Pink
The world felt muted and distant. Draco’s chest heaved as he gasped for air, his surroundings blurring. Faint voices pierced the oppressive haze—his mother’s frantic cries, his father’s deep, trembling tone—but they seemed far away, swallowed by the suffocating fog pressing in on him.
Just moments ago, everything had been perfect. It was a particularly lovely day, as it always seemed to be. Why wouldn’t it be, with her by his side?
His witch.
She was a force of nature—sharp, stubborn, and utterly mesmerizing. The way she spoke, every word deliberate, precise, and impossibly clever, always left him captivated. Her brown curls framed her face, catching the sunlight and giving her an almost ethereal glow. The scent of parchment mixed faintly with roses surrounded her, a comforting presence he associated with calm afternoons and whispered debates.
She was engrossed in their latest project, flipping through her own copy of Mysteries of Magical Mixtures: An Advanced Guide to Potion Brewing with an expression of complete focus. Her voice, thoughtful yet edged with exasperation, tugged him back to the present.
“I’m just saying, Baruffio's Brain Elixir is too simple,” she argued, her quill tapping against the table. “It’s clever, sure, but it lacks challenge. We should aim for something more... sophisticated.”
Draco leaned back in his chair, watching her with a lazy smirk.
Of course, only she would call the Cerebral Enhancement Draught—a potion notorious for posing serious health hazards and likely to melt the brain of anyone who took it if improperly brewed—simple.
“Sophisticated? That Elixir may be simple, but perfecting it isn’t. Besides, who wouldn’t want to outshine everyone else with a brain increasing potion?”
She rolled her eyes at him, but a faint smile tugged at her lips. He lived for that smile, the way it softened her usually sharp features. She was beautiful in a way that went beyond mere appearance—her beauty lay in the way her mind worked, how her eyes sparkled with conviction when she made a point, how she never backed down from a challenge.
“And what would Severus think if we handed in something as—” she paused, clearly searching for the word—“predictable as that?” Her lips pursed, her expression thoughtful. “No, Draco, we need something better. Maybe the Potent variant of Exstimulo Potion? Or Mopsus?”
Draco groaned theatrically, though the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Mopsus Potion? Brilliant. Because a Clairvoyance Potion isn’t challenging or time-consuming at all,” he teased, his tone dripping with mock defeat.
Her mock glare was immediate, her nose scrunching just slightly—a habit he secretly adored. “If you’re so clever, then what do you suggest?” she shot back, though there was no heat in her words, only the familiar rhythm of their endless back-and-forth.
They both knew how this would end. They’d bicker, debate, and eventually agree on something impossibly complex—because that’s what they always do. It was who they were.
The professors had long since stopped questioning why the two always worked together, mostly because they had little choice in the matter. The pair always found a way to ensure they ended up as partners, regardless of the original assignments.
Even Severus Snape, who prided himself on his impartial disdain and strict adherence to rules, had given up trying to separate them. He’d learned his lesson early on, the one time he had paired her with someone else. The result was nothing short of a disaster. Her Gryffindor partners either couldn’t keep up with her intellect, left all the work to her, or worse, insulted her efforts with sneers about being a “know-it-all.”
Draco had taken one look at her strained expression during that ill-fated grouping and decided it would never happen again. Since then, in every class they shared—especially those where Slytherins and Gryffindors were partnered—he made it a point to be by her side.
At first, the professors tried to resist, but Draco’s persistence was relentless. Snape, in particular, had learned to give in quickly. One look from Draco, combined with the quiet, almost expectant glance from her, and the Potions Master would sigh, wave his hand, and pair them together without a word.
She never voiced any objection to the arrangement. If anything, she seemed quietly pleased. Together, they always delivered work that was meticulous, precise, and often earned the highest marks in the class. From the very beginning, they had been a team—one that no professor, no blood prejudice, or house rivalry, could break apart.
He shrugged lazily, reaching for her quill and twirling it between his fingers just to annoy her.
“Something dazzling but manageable. Edurus Potion, perhaps? Show everyone else how it’s done.”
She rolled her eyes at him, the corners of her mouth twitching as if she's trying hard not to smile and give him the satisfaction that he succeeded with his goal to tease her—but clearly failing. She just continued to flip through another potions book she had borrowed from the library instead.
“Hermione,” he said at last, her name slipping from his lips effortlessly.
Her gaze snapped to him, curiosity mingled with a soft hint of a smile.
“I think the Mopsus Potion would be brilliant,” he conceded as if he's not planning on doing so from the start, flipping a page lazily, but his attention never left her face.
Hermione didn’t reply.
Instead, something in her expression shifted, her playful demeanor replaced by concern. Her eyes, normally alight with focus and fire, dimmed with worry.
“Draco?”
He blinked, startled by the way her voice wavered.
“Draco, are you all right?”
Her tone was soft but urgent, her hand reaching for his. The scent of roses grew stronger as she leaned closer, her brows knitting together in fear. He tried to speak, but a sharp, searing pain shot through his chest. His breath hitched, and he instinctively clutched at his ribs.
“Hermione...” he rasped, his voice barely audible.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice rising as panic took hold. Her trembling fingers grasped his arm, her touch warm but fleeting against the cold, creeping numbness spreading through his body. “Draco, talk to me!”
But he couldn’t. The pain was too much, the world fading at the edges as his vision darkened. The last thing he saw was her face—her wide, terrified eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
The last thing he heard was her voice, soft and desperate, calling his name.
And then, nothing.
The next thing Draco knew, he was no longer in the warmth of the classroom or under Hermione’s frantic touch. Instead, he was cradled in someone’s arms—familiar, trembling arms that he hadn’t felt in years. His body ached as though his lungs had collapsed, the pain radiating with every shallow breath he took. The scent of smoke and blood filled his nostrils, and the air was heavy, suffocating. As his vision began to clear, the face above him came into focus: his mother’s.
Narcissa Malfoy, her pale face streaked with dirt and tears, was murmuring something he couldn’t make out, her voice raw and breaking. Her hands cupped his face, trembling as if she were afraid he might slip away again.
Behind her, his father loomed. Lucius Malfoy looked... wrong. His usually pristine appearance was in shambles—his robes tattered and smeared with grime, his long hair disheveled. But what struck Draco most was his expression. There was no mask of cold indifference, no disdainful sneer. Instead, Lucius’s face was tight with worry, his pale eyes wide and searching. For a moment, Draco thought he must be imagining it.
His father doesn't look at people like that.
The surrealness of the moment only deepened as Draco shifted slightly, grimacing at the sharp pain that shot through his chest. His surroundings swam into view, blurry and unfamiliar at first, until the stark realization hit him.
The Great Hall.
Except it wasn’t the Great Hall he remembered.
Gone were the polished floors and long tables set for breakfast, the enchanted ceiling glowing softly with morning light. Instead, the hall was in ruins. The once-majestic space was dark and broken, the ceiling cracked and crumbling, jagged beams of light piercing through the destruction. Debris littered the ground—shattered wood, fallen stone, and something far more unsettling... bloodstains.
It was chaos, but not the lively, familiar kind he associated with Hogwarts. This was something darker, something violent.
Draco blinked, his mind reeling. This didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be real.
