A/N: Sequel to Weight of the World, but makes sense as a stand-alone.

"Ten inches, hawthorn and unicorn hair, in use for—" the security witch at the Ministry of Magic front desk glanced back at the small strip of parchment before her, "—twenty years. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," the witch said brusquely, passing back the wand. "If you'd please step to the left—"

Two security guards were approaching from the left, holding long, flexible golden rods. Draco glanced back at the other two guards who had just swept him with similar probes before he had presented his wand at the desk.

"But we've just—"

"To the left, please," the witch said coolly. She gave him a very narrow stare. Draco sighed and led his five-year-old son out of the way of the stream of visitors queueing before the desk.

"Name?" the taller of the two guards asked him shortly.

"Draco Malfoy."

"What is the purpose of your visit?"

That was a good question. Draco had yet to entirely define for himself what it was that he intended to do here.

"I'm visiting the Department of Magical Law and Regulation."

"For what reason?"

The shorter of the two guards had begun to sweep his probe up and down a few inches from Draco's back.

"I'm making an inquiry."

The taller guard stared at him suspiciously as the other guard moved to sweeping his probe over Draco's front. Draco hoped he wouldn't be questioned any further on the matter, because he didn't have much more of a plan than he'd already explained.

"Wand," the tall guard said.

"I've just—"

"Wand."

Draco handed over the wand; the guard inspected it closely and even ran his probe over it. As he handed it back, the other guard swept his probe over Scorpius.

"Oh, really—"

The taller guard looked distrustfully at him, and Draco fell silent. A moment later, the shorter guard straightened up and nodded. Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Go on, then," the guard said, and Draco crossed the large atrium towards the lifts with Scorpius holding his hand tightly and looking around in amazement at the glittering black marble and gold trim. By the lifts, Draco stopped to read a sign of floor labels.

Level 8, the sign said halfway down, Department of Magical Law and Regulation, Magical Unionization and Workforce Administration, and Wizarding Legal Record-Keeping Library. Scorpius ran his fingers over the engraved letters on the bottom line of the sign and tried to sound out the word Mysteries.

"Department of Mysteries," Draco told him, leading Scorpius toward the nearest lift. "That's where the Ministry keeps things that are secret."

"What things?"

"I don't know," Draco said. "I've never been there."

The eighth level of the Ministry was bustling with activity. There was no front desk, and the entire floor seemed to consist of an enormous, disorganized mess of cubicles arranged only very loosely into blocks. Draco was nearly run over by a small wizard balancing an enormous pile of parchment on one arm while gesticulating wildly with the other to a witch hurrying beside him.

"—I was telling Brockford that the other day, but he will insist on using the 2005 Edition—I told him it's years out of date—"

"Move over, now," a witch cried impatiently, levitating a large cardboard box past at head-height. A flock of purple paper cranes swarmed out of a lift beside the one Draco had just emerged from and scattered across the room towards the recipients of their memos. At least a dozen of them landed on a single desk, prompting a small avalanche of parchment and an aggrieved cry of "Really now—just got that sorted—"

Draco looked around for some sign of what he was looking for, and saw a blue sign hanging from the ceiling over a small clump of desks, reading "Department of Magical Law and Regulation." Careful to avoid the nearby cascade of parchment, which had now spread itself across the aisle between clumps of cubicles despite its owner's frantic efforts to regain control over the wayward paperwork, Draco crossed the room towards the sign.

"Excuse me," he said to a beleaguered-looking wizard at the first cubicle which seemed definitely to belong to the sign.

"If you're here to report a fraudulent cauldron sale, we can't help you!" the wizard cried in a harassed tone, without looking up from his frantic scribbling on a piece of parchment. "It's your own fault if you bought one of those flimsy-bottomed imports—"

"Er—no," Draco said, taken aback, "I'm not."

"You're not?" The wizard looked up, with an expression of great relief. "Oh, thank Merlin. Ever since the regulations on cauldron bottom thickness expired, we've had nothing but complaints—not even our department—"

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Draco, unsure of what he was meant to do with the information.

