Cold Water

Draco Malfoy was embarrassed to admit how long it had taken him.

Days. It had taken days of pacing, brooding, replaying every sneer and accusation hurled at him, every lingering stare of disdain, every outburst of his own frustration. It had taken the better part of a sleepless night for the pieces to finally fall into place, and now that they had, Draco felt the sting of humiliation settle in.

How had it taken him so long to realize he was in a different reality?

He leaned back against the cool stone wall of his cell—no, his room , a secluded chamber more suited for isolation than punishment. His arms rested on his knees, his mind spinning as he recalled the clues he had overlooked: the war he didn’t recognize, the Voldemort he believed long dead, the mark on his arm that should never have been there.

And then there was Hermione.

Hermione, standing beside Potter and Weasley like they were her brothers—and he felt to the very pit of his stomach that she felt more than friendship and brotherhood with the redhead no matter how absurd it sounds. 

But then, it's better that she's with the weasel rather than his arse of a counterpart—he honestly can't believe he just thought of that and suppressed a shudder.

No wonder why Hermione was looking at him like that—with a kind of unfamiliarity—and somewhat pity and perhaps a little hint of disdain she usually reserved for ignorant fools in their classes. 

Hermione, recoiling from him as if he were something vile.

Draco exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. 

He wasn’t sure what was worse: the weight of her rejection or the realization that in this reality, he deserved it.

He had been thinking about it, been replaying his sarcastic outburst, the moment he had spat at the guards that they “must have the wrong Draco Malfoy.” It was meant to mock their baseless accusations, to point out how absurd their claims were. But the more he thought about it, the more the phrase stuck with him.

The wrong Draco Malfoy.

That night, as he stared at the ceiling, the words circled his mind, mingling with fragments of an old conversation. 

He was fifteen, seated with Hermione in one of their favorite spots in the Hogwarts library. She had just finished a lengthy monologue about the Department of Mysteries, her eyes alight with curiosity as she discussed the secrets hidden within its walls.

“They say the Department of Mysteries is studying the possibility of alternate realities,” she had said, her voice tinged with excitement. “Different timelines, parallel worlds... imagine the implications, Draco! What if there’s a reality where everything is different? Where you’re not a Malfoy, and I’m not a Muggle-born?”

He had snorted at the time, amused by her enthusiasm. “Why would I want to imagine a world where I’m not a Malfoy? Sounds dreadful.”

Hermione had rolled her eyes. “That’s not the point. It’s about possibilities—understanding that the universe might be more vast and complex than we can comprehend.”

“I’ll leave the vast complexities to you, Granger,” he had replied lazily, though he couldn’t help but smirk. “Just tell me which department to avoid if I ever feel like wandering the Ministry.”

They’d joked about it then, as teenagers do, but now, sitting in his cell, Draco found himself grasping at their musings as if they were lifelines. What if they’d been right? What if the Department of Mysteries had uncovered something real?

Because nothing else made sense.

How else could he explain a world where Voldemort had returned, where his family had apparently been at the forefront of a war? A world where he bore the mark of a Death Eater— his arm branded with the very symbol he had vowed to reject?

Draco swallowed hard, his chest tightening as he pieced it all together. This wasn’t his world. This wasn’t his life.

He thought of Hermione again.

His Hermione. The one who argued with him about academics. The one who’s cat he smuggled into the Slytherin dungeons after some Gryffindor git complained about it trying to kill his rat. The one who told him, over and over, to think before he acted .

“Just because you’re in power, Draco, doesn’t mean you can throw your weight around.”

Her words echoed in his mind, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. He could almost see her rolling her eyes at him.

He would always reply with some variation of: “Unless the Malfoy name has done something unforgivable, I don’t need to cower.”

And she would quip back, “Fetch me some scones from the kitchens, oh mighty heir, and maybe you’ll earn my respect.”

The memory brought a pang of regret. If he’d listened to her more, maybe he wouldn’t have made such a fool of himself these past few days. Maybe he would have realized sooner that this wasn’t his world, that the Hermione he saw wasn’t his Hermione.

The truth settled over him, heavy and unrelenting.

He was in a reality where everything he thought he knew was turned on its head. Where Voldemort had risen again, where his father’s fanaticism had dragged their family into disgrace, and where Hermione—a Hermione who should have been by his side—stood with Potter and Weasley instead.

He leaned forward, his hands gripping his knees tightly as the weight of it all pressed down on him. This was a world where he wasn’t just misunderstood; he was hated, reviled. And worse, he had earned it—or rather, the version of him that belonged to this reality had.

Draco’s jaw clenched as a bitter thought crossed his mind.

This world’s Draco Malfoy was a coward. A failure. A slave.

And yet, here he was, left to answer for the sins of a man who wore his face but wasn’t him.

“Well, love,” he murmured to the empty room, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “You were right. The universe is more complex than we could have imagined.”

The laugh faded quickly, leaving only silence in its wake.

Because now, more than ever, Draco realized what he needed.

He needed to talk to the Hermione Granger of this reality. Not just because she might have answers, but because she was the only person he could trust to see the truth. The only person who might believe that the Draco Malfoy standing in this reality was not the one who belonged here.

The next week blurred into a haze of repetition and frustration. Every day, Draco demanded to speak with Hermione Granger. He didn’t give them the full truth—how could he? The implications were far too dangerous. Even he, who had no ambitions for the Department of Mysteries, understood the gravity of their work. Information about alternate realities wasn’t just kept secret for curiosity’s sake; it was protected for a reason. He couldn’t risk the delicate balance between his world and this one by revealing too much.

So, he kept his explanations cryptic. "I need her help," he’d say, over and over, each time met with scoffs, sneers, or outright dismissals. "I’m innocent. I’m not the Malfoy you think I am."

That line earned a particularly mocking response from one guard. "Not the Malfoy we think you are?" the man repeated with a sneer. "That’s rich, coming from the spitting image of him. Pull the other one."

Draco couldn’t stop himself—he begged, over and over again, for a chance to speak with Hermione Granger or anyone from the Department of Mysteries. Every plea was met with the same scorn, the same dismissal, and the same mocking sneers that had plagued him since the beginning.

But he didn’t care anymore. Pride? What use was pride now? He was running out of time.

“I need her help,” he repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, his voice cracking under the weight of his desperation. “You don’t understand—this isn’t what you think it is!”

The guards sneered at him, barely sparing him a glance. “We understand plenty, Malfoy,” one said, his tone dripping with disdain. “You think the great Lord Malfoy doesn’t belong here. We’ve heard it all before.”

Draco clenched his fists, the sharp bite of his nails digging into his palms. He had argued, reasoned, even begged, but it was like shouting into the void. No matter how much he tried to explain—cryptically, carefully—that this wasn’t his life, that he wasn’t the man they thought he was, no one listened.

His frustration boiled over one evening when a guard sneered, “You’re not fooling anyone. You and your family got exactly what you deserve.”

That was the moment Draco felt something he hadn’t expected: a pang of longing for Lucius. His father.

Lucius Malfoy, the man he’d spent years ignoring and keeping in line, the man whose mistakes had nearly cost their family everything. But unlike in this reality, the Lucius Malfoy he know had been broken and humbled, reduced to a quiet figure who spent his days avoiding the world’s judgment and cherishing what little peace they had left. Draco had taken control of the Malfoy legacy years ago, but even then, Lucius had been there. Silent, yes. Distant, often. But there.

Now, Draco was truly alone.

“I’d even take his disapproving glare right now,” he muttered bitterly, his voice barely audible in the suffocating silence of his cell.

The thought only deepened his desperation. He needed someone—anyone—to believe him, to understand what he was going through. And if he couldn’t have that, he needed to get back. Back to his mother, back to Lucius in his quiet study, back to—

He swallowed hard, his chest tightening.

Back to Hermione.

So Draco didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His pleas became so incessant that, on the fourth day, they dragged him—kicking and screaming—out of his cell. For one fleeting, hopeful moment, he thought they were taking him to someone who might understand. Perhaps St. Mungo’s would recognize that there was something off about him, something that could lead them to the Department of Mysteries.

The hope lasted all of ten minutes.

His arrival at St. Mungo’s was short-lived. The Healers barely glanced at him before deeming him perfectly sane, their tone curt and dismissive. “Delusions,” one muttered as if diagnosing a mild cold. “But harmless.”

“Harmless,” Draco echoed bitterly as he was escorted back to his cell. The word stung in a way he couldn’t quite explain. 

Was that what he’d been reduced to in this world? A powerless, voiceless man, left to rot while everyone else moved on?

So he sat in his cell with nothing but a crushing sense of defeat.

The announcement of the Malfoys’ trial date came three days later, and with it, Draco felt the walls closing in around him. He counted the days he had left, each one slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. Time was running out, and with every passing moment, the weight of his helplessness grew heavier.

No help was coming.

The Hermione of this reality wasn’t going to miraculously appear to save him. She didn’t trust him—why would she? To her, he was just another Malfoy, another pawn in the Dark Lord’s twisted game. No matter how much he begged, no matter how loud he shouted, his voice fell on deaf ears.

Draco’s frustration turned into desperation. He didn’t care how humiliating it was. He needed an audience with the Department of Mysteries. If anyone could understand what had happened to him, it was them.

He begged the guards, his pride in tatters. 

"Please," he said, his voice hoarse from days of shouting. "I need to see someone from the Department of Mysteries. This is bigger than you think!"

But they didn’t care.

“I’m not asking for leniency!” he continued to shout, his voice echoing down the cold corridor. “I’m asking for the truth! You can’t ignore me forever!”

One of them cast him an annoyed glance. 

"You’ll get your chance to speak soon enough—in front of the Wizengamot," the man said, slamming the metal hatch on the door shut.

Draco gritted his teeth, frustration bubbling over. "You don’t understand!" he yelled, his voice echoing in the empty cell. "This isn’t about me or my family! It’s—"

A silencing charm hit the door before he could finish, and the sudden quiet was deafening.