Just that morning, he and Hermione had sat at the Slytherin table together, as they often did, ignoring the disdained looks of some of their classmates. The image was vivid in his mind: Hermione engrossed in her notes, occasionally muttering about their classes, while he leaned back lazily, tossing the occasional sarcastic comment her way.
They alternated, sometimes sitting at the Gryffindor table, sometimes at the Slytherin table, but they always ignored everyone else. It was just them. Always.
But now...
Where was she?
Draco’s heart raced as he scanned the room, his disoriented mind struggling to process the shattered scene before him. Voices echoed around him—distant and muddled, words he couldn’t understand or didn’t want to. They sounded like questions, demands, but none of it made sense.
Why did everything hurt? Why was the Great Hall in ruins? And where, in Merlin’s name, was Hermione?
He tried to sit up, but the pain in his chest flared, stealing his breath and forcing him back down. His mother’s voice rose sharply, her words barely breaking through the haze.
“Draco, look at me. Are you alright?”
He flinched at her tone—not out of fear but from the raw desperation in it. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d sounded so... vulnerable.
The weight of everything pressed down on him, suffocating and disorienting. Nothing fit together. The hall, his parents’ disheveled state, the palpable tension in the air—it all felt like some twisted dream.
But the pain in his chest was real. The ache in his lungs, the throbbing in his ribs... it was too vivid to be a dream.
And that terrified him.
Draco’s breathing was erratic, his head spinning as the disorientation deepened. The scene around him—a ruined Great Hall, his parents' unfamiliar expressions, the sounds of distant voices—felt like a broken puzzle. None of it made sense. How could this be happening? What had happened?
“Wha—what... what’s happening?” he croaked, his voice hoarse. His gaze shifted between his parents. “Mother? Lucius?”
“It’s alright, my son,” Narcissa said softly, her voice trembling as she stroked Draco’s hair, desperately trying to soothe him. But her words barely reached him. His mind was reeling, and his body felt as if it were being slowly torn apart by the searing pain in his chest. Every breath was a struggle, each inhale sending sharp spikes of agony through his ribs, and his limbs felt heavy and uncooperative. His vision swam in and out of focus, the world around him spinning with disorienting speed.
His mother’s voice, though gentle, sounded distant. He wanted to focus on her, wanted to be reassured by her touch, but the discomfort in his body kept pulling him away.
His gaze finally settled on her face, but something was wrong. His eyes widened as he took in her appearance—her normally pristine, regal attire was now torn and soiled, streaked with soot and ash. Her once perfect, blonde hair was disheveled, falling wildly around her shoulders. He had never seen her look so… vulnerable, so unrefined. His stomach twisted uneasily.
“What... what is going on? Why are you—” His voice broke, rough from the pain and confusion. His hand reached weakly for her, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch her. “Why do you look like that? You’re... you’re always so proper. What happened to you?”
His words hung in the air, heavy with bewilderment. The woman who had always been immaculate, composed, was now as battered and worn as the surroundings.
Lucius said something but it fell deaf on Draco’s ears, his thoughts already spinning in a different direction. He couldn’t understand why this was happening, and the pain in his chest only intensified his confusion. His gaze darted around the hall, his eyes struggling to make sense of the chaos.
“Are we... did I apparate—did you apparate?” He tried to piece things together, but the questions kept tumbling out. It didn’t make sense. He was certain he’d been in a vacant classroom with Hermione just moments ago. They were discussing their Potions project, debating over which potion to tackle for their final exam. So how did he end up here, in what appeared to be the Great Hall?
No, wait. That didn’t make sense either. He had just received a letter that morning from his mother, sent by the Malfoy Family owl, telling him about her vacation in Paris with his father. Why are they here, then? In Hogwarts? The confusion was suffocating, a tightening knot in his chest, making it hard to breathe.
He frowned, trying to make sense of it all. You can't Apparate in or out of Hogwarts—Hermione had said that, over and over again, practically quoting Hogwarts: A History whenever the subject came up. And who was he to doubt her? She practically had the book memorized. So, how had he gotten here? Was this even Hogwarts?
“Where are we? Is this Hogwarts?” Draco’s voice broke, his desperation seeping through the cracks in his confusion. He couldn’t understand. How had he gotten here? Why did everything feel so distorted?
His eyes darted to the shattered windows, the cracked ceiling, the debris littering the ground. The upturned tables, the bloodstains on the floor, the battered witches and wizards still lying unconscious or struggling to regain their bearings—it was all wrong. This wasn’t the Great Hall he knew. This wasn’t Hogwarts.
Draco’s eyes scanned the room again, taking in the destruction, the broken remnants of a place that had once been his home. It was unrecognizable. What happened here? Why does it look like this?
But the chaos around him, the strange disarray of his own body and the hall, made everything seem out of place—wrong. It didn’t fit, and he couldn’t understand why. The questions piled on top of each other, growing louder in his mind, and for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy didn’t know what to do.
Draco heard a voice cut through the haze, sharp and cold.
“Nice trick.”
His head snapped toward the sound, but it didn’t make sense. The words seemed to reverberate in the air, disconnected from reality. His father’s expression tightened, but Draco couldn’t process why the man would say something like that. He felt unmoored, disconnected, as if the very fabric of reality had been torn.
Kingsley Shacklebolt’s figure stood before them, cold and unyielding. The exchange continued around him, but it was too fast for Draco to follow, the words muddled and confusing. He heard the phrases—Malfoys have been known to pull stunts, vulnerability, Imperius Curse—but they didn’t resonate with him. They seemed to belong to a world that didn’t align with his own.
His father’s usual cold indifference was gone, replaced with something else, something that felt unfamiliar. His mother was furious, but it didn’t register completely. She was standing now, her voice rising, a quiet fire in her eyes.
“How dare you!” Narcissa hissed, her voice trembling with fury as she rose to her feet. “You think I would fake my son’s suffering for sympathy?” Her hands clenched at her sides, her eyes burning with an anger Draco rarely saw. “You, of all people, should know better than to accuse a mother of such deceit when her child nearly died in front of her!”
Draco’s chest tightened, and he was confused and still too disoriented to grasp the situation fully. Was this about him? Was this man calling his near-death experience some kind of trick? Was his pain, his struggle, being dismissed like this? He was still reeling, unable to process, but hearing the words from Kingsley’s mouth—something about vulnerability, about Malfoys and their reputation and the tone—talking to his mother like that—filled him with a kind of boiling fury that he couldn’t suppress.
“How dare you speak to my mother like that? Have you no respect?” His voice, though hoarse and trembling, was still filled with the arrogance of a Malfoy. He stared coldly at Kingsley, ignoring the dizziness that made his vision swim.
Despite the growing pain, he wasn’t about to let anyone disrespect his mother like that.
Kingsley’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t retreat.
"Respect is earned, Mr. Malfoy," he said coolly, his voice icy. "And your family hasn’t done much to deserve it.”
Draco’s stomach lurched. The words hit him harder than he expected, his confusion flaring with an unfamiliar ache in his chest. His chest tightened further, the pain now blending with his sense of helplessness.
“What is he talking about?” Draco muttered under his breath, his voice wavering between confusion and disbelief. He turned to his parents, his gaze darting between them, looking for any explanation, any reassurance. “Why is he addressing us like this? What did we do?”