"If people will insist upon buying these cheap—flimsy-bottomed—"

"I'm sure it's very inconvenient," Draco said, "but I'm here with an inquiry—"

"Not about cauldrons?" the wizard asked anxiously.

"No. I'd like to know about Wizarding law relating to Squibs."

"Oh!" the wizard looked very surprised, then doubtful. "Squibs, you say? Well—I'm not sure—NEBBINS!" A head popped over the edge of a nearby cubicle. It belonged to a small, slightly plump witch who appeared to have stood on her chair to be seen. "What do you know about Squibs?" the wizard called.

"Squibs?"

"In Magical law!"

The witch held up her hands in a shrug, then disappeared again behind her cubicle wall. The wizard thought for a moment, then brightened. He levered himself up onto his feet. "Say, I think I know someone who could help you…"

He led the way to the back corner of the room, which, Draco saw, was not a corner at all but the entrance to a hallway. Draco held Scorpius's hand firmly to prevent him from becoming lost in the chaotic activity of the room. The hallway was slightly quieter, but he maintained his precautionary hold on Scorpius. There was a sign on the wall that said 'Magical Unionization and Workforce Administration.' They hurried down the hall for several minutes—it seemed to grow longer as they walked along it—and finally stopped before an office door, upon which the wizard knocked once before opening. He spoke briefly with the person inside.

"You're in luck!" the wizard said, withdrawing his head to speak to Draco. "She's in—just a few minutes, mind—go on—"

He hurried back down the hall before Draco could say anything further, muttering something about "probably another ten memos—damn imported cauldrons—"

Draco tapped lightly on the cracked-open office door. "Excuse me?"

"Come in!" a female voice called, muffled through the wood. Draco pushed the door cautiously open, and to his great surprise, found himself face-to-face with an extremely startled, bushy-haired witch.

"Malfoy?"

"Granger?"

"Actually, it's Weasley now," Granger said after a moment of shocked silence. She stood up from her desk, which was piled with neat stacks of parchment, each held down with a heavy volume. Her hands were ink-spotted. Behind her, a gigantic bookshelf towered fully to the ceiling. It was a heavy, old-fashioned wooden thing, carved along the sides with elegant scrollwork.

"Right," Draco said, feeling very wrong-footed. He couldn't imagine thinking of her as anything but Granger, but on brief reflection he did recall the Daily Prophet running something on her marriage to Ronald Weasley—it must have been nearly a decade ago that he'd seen that.

"What are you doing here?" Granger asked with a combination of curiosity and wariness. In the surprise of seeing her, Draco had nearly forgotten his purpose in coming, which was admittedly nebulous anyway.

"Ah—yes. I'm looking for information," Draco told her, still feeling somewhat thrown, "about Squibs. In Magical law."

"Squibs?" Granger asked dubiously. "Why do you want to know about Squibs?"

Draco found himself instinctively bristling at the question, which was more prying than Granger probably meant it to be. "It's a personal matter of some interest to me," he said stiffly. Granger looked even more curious.

"Oh. Well…anything specific?"

"No," he said, nettled and unwilling to reveal any more. He regretted it immediately—without specifics, he could be digging through tomes of law. However, he was unwilling to backtrack. "Just—in general."

"Well, okay," Granger said doubtfully. She turned and began perusing the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf behind her. "You can come in, if you want," she said over her shoulder. Draco stepped hesitantly into the office. Scorpius, who had been waiting quietly beside him just outside the office, followed. He looked up at the bookshelf with childlike amazement.

"Accio!" Granger said, pointing her wand at one of the higher shelves. A thin paperback volume zoomed down into her hand, and she glanced briefly through the pages. "Yes—this should be about—" she turned around and nearly dropped the volume. "Why, hello."

"Hi," Scorpius said shyly, clutching Draco's sleeve. Draco placed his hand lightly on his son's head.