That night, Draco sat on the cold floor of his cell, his head in his hands. For the first time since this nightmare of a reality began—as well as plague with actual and consistent nightmares whenever he closed his eyes as a poor attempt to rest, the enormity of his situation truly hit him.

He was alone. Utterly, completely alone.

Draco’s mind raced, searching for an angle, a plan, anything. His final chance lay in the trial. If they wouldn’t listen to him now, maybe the Wizengamot would. Surely, in front of so many witnesses, his plea for an audience with the Department of Mysteries couldn’t be ignored.

If he couldn’t get the Department of Mysteries to hear him, if he couldn’t convince the Wizengamot, then this could be his reality forever. He’d be sentenced for crimes he hadn’t committed, punished for a life that wasn’t his.

He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes against the oppressive silence.

“They have to listen,” he whispered to himself, his voice trembling. “They have to.”

It had to work.

It had to.

Because if they didn’t, the alternative was unthinkable. He would never get back. 

He’ll never see his mother again. Never hear Lucius’s quiet admonishments. Never feel Hermione’s hand slipping into his, grounding him in a way no one else ever could.

And that thought was more unbearable than anything else.

Tomorrow, at the trial, Draco would make sure his voice was heard—no matter the cost.

The morning of the trial dawned cold and gray, a fitting backdrop to the sense of dread that had been building in Draco’s chest. He woke to the sound of the door hatch clanging open and a guard’s gruff voice cutting through the silence.  

“Get up, Malfoy. Time to face the Wizengamot.”  

Draco sat up slowly, the chill of the stone floor seeping into his bones. He rubbed his face with his hands, steeling himself for what lay ahead. This was his chance—his last chance—and he couldn’t afford to waste it.  

A bundle of clothes was shoved through the hatch, landing in a heap on the floor.  

“Put these on,” the guard said, his tone laced with mocking disdain. “Can’t have Lord Malfoy standing trial in rags, can we?”  

Draco didn’t rise to the bait. He picked up the clothes, inspecting them briefly. They were decent—simple but tailored, and to his faint surprise, even stylish. He supposed he should be grateful that this version of him at least had the sense to dress well.

He changed quickly, smoothing down the fabric as best as he could. The unfamiliar weight of the situation pressed down on him as he stared at his reflection in the warped metal of the small mirror in his cell. He looked like himself, but he didn’t feel it. Merlin, even his hair is short—and he has never worn it in that length since fourth year, an old tradition of the Malfoy men—a symbol of his devotion to the witch that has captured his heart

The guards returned to escort him, their grip firm as they led him to the travel point—a floo connection, judging by the faint green glow in the hearth ahead. As they approached, Draco caught sight of two figures waiting by the fireplace.  

Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy.  

Narcissa turned the moment she saw him, her face lighting up with a fleeting warmth that quickly gave way to concern. She moved toward him swiftly, her hands reaching out to clasp his shoulders.  

“Draco,” she said softly, her voice trembling with a mix of worry and determination. “Everything will be alright. I promise.”  

Her words made him pause. They were so achingly familiar, a shadow of the reassurances his own mother would offer when he was younger. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from snapping back: Everything will be alright? Your son deserves whatever punishment he gets for what he’s done.

But he couldn’t say it. This wasn’t his mother, but she still wore his mother’s face. And in her gaze, he saw a depth of love that made his chest tighten. He swallowed the bitter words, nodding once instead.  

Lucius, meanwhile, stood a few steps back, his hands clasped behind his back. He avoided Draco’s silver eyes, his expression unreadable. Draco mirrored the gesture, refusing to acknowledge him. The disdain he felt toward this version of his father burned hot in his veins.  

He allowed Narcissa to fuss over him, her hands smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in his clothes. She whispered soothing words, though Draco hardly heard them. His mind was racing, each beat of his heart hammering the same thought into his head:  

This is my last chance. 

When the guard motioned for them to step into the floo, Draco hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward. As the green flames roared around him, he clenched his fists, steeling himself for what was to come.  

They have to listen.

Because if they didn’t, he didn’t know what he’d do.  

Draco sat stiffly in the chair next to Narcissa, his back rigid, his hands gripping the armrests tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. He tried to appear composed, but he could feel the cracks in his mask widening with each passing second. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath uneven as his eyes darted around the chamber.  

This wasn’t his trial, not really. He shouldn’t even be here. But no one believed that—no one would ever believe that—and the weight of that reality pressed down on him like an iron vise.  

From the corner of his eye, he saw Narcissa sitting beside him, her expression carefully schooled into a mask of calm. But the tension in her shoulders and the way her fingers gripped the hem of her robes betrayed her nerves. Lucius sat on his other side, his face an unreadable mask, his pale eyes fixed straight ahead. Draco ignored him, his jaw tightening reflexively.  

The sound of the heavy wooden doors opening drew his attention. He turned his head just slightly, enough to see the so-called Golden Trio entering the chamber.  

His heart gave a painful lurch as his gaze landed on Hermione. She was walking arm-in-arm with Weasley, her expression composed but guarded.  

For the first time, Draco noticed something he hadn’t fully registered before, something that had escaped him in the disorienting chaos of the Great Hall. There was an odd absence about her—a lack of the almost palpable presence he’d come to associate with his Hermione.  

The Hermione he knew seemed to carry magic with her as if it were a second skin, radiating power in a way that could be overwhelming if one paid close enough attention. It wasn’t just her intellect or her talent; it was something deeper, something primal, a force she wielded without even trying.  

But this Hermione? There was a muted quality to her aura, as though the magic within her was restrained, buried, or simply less abundant. It was subtle, but to someone like Draco—who had always been attuned to the nuances of magic—it was glaringly obvious now that he noticed it.  

He frowned slightly, his thoughts racing. Was it possible that she hadn’t yet uncovered it? That this version of her hadn’t tapped into the wellspring of power that his Hermione seemed to possess so naturally? Or was there something about this reality itself that dulled her brilliance, her intensity? 

Or maybe it's because the Hermione of this reality has been rejected by the magic of her heritage from the distance past?

The thought unsettled him, because he was sure if this Hermione has uncovered that magic that is rightfully hers, she won't suffer the way she had in this so-called war. It stirred an odd mix of frustration and something he refused to name. It was as if the absence of that overwhelming magic made this Hermione feel incomplete, like a reflection that lacked the depth and vibrancy of the original.  

Draco’s jaw tightened, and he forced himself to look away. This wasn’t his Hermione, and he needed to stop comparing them. But the difference lingered in his mind, gnawing at him in a way he couldn’t quite shake.

He felt his stomach twist violently, a mixture of emotions he couldn’t untangle. 

Would he ever see his Hermione again? The one who wouldn’t look at him like a stranger, the one who shared his dislike for the two boys at her side?  

His eyes drifted to Potter, and the weight of the boy’s gaze caught him off guard. For a moment, they locked eyes. There was something there—something too heavy, too complicated for Draco to parse—but it was enough to make him look away, his jaw tightening further.  

He hadn’t expected Potter’s expression to feel so... unbearable. It wasn’t disdain or triumph, it looks more like pity—something he might never have expected from the Potter he knew. 

There was also something else—something sharper, deeper, and Draco couldn’t face it.  

He kept his gaze forward, his focus falling on the chair in the center of the room. Its chains glinted faintly in the dim light, coiled loosely around its base like dormant serpents waiting to strike. Draco’s stomach turned as he stared at it.  

Everyone thought the chains were only there to keep unwilling individuals seated, but he knew better. Hermione had told him once back in their third year, how the chair’s enchantments were far more insidious than they appeared based from what she read on earlier accounts of trials when the Ministry of Magic was newly established in the 18th century from the old tomes she has gained access to due to her very surprising—and unexpected heritage that shocked the Wizarding World. 

She’d mentioned it in passing during one of their conversations about the Department of Mysteries, her fascination with magical mechanisms shining through despite his disinterest in the topic.  

It was ironic, really. Hermione had often avoided talking about things related to the Wizengamot when they were together, knowing how much he's sick of being constantly reminded of his role—probably hers too—once they're both properly of age. And now, as he stared at the chair, her words came back to him with unnerving clarity.  

His gaze flickered back to the trio. 

He’d been shocked when he learned they would testify in defense of this reality’s Narcissa—and, to a lesser extent, himself. It was almost laughable, really, the idea that this version of him had done something right for once.  

Draco’s lips twitched in bitter amusement. 

What had this version of him done to earn their defense? Whatever it was, it clearly wasn’t enough to undo the damage.  

His grip on the armrests tightened as he forced his attention back to the present. The chains on the chair in the center of the room seemed to glint mockingly at him, as though daring him to sit there.  

He swallowed hard, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t afford to get lost in memories or musings. Not now. This was his last chance.  

For a fleeting moment, he let himself imagine what Hermione would say if she were here. Not this reality’s Hermione, but his.  

“Don’t panic, Draco,” she’d say, her tone brisk but not unkind. “Think. Focus. Stop being dramatic for five seconds and use that mind of yours for something useful.”  

He closed his eyes briefly, letting out a slow breath.  

They have to listen, he told himself, repeating the mantra like a lifeline. 

Because if they didn’t, he would never find his way back.  

"Lucius Malfoy," Kingsley announced, the name cutting through the haze in Draco's mind. His father—or this version of him—stood and walked to the center of the chamber with deliberate steps. Draco’s eyes flicked toward him briefly, taking in the way the man’s once-imposing figure seemed smaller, worn down by years of guilt and fear.  

The crimes listed were damning, each word striking like a hammer blow. Torture. False imprisonment. Complicity. Draco’s lips tightened as the details spilled forth, witness after witness recounting the horrors of Malfoy Manor. The dungeon. The Cruciatus Curse. Bellatrix’s savage glee.  