His mind flashed to the shifting views of his family—what with his relationship with Hermione, despite the prejudice he knew was still lingering in the world. He couldn’t deny that his actions had changed things, had helped shift the tide. His mother’s influence, his father’s silence as Lucius had been slowly marginalized, had left Draco in a position to move his family forward. So why was Kingsley treating them like this?
What was this man talking about? And why were Draco’s attempts to defend his family being treated like they meant nothing?
Draco’s heart pounded. He glanced at his parents again, who seemed just as lost as he was, but more resigned. But he couldn’t stop himself, his confusion morphing into a deep, gnawing anger, his confusion deepening as his chest burned with a mix of frustration and a disquiet he couldn’t shake off. He’d been to the brink of death, had woken up in this strange, broken version of Hogwarts, and now he was being accused of... what?
He wanted answers, and he wanted them now.
He looked back at Kingsley, unable to stop the flood of questions in his head.
The words hung in the air, unanswered. Draco’s parents exchanged a brief, knowing look, but neither spoke. His mother’s voice finally broke the silence, softening with what seemed like the only reassurance she could offer in the moment.
“You did nothing wrong, darling,” Narcissa murmured, grasping his arm. Her words felt hollow to Draco. They didn’t fit, not in the midst of the confusion swirling in his mind. He couldn’t understand why she thought this was an answer to anything.
Something wasn’t right. The more Draco thought about it, the more unsettled he became. The world around him felt off, broken. What was happening? Where was Hermione? What had he missed?
His frustration continued to grow, each moment more suffocating than the last, especially as the man before him continued to speak.
“Don’t I?” Kingsley interjected, his gaze unwavering. “Everyone here knows exactly what the Malfoys have done, Mrs. Malfoy. And no amount of theatrics will change that.”
Draco’s blood boiled at the word theatrics. He couldn’t even process the words properly—only that they were directed at his family. He took a shaky step forward, his legs unsteady beneath him, but his fury flaring like a flame.
“Theatrics? Is that what you think this is?” The words snapped out of him, filled with frustration as the man’s accusations weighed on him like lead. Lucius’s hand shot out to steady him, but Draco shook it off, his voice rising in indignation. “You dare accuse my mother—my family—of such nonsense? I won’t tolerate this slander.”
Draco heard Lucius mutter his name under his breath, a low, warning tone he had heard all too often when he was a child, when he’d gone too far. But that tone didn’t scare him anymore. Lucius wasn’t the same figure of authority he used to be. The words didn’t reach him. He had bigger things to focus on.
The room was silent, all eyes on Draco as his words seemed to hang in the air. He could feel the weight of every stare, every judgment, but none of it broke him. Instead, it fueled his fire.
“You think you can treat us like common criminals?” Draco’s voice was steadier now, the disorientation fading as he addressed Kingsley directly, his anger rising in his chest like a storm. “You forget who you’re speaking to. We are Malfoys.”
He said it with pride, though it felt like the name had lost its weight at this moment. No one seemed to care. Kingsley’s gaze remained cold, his expression almost disgusted.
“Your name means nothing now, Malfoy,” Kingsley said, his voice laced with finality. “Whatever power or influence you once had, it’s gone. All that’s left is accountability for your actions.”
Draco flinched, his mind reeling. His chest felt tight, the words sinking in deeper than they should have.
What is going on? he thought, confusion clouding his already scrambled thoughts. Was it his father’s fault? Had Lucius’s obsession with his brand of devotion to that Hitler wannabe—Voldemort—led to this? The whole thing didn’t make sense.
That fool had been defeated by a baby, for Merlin’s sake. How could they still be held accountable for that? The thought of it gnawed at him.
If his father was the reason for this, Draco thought bitterly, he’d follow through on the threats he’d made before. No hesitation.
“Accountability?” Draco’s voice cracked as he demanded an answer. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “For what? What are you talking about? Someone tell me what’s going on!” His chest tightened further with every unanswered question, and no one was offering the truth he so desperately needed.
Kingsley couldn’t possibly be so blind, could he? After everything the Malfoys had worked for—after everything he had worked for, Draco couldn’t grasp how this man could dismiss it all so easily.
And yet, here he was. Kingsley Shacklebolt, a man who had seen the change, who knew about the lengths Draco had gone to, still acting like none of it mattered.
“Draco, please,” Narcissa said softly, reaching for him again. Her hand trembled, and though her voice was gentle, there was an underlying urgency in it. “You need to rest. You’ve been through a lot—”
“I don’t understand!” Draco interrupted, pulling away from her grasp. His eyes darted between the faces around him—his parents, Kingsley, the others in the room—and his confusion only deepened. His chest ached with every breath, but it wasn’t just the physical pain that troubled him. “Why won’t anyone tell me what’s happening?” His voice cracked, frustration mounting with each passing second.
Before anyone could answer, a voice cut through the tension.
“Draco,” Harry said cautiously, stepping forward, his tone like a soft command, too careful. “Do you... remember anything? About what just happened?”
Draco’s brows furrowed.
Potter? What was he doing here? Of all people, why him? Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, his rival for as long as Draco could remember—how could he even be here? Why was he acting like they were on the same side, like they weren’t bitter enemies from the first year, with Draco’s sharp words and Harry’s constant defiance?
And Hermione, too. She shared Draco’s disdain for the Boy-Who-Lived, though not with the same intensity. She didn’t particularly hate him, but she couldn’t tolerate him. After all, what had Harry ever done to earn any respect in her eyes?
Sure, he was a good student—and somewhat decent bloke, but that didn’t make up for the fact that he treated the rules like some sort of obstacle course, something to be defied at every turn.
His reckless behavior constantly undermined her hard work, especially when points she’d earned through diligence were squandered by his antics. She resented that, and rightfully so. She believed Harry should set a better example—especially considering the weight of his title.
He was The Boy-Who-Lived, after all. He was supposed to be someone the younger students looked up to, someone who understood responsibility. But no, instead, he behaved like a little boy, constantly seeking out trouble rather than taking on the leadership role he should have. Yet here he was—Harry—talking to Draco as though they shared something, as if they were equals.
“Potter?” he muttered, his voice laced with disbelief. “What are you doing here? Why are you talking to me?”
“Draco,” Harry’s voice cut through again, soft but firm. “You collapsed. Just now, here in the Great Hall. Do you remember that?”
The silence that followed felt suffocating, everyone’s eyes trained on him, waiting for him to say something—anything—but Draco still couldn't make sense of it. This can't be happening. They were rivals, always had been. Why was Potter treating him like some kind of wounded animal?
Draco shook his head. His thoughts were jumbled, the words swirling around him, too loud, too fast, and nothing seemed to line up. His mind refused to process it.
“No,” he muttered, his expression distant, as he tried to make sense of the mess inside his head. “I—” He paused, his eyes unfocused. “I don’t even remember how I got here.”
Narcissa’s grip on his arm tightened, her face pale but resolute.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, her voice firm but quivering slightly. “What matters is that you’re alright now.”
But Kingsley, ever the skeptic, wasn’t about to let things go. His voice, harsh and sharp, cut through the fragile moment.
“Convenient,” he said coldly. “Amnesia to avoid questioning? How very Malfoy.”
Draco flinched, his chest tightening at the accusation. Amnesia? What was this nonsense? He wasn’t faking anything—he couldn’t even remember what had happened. But the words Malfoy and trick kept ringing in his ears, and it stung. How very Malfoy? He wanted to yell back, to defend himself, but he was too disoriented. Too lost.