"This is my son, Scorpius."

"Nice to meet you, Scorpius," Granger said. Despite herself, she looked slightly charmed. "How old are you?"

"Daddy says not to talk to strangers," Scorpius said.

"It's okay," Draco said. "I know her. He's five," he added to Granger.

"Here you go," Granger said, holding out the book with a slight grin.

"Not much of it, is there?" Draco asked, taking the small volume. "May I borrow it?"

"Yes, just…get it back to me as soon as you can. I'd rather not have to run over to the library if I need it."

It had been over a decade since he had last interacted with Granger, but this did not tally at all with what Draco knew of her. "Something wrong with the library?"

"Oh—it's just a bit of a mess at the moment." Granger looked flustered. "We've been busy lately."

"Imported cauldrons?"

"Something like that. If there's nothing else—"

"No—well—thank you for the book."

"Sure." Granger sat down at the desk and picked up her quill again, and Draco left, taking Scorpius and the slim volume with him.

He'd been right: there wasn't much of it.

Draco sat at his kitchen table, rubbing his eyes tiredly. It had taken him only three hours, after putting Scorpius to bed that night, to read through the entirety of Wizarding law regarding Squibs. The law seemed to consist primary of quibbling over technicalities—whether Squibs could hold office in the Ministry, the legality of their possession of magical items, regulations on courses designed to teach magic to Squibs—which was, the volume noted sternly, impossible. It was no more possible to teach magic to a Squib than to a Muggle.

None of this provided any information he didn't already know, and there was nothing related to his primary question, of whether it was legal to alter the memories of Muggle family members of Squibs, on the grounds of upholding the Statute of Secrecy.

This really wasn't the right place to be looking, Draco decided. The complicated legal details of memory alteration would more likely be found in Wizarding law proper, not in this obscure volume which amounted to little more than a handbook on Squib-specific law.

Feeling frustrated, Draco wandered upstairs and went quietly into Scorpius's room. His son was asleep, sprawled across the bed with a reckless disregard for comfort that made Draco's back feel stiff just to look at him. Draco sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand softly over Scorpius's cool, smooth forehead.

Just under two weeks ago, there had been a time when he hadn't thought he would ever again see his son peacefully asleep in bed. Scorpius had fallen ill, and what Draco initially assumed to be a mild cold had landed the boy in St. Mungo's, fighting for his life against a disease that had baffled the Healers. Finally, in desperation, one of the Healers had enlisted the help of a Muggle physician, who had been able to identify the illness and had thereby saved Scorpius's life. Unfortunately, due to the resistance of higher-ups in the hospital to what they called the contamination of Wizarding medicine with Muggle practices, the decision had cost the Healer his job. With a piece of somewhat underhanded manipulation, Draco had ensured that Healer Finnegan got his job back; but he could not restore the memory of the Muggle physician, which had been altered on the orders of the same higher-ups within the hospital. Draco hadn't even had the chance to thank him. And the worst of it was, the memory alteration had apparently been legal, because the Muggle was the husband of a Squib, to whom it seemed the protections afforded to Muggle relatives of wizards did not apply. This had brought Draco to the question of what, exactly, were the legal protections afforded to Muggle relatives of Squibs, which the handbook downstairs had utterly failed to answer.

Draco sat in the darkness for some time, absently stroking his son's hair. He wondered what his wife, Astoria, would have thought of his small quest. She had died slightly less than a month ago, and it sometimes seemed that he could not go more than a minute without missing her presence. He had certainly missed her while Scorpius was sick. More than once, he'd been sure that without her, Scorpius didn't have a chance. Fortunately, that had turned out not to be true.

Draco ran his hand over Scorpius's head one last time, as if to reassure himself that his son was really alive and well, and left quietly for his own bed. Tomorrow, he'd have to see what books Granger had on legal code involving Muggle relatives of wizards. Hopefully, that would contain something more useful than the meagre handbook on Squib law.