The accusations blurred together, a grotesque tapestry of suffering. Draco tried to focus, to absorb it all, but his mind wandered despite himself.  

Would this have been my father’s fate if I hadn’t taken the lordship? The thought gnawed at him. Would he have dragged us into ruin, blinded by his devotion to ideals that meant nothing in the end?  

He clenched his fists, a surge of bitterness rising in his chest. He listened to the witnesses describe Lucius standing idly by, silent and complicit as atrocities unfolded under his roof. Fear for his family, Lucius had claimed in his defense, but Draco couldn’t help but scoff internally.  

Coward, he thought bitterly.  

Draco shifted in his seat, his mind circling back to his own reality. The Lucius Malfoy he knew was no saint, but he had been broken early by the consequences of his choices, allowing Draco to wrest the reins of the family’s future from his grasp. It had been messy, painful, but necessary. This Lucius, though...  

Draco’s jaw clenched as the testimony continued. The horrors painted in excruciating detail—the dungeons, the screams, the silent indifference. He forced himself to listen, even as revulsion coiled in his gut.  

He couldn’t fully reconcile this version of Lucius with the man he had grown up with. The man who, while deeply flawed, had been kept in check under Draco’s leadership. This Lucius had let his weakness, his blind loyalty, and his fear rule him. And the result was destruction—of lives, of dignity, of their family’s name.  

The thought festered, filling him with a mixture of pity and loathing.  

As the testimonies wrapped up, Draco barely noticed. He heard the guilty verdict, the sentencing—fifteen years in Azkaban—but it felt distant, as though it were happening to someone else entirely.  

When Lucius returned to his seat, chains clinking faintly, Draco didn’t meet his gaze. He had nothing to say to this man. This version of Lucius Malfoy was a product of his own failures, a warning of what could have been.  

And Draco wanted no part of it.

Draco’s gaze remained fixed on the floor as his mother’s name was called. His chest tightened as Narcissa rose gracefully, her every movement deliberate and composed. She walked toward the chair with her chin held high, exuding a quiet dignity that made his heart ache.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, catching the flicker of tension in her otherwise impassive expression. This Narcissa, unlike his own mother, seemed weighed down by years of silent endurance. She lowered herself into the chair, and the chains remained motionless, sensing no resistance.

Draco clenched his hands tightly in his lap, willing himself to focus. This was his mother—this reality’s version of her—and no matter what the accusations, she deserved his attention.

Kingsley’s voice rang through the chamber.

“Narcissa Malfoy, you stand accused of complicity in crimes committed by the Death Eaters during the Second Wizarding War. These include harboring fugitives, aiding the regime of Lord Voldemort, and allowing the use of your home as a base of operations for acts of torture, imprisonment, and murder. Do you understand the charges brought against you?”

“Yes,” Narcissa replied, her voice steady but soft. “I understand.”

The testimonies began, and Draco forced himself to listen.

A man described the dungeons of Malfoy Manor in vivid, horrifying detail. Draco’s stomach churned as he imagined his home turned into a prison for terrified captives. 

His mind drifted to his own mother, the woman who had spent years carefully rebuilding their family’s reputation. She would never have allowed such atrocities—not without fighting tooth and nail to prevent them.

But this Narcissa had stood by.

The witnesses spoke of her silence, her inaction, and the quiet moments where she had turned away from Bellatrix’s cruelty rather than stopping it. Draco’s hands curled into fists.

This isn’t my mother, he thought bitterly.

But then the testimonies shifted. Witnesses recounted moments where Narcissa had tried—weakly, quietly, but tried—to temper Bellatrix’s sadism. One spoke of her pleading with her sister to spare children. Another described her begging Bellatrix to stop torturing a girl.

And then came the mention of a snake.

“A snake?” Draco whispered under his breath, his mind reeling as the witness described the creature—huge, coiled in the corner, watching. His heart raced as the pieces fell into place. 

Nagini. 

Voldemort’s snake. 

His tool. 

His weapon.

An Auror corroborated the story, explaining how the snake had been used as a means of control, not just over the prisoners but over the Malfoys themselves.

Draco stiffened. He thought of his own mother and how fiercely protective she was, how she had always been willing to sacrifice everything to keep him safe. If this version of Narcissa had been under constant surveillance by a creature like the one they call Nagini, perhaps her inaction wasn’t cowardice but survival.

The golden trio’s testimonies came next, and Draco forced himself to remain calm as Potter spoke first.

“Narcissa Malfoy saved my life,” Potter said plainly.

Draco just blinked. He had heard rumors that the trio would testify on his mother’s behalf, but that doesn't make things less surprising—especially since he's hearing what this version of his mother has done for the first time. 

Potter then went on to describe how Narcissa had lied to Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts, giving them the chance to win.

Weasley spoke hesitantly, admitting that while Narcissa hadn’t stopped the atrocities, she hadn’t actively participated either. 

She had looked desperate, he said, as if she wanted everything to end.

But it was Hermione’s testimony that held Draco captive.

“I was tortured at Malfoy Manor,” she began, her voice steady but taut.

Draco’s breath hitched. He had known this was coming, but hearing it was worse than he had imagined. Her words stirred a fury he could barely contain—not at her but at the version of himself in this reality who had allowed it to happen.

The memories came unbidden, pulling him back to the nightmares that had plagued him after hearing about this version of Hermione’s torture. He had tried to suppress them—being naturally gifted with the skill of occlumency and all thanks to his mother's family side—but they haunted him still—visions of his reality's Hermione in that same position, screaming in agony while he stood frozen, unable to stop it.

She spoke of Narcissa’s silence, but also how she understands why the Malfoy matriarch has stood by.

“Narcissa didn’t stop her, but I understand why.” She continued. “She was trapped. Voldemort’s snake was watching her, his followers were everywhere, and she had her son to think about. I don’t condone her silence, but I can understand it. And when it mattered most, she made the right choice. She chose life, not death. That has to mean something.”

Bless this girl's bleeding Gryffindor heart.

Looks like in whatever reality he's in, she's always going to have the same morals and ideals.

But then, the prosecutor continued to press on, making him grit his teeth. 

“How did it feel, Miss Granger, knowing she stood by and let you be tortured?”  

This reality’s Hermione's face pinched, faltering and her eyes wandered and unexpectedly found his. They locked eyes for a second—brown against silver—almost catching him off guard but she looked away immediately.

Draco swallowed hard, the knot in his throat almost unbearable.

He thought of his Hermione—the one who stood beside him during the worst of times, her wit and determination unwavering. She had never faced the horrors this Hermione had, but the thought of it had become his greatest fear. He couldn’t fathom letting anything happen to her—standing by while someone inflicted pain on her. And yet, this version of him had done just that.

And that knowledge burned him from the inside out.

He saw her swallow before answering but Draco barely heard the words. His mind was too consumed by the image of his own Hermione suffering the same fate and the stark reminder that, in this reality, he had failed to protect the one person he never thought he’d fail.

“It felt... terrible.” She answered honestly—almost hesitatingly before continuing on with confidence and professionalism clear on her voice. “But I won’t let my personal pain cloud my judgment. This trial isn’t about vengeance—it’s about justice. And justice means acknowledging that Narcissa Malfoy isn’t her sister, her husband, or Voldemort. She’s a mother who made a terrible choice to survive. I believe she deserves a second chance.”

Draco’s heart twisted painfully. 

When the testimonies ended, Kingsley delivered the verdict.

“Narcissa Malfoy, the Wizengamot finds you guilty of complicity in the crimes committed at Malfoy Manor during the war. However, taking into account your actions during the Battle of Hogwarts and the mitigating circumstances surrounding your role, your sentence will not include imprisonment. You are hereby placed under house arrest for a period of eight years, during which time you will be monitored by the Ministry and required to serve the wizarding community through acts of service.”

As Narcissa rose from the chair, Draco reached out and brushed her hand. She looked at him, and for the first time since the trial began, a faint flicker of relief crossed her face.

He didn’t speak, but his touch conveyed what words couldn’t: Everything will be okay.

Then Draco’s name rang out across the chamber, sharp and unrelenting.

“Draco Malfoy,” Kingsley Shacklebolt intoned, his voice calm yet commanding.

Draco didn’t move.

The weight of the moment pressed down on him, suffocating and all-encompassing. His legs felt rooted to the floor, his hands clenching tightly in his lap as he stared blankly ahead. Despite the night spent mentally preparing himself, the reality of the situation was far more harrowing than he had anticipated.

The accusations. The crimes. Each one was a reflection of a version of himself he couldn’t fathom.

“Draco Malfoy,” Kingsley called again, the sound slicing through the tense air.

His jaw tightened as his mind reeled, replaying every word that had been hurled at him since his capture. He could feel the room’s collective gaze, the weight of their judgment pressing heavily on his chest. Every beat of his heart seemed to echo: murder , torture , betrayal.

He tried to occlude his emotions, to shove them deep down where they couldn’t betray him, but it was no use. His hands, white-knuckled and trembling, gripped the fabric of his robes like lifelines.

Finally, Aurors stepped forward, their approach deliberate yet unyielding. With a firm grip on his arms, they guided him forward. His legs moved mechanically, but his mind remained stuck, circling around the crimes attributed to his counterpart.

Attempted murder of Dumbledore. Cursed necklaces. Poisoned mead.

The chair loomed ahead, its chains gleaming faintly under the courtroom’s enchanted lighting. He hesitated for the briefest moment before he was seated, the cold surface pressing against his back like a weight.

Then the chains came to life.

The enchanted bindings moved swiftly, snapping around his wrists and ankles with unnerving precision. Their cold grip sent a shiver through him, his breath catching as he tensed instinctively. Unlike the stillness they’d exhibited during his parents’ version in this reality’s trials, they seemed to sense his reluctance, his unwillingness to be there.

Draco’s chest tightened as his breaths came faster, more shallow. 

Each accusation was a fresh blow, the weight of this alternate reality’s Draco Malfoy suffocating him.

