly enthralled.
Draco was on edge, of course, but he couldn’t deny the quiet thrill of watching her speak. The way her eyes lit up as she explained her work, the passion in her voice, the way she made even the most complex ideas sound fascinating. People kept flocking to her: eager students, intrigued academics, wide-eyed visitors—and Granger met each of them with that same infectious enthusiasm.
He’d cast a few light mental probes here and there—purely for safety’s sake, of course—and what he found didn’t surprise him. Admiration. Respect. Even a bit of awe. Granger had them all wrapped around her fingers, and honestly? He couldn’t blame them one bit.
As the day wore on, Draco found himself relaxing—only slightly, mind you. He still kept tabs on every person who came within ten feet of Granger, wand discreetly at the ready. He’d tried—unsuccessfully, of course—to convince her to cancel her attendance at the event altogether.
Naturally, she’d refused with righteous fury.
When the final presentation wrapped up and the crowds began to thin, she turned to him, casually brushing a curl behind her ear.
“There’s a night fair in Wizarding Cambridge I want to swing by,” she said breezily, as if she hadn’t just spent the entire day surrounded by potential threats.
Draco groaned. “Granger, for the love of—No. You can’t seriously think traipsing about in public is a good idea when we’ve still got bloody Death Eaters plotting in the shadows.”
She gave him a maddeningly calm look, already reaching for her coat.
“Nonsense,” she said. “It’s perfectly safe—plenty of witnesses if anyone tries anything funny. And besides…” Her lips curled into a mischievous smile. “You’re my shadow, aren’t you? So you’ll protect me.”
Draco muttered a string of very unprofessional words under his breath—but followed her anyway. Obviously .
They walked past King's College Chapel and turned into a narrow alley—one of those nondescript spots most people wouldn’t give a second glance. Granger, ever confident, pulled out her wand and tapped twice on a patch of old brickwork. With a gentle rumble, the wall shimmered and began to disassemble itself, brick by brick, revealing the hidden entrance to Wizarding Cambridge.
Draco never set foot in this part of the magical world. Truth be told, he’d kept his presence within Britain wizarding society rather limited since the war. There were still far too many people who looked at him and didn’t see an Auror—but a Malfoy. A Death Eater. Always his dark past.
As the alleyway gave way to the hidden square, the scene unfolded like something out of a storybook. The night fair was in full swing—stalls lined the cobbled street, each one buzzing with life and colour. The scent of sweet and savoury delights hung thick in the air: roasted chestnuts, sugared apples, something that might have been treacle fudge. Vendors peddled enchanted flowers that bloomed to music, fruit that shimmered faintly under the moonlight, peculiar hats, weathered books, glinting amulets, and all manner of whimsical trinkets.
The soft hum of conversation, laughter, and the flicker of firefly lanterns added to the magic of it all. And there—of course—was Granger, her eyes lit up like a child’s as she caught sight of a stall piled high with old, leather-bound books.
Draco tutted, smirking. “Ah. And now I see why you were so bloody determined to come tonight. You simply can’t resist a musty old book, can you?”
“What? Rubbish,” she sniffed, though the way she was already drifting toward the stall rather undermined her point. “I have plenty of interests outside books, I’ll have you know.”
“Do you?” Draco said, eyebrow raised. “Well then, do enlighten me—what exactly is captivating your attention at this particular fair, if not the promise of hundred years of dusty tomes?”
Hermione shot him a sidelong glance, already leafing through a particularly ancient volume. “For your information, Malfoy, I was actually admiring the local culture. The vibrant atmosphere. The community spirit.”
Draco snorted. “You’re holding a book titled ‘The Etymological Evolution of Wand Motions in Pre-Merlin Era Hexwork.’ ”
She didn’t even look up. “Exactly. Culture.”
He rolled his eyes, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him.
As soon as Granger snatched up her dusty old tome with the reverence of a priestess handling scripture, Draco took a moment to scan the scene. So far, nothing—or no one—seemed suspicious. The crowd bustled with an easy energy, all laughter and candlelight, giving him the rare luxury of momentary calm. It seemed, for now, tonight was as safe as it was going to get.