Before he could respond, McGonagall stepped in, her stern presence cutting through the tension like a blade and looking as ragged as everyone—including him—he later realizes as he caught sight of his filthy and torn clothes, as well as some random cuts and bruises.
“That’s enough, Kingsley,” she said firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. “We’ll sort this out properly, but not like this. The boy is clearly unwell.”
The room seemed to exhale, but Draco could only feel the weight of it all, like he was sinking into quicksand. None of this made sense. The weight of the questions pressed down on him, but no answers came.
He only knew one thing for certain: something was deeply wrong, and no one was telling him the truth.
Draco slumped slightly against his mother, his confusion and weariness overtaking him. The sensation was dizzying, like trying to swim through a fog, everything around him murky and unclear. Whatever had just happened, it was clear that this was far from over. His chest hurt, his head ached, and the disorientation only grew with each passing moment.
The commotion in the Great Hall was interrupted by hurried footsteps. He barely registered the sound, his mind too jumbled to focus, until the familiar, brisk tone of Madame Pomfrey broke through the noise.
“I’m here. Let me see the boy,” she said, her voice cutting through the chaos.
But Draco’s attention was suddenly captured by something—or someone—else. His eyes locked onto her, and for the briefest of moments, everything around him seemed to fall away. Hermione?
The sight of her filled him with an almost overwhelming sense of relief. She was there. Finally, she could explain everything. But as he tried to focus, the confusion only deepened.
Something was wrong. What happened to her?
He blinked, taking in the sight of her with a sharp, unnerving clarity. Her face was pale, her usual calm demeanor replaced with something unreadable. Her clothes were slightly torn, her hair a mess, but it was the small details that caught Draco’s eye—the bruises on her neck, the cuts on her hands–and Merlin her nails. Her nail beds were raw, a few nails bitten down to the quick when they were always meticulously shaped and polished—and Draco would know as he had often found himself painting her nails with whatever color of muggle polish she’d kept in her bag when they’d sat together during study breaks. It was something he did when he was bored when she would be too absorbed with her studies. He’d take her hand absentmindedly and apply the colors. Sometimes it was her favorite shade of deep red or soft pink—or whenever he wanted to annoy her—an alternating color of red and green—their house colors—and she would hit him and complain that her hands look like Christmas has thrown up all over them but otherwise will keep them with a fond eye roll—the little things that could make her smile.
His stomach clenched, as an image of her, always so perfect and composed, shattered in his mind–he had never seen her like this. She looked... broken. And that unsettled him more than anything.
She wasn’t just standing there, though.
She was with him.
Weasley?
It struck Draco like a slap in the face. The very same boy he had exchanged countless glares with over the years? The same boy they had both muttered about when they would see him devour his food with his mouth full, chewing loudly at the Gryffindor table whenever he would sat near them. The very reason Hermione would make faces and Draco would silently roll his eyes before both would decide it would be more dignified to switch to the Slytherin table than endure the sight of him. They shared that mutual disgust—at least, that’s how it had always been. He and Hermione had shared countless hours together, all the while staying far from the likes of Potter and Weasley, but here she was, standing beside him.
What’s going on?
His confusion turned to frustration. He stepped toward her, determined to get answers, ignoring Madame Pomfrey entirely.
“Love, what happened to you? Who did this? Why do you look like that?” His voice trembled with both concern and a growing sense of panic.
The room fell utterly silent, and every eye was on them. Potter and Weasley exchanged confused looks, and even Narcissa seemed to take in her son’s words with quiet bewilderment.
Hermione blinked, her eyes wide, clearly trying to process what he had just said.
“W-What?” she stammered, her voice shaky, almost distant.
Draco moved closer, his gaze pleading, trying to make sense of it all.
“Did someone hurt you? Those Gryffindors again?” he asked, anger creeping into his voice as he addressed the ones he assumed were the source of her pain. He couldn’t shake the thought that those prejudiced fools had been the cause of all this. “Tell me who it was. I’ll handle it.”
She took a step back.
Draco’s heart raced. His breath quickened as his chest tightened, the ache intensifying with every passing second. Why is she looking at him like that? Like she doesn’t know him?
And the way she backed away from him. What the hell happened?
Was it the Gryffindors? Was it them? His mind began to spiral, dark thoughts clouding his judgment. If anyone had hurt her, if they’d said anything about her to warrant such reaction, Draco’s fury would know no bounds. He would take care of it. He had the power to ruin their futures, to destroy them before they even had the chance to step out of Hogwarts. Or he could hex them, and whatever punishment followed—detention, lectures from professors if he was caught—and he was never ever caught—would be worth it. He had Hermione’s back, just like she always had his, especially when it came to defending each other and their relationship from the ignorant fools who had the nerve to criticize them.
Ron growled, stepping between Draco and Hermione.
“Malfoy,” he snapped, “stay the hell away from her.”
Draco’s face twisted into a sneer.
“Stay out of this, Weasley. This doesn’t concern you.” His tone was venomous, a side of him he rarely let slip, but it came naturally when his anger flared.
But then, his father spoke, and the words of his father broke through his thoughts causing his ears to ring.
“Don’t start, Lucius,” Draco snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the growing tension as he rounded on Lucius, his pale face flushed with sudden, unrestrained fury. His father’s words about Muggleborns and what he’s about to call her before he realized his slip-up were enough to set him on edge. No. Not here, not now. Not in front of me.
His father was testing his patience, pushing him too far.
“If I hear that word come out of your mouth again—just once—I’ll cut you off. No allowance, no access to the family vaults. You’ll be out on the street, begging for scraps.” His voice was cold now, every word deliberate, each one a threat. His voice grew even colder, each word sinking in like ice. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t send you to live in a Muggle nursing home.”
The hall went silent. The words hung in the air, like a slap to the face, and Draco knew he’d crossed a line. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t afford to care when it came to protecting the only person who had truly stood by him—Hermione.
Lucius stood there, momentarily stunned. His mouth moved but no sound came out. His grey eyes were wide with disbelief.
Draco turned back to Hermione, his gaze softening for just a moment, but only a moment. He was still angry, still confused, but now there was desperation there too.
“Hermione, love,” he said, his tone shifting, almost pleading. “Talk to me. What’s happening? We were just working on our Potions project... what’s all this?”
Hermione took a step back, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to gather herself. “I don’t... I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Draco’s face fell, the confusion growing deeper by the second.
“Why are you backing away?” he asked, his voice cracking. He reached out, but she moved farther from him. He felt like his world was slipping away.
“Did someone say something?” he demanded. “Hurt you? Just tell me who it was, and I’ll fix it.”
Ron moved forward, pushing Draco back. “Back off, Malfoy!” he snapped, his wand half-raised.
Draco stumbled, but he quickly regained his footing, glaring at Ron with venom in his eyes. “Mind your own business, Weasley. You’re as useless as ever.”
Before Draco could take another step, two Aurors moved in, grabbing him firmly.
“That’s enough,” one of them growled.
Draco thrashed against their hold, his pale face twisted in fury.
“Unhand me at once!” he shouted, his voice shaking with outrage. “I am Lord Malfoy, and I will not be treated this way! I’ll see every one of you in front of the Wizengamot!”