“Draco Malfoy, you stand accused of numerous crimes during the Second Wizarding War. These charges include aiding Death Eaters in their infiltration of Hogwarts, attempting the murder of Albus Dumbledore, and endangering lives through the cursed necklace and poisoned mead. You are also charged with casting the Imperius Curse and performing the Cruciatus Curse on students under the Carrows’ regime.”

Each word cut through him, sharp and merciless.

Imperius Curse. Cruciatus Curse. Students.

He felt sick.

This version of him was a monster—a coward who had given in to the Dark Lord’s madness. The thought of cursing students, of standing by as others suffered, was abhorrent. His mind flickered to the Hermione of his world, the nightmares he’d had about her enduring such horrors, and his chest tightened further.

“Draco Malfoy,” Kingsley continued, his tone unyielding. “Do you understand the charges brought against you?”

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. His throat felt tight, the weight of the room pressing against him from all sides. 

He wanted to deny it all, to scream that they had the wrong man. He wanted to immediately cry out for the Department of Mysteries, to plead his case and make them understand but his mind raced with doubt. If he began with the truth—that he wasn’t this world’s Draco Malfoy—they’d dismiss him as mad or manipulative, just as the guards had.

The seconds stretched unbearably, the silence oppressive. Finally, he forced a single word out, barely audible.

“No.”

It wasn’t the defiant response he had planned, and he hated himself for it. The word trembled, weak and uncertain, and he felt the judgment in the room grow heavier.

The murmurs began immediately, spreading through the chamber like wildfire. He felt their stares, their disbelief, and their scorn.

As the whispers grew, Draco’s hands clenched tighter against the chair’s arms. The accusations replayed in his mind, each one a reminder of the crimes he had no part in—but would still have to answer for.

This trial wasn’t just about justice; it was about survival. And for the first time, as he sat bound and vulnerable in that chair, he truly understood the gravity of what lay ahead.

Then the first witness was called.

The door to the courtroom creaked open, and a young woman strode in, her steps quick and purposeful. Katie Bell.

He recognized her immediately, having played against her countless of times in quidditch back in his reality where she's teammates with Potter, though the sharp fury in her eyes was something new. It wasn’t the irritation of a student scorned whenever Slytherin scores or the annoyance of a house rivalry. 

This was raw, visceral anger—directed entirely at him.

Draco tensed, his fingers curling tightly around the armrests of the chair as she approached the stand. He told himself to stay calm, to think this through like Hermione always advised, but the weight of her gaze made it impossible. His heart pounded against his ribs, a wild rhythm of dread.

"Draco Malfoy," she began, her voice trembling with emotion. "You—you tried to kill me. You cursed me with that necklace, and for what? What did I ever do to deserve that?"

Her words were like a whip, cracking through the room and slicing into him. The cursed necklace. He had heard whispers of this crime during the trial preparations, but hearing it from her was another thing entirely.

Draco’s breathing quickened. This wasn’t just bad—this was monstrous. The idea that he, or rather, this version of him, had cursed someone so recklessly filled him with a sickening dread.

Katie took a step closer, her fists clenched. "You put that necklace in my hands," she spat, her voice rising with every word. "I didn’t know, I didn’t know that it was meant to harm me. But you—you knew what it would do, didn’t you?”

Draco’s mouth opened before he could stop himself.

No!” He snapped, the denial bursting out of him like a reflex. “It wasn’t me! It wasn’t—I didn’t—” His voice was raw, desperate. “I don't know anything about a necklace! Or even anything that you're talking about! I—don’t—don’t—”

The moment the words left his mouth, he froze, panic overtaking him. He hadn’t meant to speak—had told himself to wait, to think before reacting. But the accusation had hit something primal inside him, an instinct that refused to let him stay silent.

Katie’s eyes narrowed, her fury only intensifying. 

“Don’t try to pretend like you didn’t know. You’re the one who gave it to me! You knew what it was, Draco! You almost killed me!" She shouted, her voice shaking “You knew it could have killed me. It did kill me, Draco! You can’t just pretend like it didn’t happen!”

Draco’s pulse thundered in his ears, his body leaning forward as if trying to escape the chains that bound him. 

“No, no, it wasn’t me—" he cried out, louder this time, his voice cracking.

"Enough, Mr. Malfoy!" Kingsley’s voice boomed across the chamber, cutting through Draco’s frantic protests. "You will remain silent, or we will silence you."

Draco flinched, his breathing ragged, but his gaze remained locked on Katie. His mind screamed at the injustice of it all. He wasn’t this Draco Malfoy—he would never have done something like this. How could they expect him to stay silent when his counterpart’s sins were being laid at his feet?

His breaths came faster, his chest rising and falling with every word. The logical part of his brain screamed at him to stop, to take a step back, but it was drowned out by the rush of emotions surging through him.

“I swear, it wasn’t me! It wasn’t me! I didn’t know what you're even talking about! I swear to you!”

Katie, however, wasn’t done.

“Liar!” she shouted, seething with emotion, could hardly control herself any longer.her voice breaking as she turned to Kingsley, almost hysterical. “He’s lying! He’s lying to all of you!”

Kingsley raised his hand, signaling for the guards to move in as Draco fought hard to regain his semblance of calmness. "Ms. Bell, that is enough! You must calm yourself immediately, or we will have no choice but to escort you out.”

But Katie was beyond reason now. Her face twisted with a mix of anger and grief as she continued to shout at Draco, her voice rising in volume with each word. 

She was shaking, her hands balled into fists. 

“You—you tried to kill me, you destroyed my life with that curse. You don’t get to just stand there and act like you’re innocent!”

But he is innocent, and that's what hurt him the most.

The officials moved in, gently guiding her toward the door. Katie resisted, her accusations growing fainter as she was escorted out, but her words still lingered in the air.

Draco slumped back in the chair, his body trembling. The room was quiet, but he could still feel the weight of their judgment pressing down on him. He hadn’t meant to react like that—had promised himself he’d keep calm, that he’d find the right moment to speak.

But when the accusations came, sitting there in silence had felt impossible.

They didn’t understand.

They didn’t know he wasn’t him.

Draco’s stomach twisted as the next witness was called. 

This time, it was a young man, his gait nervous but purposeful, his pinched face set with determination.

Draco recognized him immediately, and his lips automatically curled into a sneer of pure disdain before he could even stop himself. 

Of course, it’s him.

Although it really isn't—technically—him but hell if Draco won't hold grudges no matter how much he sounds like a total hypocrite in his head right now.

The boy, also a fellow Slytherin from his reality, had been a thorn in Draco’s side back in school—a beater on their Quidditch team who had made no secret of his resentment for Draco’s position as seeker. 

Draco’s mind flashed back to sixth year, to the day this same boy’s counterpart had aimed a bludger at his head during practice in a clumsy attempt to sabotage him out of the game. Draco had spent nearly a week in the hospital wing recovering, but he hadn’t been alone for long.

He smirked bitterly at the memory. The boy had joined him not a day later, his entire body covered in massive, pus-filled boils that oozed a sickly green liquid. No one could figure out how it had happened, and the boy himself had been clueless. 

Draco, however, had his suspicions—suspicions that involved a certain curly-haired witch who had looked entirely too pleased with herself that week.

He could still remember the way Hermione had fumed when she’d heard about the incident, her eyes blazing with a protective fire he rarely saw directed at anyone but him. She had denied it, of course, but Draco knew better. She’d never let anyone hurt him and walk away unscathed.

But now, that same boy from this reality stood, ready to twist the knife.

The witness cleared his throat nervously, and the murmurs in the room quieted.

"I was in Slytherin with Draco Malfoy,” he began, his voice trembling slightly but gaining confidence with each word. “During our time at Hogwarts, he showed no hesitation in treating others cruelly. I saw it firsthand—he was involved in bullying, in tormenting students who dared oppose him. And when the Carrows came, he didn’t hesitate to join in.”

Draco’s fingers curled tightly around the cold metal arms of his chair, his knuckles turning white. The accusations stung, but it wasn’t just that—they were a perversion of his reality, twisted and vile.

“That’s a lie!” he shouted, the words escaping him once again despite the loud warnings blaring in his head. “I didn’t—I never—” his voice cracked with fury, but before he could say more, Kingsley’s sharp voice cut him off.

“Mr. Malfoy, you will remain silent, or be silenced,” Kingsley said, his tone firm and unyielding.

Draco gritted his teeth, biting back the string of protests rising in his throat. His chest heaved as he forced himself to stay seated, though his entire body vibrated with barely contained rage.

The witness, emboldened by Kingsley’s intervention, continued.

“Malfoy was one of the first students to embrace the Carrows’ methods. He didn’t hesitate to join in when they tortured students. I saw him... He used the Cruciatus Curse on someone. It wasn’t just a student, it was one of his own. He was a willing participant.”

Draco’s heart pounded in his chest, the words ringing in his ears. Cruciatus? The accusation was absurd—in now way in any reality could he ever think of doing that—but this twisted reality of his did, and that's what makes him see red.

His restraint snapped.

You're an idiot— he could hear Hermione say in his head right now.

“Well, if you idiots would just listen to what I’ve been telling you,” he spat, straining against the chains that held him to the chair. The metal rattled harshly as he leaned forward, his voice rising with anger. “You’d realize it wasn’t me!”

His breath came in short, erratic bursts, his face flushed with frustration as he glared at the witness. “I don’t even have a clue on what you're talking about—”

“Silence, Mr. Malfoy,” Kingsley’s voice boomed, cutting him off once more. His tone was sharp, a warning barely veiled in his words. “You will not interrupt these proceedings again. If you do, we will be forced to cast a silencing charm.”

Draco’s chest heaved with agitation, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. He slumped back into the chair, his knuckles still white as he gripped the armrests. His gaze burned with defiance, but his lips pressed tightly together, holding back the retort that threatened to burst forth.