That’s when something caught his eye—a glint of silver two stalls down. He turned slightly, curious, and spotted it: a bracelet. Its design was almost baroque, with curling leaf motifs and intricate filigree, inlaid with tiny red jaspers and a single polished onyx stone at its centre.
Something about it immediately brought Granger to mind. It was elegant, grounded, bold—just like her. Without a second thought, he made his way toward the stall, slipping through the crowd with the sort of subtlety that came from years of sneaking about as a Slytherin. Just a quiet gift, something beautiful, like her, that he hoped she'd wear without ever suspecting just how long he'd stood there imagining it on her wrist.
“I can see this piece has caught your eye,” said the vendor, an elderly wizard with greyish hair, spectacles perched precariously on a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. His dark purple robes shimmered faintly in the firefly-lit night.
Draco nodded, still eyeing the bracelet. “There’s something about it… I can feel it. Is it enchanted?”
The vendor’s eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. “Ah, very perceptive. Yes, indeed it is. This bracelet dates back to the seventeenth century. It once belonged to the Signora of a renowned Italian painter. He gifted it to her on the eve of their secret wedding.”
Draco raised a brow. “Romantic.”
The vendor chuckled. “Quite. But what makes it special is the enchantment he placed upon it—a vow of eternal love. Only those who’ve truly known what love means can feel its magic. Most walk past it without a second glance. But you—” he tilted his head knowingly “—you felt it straight away.”
Draco glanced back at Granger, who was still nose-deep in her dusty book, completely unaware.
“I’ll take it,” he said quietly. “Wrap it up.”
The vendor gave him a knowing smile, carefully placing the bracelet in a velvet pouch the colour of midnight. He murmured something under his breath—likely a mild concealment charm—before handing it to Draco with a respectful nod.
Draco handed the galleons and tucked it safely into his coat pocket. He looked over to Granger again, watching the way her brow furrowed slightly in concentration as she flipped through the aged tome in her hands. There was something annoyingly endearing about the way she blocked out the world completely when she found something interesting to read.
“You’re smirking again,” she said, not looking up.
“Am I?” he replied innocently, strolling back over. “Just admiring the view.”
They were interrupted by a loud growl—specifically, Granger’s stomach. She shot Draco a sheepish look and groaned, “I’m absolutely famished. The smell of roasted chestnuts is driving me barmy—I could eat a bloody hippogriff.”
Draco smirked. “So, you’re finally putting down the dusty tome to tend to basic human needs. Miraculous.”
Granger scowled. “Don’t be daft—I’ve already bought the book. Quite an interesting reading if you must know. Now come on! Let’s find the sweet pecan nuts. They’re the best thing in this entire fair.”
They made their way through the crowd, the scent of caramelised sugar and roasted spices thick in the cool night air. Granger walked slightly ahead, a bounce in her step as the warm glow of the stalls lit her face.
The sweet pecan stall came into view, with its little brass kettle steaming and a cheerful witch handing out paper cones filled with warm, sugary nuts.
“Oi!” A gruff voice sliced through the pleasant hum of chatter.
Draco barely had time to turn when a red-faced wizard stepped out from the throng—stocky, grey-bearded, his eyes sharp with something venomous. And before Draco could so much as blink, the man spat.
Right at his feet.
“Death Eater scum,” he sneered.
The world tilted, just slightly.
Draco froze. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the glob of spit staining the cobblestones. He didn’t look at the man—just turned slightly, his face tightening, gaze downcast with a sharp, quiet shame that settled in his chest like lead.
“Let’s just go,” he said softly, already moving to retreat.
But Hermione didn’t budge.
She stepped in front of him, firmly—like a bloody force of nature.
“Excuse me?” Her voice rang out.
The man narrowed his eyes. “You think a nice suit makes him clean? You think people forget what he is?”
Hermione’s grip tightened on her wand. “What he is, is a decorated Auror. A man who’s saved lives—who risked everything to fix a world people like you were too cowardly to stand up for. And you’ve just spat at him. In public. In front of witnesses.” She tilted her head. “Do you know what that constitutes?”