Narcissa and Lucius both stepped forward, trying to calm him, but their voices were drowned out by his tirade. His parents had been helpless to stop his outburst.
“Draco, stop!” Narcissa pleaded, her voice barely reaching him over the noise of his shouting.
But Draco didn’t hear them. He was consumed by the confusion and hurt swirling inside him. He couldn’t understand why everyone seemed so adamant about keeping him away from Hermione.
It’s not like I’m going to hurt her, he thought, feeling the intensity of his frustration build. Why are they pushing us apart?
As the aurors tried to drag him, his confusion only deepened. They were dragging him away—away from her.
He was still fighting, struggling to free himself from their grip, when he realized something that made his chest tighten with panic: his wand was nowhere to be found. That left him vulnerable, helpless, and as much as he wanted to do something, there was nothing he could do.
Then Kingsley grabbed him from the aurors, dragging him back himself after saying he's had enough.
In that moment of desperation, a spark of memory from the Muggle action movies Hermione would make him watch with her whenever he visits her flared to life. Without thinking, he jerked his head back and slammed it into Kingsley Shacklebolt’s chest, just as he had seen characters do in those films. The impact was painful, leaving him a little disoriented, but it didn’t matter—he needed to break free.
“Let me go!” Draco shouted again, his voice echoing through the hall, full of both fury and confusion. His eyes locked on Hermione one last time, his heart pounding in his chest.
“Hermione! Tell them to let me go!” His voice cracked with desperation. He couldn’t understand why she was standing there, looking at him like that.
The Aurors tightened their grip and began dragging Draco and his parents toward the doors, and Narcissa’s cries of distress echoed through the hall. Her voice, breaking with emotion, was drowned out by the sound of Draco’s frantic shouting.
Lucius, standing with a mix of fury and humiliation written across his face, shot a glare toward the Aurors, but no one was listening.
Draco’s heart twisted painfully in his chest as he continued to plead. Why is she letting them take me? Why is she looking at me like that? His mind was reeling with questions, none of which made any sense.
As the doors of the hall loomed closer, Draco fought harder, but he was too weak, too disoriented, and too confused to break free. His heart sank as they dragged him further away from the one person he needed to understand what was happening.
Draco Malfoy couldn’t tear his gaze away from his forearm, his pale skin now marred by the grotesque symbol etched into it: the Dark Mark. It stared back at him mockingly, a brand he had vowed never to take. His stomach churned as a sickening wave of disbelief and revulsion washed over him.
How was this possible?
The very sight of the mark filled him with a deep, visceral loathing. To him, it had always represented servitude and submission—a disgrace to the Malfoy name. He had grown up believing that Malfoys bowed to no one. His father, in all his misguided ideals, had sold their family’s autonomy for a cause Draco had never believed in. It was funny as it was his own father who had taught and drilled it to him that Malfoys are no one's servant, that their family are meant to be served, and not to serve.
“Sanctimonia Vincet Semper.” Purity will always conquer. It wasn’t about bloodlines—it never had been, no matter what his father believed. It was about the integrity of the Malfoy lineage, their independence and resilience. And yet, here it was, tainting him.
Draco had been sitting in silence ever since they’d brought him and his parents to the holding room—a cold, barren space under constant surveillance. The plain robes they’d given him after forcing him to change had been the catalyst for his discovery of the mark.
He’d rolled up his sleeve absentmindedly and there it was.
Now, his fingers hovered over it, trembling. He had been staring at it for what felt like hours, the world around him fading into nothing but the stark, cruel reality of that brand.
“Draco?”
His mother’s soft, trembling voice broke through his haze. She sat nearby, her hands fidgeting nervously in her lap, her expression a mask of fragile composure.
“Are you alright?” she asked, her voice tender but heavy with worry.
Without tearing his eyes from the mark, Draco replied flatly, “Why do I have this?”
The words were quiet, but the weight of them was crushing.
Narcissa recoiled slightly, her composure cracking as she struggled to form a response. Her hands reached out as if to comfort him but hesitated mid-air.
“Draco...” she began, but the words faltered.
He finally lifted his eyes to meet hers, and the raw pain in his gaze made her breath catch.
“Why do I have this?” he repeated, his voice harder this time.
Narcissa’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her hesitation only stoked the fire burning in his chest.
Draco’s gaze shifted sharply to his father, who stood stiffly near the opposite wall.
“You,” he said slowly, his voice cold and accusing. “You put this on me, didn’t you?”
Lucius didn’t answer.
Draco rose slowly to his feet, the initial shock morphing into a white-hot fury. His voice rose as he advanced toward his father, his hand clenched into a fist at his side.
“How did this happen? Tell me! How did I got this filth on my arm?”
Lucius’s expression remained unreadable—tired, almost resigned—as Draco closed the distance between them. Narcissa was on her feet now, trailing behind her son, her hands raised placatingly.
“Draco, please,” she pleaded softly. “Let’s just—”
But Draco wasn’t listening. His anger was like a tidal wave, crashing over any attempt to calm him.
“You think I don’t know what this means?” he spat, his voice shaking with barely restrained rage. “You think I didn’t notice the great favor you thought you were doing for our family, branding yourself for a lunatic who couldn’t even kill a child? That monstrous thing you swore allegiance to?”
Draco’s voice dropped, cold and venomous, each word cutting deeper than the last.
“Is your devotion to him so high, father,” he sneered, the title dripping with disdain, “that you’d risk the life of your wife and your own child? Was that cause you so foolishly believed in worth it? That filthy, misguided ideal of yours?”
He stepped closer, his fury radiating off him in waves.
“You willingly became a servant—no, a slave—to that pathetic excuse of a leader. For what? To protect our blood? To preserve a legacy that no one but you even cared about anymore?”
Lucius flinched ever so slightly, his usual stoic mask cracking under the weight of his son’s blistering words. Narcissa’s soft voice behind Draco was pleading, but he ignored it, too consumed by the years of frustration and rage he had held back until now.
“Draco,” Lucius finally said, his voice soft, almost weak.
But that only made Draco angrier.
“Don’t you dare say my name!” he shouted, grabbing Lucius by the front of his robes and hauling him closer.
The older man staggered, his expression flickering briefly with something Draco couldn’t quite place—was it guilt? Shame? Fear?
Draco’s grip tightened as he leaned in, his voice low and venomous.
“You did this to me,” he hissed. “Tell me how. Right now. Or so help me, Lucius—”
“Draco, stop!” Narcissa’s voice cracked, panicked. She clutched at his arm, trying to pry him away from Lucius. “Please, darling, let him go!”
Her pleas fell on deaf ears. Draco’s vision blurred with rage, his hands trembling with the effort to hold himself back from doing something he’d never thought possible—raising a hand to his own father.
Lucius didn’t resist. He merely looked at his son with an expression Draco didn’t understand.
The commotion drew the attention of the Aurors stationed outside. Within moments, they burst into the room, their wands drawn as they quickly moved to separate Draco from his father.
“Let go of me!” Draco snarled, struggling against their grip. His fury burned brighter as they restrained him, dragging him backward.
Lucius remained where he was, his robes disheveled, his hands shaking slightly. He stared at Draco with that same inexplicable expression as his son continued to thrash.
“Coward!” Draco shouted at him, his voice raw with emotion. “Say something! Explain yourself you pathetic excuse of a Malfoy! You're a disgrace!”