The witness glanced nervously at Kingsley before continuing, but Draco barely heard him. The accusations swirled in his mind, a storm of lies and half-truths that made his blood boil.

He could feel the eyes of the Golden Trio on him, but he refused to meet them. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

The chains around his wrists and ankles tightened slightly, as though warning him to keep his composure. But as the witness stepped down, Draco’s jaw remained clenched, his thoughts a chaotic mix of fury, and frustration.

The moment the Slytherin boy’s testimony ended, Draco leaned back in his chair, his jaw tight, attempting to control the simmering frustration bubbling within him. 

But when the next witness was called, he stiffened immediately.  

A young man stepped forward—a student, judging by his age. Draco squinted, searching his memory for any recognition in his reality if they ever crossed paths, but the boy’s face was entirely unfamiliar. His frustration grew.  

Who the hell is this now?  

The boy cleared his throat nervously before speaking, his voice steady but filled with unmistakable disdain.  

“I was at Hogwarts during the war,” he began. “And Draco Malfoy... he’s cruel. That’s the only way to describe him. And he didn’t hesitate to stand with the Death Eaters when they came for us. He was a part of that.”  

Draco’s grip on the armrests tightened, his nails digging into the cold metal as his mind reeled as he kept searching his head for any recollection that may point who this boy is. He couldn’t place him. Not at all.  

“That’s not true!” Draco finally burst out after a few mad mutterings under his breath while the unknown person was talking—and can't help but snap as soon as the boy is finished. 

His voice ringing through the chamber, his frustration and confusion breaking through every mental barrier he had tried to keep in place. His breathing quickened as he tried to control the storm rising within him, but it was too late—his emotions had taken over.  

“I didn’t do any of that!” he shouted, his chest heaving. His pale face grew paler still, his lips tight as he glared at the witness. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”  

The boy flinched but held his ground, his gaze unwavering. Draco’s voice rose as his anger took over entirely, overriding his internal pleas for calm.  

“I don’t even know who this person is!” he exclaimed with genuine honesty—the fact that this version of him probably does know this guy—momentarily escaping him, but he'd be damned if those judging eyes looked at him like that any further.

Maybe it's time to say the truth.

His eyes darted around the courtroom, searching for anyone to validate his words. 

“I’ve never seen them before in my life!”  

His hands clenched tighter against the armrests, the chains biting cruelly into his wrists, as he continued his tirade. “For the last time—if you’d just listen to what I’m telling you, it’s not me! I don’t know anything about this!”  

His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, the rawness of his emotion evident in every word. He was trembling now, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps, his face flushed with frustration and desperation.  

But the courtroom remained eerily silent, unmoved by his outburst. The witness stepped down, casting Draco a final look of disdain before returning to his seat.  

Draco slumped back into the chair, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths as he fought to regain some semblance of composure. The weight of the accusations, coupled with the indifference of the courtroom, pressed heavily on his shoulders.  

The chains around his wrists felt heavier than before, digging into his skin as he watched yet another witness take the stand. 

This time, it was a young woman from Hufflepuff. Draco vaguely recognized her from his reality, though he couldn’t recall her name. Not that he’d cared enough to know it back then.

She moved with hesitant steps, her eyes flickering nervously between him and the rest of the courtroom. Despite her unease, her voice was steady as she began.

“I was in the same year as Malfoy,” she said, her tone firm. “And I can tell you, he was just as bad as anyone else. He used his family’s name, used his position, to get away with things that should have been punished.”

Draco let out a sharp, bitter chuckle, though his body remained tense. His exhaustion was starting to creep in, but his anger burned just as fiercely.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped, his voice low and venomous. “It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!”

Do you think raising your voice would do the trick? He could immediately imagine Hermione saying drily in his mind at his uncontrolled outburst, arms crossed and an unimpressed look that could cut through his excuses. He could almost hear the exasperation in her tone, see her lips pressed into that familiar disapproving line. 

Maybe he could control himself better.

“He’s a bully,” the Hufflepuff girl continued, her eyes locking on him, resolve unwavering. “He always was. But it wasn’t just that. It was when the Death Eaters took over. He didn’t fight against them. He joined them. And when we were at Hogwarts under the Carrows—he didn’t hesitate to hurt people.”

Or maybe not.

Draco’s frustration boiled over. He slammed his shackled fist against the armrest, the sharp sound cutting through the courtroom.

“I didn’t!” he shouted, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “I didn’t do any of that!” His chest heaved, his breaths ragged as he struggled to control the panic clawing at his throat.

His gaze briefly landed on the journalists scattered throughout the chamber, their enchanted quills furiously scribbling down every word. A cold weight settled in his stomach.

“You don’t understand—” he paused, shaking his head, his chest rising and falling erratically. “I don’t even know who half of you are!” he said, his tone frantic and raw. “I’ve never met you!”

He has long lost control, and he knew it. The panic and confusion that had simmered within him were now pouring out, each word a desperate attempt.

“If you lot would just listen for once—none of this makes sense!” His voice wavered, caught between anger and despair. “I don’t remember doing any of it! You think I’m lying, but I’m not—I don’t even know what’s happening here!”

The courtroom buzzed with murmurs, but no one moved to interrupt. The journalists’ quills paused, as if even they were waiting for him to say more.

Draco leaned back against the cold chair, his mind racing. For days since he realized that he's in a different reality, he’d held back, trying to tread carefully, fearing the consequences of revealing too much. But now staring at the skeptical faces surrounding him, he found himself teetering on the edge of giving up.

Why am I holding back? he thought bitterly, his gaze flickering once more to the journalists. 

He knew why. 

The Department of Mysteries. 

If the existence of other realities was a closely guarded secret, he couldn’t risk letting it slip, not with every word being recorded and scrutinized.

But still, the weight of the accusations, the relentless testimonies—he was crumbling beneath it all. He clenched his fists, his frustration bubbling over as he muttered under his breath, 

“Merlin, I swear if you’d all just bloody listen...”

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Draco slumped in the chair, his mind churning. He was out of options. If the truth couldn’t save him, what could?

Just stop and think, Draco— Hermione would tell him like everytime she does when he's frustrated and making things more complicated for himself while rolling her eyes.

If only it were that easy.

If only she was here, he thought bitterly. Then someone could've held the reigns alongside him. She always knows what to do.

One of the Wizengamot members finally raised a hand, their brow furrowed in concern. 

“Perhaps we should consider the possibility that Mr. Malfoy’s memories have been altered, his claims of not remembering, not recognizing some of his schoolmates—it’s possible he’s suffered a memory charm or even amnesia. If that’s the case, we may need to postpone the trial until his mental health can be fully assessed.”

Draco froze, his breath catching. For a moment, he dared to hope. Maybe someone in this sea of judgment would finally listen.  

But another member quickly shot down the idea, shaking their head dismissively. 

“Mr. Malfoy has already been examined at St. Mungo’s. There were no signs of curses, potions, or mental instability. The Healers found no lingering effects from the war, and there’s no evidence to suggest memory modification or any form of amnesia. The examination came back clear.”  

The hope Draco had clung to crumbled, slipping through his fingers as easily as sand. His chest tightened, and he struggled to maintain his composure.  

“I swear, I didn’t do any of it!” he burst out again, his voice hoarse from shouting. “It’s not me! You’ve got it all wrong!”  

But Kingsley’s sharp voice cut through his pleas like a blade. “Mr. Malfoy, enough. You will remain silent now, or we will really have to enforce a silencing charm.”

Draco’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps, and his hands gripped the cold metal of the chair’s armrests until his knuckles turned white. He glared at Kingsley, defiance burning in his eyes, but he held his tongue.  

So for the rest of the other testimonies, he sat rigid, his teeth clenched so tightly he thought they might crack. One by one, his classmates—ones he could identify from his reality, and some he couldn't—took the stand, each recounting his supposed crimes with startling detail—bullying, cruelty, aiding the Carrows, using Unforgivable Curses.

The words slammed into him like hexes, each more damning than the last. His chest tightened with every testimony, fury and disbelief swirling in equal measure.

The weight of their accusations pressed down on him, suffocating. Each word painted a picture of someone he didn’t recognize—someone he could never imagine being. But no matter how hard he tried to explain, they didn’t care.

They weren’t accusing him . They were accusing the version of himself that belonged here. A version he couldn’t defend, couldn’t disprove, and couldn’t escape.

Draco sat motionless, staring blankly ahead as the younger students took the stand. At first, their hesitant voices barely registered in his overwhelmed mind. But as their testimonies began to unfold, the weight of their words slowly sank in.  

"He... he made us scream," a boy stammered, his wide eyes darting nervously toward Draco. "Made us act like we were being tortured—like the Cruciatus Curse was on us—for the Carrows to see. He said it would keep us safe, that they wouldn’t bother with us if they thought we’d already been punished."  

Draco’s fingers gripped the cold metal of the chair as murmurs rippled through the courtroom. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.  

Another student—a girl this time—took the stand, her testimony echoing the same narrative.  

"He didn’t actually cast the curse on us," she said firmly, her small voice carrying through the chamber. "He just told us to pretend. To scream, to fall down... so they wouldn’t try it for real. And it worked."  

Draco’s breath caught in his throat. He barely noticed as more younger students of different blood came forward, recounting the same story. Their words blurred together in his mind: pretending, screaming, avoiding the Carrows’ wrath.

For the first time since the trial began, Draco remained silent. He didn’t lash out, didn’t interrupt, didn’t deny. He simply sat there, his jaw tightening, his complexion growing paler with each word.  

Kingsley’s voice broke through the murmurs. “Do you dispute their claims, Mr. Malfoy?”  

Draco opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His mind reeled. His counterpart—the version of him from this twisted reality—had done this? Protected the younger students in such a ridiculous, reckless way? 

Stupid but effective, he thought bitterly, though a flicker of reluctant admiration stirred deep within him.  