But the next day, Granger wasn't in. There was no answer to his knock on the office door. Disappointed, Draco considered leaving entirely. Then, he remembered that there was another place Granger had mentioned as holding legal documents—the library. She hadn't said which library, but it seemed reasonable to start with the library on this floor of the Ministry.

With some difficulty, he located a door labelled "Wizarding Legal Record-Keeping Library." The door was unlocked, but stuck when he attempted to open it, and only with a firm shove did it creak reluctantly open. There was a loud thump, as if the door's progress had dislodged a pile of books. It probably had, Draco realized upon seeing the interior of the library.

"Wow!" Scorpius said, sounding impressed. "What a mess!"

He was right. The room was filled with tall, half-filled bookshelves crammed closely together. Stacks upon stacks of books, from giant tomes thicker than the length of Draco's wand to slim pamphlets only a few pages in length, covered the floor. Reams of loose parchment and scrolls lay about, some pushed into messy piles as if they'd been swept together with a broom. Here and there, a few tables and chairs stood heavily laden with similar burdens of papers and books. Looking at the mess, Draco could well understand Granger's reticence to visit this library; it seemed to be less a library than a discard heap for all manner of records and books.

"Hello?" Draco called. "Is there anyone here?"

He waited for a response, but none came. With another push at the stubborn door, Draco stepped inside. The door slammed behind him as soon as he released it, and a large stack of parchment slumped against his legs, freed by the closing door. Draco pushed it aside, causing it to topple in the other direction; the resulting spray of papers added relatively little mess to the already-chaotic room.

"Well," Draco said to Scorpius, "how about a treasure hunt?"

"Malfoy?" someone said, dragging Draco from his engrossment in a foot-thick legal book, "what are you doing here?"

Draco looked up with a start to see Granger standing in the door of the library. She looked tired and rather irritated.

"You're not supposed to be in here after hours."

"After hours?" Draco asked in surprise.

"Yes, it's half past five—how long have you been here?"

"Since noon," Draco said, genuinely amazed at how thoroughly he'd lost track of time. He'd had to clear a path through the mess of books and papers just to get through the shelves, and after an hour or two of searching with Scorpius, he'd found a few promising tomes. Scorpius had worn himself out with digging through heavy piles of books and had fallen asleep on a few chairs that Draco cleared off and pushed together for him; and Draco himself had emptied a table and spent the last several hours poring through Wizarding law.

"What are you doing?" Granger asked again, suspicious.

"I'm reading Wizarding law," Draco said drily. "Why, is there a law against that? If there was, I think I would have found it by now."

"No," Granger said, "but you're not supposed to be unescorted in the Ministry after hours."

"I didn't realize how late it was."

"Apparently not," Granger frowned. "What are you looking for?"

"I told you yesterday. Wizarding law about Squibs."

"But I gave you the book—"

"This?" Draco dug under a few of the volumes on the table and held up the thin book. "Here, it's yours—this is useless."

Granger stiffened as if he'd insulted her personally, and came over to snatch the book away from him. "That's what there is—"

"Yes, and it's rubbish," Draco said impatiently. "It doesn't even say what a Squib is classified as, under Wizarding law. The law is written in terms of 'magical persons' and 'Muggles,' and that book—" he stabbed an accusing finger at the book in her hand, "—doesn't so much as define which one a Squib is."

"Well, a Squib's not magical—"

"Yes, but the law strictly defines Muggles as non-magical individuals without magical parentage. According to that definition, Squibs aren't Muggles. But they aren't 'magical persons,' are they?"

"No," Granger said slowly, "I suppose they're not. But why do you want to know?" she burst out, unable to contain her curiosity.

"It means that the protections of Wizarding law don't apply to Squibs," Draco said.

"I suppose not."