But Lucius said nothing.
As the Aurors dragged Draco toward the door, he twisted in their hold, his gaze snapping to his father one last time.
“You’ll regret this!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the cold, empty space.
Narcissa followed them to the threshold, her face pale and stricken, but her pleas to calm him fell away as Draco turned his desperate gaze toward her.
“Mother, you know! Tell me what’s going on!”
But she, too, said nothing, her face etched with sorrow as the Aurors pulled him into the corridor.
Separated from his parents, Draco was dragged to another room, his mind a swirling storm of anger and confusion. His shouts echoed through the stone walls, growing hoarser with every demand for answers, every question that went unanswered. The door slammed shut behind him, cutting off his last desperate cries. The room was cold, sparse, and utterly unfamiliar, adding to the suffocating disorientation that had overtaken him.
He sank onto the edge of the narrow cot provided, his mind spinning. He clenched his fists, trembling with a mixture of rage and helplessness. His thoughts raced, but they all circled back to the same agonizing question: How did I end up here?
The first day passed in a haze of anger. Draco paced relentlessly, his voice echoing off the walls as he demanded his release.
“I am Lord Malfoy!” he bellowed at the guards stationed outside his door. “Do you have any idea what that means? I have rights—power within the Wizengamot! You cannot detain me like some common criminal!”
His proclamations were met with nothing but silence, the guards refusing to acknowledge him beyond the occasional glance through the observation panel. The disregard only fueled his temper.
“Do you even know who you’re holding?” Draco continued, his tone full of indignation. “I’ve done nothing to warrant this treatment! This is preposterous—I demand to speak with someone in charge! You’ll all regret this when I’m free, mark my words!”
But his fury began to wane as hours turned into a second day of confinement. He repeated his protests, his voice becoming raspier with each declaration of his title and rights. His confidence in his release remained intact, bolstered by his unshakable belief in his innocence.
I wasn’t involved in whatever caused this chaos, he told himself, clinging to the thought as his only anchor in the turmoil.
It wasn’t until one of the Aurors entered to deliver a meal that his ranting elicited a response.
“Lord Malfoy, is it?” the Auror sneered, setting the tray down with a sharp clatter. His tone was thick with mockery, his expression twisted with disdain. “You think that title means something here? Your family’s ‘power’ hasn’t been worth a sickle since the war ended. The only thing Malfoys are entitled to now is a cell.”
Draco’s head snapped toward the man, his confusion deepening.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “What war? I have no part in any of this—I’ve done nothing!”
The Auror barked out a humorless laugh.
“Nothing, is it? That’s rich, coming from the son of a Death Eater. Your family deserves to rot in Azkaban, every one of you.”
Draco’s fists clenched as he stood, the anger surging in his chest.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he shot back. “I’ve done nothing wrong, and I demand to be treated with respect. I am Lord Malfoy! You’ll regret speaking to me like this!”
The Auror leaned closer, his sneer growing.
“Lord of nothing,” he spat. “You have no rights here, Malfoy. None.”
With that, he turned and left, the door slamming shut behind him with a resounding finality.
Draco stood frozen, the weight of the man’s words settling over him like a suffocating blanket. No rights? No power? What in Merlin’s name is he talking about?
He sank back onto the cot, his mind racing with questions that refused to line up into anything coherent. The man had spoken with such certainty, with such disdain, as if the very idea that Draco might not know was laughable.
For the first time, a flicker of doubt crept into his thoughts. His confidence wavered as the reality of his situation pressed down on him.
What war? What did he mean by Death Eaters? The more he thought, the less sense it all made. But one thing was clear: he wasn’t getting out of this as easily as he had believed.
Over the next several days, Draco’s confusion only deepened. With nothing else to do but wait, he demanded answers, turning his relentless questions on the guards and anyone else who would listen—or who wouldn’t, as was often the case.
“What war?” he asked one guard, his voice sharp but tinged with genuine bewilderment. “When did this happen, and what does it have to do with me?”
The guard sneered, his expression dripping with disdain.
“The Second Wizarding War,” he said, enunciating each word as if speaking to a particularly dim child. “You know, the one your family helped fuel.”
“My family?” Draco repeated, his brow furrowing. “What are you on about? Be specific! You keep throwing that word around as if it explains anything. Explain it to me!”
The guard laughed dryly. “Playing dumb, Malfoy? Is that your defense?” He sneered, crossing his arms. “The Second Wizarding War. You know, the one where your family sided with him—Voldemort? Or do you prefer ‘The Dark Lord,’ like the good little soldier you were trained to be?”
Draco bristled, his frustration boiling over.
“Trained to be? By whom? My father?” His voice was sharp with sarcasm, his anger barely held in check. “I’d rather choke on a Bludger than serve anyone, least of all a crazy Hitler wannabe who couldn't even manage to kill an infant!”
The guard’s smirk deepened. “Oh, you served, all right. Just like Daddy. Death Eaters through and through. You even got your very own mark to prove it.”
Draco recoiled at the mention of the Dark Mark. He had seen the twisted branding on his father’s forearm as a child, a grotesque mark of servitude he had vowed never to bear. But the guard’s words gnawed at him, sowing a seed of doubt.
The guard then laughed bitterly.
“Your father—a loyal lapdog to him—and you, following in his footsteps, helping Death Eaters infiltrate Hogwarts. Or did you conveniently forget the cursed necklace? The poisoned mead? That little murder plot?”
Draco’s breath hitched, his confusion morphing into something colder.
“Murder plot?” he asked sharply, his voice rising. “I’ve never plotted to murder anyone in my life!”
The guard smirked.
“Of course not, Lord Malfoy. You’re an innocent little angel, aren’t you?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a mocking whisper. “Attempted murder of Albus Dumbledore. Ring any bells?”
The words struck Draco like a physical blow.
“Dumbledore?” he echoed faintly, his stomach churning.
He attempted to murder Dumbledore?
His thoughts decided to focus on the fact that it was just an attempt as much as it sounds crazy.
What all these aurors are saying is making his head spin.
“Then what of Dumbledore?” Draco asked, his voice tight, thinking.
If it had been an attempt, then surely the old sod was still alive, right? Dumbledore was annoyingly resilient like that.
And he's the one who made the attempt? That is just plain ridiculous.
Draco’s thoughts flickered briefly to himself. He’d never attempted murder in his life—well, except perhaps once.
He’d briefly considered getting rid of Weasley’s obnoxious rat back in third year when the redhead wouldn’t stop accusing Hermione of letting her cat attack it despite it being the animal’s nature as predator and prey. Draco had seen how much the accusations had affected her—how she’d bite her lip in frustration and avoid the Gryffindor table entirely some mornings. He’d nearly taken matters into his own hands then, imagining leaving the rat’s lifeless body by the Gryffindor window for Weasley to find.
But even then, he hadn’t gone through with it. Not because of Weasley, of course, but because Hermione would have been horrified at the idea. And, perhaps, because Draco himself couldn’t quite stomach the thought of committing actual cruelty. Instead, he’d resolved the issue by taking her cat, Crookshanks, down to the dungeons with him despite all his roommates' loud complaints.
