Chapter 3
Hermione’s last three days have been hell. She had single-handedly introduced an emergency appeal for Draco’s case, arguing that his precarious health condition called for urgent action. Which was true. Hermione was convinced he wouldn’t have made it for more than a week there, with his breath fading and fever increasing.
Before, she had already filed a case for re-evaluation of Malfoy’s case. However, Death Eaters were on the lowest rank of priority for the Wizengamot. But seeing Malfoy laying almost lifeless in his cell had let her sprung to action, not willing to have his death on her hands. He didn’t deserve to die. Hell, she wasn’t even sure if he deserved to be in Azkaban.
Getting the case heard had been hard and involved Hermione standing knocking at the door of Head Judge Ms. Gules at 10 pm. But somehow, she had convinced the elderly woman to go back to her desk to approve the appeal instead of going to her nephew’s birthday gala. It had certainly been one of the hardest debates she had in her career and Ms. Gules had certainly not been happy about it.
But Hermione knew she couldn’t have forgiven herself if Draco had died that night.
After that, getting the guards to let Draco go and transporting him home had taken another huge chunk of her energy and certainly a whole lot of patience from her. But when the blond man finally lay in the bed in Hermione’s guest room, she could have cried of joy. However, the work was not over.
She had called Luna who had become a healer and together they treated his many wounds, the infected angry red slashes on his chest, the bones in his leg and arm that hadn’t grown together properly and the small cuts, some inflamed, some purulent. Afterwards she instructed Dobby (who had insisted to be her house elf after feeling lonely in Hogwarts) to take care of Draco and, drained from exhaustion, she fell into her bed for a long sleep.
But when she awoke and made her way to the guest bedroom, Draco was gone.
Draco awoke from his slumber which aching bones and a slight fever. After opening his eyes and staring confused at the pristine white ceiling for a couple of minutes, he remembered his situation. He was finally free. And currently in Hermione Granger’s guest bedroom.
Never in a million years he would have believed he’d end up in Hermione Granger’s guest bedroom.
Looking down at his body covered in soft, white blankets it almost felt unreal. He hadn’t had anything remotely resembling a blanket for ages. And certainly not such a clean one. But he remembered his broken body underneath. It is too dirty and bruised from his time in Azkaban and as a Death Eater. If he wasn’t careful, he would stain the white sheets with his blood.
No matter how comfortable his new bed was, he knew couldn’t stay. He felt like a burden already. How Granger had managed to free him was nothing short of a miracle. But if anyone was capable of such a thing, it was her. She had a good heart and he refused to take advantage of it like others must surely do.
Draco took a few deep breaths to figure out the worst of his wounds. There was a stinging pain in his ribcage. He peeked underneath the blanket and found his torso wrapped up in bandages. That should hold for some time.
Slowly, he tried moving his legs to stand up. His limbs felt heavy but he was used to this. But as he rose to stand up, his vision darkened and he had to lean on his bed again. The sting in his chest had intensified and his lungs ached.
A few moments later, he had gathered himself again. This was when an owl bringing a letter knocked at the window. The recognized the seal instantly. A letter from the Ministry.
He suddenly felt his guts turn. What would they want from him now? He wouldn’t go back to Azkaban. Before they would come to get him, he’d … Well, he’d rather not think about that now.
However, as he opened the letter, he calmed down a bit. It were parole instructions. The Ministry provided Draco with a one-room flat in Knockturn Alley and he had to meet his parole officer once a month.
At least now, he knew where to go to not longer bother Granger.
The flat was a dump. Not that he was surprised. After navigating his way through London for hours while trying to ignore the pain in his chest, he had finally reached his new place to stay. The walls were more yellow from discoloration than white, and he had only the bare essential furniture. He had to bend down his head to get through the door and the bed was too short for his legs. It was cold and dungy and smelled of mold, but Draco wouldn’t complain. He just made his way to the mattress on the floor and drifted off again.
The first few days were hard. Apart from the constant pain he was still in, the itching of his healing wounds and the ache in his chest, the flat was cold as ice.
Meeting with his parole officer he had quickly figured out that the only reason he had gotten the flat on the first place had been a sneaky clause in Hermione’s appeal where the Ministry had to provide him help for his reintegration. Whatever that meant.
Mostly ‘reintegration’ resulted him in having weekly appointment with his stern case worker whom he had to convince he wasn’t planning a dark conspiracy or uprising of the Death Eaters. And who recorded every move he made with a magical signature. And who questioned him ceaselessly about, well, everything he ever did.
They all wanted him to find a job, but of course nobody would hire an ex-Death Eater. Going to ask for a job had proven to be a dangerous task for him, since he was insulted, being spit on, beaten and hexed. Still, that weren’t valis excuses for the Ministry and so he spend his days trying to figure out which store or company would react less violently when he came.
Fortunately, Hermione nor anyone else had seen his flat and he willed it to stay that way. It was bad enough that she had seen him in the puny state he was in and the shabby clothes he had to wear, but at least she wouldn’t have to see his miserable flat.
He expected now that he was free, she would find her job was done and leave him alone.