He exhaled sharply and let out a cold chuckle, bitterness twisting his expression. Before he could think better of it, the words were out of his mouth.  

"Ah, so you're finally listening to me. That’s a change," he sneered, his tone cutting through the silence. "If I were the person you think I am, I’d probably say I don’t dispute it—give this poor sod a shot at redemption, maybe even a way out of this mess. But since I’m not him, haven’t the faintest idea what any of you are on about, yet somehow still stuck here being treated as him... what exactly do you want me to say?"  

The moment the words left his mouth, he mentally cursed himself. 

Idiot—Hermione’s would say—You’re an idiot, Draco. 

The courtroom was silent, his sharp, bitter response hanging heavily in the air. He leaned back in his chair, jaw set, trying to mask his frustration.  

Kingsley, to his credit, didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he turned to the witnesses. 

“And you all stand by your testimonies?”  

One by one, the younger students nodded. “Yes,” they said, their voices unwavering.  

Draco’s chest felt tight as he watched them. The unexpected revelation of his counterpart’s small act of defiance did nothing to quell his frustration. He didn’t know whether it would help his case or not, but in that moment, he didn’t care.  

The courtroom was still, the weight of the testimonies heavy in the air. Even Potter, Weasley, and Granger exchanged brief, uncertain glances. Draco’s bitterness had left its mark on the room, but as always, the trial pressed on, his words dismissed like echoes in the vast chamber.   

Draco leaned back in his chair, his hands gripping the cold metal of the armrests. The trial had dragged on for hours, the testimonies blurring together in his mind. 

He had heard so many accusations, so many voices condemning him—no, condemning the version of him that belonged to this twisted reality. He was exhausted, mentally and emotionally drained. Each new testimony felt like a weight on his chest, and he couldn’t muster the energy to defend himself anymore. 

Then Luna Lovegood was called to the stand. 

Draco didn’t even lift his gaze at first, too tired to engage. He had seen her around school back in his reality, but they had never spoken. Her presence was always...odd, in a way, though not in a bad sense. More like she existed in a different world, a world where the usual rules of engagement didn’t apply. But her testimony—well, he figured it would just be like the others. 

Luna’s voice, light and airy, drifted over the room. 

"I’ve known Draco Malfoy for quite some time," she began. "He was always a bit cruel, but I was never personally subjected to it. We were only ever acquainted, you see—we were cousins, after all." 

Oh, we're cousins? I didn’t know that, Draco thought absently, his mind still foggy with fatigue. He couldn't help the fleeting thought that it explained the hair, which, of course, made no sense. 

His eyes shifted slightly to the side as he thought back to the moments he had seen Luna around school. 

He remembered Hermione occasionally helping her find her shoes—barefoot, as always. Luna seemed to wander Hogwarts as though she was in a constant state of daydream, completely unbothered by the usual social norms. 

But Luna’s words continued, breaking through his wandering thoughts. She spoke with such an unsettling calm, recounting the same things others had said before. Draco barely registered the content as she continued on, her tone unhurried and detached. It was all blending into one long, monotonous stream of accusations.  

"…He was certainly unpleasant, like many of the others in our year," Luna was saying. "But as I said, it never affected me directly.”  

Draco’s lips twitched slightly at that, his mind caught on the word ‘unpleasant’. That was putting it mildly. But what did it matter anymore? The trial felt like it was going nowhere, and he was too tired to care.  

The prosecutor then asked Luna about her own experience as a prisoner at Malfoy Manor, and Luna answered as coolly as ever, acknowledging the cruelty she had endured but also stating that Draco wasn’t the one who imprisoned her. It was all the same—it was like listening to an endless cycle of the same arguments, just with different faces.

But then, Luna said something that caught his attention, something that stopped him in his tracks.  

“But this Draco Malfoy isn't.”  

Draco blinked. His head, which had been swimming in exhaustion, suddenly cleared. 

This Draco Malfoy isn't? His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, he forgot about the trial, about the accusations, about everything. He stared at Luna, his mind racing. 

He had always thought Luna was weird. Not in a bad way, but in a fond, bemused way. She had a certain oddness about her that made it difficult to really classify her. But now, she was looking at him with those pale blue eyes, her expression unchanging, but her words—a simple statement—had made his pulse quicken.  

The disbelief in his chest mixed with something else, something that might have been hope. But hope for what? Was this some sort of sign? That someone has finally see through the truth?  

The room around him seemed to fade for a moment as he tried to gather his thoughts. 

Luna continued her testimony, unfazed by his scrutiny, her voice gentle but firm. It was as if she were speaking from a place far beyond the walls of the courtroom. Draco’s heart still raced, but he didn't speak. He just sat there, staring at her, a quiet storm of confusion and hope swirling inside him.  

His mind flashed to Hermione—his Hermione, the one he’d left behind in his reality. 

Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance. 

But before he could gather his thoughts, Luna’s testimony ended, and the room fell silent again. The weight of the trial’s progression loomed heavy over him once more. He was still trapped in this nightmare.

The brief recess following Luna’s testimony gave Draco a moment to gather his thoughts, though his mind was far from calm. 

The proceedings were taking a toll on him, but he couldn’t afford to lose focus. He needed to figure out how to get out of this, how to make them believe him, or perhaps he could make them think he was crazy enough to send him back to St. Mungo’s—where he could find another way out of this twisted reality.  

Hermione’s voice once again echoed in his mind, sharp and sarcastic: Your ability to irritate people into giving you what you want might actually be a gift, Malfoy.  

He smirked faintly at the memory despite the fragility of his current situation—she wasn’t wrong.  

She was right, in her own way. He had always known how to get under people’s skin, how to annoy them just enough to make them bend to his will. 

His stubbornness had started early, back in their earlier years at Hogwarts. It hadn’t been deliberate, at least not at first. 

He recalled how, back in their first year, he’d made it his mission to attend classes with Gryffindors even when he didn’t have to.

He hadn’t declared his intentions, hadn’t announced anything to the professors. He simply went where Hermione went.  

The class schedules for first years were arranged so that different houses often shared lessons which also applied to the upper years. It's just how classes in Hogwarts work, to have the houses intermingled with each other and somewhat promote inter-house unity—something that is done poorly in Draco's opinion.

Potions had always been a shared class for first year Gryffindors and Slytherins, which suited him just fine. 

But Transfiguration? That was supposed to be a shared class between Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, but he showed up anyway—much to the dismay and confusion of everyone where in a sea of red and blue, a lone green sat there, completely unbothered by the questioning looks of the Ravenclaws and glares of the Gryffindors—and afterwards ignoring the scandalized whispers of the Slytherins who has heard of the Malfoy heir’s antics which later became a subject of gossip in school.

His defiance was first met with resistance of course.

McGonagall had been the first to question him, her voice as sharp as her gaze.  

“Mr. Malfoy, this is not your assigned class. Return to your proper schedule immediately.”  

He had responded with an innocently raised brow and the ever-so-slightest smirk. “But I’m attending a class, Professor. Isn’t that the point?”  

He was grabbed and dragged out of the classroom by the ear after that.

The first few times, McGonagall had marched him back herself to his proper classes with the Slytherins and whatever house is paired with them in the class. But by the eight week of the term, she’d stopped trying to fight him. She simply sighed heavily and adjusted the seating chart, though her eyes always narrowed every time she saw him sat next to Hermione.  

Other Professors—similar to what McGonagall did—had tried to force him to stick to his assigned schedule. But he of course, in his true I-Am-Draco-Malfoy fashion—simply ignored them.

Snape, of course, had been livid. 

Draco could still recall the sharp tone of his godfather’s voice when he first heard about the situation. “What exactly do you think you’re playing at, Draco?”  

But by the end of the year, even Snape seemed resigned.

By the time they reached their second year, the professors realized it was easier to just let him do what he wanted. 

Draco could even tell that Snape had secretly adjusted his potions class schedules so that Slytherins and Gryffindors shared more classes together in the coming years, likely to avoid the same fate as his colleagues who are full of complaints about the Malfoy heir’s stubborn defiance—but was unable to do anything as they can't fail him when he's performing exceptionally well in his classes despite of the disruption he's causing by not following his appointed class schedule.

But now, sitting in this courtroom, Draco’s mind snapped back to the present. This wasn’t Hogwarts. These weren’t the professors he could annoy into compliance. These were adults who didn’t have the patience for his games. They wouldn’t bend so easily, and his usual tactics wouldn’t work here.  

With a resigned sigh, he straightened up in his chair, mentally preparing for the upcoming testimonies. He needed a proper plan. If he was going to get out of this mess, he couldn’t rely on the tricks that had worked for him in the past. It was time to play a new game—and this time, the stakes were much higher.

The trial continued.

Harry Potter stepped forward first.

Draco observed him with muted curiosity, noting the way Potter carried himself. 

There was something weighty about this version of him—this Potter had seen things, done things that the Potter he know never had. 

His reality’s Potter had lived a charmed life of rule-breaking adventures, quidditch matches, and youthful triumphs. 

This Potter looked... older. Worn.

When Potter began speaking, Draco listened with detached interest. 

It was his counterpart’s wand that was used to defeat the dark lord? That was certainly unexpected.

But as soon as that was said, a sharp voice cut through the air, cutting off the so-called Chosen One from his testimony.

“Objection!” A stern-faced witch leaned forward, her tone clipped and authoritative. “The wand was obtained through disarming Mr. Malfoy, not through any act of voluntary assistance. That cannot be considered relevant to his defense.”

Of course.

And here he was almost believing that there might be more redeemable qualities to this version of himself in this reality.

Draco’s lips twitched into a faint, almost bitter smirk.

“Really, Potter?” he thought. “Do you honestly believe that’ll help?”

Potter’s defense, though impassioned, lacked weight. That counterpart of his had been disarmed. The wand wasn’t given willingly. And yet here Potter stood, trying to spin it as some act of aid

He almost snorted. 