They’d learned quickly not to mess with the cat—Crookshanks, for all his puffed fur and squashed face, had a vicious streak when provoked. And also that fact that he made it abundantly clear that anyone even thinking of harming the cat would answer to him personally. It didn’t take long for his housemates to back off entirely, especially after he’d “accidentally” transfigured the shoes on the idiot Vincent Crabbe’s feet into a pair of stinging scorpions during one of his loud protests.
Despite their rough start, Draco and the cat had eventually come to an understanding. No claw marks on his furniture, and he wouldn’t hex it for taking over his favorite chair. It was a begrudging truce at first, but one that grew into a strange camaraderie over time.
Still, the memory of that long-passed drama felt utterly ridiculous compared to the accusations now being thrown at him.
So how could anyone believe him capable of plotting something like this? And Dumbledore, of all people?
“If there was a war, surely he’d have prevented this madness,” Draco finished, his voice rising slightly, the frustration and confusion bleeding through.
The guard’s expression darkened.
“Prevented it? Malfoy, Dumbledore’s dead—murdered in cold blood at the hands of your lot.”
The words hit Draco like a physical blow.
Dumbledore dead? Now that was absurd.
The old man was alive and as meddlesome as ever.
The headmaster has taken Draco aside and had spoken to him just weeks ago about some nonsense related to inter-house unity as he and Hermione apparently are the best example of it. Not just by house, but also by blood which he just found ridiculous.
If the other students don't want to befriend others then it's their freedom to do so, and Draco Malfoy refuses to be a mascot nor let anyone guilt trip Hermione into being one.
So hearing that the legendary and very nosy headmaster is dead made his head swim with disbelief.
“Murdered? You're mad.” He said. “He’s alive. I spoke to him just weeks ago.”
The guard barked out a laugh. “You’re delusional, you know that? You’re worse than your father.”
“And don’t forget the students,” the guard added, his sneer widening. “Imperius, Cruciatus—practically the Carrows’ golden boy, weren’t you?”
“That’s a lie!” Draco snapped, his hands curling into fists. “I would never—”
“Save it,” the guard interrupted, his voice laced with contempt. “The whole world knows what you and your family did. Your trials will lay it all out soon enough. Not that it’ll matter—you lot have always wriggled out of justice before. But maybe not this time.”
Draco stared after the guard as he left, the door slamming behind him. His chest felt tight, as if the air in the room had suddenly grown too thin. He sat down heavily, his mind racing with fragments of accusations and half-formed questions.
Murder? Dumbledore? The Carrows? None of it made sense. He grasped for some connection, some thread to make it all fit, but it was like trying to hold water in his hands.
The more he asked, the worse the answers became.
The next few days were spent in a haze of frustration and disbelief. His demands for information yielded little except more scorn from the guards, but he pieced together snippets: a war that had ravaged the Wizarding World, a rebellion against a dark wizard he believed to be dead but is somehow alive, and his family’s apparent central role in it.
The part that stunned him most, however, was learning about the so-called Golden Trio—Potter, Weasley, and... Hermione.
“Potter?” Draco muttered when one guard offhandedly mentioned the trio’s role in the war. His tone was incredulous. “Potter was the... what? The chosen one?”
The guard snorted.
“Don’t play dumb, Malfoy. Everyone knows about the Boy-Who-Lived’s role in taking down Voldemort. You were there, weren’t you?”
Draco froze.
Voldemort. A name he grew not to care for growing up, only knowing about his followers and the involvement of his father as well as his ideals—but now the name made his stomach twist violently.
Potter defeated... him? He sat back, stunned. The boy he’d spent years deriding as reckless and self-absorbed had apparently risen to the challenge he’d always shirked in Draco’s eyes.
He could hardly fathom the idea of Potter rising to such heights. In his memory, Potter was nothing more than an irresponsible boy who treated rules as obstacles to be defied.
And Hermione...
“She’s friends with them?” he asked another guard later, his voice thick with disbelief.
“Best friends,” the guard replied curtly.
Draco’s mind reeled. Hermione—his Hermione—friends with Potter and Weasley. It was incomprehensible. She loathed Potter’s irresponsibility almost as much as he did.
So now, the idea of Hermione standing beside Potter and Weasley, fighting alongside them, felt so fundamentally wrong that it bordered on absurd.
How did that happen?
Draco leaned against the wall of his cell, his thoughts spiraling. He couldn’t stop thinking about her—her sharp wit, her fierce determination, the way her nose scrunched up when she was annoyed. He missed her, a pang of something unfamiliar twisting in his chest. But his confusion outweighed everything else.
But this Hermione wasn’t his Hermione. His Hermione wouldn’t stand beside Potter and Weasley. She wouldn’t look at him like a stranger.
What happened to her? To everything?
The day stretched on, and the questions only piled up. Every fragment of information deepened his confusion, leaving him with a sinking feeling that he was missing something crucial.
But no matter how much he tried to piece it together, the answer remained maddeningly out of reach.
Draco's frustration only grew in the days that followed. He spent hours questioning the guards about Hermione Granger. His tone was sharp, demanding, but beneath it all was a desperation he couldn’t quite hide.
“Where is she?” he asked one day, pacing his cell. “Why hasn’t she come to see me yet?”
The guard sneered, his patience already worn thin. “Ms. Granger has better things to do than waste her time on the likes of you, Malfoy.”
Draco’s brow furrowed. “I need to speak with her,” he said, his voice urgent. “She’ll listen. She’ll know what to do. She always does.”
The guard barked out a laugh. “The Hermione Granger? Help you?” He shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve got a nerve, Malfoy. How do you expect her to help you after what you let happen to her?”
Draco froze, the words hitting him like a bucket of ice water. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice tight.
The guard’s smirk widened as he leaned against the metal door. “You really don’t know, do you?”
Draco’s heart sank as dread pooled in his stomach. “What happened to her?”
“Your precious aunt happened,” the guard sneered. “Bellatrix Lestrange. Tortured Granger right there in your dining room. Carved into her arm for good measure. And you just stood there and let it happen.”
Draco staggered back, his legs hitting the edge of the cot as he struggled to process what he’d just heard. “That’s not true,” he said weakly. “I would never—I couldn’t have—”
“Oh, but you did,” the guard interrupted, his voice dripping with contempt. “You stood there and did nothing. Just like you did at Hogwarts when the Carrows were running the show.”
The room seemed to spin around Draco as the guard’s words sunk in. Torture? In his home? His mind flashed to Bellatrix—his aunt, who was still locked away in Azkaban for as long as he can remember. How could she have done anything?
“That’s impossible,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Bellatrix is in Azkaban. She’s been there for years—cut off from the rest of the world. There’s no way she—”
The guard cut him off with a cruel laugh. “You really are clueless, aren’t you? Maybe you forgot, your precious lord broke Bellatrix out of Azkaban years ago and joined your family’s little house of horrors. I've heard she didn’t just torture Ms. Granger; she put her through rounds of the Cruciatus Curse too. And you?” The guard’s sneer deepened. “You stood by and let it all happen.”
Draco’s face went deathly pale. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, his voice rising in defense. “If what you’re saying is true—and it’s not—I would never stand by and let anyone torture Hermione. Never!”
“Save it,” the guard spat. “You’re just like the rest of your family. And don’t even get me started on Snape—your little mentor.”