The man’s scowl faltered.
Draco touched her arm lightly. “Granger, please. Let it go.”
“No, Draco,” she said, not taking her eyes off the man. “That’s assault on a Ministry official. A direct violation of at least three public safety statutes.” She took a step closer. “I could have you arrested right now.”
Draco stood behind her, silent—jaw clenched, throat tight. There was something lodged there, something sharp and unfamiliar. Bitterness, yes—but also something warmer.
No one had ever defended him like that. Not like this.
Not even his parents.
When he walked with Theo or Pansy, every time someone spat at him or muttered beneath their breath, the strategy was always the same: Let it go. Don’t cause a scene. Keep your head down. They wore silence like a shield, swallowing humiliation like it was expected for the Slytherins.
But Hermione Granger? She hadn’t even hesitated. She’d stood in front of him like it was the most natural thing in the world—like he was someone worth protecting. And for the first time in a long while, he felt seen—and not just seen, but valued. Cherished. Like he mattered to her. Like he wasn’t just some relic of a darker past, but someone worth standing up for.
The man’s bravado wilted under her glare.
“You think you’re brave?” Hermione went on. “Spitting at someone from behind a crowd, sneering at people who’ve worked to rebuild what you probably stood on the sidelines and watched burn?” Her eyes narrowed. “Apologise.”
The man looked around—the onlookers now silent, watching. Judging. Whispering.
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, you meant it,” she snapped. “But let’s be perfectly clear.” She stepped forward again. “This man?” She gestured to Draco. “He’s Harry Potter’s Auror partner. My friend. And if you think for one second I’ll let you publicly disgrace him, you’ve got another thing coming.”
The man went pale. He muttered an apology and quickly turned, stumbling into the crowd and vanishing without so much as a glance back.
The silence lingered a moment longer.
Then Hermione turned to Draco and grabbed his hand. “Right then,” she said, as though nothing had happened. “Sweet pecan nuts, wasn’t it?”
Draco blinked at her.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. “Granger, you didn’t have to—”
She shot him a look so sharp it could’ve sliced parchment. A clear don’t even start .
“Right,” he amended quickly. “Thank you. It meant… more than I can say. But remind me never to get on your bad side.”
She rolled her eyes as she turned and started walking. “Please. You live there.”
He followed her with a quiet chuckle—and if his chest felt a little warmer, a little lighter, he didn’t fight it. Because Hermione Granger wasn’t ashamed of him. She stood by him. She valued him… that meant everything.
****
A week had passed since the spitting incident at the Cambridge fair. Draco was still sleeping on Granger’s sofa and still locked in daily battle with her furry little menace, who seemed more determined than ever to smother him in his sleep. Despite the air of calm that had settled over their days, a gnawing unease clung to him.
Dolohov and Yaxley remained in custody, but they might as well have been statues. No matter how skilled the Legilimens, no one had managed to crack the ironclad walls in their minds. Every lead had gone cold. And that persistent itch at the back of Draco’s neck—the sense that something was brewing—had only worsened.
Which is how he found himself facing a truth he didn’t particularly enjoy: if he wanted answers, if he wanted to protect Hermione the way she deserved… he would have to turn to the last person on earth he wanted to ask for help.
His father.
Lucius Malfoy had been sentenced to life in Azkaban, and for Draco’s own sanity, he often pretended the man was already dead. It was easier that way—easier to forget the weight of the Malfoy name, the shame, the rot that came with it.
He’d only visited once since the sentencing. One visit. One conversation. Just long enough to look his father in the eye and, with cold, measured words, renounce everything the Malfoy name had ever stood for—every ounce of pure-blood arrogance, every whispered slur, every act of cowardice dressed up as tradition.
If it were up to him, the entire Malfoy legacy could go up in flames—and he’d gladly pour the petrol. He’d use every last Galleon of the family fortune to right the wrongs they'd helped create.
And then he’d walked away, swearing he’d never return.
Until now. He needed to go back.
That had been three years ago. He hadn’t set foot near Azkaban since—and he’d been perfectly content to keep it that way. But now, with Dolohov and Yaxley’s minds locked down tighter than Gringotts vaults, Draco was out of options.