This Potter—either from this reality or his—will always have the tendency to make themselves look gullible. It's simply—and unfortunately—unavoidable.

It was almost laughable if only it wouldn't affect Draco's chances of pleading his case about them having the wrong man in trial.

The argument had already been weakened, the defense crumbling in the face of an irrefutable fact—the wand wasn’t given willingly. It was taken in a duel. A fact that no one could ignore.

Potter, of course, bristled, but even he had to relent,  clearly seeing the holes in his own defense.

Then it was Weasley’s turn.

The tall redhead was called next as Hermione gently guided the fuming Potter back to his seat.

He strode to the stand, his expression stormy, and immediately launched into recounting years of torment, as well as the poisoned mead which finally came up as Draco wasn't aware of who had been the victim of it, having only heard it from the aurors and later at the accusations to his counterpart.

As Draco quietly listened, he was surprised to say that he was, well—surprised by the bluntness of the redhead’s testimony. It wasn’t just the accusations—Draco was used to those—but the fact that Weasley actually mentioned how his counterpart had hesitated, giving them enough time to complete their mission that would end the war and defeat Voldemort. 

He didn’t expect that, and though the argument was weak at best, it was better than anything Potter had come up with. 

Draco couldn't help but think that this Weasley from this reality is surprisingly, somewhat mature. 

It was different from the Weasley he knew, the one who had spent his time snarking and making reckless decisions. 

War had a way of making people grow up, didn’t it? 

Unlike in his own reality, where Potter and Weasley had their treasured school days, filled with memories of trivial conflicts and the drama of growing up. The boys from this world—these versions of Potter and Weasley—looked like they had aged decades, as if the war had stolen those youthful years from them.

It was a sobering thought, and Draco could hardly deny that he felt something—he wouldn’t call it sympathy, but it was certainly a kind of understanding for what they had all gone through.

Then it was this reality's Hermione's turn.

As she strolled with her head held high to the stand, Draco's mind wandered briefly. 

He couldn’t help but think of his Hermione once again like she's all he could think about—the one he knew, the one he had left behind in his reality. 

Her words were always sharp, never letting me get away with anything, Draco mused. 

He remembered how she’d constantly called him out, whether it was for teasing her about something trivial or for doing something too rash. But there was something deeper in those moments, something he had come to cherish. 

But before he could linger too long, Hermione began her testimony.

Listening to her, he realized that he'd been right with the conclusion he had long since came up with when the realization that he's in a different reality finally settled down.

That the Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger of this reality didn't have the best relationship—and that's putting it lightly.

When she began to talk about the upbringing of this reality’s Draco Malfoy, Draco almost rolled his eyes. 

The same old pureblood ideals, the same old beliefs. He had grown up with that. The very same.

It had been all he knew, drilled into him from birth. But unlike this version of him, Draco had been quick to recognize the flaws in those teachings.

And all it took was her—with her bushy, wild hair and buck teeth, and her unending thirst for knowledge. 

He had been surrounded by magic his whole life, yet this girl—this Muggle-born who was someone who had only just learned of the magical world—was more brilliant than any pureblood he had ever known. It was her brilliance that had forced him to reconsider everything. 

He remembered how he—despite all his prejudice—had found himself intrigued with her and wanting to extend friendship. 

She had been wary at first, understandably so, given all the things she’d probably heard about him and his family—as well as the reputation of the Slytherins that the other houses had clearly painted them as. 

Not only that, but she was also used to being made fun of in the Muggle world, and automatically came to the conclusion that he—a pureblood—might be pulling a prank on her—a muggleborn—who is considered and seen as filth by his blood.

But he proved her wrong.

It had taken a while for her to trust him, to see past his family’s influence, but eventually, they had found themselves naturally gravitating toward each other, and their friendship had blossomed from there.

“And what of his history of bullying?” The prosecutor asked, gaining Draco's attention back once again.

Hermione inclined her head.

“His bullying, while cruel and unacceptable, was predominantly verbal. Words can hurt, but they are not the same as actions. Throughout our years at Hogwarts, I can’t recall a single instance where he voluntarily inflicted physical harm on someone.”

Sweet Merlin, he even bullied her, he thought bitterly, thinking of this version of him who has done it.

Supposedly, he shouldn't be surprised anymore, given with all the testimonies earlier by those who have experienced this Draco's cruelty first-hand.

But hearing about it from this version of Hermione just makes it more glaringly obvious of how different he is from him.

He'd never do that to her. Never.

Probably the only things he has done to her that is somewhat close to what others would deem as “bullying” is when he’d stolen her snacks during their study sessions–which he’ll later replace with her favorite mini cakes sent by his mother, or the times when he’d stand on his tiptoes, holding a book just out of her reach just to watch her try to get it back—knowing full well she’d knee him for it. And maybe when he’d played with her hair when it was particularly unruly, pretending it was a mustache or some ridiculous character whilst she roll her eyes at him and smack him with a book or her hand—and sometimes when she was in a particularly grumpy mood, he’d tease her by holding Crookshanks up and making faces with the cat, mimicking her irritation until she stomped away with the cat in her arms—not before catching him off guard and sending a flock of transfigured birds after him with the sole intention of ruining his hair—then him leaving it as it is because he knows how much she loves running her hands into his pale locks—particularly when they're messed up.

But he had never teased her because of her blood status, never in that way. 

No, their teasing was always in good fun, filled with something playful that helped the growing bond between them.

They were moments of warmth, of lightness. 

That is the Hermione he knows, Draco thought with a pang of longing. The Hermione who had made him see what was wrong with the world he’d been born into, the Hermione who had made him realize that change was possible.

But now, in this courtroom, facing accusations for the actions of a different version of himself, Draco has never felt more disconnected. 

He was stuck in this trial, with no way out.

As he listened to Hermione finish her testimony, Draco felt a sense of weariness settle over him. Despite her words, her defense, he could already tell what the outcome of this trial would be.

Draco’s heart pounded as Kingsley’s words rang through the courtroom. 

“Mr. Malfoy, you have the floor. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

He scoffed under his breath. 

Does he have anything to say? Oh, he has plenty to say.

His frustration once again bubbled to the surface. 

“Do I have anything to say? Of course, I do. I don’t even know what I’m doing here! I’ve said it already, and I’ll say it again: I didn’t do any of it. You’re accusing me of things I don’t even remember, things that make no sense. It’s not me!”  

The courtroom erupted into whispers, the sound grating on his nerves. A member of the Wizengamot leaned forward, his expression unreadable. 

“So you’re denying your involvement in these acts? The testimonies, the claims—are you refuting them?”  

“Yes!” Draco’s voice grew louder, his tone sharp and defiant. “And do you know why? Because that’s not me!”  

The whispers turned into murmurs, but the questioning continued. Another Wizengamot member asked, their tone almost mocking, “And what exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Malfoy? If it wasn’t you, then who was it?”  

Draco thrashed against his chair’s magical bindings, the metal biting into his wrists as he struggled. 

His jaw clenched as he repeated, “I don’t know who you think I am, but I am not this person you’re describing! The one you’re talking about—this cruel, calculating Death Eater—that’s not me!”  

His words were met with blank stares and murmured skepticism. The prosecutors and Wizengamot members pressed on, each question sharper than the last.  

“What about the tormenting of students? Your role during the war? The testimonies that place you at the heart of these events?”  

“That’s not me!” Draco spat, his voice cracking as his desperation grew. Each repetition became louder, more frantic, but he could feel the words losing their impact. 

The chamber wasn’t listening. They were watching him flail, and it felt like a sick game—letting him shout his innocence, only to dismiss it entirely.  

He gritted his teeth, his throat dry from the constant denials. His breaths came faster, uneven and strained, as the next question cut through the air.  

“If you claim you are innocent, Mr. Malfoy, explain how you came to be involved in all of this. Why are there witnesses who saw you? Why do so many believe you are responsible?”  

Draco’s hands gripped the edges of the chair, his knuckles turning white as he struggled to compose himself. He scanned the room, his gaze darting between the faces that surrounded him. 

His chest heaved as he replied, “I can’t explain it, alright? I don’t know! All I know is—that’s not me!”  

The words tore out of him, raw and desperate. His agitation spiked, his voice rising as he lashed out again. 

“I don’t even remember half the things you’re saying! And the things I do remember—I would never—never—do those things! You’re wrong about me! You’re all wrong!”  

The enchanted chains around his wrists and ankles shimmered as he twisted against them, his movements erratic. They extended up to his torso, wrapping tightly around him and forcing him back into the chair. The pressure was suffocating, but Draco barely noticed, his fury and frustration drowning out the discomfort.  

One of the prosecutors leaned forward, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. 

“If that’s not you, Mr. Malfoy, then who are you?”  

Draco froze. The question echoed in his mind. For a moment, the courtroom faded, and his mind raced. 

This is it. This is his chance. If they won’t believe him, maybe they’ll at least listen to reason. 

“I am Lord Draco Lucius Malfoy! Lord of the Malfoy estate, and I demand an audience with an Unspeakable from the Department of Mysteries!”

The room fell silent, his words hanging in the air like a challenge. He knew he had to tread carefully. The Department of Mysteries might be his only chance to prove the truth—at least part of it. If anyone could understand what had happened, it would be them.

But as the silence stretched on, Draco’s pulse quickened. He waited, his gaze defiant, daring them to ignore him.

Draco’s defiance was short-lived as the court moved to dismiss his claim as a sharp voice of one of the Wizengamot members cut through the room.

“Mr. Malfoy, this trial is no place for such theatrics. You will answer the charges properly or face further consequences.”  

His heart thudded painfully against his ribcage. Theatrics? They think this is still theatrics? Panic began to set in, clawing at the edges of his mind.  

“This isn’t theatrics!” he shouted, his voice rising. “You’ve got the wrong man! I am not who you think I am! I am not him!”  