Draco blinked, the sudden mention of Snape throwing him off balance. “What about Severus?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The guard’s expression darkened. “The man didn’t deserve the redemption he got,” he said bitterly. “No matter what the Chosen One had to say about him. Snape was a Death Eater, loyal to Voldemort for years. If he were alive, he’d belong in Azkaban alongside the rest of your lot.”
Draco stared at the guard, his mind spinning. Snape? Dead? The same man who had patiently tutored him every summer, guiding him through advanced potion-making and defense? The man who had tolerated Hermione’s presence during her visits, even when she peppered him with endless questions?
“You’re lying,” Draco said weakly, but his voice lacked conviction.
The guard scoffed and stepped back, his disdainful gaze fixed on Draco. “You really think playing the clueless act will save you? You’re as delusional as your father.”
As the guard walked away, Draco sank back onto the cot, his chest tight with emotions he couldn’t name. His thoughts spiraled as he tried to piece together the accusations hurled at him. Torture, betrayal, murder—it was like a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.
And Hermione.
The thought of her enduring such horrors, of him supposedly standing by and doing nothing, made his stomach twist violently. He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t.
“I need to talk to her,” he muttered to himself, his voice breaking. “I need to explain—I need to fix this.”
But deep down, a gnawing doubt crept in. Every answer he’d been given only deepened his confusion. The Hermione he knew would never have been tortured without him fighting tooth and nail to protect her. The Snape he knew would never have realigned himself with Voldemort.
That night, alone in his cell, Draco replayed everything he’d heard. His mind lingered on Hermione—what they had said about her, what she had endured. He pictured her as she had been in all the years they knew each other: fierce, stubborn, and unyielding.
And yet, for some reason, she had stood beside Potter and Weasley, fought alongside them. She had endured horrors he couldn’t fathom.
He thought of the times they’d sat together, her hand in his, her laugh soft as he painted her nails in whatever ridiculous color she was fond of that week.
The ache in his chest deepened. He missed her.
The next day was no better for Draco. If anything, it was worse. Every guard, every passing Auror, seemed to have some sort of jibe prepared for him.
"Here you go, Lord Malfoy," one of them sneered, tossing a plate of food onto the small table in his cell. The metal clanged noisily against the surface. "A royal feast for wizarding royalty."
The mocking tone was unmistakable, dripping with disdain as the guard smirked at him. "Bit grand for a man locked up like a common criminal, don’t you think?”
Another guard snorted as he passed by.
"Demanding release, claiming he doesn’t know anything... Always the same. You pureblood types think your titles and money make you untouchable."
Draco stiffened at their words, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides. He didn’t bother responding at first—what was the point? He wasn’t going to dignify their mockery with a reply. But their jeers kept coming, digging deeper under his skin.
“Let me guess,” one said, his voice dripping with mockery as he leaned against the metal door of Draco's room, his shadow falling across the small hatch cut into its surface.“You’re going to claim innocence next, yeah? Poor little Draco Malfoy, dragged into war against his will. Never did a thing wrong, did you?”
The words made Draco’s jaw tighten. His nails dug into his palms as he fought to keep his composure.
“Or maybe,” the guard continued, his smirk widening, “this isn’t your fault, is it? Always someone else to blame. Your father. Your aunt. Your wrong upbringing. Heard it all before.”
Draco didn’t look at him, staring instead at the opposite wall as he tried to drown out the words.
"Lord Malfoy," another one mocked, voice dripping with sarcasm. "All bow to the great savior of—oh wait, no, that’s Mr. Potter. What’s it like knowing even he managed to make something of himself while you’re here rotting in a cell?”
The laugh that followed was the last straw.
Draco stood abruptly, his chair screeching loudly against the stone floor. He whirled toward them, his face flushed with barely contained fury.
“If you think I would ever—” His voice was sharp, cutting through the mocking tones of the guards. But he stopped himself, his words faltering.
He didn’t know what to say. Everything they were accusing him of—the war, the actions, the crimes—it didn’t make sense. But every word they said painted a version of him he didn’t recognize, a version that felt grotesque and foreign.
The guard smirked. "What’s the matter, Lord Malfoy? No clever retort this time?"
Draco’s lips curled into a sneer. He couldn’t stop himself.
“If you think that’s something I would do, then you must have the wrong Draco Malfoy.” He said sarcastically.
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Draco wasn’t sure why he’d said it—it had burst out, unbidden, from the sheer frustration of being painted as someone he couldn’t believe he was.
The guard tilted his head, his smirk deepening.
"The wrong Draco Malfoy?" he repeated mockingly. "That’s a new one."
Another guard laughed as he pushed away from the metal door. “Sure, not-Draco-Malfoy. Keep telling yourself that.”
They left him alone after that, their laughter echoing faintly as they walked away. Draco sat back down heavily, his chest heaving as he tried to steady his breathing.
The plate of food sat untouched on the table, the faint clatter of metal still echoing in his ears. Draco leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, his jaw tight. The mocking words of the guards lingered, gnawing at him, a bitter reminder of the absurdity of his situation.
"The wrong Draco Malfoy," he murmured bitterly, the phrase escaping his lips before he could stop it.
It was all he had—the conversations with the guards, if he could even call them that. As unpleasant as they were, they gave him something to cling to in the stifling monotony of his confinement. Boredom had forced him to replay every word, every sneer, no matter how grating. But this time, his mind snagged on the one moment that stood out: his outburst, the one time his patience had shattered beneath the weight of their endless accusations.
He hadn’t meant it seriously, of course. The phrase had been a sarcastic jab, a defense born out of sheer frustration with the ridiculous accusations hurled at him. He’d practically spat it at them: “You must have the wrong Draco Malfoy.”
But now, sitting in the silence of his cell, that offhand comment felt heavier than it should have. He began to replay what had led him to say it—their scornful words, the relentless claims about his alleged crimes. The accusations still circled in his mind like vultures: cursed necklaces, poisoned mead, an attempt on Dumbledore’s life.
It was laughable—or, at least, it should have been. But the more he thought about it, the less it felt like a joke. He hated that his mind kept circling back to it, piecing together the fragments of information he’d managed to glean, trying to find some logic in the chaos.
He’d been doing this for days, unraveling the tangled mess of accusations and revelations. A war he’d never known about. Voldemort’s return, which he believed impossible. Surely, if the Dark Lord had risen again, he would have known, wouldn’t he? His father had always been a devoted lapdog to that monster, a role Draco regarded with disdain.
And yet...
The cursed mark on his arm burned in his thoughts, a mark he swore he would never bear. A mark that shouldn’t have existed—not on him.
Then there was Hermione.
He swallowed hard, his chest tightening as he thought of her. The Hermione he knew—the Hermione who shared his disdain for Potter’s reckless arrogance and Weasley’s infuriating table manners—would never have been friends with them. And yet, the Hermione he had seen at the Great Hall had been.
That was the Hermione who had stood with them.
The Hermione who had looked at him like a stranger.
His breath quickened, his mind racing. Piece by piece, everything he thought he knew was unraveling. The accusations. The war. Voldemort. Hermione’s rejection. His apparent involvement in atrocities that shouldn’t have happened. None of it made sense—unless...
Draco’s jaw tightened, and his fingers dug into his palms as realization crept over him, cold and unnerving.
Maybe... maybe that sarcastic comment of his wasn’t far off after all, he thought, his heart pounding.
Maybe they do have the wrong Draco Malfoy.