Draco leaned back in his chair and stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling. Wizarding law, as he had recently learned in his study of the texts, protected direct relatives of magical persons from having their memories altered by the Ministry to erase their knowledge of magic. It was one of the few exceptions to the Statute of Secrecy, and was designed primarily to allow the parents of Muggleborn witches and wizards to remain involved in their children's lives. Since Squibs were, by definition, always direct relatives of wizards, they were automatically afforded this protection; however, there was, as Draco had been told, a gap where the Muggle relatives of Squibs were concerned. Most of a Squib's relatives would also be relatives of a wizard or witch—since Squibs were from magical families—so the loophole was small. But what about Muggle relatives by marriage, such as spouses? Here, the law was silent, since Squibs were technically neither Muggles nor magical persons, and therefore fell into neither of the categories described in Wizarding law. To Draco's annoyance, this meant that the alteration of the Muggle physician's memories had been neither legal nor illegal.

"You really need to leave," Granger said, when he neither offered an explanation nor demonstrated any intent to depart. "I'll escort you out, but you can't stay here all night."

"Of course," Draco said, getting up and gently shaking Scorpius awake by the shoulder. "Come, Scorpius. We're leaving. Do you mind if I come back another time?" he added, to Granger, whose look of surprise showed that she had not earlier noticed Scorpius curled asleep on the chairs beyond Draco's table.

"It's not my library," Granger said, recovering from her surprise, and looking as if she would mind him coming back, if it were her library. "Just make sure you're not here after hours again."

It was fortunate, Draco decided, sitting at the library table, that Scorpius was easily amused. After the awkwardness of last night's encounter, he'd opted to return to the library in the morning to make sure he had enough time. Scorpius, who was always at his most energetic in the mornings, had been eager for another treasure hunt among the messy piles of parchment and books. Draco could not understand how such a thing could be fun for a five-year-old, but he was glad his son was not bored. He knew from trying experience that a bored five-year-old was far more difficult to manage than an interested one.

This time Draco wasn't searching for anything in particular, but he took advantage of the play with Scorpius to begin piling the loose parchments around the door into some semblance of order. His hands were smudged with dust when he finished, but at least the door no longer needed to be shoved open. By the time he finished this self-appointed task, Scorpius had disappeared into the back of the library, where Draco found him attempting to climb up the shelves of a heavy wooden bookcase similar to the one in Granger's office.

"Oh no, you don't," Draco scolded, scooping him off the shelves. "That is not a ladder."

"Daddy, look!" Scorpius protested. "It's treasure!" He pointed up at one of the top shelves, where a thick black leather book trimmed with gold lay on its side. There was no label on it, but Draco could see how the shiny trim would have attracted his son's easily-intrigued attention. He briefly considered trying to Summon the book, but decided against it—like as not he'd Summon the entire bookcase down on top of them both. Since Astoria's death, his magic had felt oddly clumsy and imprecise, like trying to do complicated wand-work with numb fingers.

It's only temporary, he told himself sternly.

"Come on," Draco told him, "would you like to draw? I brought extra parchment."

Scorpius lay on the floor at Draco's feet, humming happily to himself as he ran a quill over a piece of parchment. Draco frowned at the blank paper on his table, and stared absently off into space. What, he asked himself, not for the first time, was he trying to accomplish, exactly? Certainly he had no burning desire to see Squibs achieve equality with wizards under Magical law. His opinions on Squibs and Muggles had shifted since the end of the war, and even more so in the past few weeks; however, Magical law had been written for the magical world, not for sundry members of the non-magical community.

On the other hand, it deeply irked him that he hadn't been able to properly thank the Muggle that had saved his son's life, due to a mere technical ambiguity in the law where Squibs were concerned. But realistically, what was there for him to do about it? He was no expert on legal matters, though in the past few days he'd become rather well-read in the applicable laws. Granger was probably better oriented than he to the legal processes in play, but her inquisitiveness peeved him, and he had no desire whatsoever to explain to her the true motivations behind his efforts. It was, as he'd told her, a personal matter—and he had to admit to himself that it was probably spite more than anything else that was driving him. He was angry, plain and simple, that he'd been unable to thank the Muggle physician. The man had done him a tremendous service, and Draco had been robbed of the opportunity to even try to repay that debt. The fact that it was a debt by nature unpayable was beside the point. Draco felt snubbed, and he wasn't one to sit by and allow himself to be insulted.