The courtroom erupted in murmurs of disbelief, the reactions a mixture of exasperation and derision. Some Wizengamot members shook their heads, while others leaned in to whisper to their colleagues. The Golden Trio sat silently, their earlier testimonies now overshadowed by Draco’s spiraling outbursts.  

Kingsley’s voice cut through the noise like a blade. “Enough, Mr. Malfoy. You will control yourself, or we will silence you by force.”  

But Draco couldn’t stop. He didn’t know how to. Every instinct in his body screamed for him to fight, to plead, to make them listen. 

His voice cracked as he repeated, louder and more desperate, “Let me go! You’re making a mistake! I am not him!”  

The chains tightened against him, reacting to his movements as he thrashed in his chair. His cries of “I’m not him!” echoed through the chamber, a haunting refrain that left the room tense and uneasy.  

They can’t send him to Azkaban. They can’t.

The weight of what that would mean hit him with full force. If he was sent to Azkaban, it wouldn’t just be imprisonment—it would be the end of any chance he had to fix this. To go home.  

But what could he say? What should he say? If he revealed too much, he risked chaos—chaos this world couldn’t handle. Draco didn’t know how much this reality’s wizarding world knew about the Department of Mysteries’ research into other dimensions—if they were even allowed to be aware of it at all because it has been the same with his reality. They're also kept in the dark with what's happening in the walls of that mysterious department.

The witnesses, the journalists, the buzzing courtroom… A single slip could lead to something disastrous. The idea of people here knowing about the possibility of other realities made his stomach churn. But even worse was the thought that, if he were sent to Azkaban, it would be for someone else’s crimes.  

The panic tightened its grip on him. His mind raced to what Kingsley was about to do.  

And then came the other thought—the thought that chilled him to his very core: If he's here in this Draco Malfoy’s place, where is he?

He's been too busy and preoccupied with thinking of a way out to get back to his reality that he didn't actually stop to even consider that.

What if this Draco Malfoy was in his reality? What if he was walking around in his body?  

The accusations and testimonies replayed in his mind like a nightmare: cruelty, Death Eater allegiance, tormenting students… 

What if he ruins everything he's built?

The memories of his own reality surged forward: his friendships, the carefully cultivated respect he’d earned, his relationship with Hermione. His Hermione.  

What if he ruins it all?

The thought of his counterpart speaking to her, manipulating her, doing something to her—it was unbearable.  

What if he does something to her?

His stomach twisted painfully.  

And then came the darkest thought of all: What if he reignites the soul of Voldemort?

That hadn’t happened in his reality—it had been avoided entirely. But this Draco Malfoy, with his recklessness and twisted morality, could undo everything.  

His thrashing grew wilder as Kingsley raised his hand, silencing the courtroom with a commanding gesture. The air was heavy, and Draco’s breath came in harsh gasps.  

“After reviewing the testimonies, evidence, and accounts presented during this trial,” Kingsley began, his voice calm but unyielding, “the Wizengamot finds Draco Lucius Malfoy—”  

“No!” Draco shouted, his voice raw and desperate. “You can’t do this! This isn’t right! I didn’t do anything! You’re all making a mistake!”

He pulled against the chains, his body straining against the magical bindings that held him down.

But his protests were drowned out by Kingsley’s voice as he continued, unfazed. The verdict loomed, and Draco’s mind screamed. 

I have to go back! I can’t stay here! They can’t send me to Azkaban!

The murmurs of the Wizengamot and the spectators around him grew louder, mixing pity with judgment. Draco barely registered Narcissa’s frantic voice slicing through the din.

“Draco, stop! Please, listen to them! Stay calm!”

Lucius, seated stiffly beside her, looked pale and gaunt, his voice sharp and commanding.

“Draco! For Merlin’s sake, compose yourself!”

Draco ignored them both. His fear, his anger, his frustration—they all boiled over into frantic shouts that echoed off the courtroom’s high walls.

"I didn’t do this! I swear to Merlin, you’re condemning the wrong man!" His voice grew louder, each word more desperate than the last.

The chains tightened further, reacting to his defiance. The cold metal slithered up his torso, holding him firmly against the chair as he thrashed. It felt suffocating, like the very room was closing in on him.

Kingsley raised his hand, his expression steely. "Silence in the court!"

But Draco couldn’t stop. “You can’t send me to Azkaban! I didn’t do this! I swear on my life, it’s not me! I’m not who you think I am!” His voice cracked, tears stinging his eyes, though he refused to let them fall.

The murmurs intensified, whispers growing sharper as the courtroom collectively questioned his sanity. 

He’s gone mad. Just like the rest of the Blacks.

Kingsley’s voice cut through the chaos. “—to five years in Azkaban, with a review of his mental state to determine suitability for release after the completion of his term—”

“No!” Draco screamed, his voice hoarse, his body straining so violently against the chains that it felt like his skin might tear. “No! I am innocent! You’re condemning me for something I didn’t do!”

The Aurors advanced, wands at the ready, prepared to subdue him. Their movement only fueled Draco’s panic. He couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t let them win.

The words spilled out before he could think. His desperation outweighed his caution, but he knew it was his only hope. 

“I demand to be granted an audience with an Unspeakable! A bloody Unspeakable from the Department of Mysteries!" he shouted, his voice reverberating throughout the courtroom. "This is all wrong, all of it! You have no idea what’s going on here!" 

“Draco, please! Stop this madness!” Narcissa cried again, her voice thick with desperation.

Draco barely heard her over the roaring in his head. His chest heaved as his gaze darted frantically around the room, searching for an escape, a miracle—anything. His mind flashed to his Hermione, her face vivid in his thoughts. 

What if I never see her again? What if that bastard ruins everything?

“You can’t just leave me here like this!” he shouted, his voice a ragged edge. “I have the right to speak to someone who understands what’s happening to me! Someone who knows the truth!”

The murmurs reached a fever pitch, disbelief and derision thick in the air. Draco could feel their judgment pressing down on him, suffocating him. He looked around wildly, trying to make someone, anyone, understand.

“An Unspeakable, do you hear me?! Someone who knows the truth!” His voice cracked again, trembling as he fought back tears of rage and helplessness.

Kingsley, unmoved, raised the gavel, his face like stone. The courtroom stilled, the murmurs fading into an eerie silence.

Draco’s breath hitched as he watched the gavel rise, time slowing to an agonizing crawl. It was the final blow, the end of the line. He could see it now: Azkaban, the torment, the crushing weight of a life stolen from him.

But even as despair clawed at his throat, he couldn’t let go of the thought of his Hermione. Her smile. Her laugh. The way she’d always told him he was stronger than he realized, even when he doubted himself.

He couldn’t give up. Not yet. Not ever.

As the gavel began its descent, Draco’s thoughts burned with a single, desperate truth: I have to find a way back.

“Stop this at once!”

The voice rang out, clear and commanding, slicing through the chaos like a blade.

The gavel in Kingsley’s hand wrenched itself free, flying through the air before clattering to the stone floor with a deafening echo.

Draco froze, his frantic thrashing ceased as if the very air had frozen him in place. He knew that voice—recognized it instantly—it was hers. But there was something different about it, something sharper, heavier with authority, and it sent a shiver down his spine. 

This wasn’t the voice he had been hearing from this reality’s Hermione. This was her.

The overwhelming presence followed, a palpable wave of magic that seemed to ripple through the air as she stepped into the chamber. It was as though the atmosphere shifted to accommodate her, bending to the sheer force of her will. Draco’s eyes darted toward the source, his pulse quickening.

He didn’t need to see her. He could feel her presence—overwhelming, suffocating in its power surrounding him in its familiar warmth. It was like she breathed magic itself, her aura crackling like static in the charged air.

She was still cloaked in shadow, her features obscured, but he knew. Of course, he knew.

It’s her.

Even as every Auror near Draco jerked back, their wands snapping from their grips as though pulled by an invisible force and clattering to the ground—as well as Kingsley’s sharp commands echoing through the room, Draco barely registered it. His gaze was fixed on her as if the rest of the chamber had vanished. His heart raced, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.

The collective gasp that rippled through the room as she came into view fell deaf in his ears.

To him, he only saw her.

As she finally stepped into the light, the differences between her and this reality’s Hermione struck him like a physical blow. 

Her golden skin glowed with a vitality that stood in sharp contrast to the pale, bruised complexion of her counterpart in this world. Her eyes sparked with a brilliance that carried a kind of power, an untamed force, that seemed to see through everything and everyone in the chamber.

Her chocolate, glossy hair was swept up in simple but elegant French twist, every strand perfectly in place. Her crimson robes were rich and finely tailored. They were far removed from the muted, worn attire of this reality’s Hermione. 

Her robes flowed like liquid fire, their embroidery intricate and unmistakably unique. These weren’t just robes—they were armor, the kind that radiated confidence and control that exuded from every step she took. 

And then there were the details that struck him: the sharp black heels clicking against the stone floor, unmistakably the ones his mother had gifted her in his reality; the soft, unscarred hands with their neatly manicured nails, painted in her favorite deep burgundy—save for the lone neon green on her right pointer finger.

Draco swallowed hard, his throat dry as memories washed over him. He had painted that nail as a joke three weeks ago when he's still back in his own reality, living his best life and blissfully unaware about the existence of this twisted one. She had laughed, rolling her eyes, but left it that way. And now, here she was, wearing it still.

How…?

His mind raced with questions. How had she found him? How had she gotten here? Was this real? Or was he finally losing his grip on reality?

He couldn’t look away, couldn’t think of anything else but her as she moved toward him with unyielding purpose. For the first time since this nightmare began, he felt something close to calm wash over him.

She stopped directly in front of him, her back to him, standing tall and poised. Her head was high, her focus locked on the Wizengamot.

The room was silent, stunned. He could feel the weight of their collective disbelief, could see their shocked expressions in his periphery.

But all he could do was stare at her, in awe, as she spoke.

“Witness for the defense, Hermione Jean Granger.”

Merlin, he loves this woman.