As much as it made his skin crawl to admit it, there was one man who could help him push past those mental defences. Lucius Malfoy.
His father had been one of the most skilled Occlumens in Voldemort’s ranks—cold, calculating, and precise. If anyone knew how to break through that kind of fortress, it was him. And Draco needed that knowledge.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Potter asked, shooting Draco a wary glance. They’d been circling the same conversation for hours now, tension thick in the Auror office air.
Granger was at her own office today, mercifully out of earshot. Weasley was shadowing her, probably too happy about it. That left Draco and Harry alone in the Auror bullpen, the quiet hum of the Department doing nothing to ease the weight in Draco’s chest.
Draco exhaled slowly. “No. I’m not sure at all. But what other bloody option do we have?” He rubbed a hand down his face. “I need you to come with me, Potter. If I go alone, the whispers will start. People will think I’m cutting some secret deal with Lucius.”
Harry nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. “I get it. I do. And, honestly, it makes sense. Lucius might be the only person with the skill to break through those Occlumency barriers. Voldemort trained him himself, didn’t he?”
Draco grimaced, his expression tightening. That name still made his stomach lurch, like bile rising in the back of his throat. “Unfortunately, yes. And for once, we might have to use that to our advantage.”
“I’m just worried about you, mate,” Potter said, his voice lower now, more sincere. “I know how bloody hard this is—facing your father again…” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “If I weren’t so utterly rubbish at Legilimency, I’d offer to speak to him myself.”
“It’s fine,” Draco lied smoothly, his Occlumency walls snapping into place. But Potter knew him too well—he could see right through it, even if he didn’t call him out on it.
“Things are too quiet,” Draco went on, his voice tight. “And we both know that never bodes well. They gathered far too much information about Granger to just vanish into thin air. Something’s coming.”
Potter nodded grimly, crossing his arms as he leaned against the edge of his desk. “Yeah. I can feel it too. Like the calm before a storm.”
Draco stared out the window, jaw clenched. “I hate waiting,” he muttered.
Potter snorted. “You and me both. But we’ve done all we can for now. If Lucius can teach you anything useful—anything that helps us crack those defences—then it’s worth it.”
Draco didn’t answer straightaway. His mind was already drifting to Azkaban—the biting chill in the air that sank into your bones, the reek of damp stone and despair, the low, endless echoes of distant footsteps and hollow screams. The whispers that seemed to bleed from the very walls. And at the heart of that nightmare... his father.
He exhaled sharply. “He’s going to love this. Smug bastard. He'll be insufferable.”
Potter offered a faint grin. “Just remind him you’re the one with the wand and the freedom.”
Draco huffed a quiet laugh. “Let’s hope he sees it that way.”
They both fell into silence for a moment, until Potter pushed off the desk.
“I’ll file the visitation request,” he said. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
Draco nodded.
Potter gave him a sidelong glance. “You sure you don’t want to tell Hermione?”
Draco hesitated. His fingers twitched at his side.
“Not yet,” he said. “No need to worry her. She'll be against it.”
Potter didn’t argue. He just gave a curt nod.
"You're still coming this Saturday, yeah?" Potter asked, changing the subject with a pointed look. "Pansy will have your head if you miss another one of her soirées—especially now that it looks like you've taken up permanent residence on Hermione's sofa."
Draco snorted. “I’ll be there. It’s actually perfect—Pansy’s soirées count as socialising and staying in a secure location. Two birds, one smug Slytherin. I’ve been doing my best to keep Granger tucked away, limiting her outings but she is too bloody stubborn.”
As he spoke, he made a mental note to give her the bracelet he’d picked up at the fair before the Azkaban visit. He’d already layered it with discreet protective enchantments—one that would allow him to Apparate straight to her if she were in danger, another that would shield her from most dark spells. All except the Unforgivables, of course.
“Right,” Potter cut into his thoughts with a smirk. “Good luck with that.” He leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “Let’s see how many times she’s hexed Ron today. I’m guessing at least twice before lunch—he already managed to trip over her filing system.”
Draco let out a low chuckle.