With a sigh, Draco bent over the parchment and began to write. Astoria, he thought, would probably have been disappointed that he was allowing anger to dictate his actions to such a degree. But she wasn't here to say that, so he tried to push her out of his mind and concentrate on imitating, to the best of his considerably well-honed ability, the pretentious style of Wizarding legal code.

"Back again?"

Draco experienced a fleeting sense of déjà vu as he looked up to find Granger crossing the library towards him.

"If you're not careful, I'm going to think you're spying on me," he said irritably, and immediately regretted his short-tempered answer as she scowled at him.

"I'm here for a book, actually."

"In a library? Shocking," Draco muttered under his breath, finishing with the sentence he'd been writing.

"What?"

"Nothing, Granger."

"Weasley."

"My apologies."

She looked around at the neat piles of parchment that he'd made as he cleared them away from the door. "Did you do this?"

"The door wouldn't open. They're not organized," he added, in case she'd gotten the mistaken impression that he had been trying to be helpful. She picked up a few pieces from the nearest pile and glanced through them.

"I don't even know what they are, honestly. This place is mostly old records—decades old, most of them—" she replaced the parchments on the stack as Scorpius emerged from under the table, grinning happily, his face and forearms covered with black ink. He held up a smeared piece of parchment towards Granger.

"Look what I drew!"

"Oh dear," Draco said in mild dismay. "Scorpius, you're supposed to use the ink on the parchment, not on yourself."

Granger stifled a laugh. Draco sighed.

"Is there a washroom nearby?"

"Yes, but…" She gave him a puzzled look, which he ignored.

"Would you direct me?"

"Oh, let me," she said impatiently, drawing her wand. "He'll track it everywhere…may I?"

"I suppose," Draco said stiffly, and with a wave of her wand Granger cleaned the ink from Scorpius's face and hands. The boy clapped his hands in delight, and she smiled at him.

"That's better, isn't it?"

"Thank you," Scorpius said politely. Draco nodded his appreciation, but he did not miss the strangely searching look she gave him. Draco himself wasn't sure what he thought about the fact that he was willing to let a person who was practically a stranger—and who he'd never liked—use magic on his son, while himself refusing to do the same thing. Had his trust in his magical ability deteriorated so far that he was actually reluctant to perform even a simple cleaning spell? Certainly Granger seemed to find his reticence unusual; but if that was what she was thinking, she did not say it.

"I found treasure!" Scorpius said, puffing himself up importantly. "But I can't reach it," he added sadly.

"A book," Draco explained, at Granger's obvious amused confusion. "It has gold trim, so he thinks it must be treasure. On one of the back shelves."

"I'll show you!" Scorpius said excitedly, scurrying off toward the back of the library. Granger followed him, as did Draco, after quickly gathering up his parchments and storing them in a pocket of his robes.

"Accio book!" Granger said, pointing her wand at the high shelf. She caught it neatly as it zoomed down to her. Scorpius hopped up and down enthusiastically.

"It's treasure!"

Granger flipped through a few pages of the book, then closed it quickly as Draco came up.

"What is it?"

"Oh—nothing," Granger said hurriedly, tucking it firmly under her arm. "Just some old court records—nothing important—" She sounded slightly worried. "I'll just take this back to my office, then—"

"That's the book you came for?" Draco asked doubtfully.

"Oh, right!" Granger hesitated. "I can come back for it."

"Something wrong with the book, Granger?"

"Weasley," she corrected irritably. "There's nothing wrong with it—just old records—"

"It's not treasure?" Scorpius asked, disappointed.

"No…no, it's not."

Draco watched her hurry out clutching the book.

"What was that about?" he wondered aloud. There was no one around to answer the question except Scorpius, who was too busy renewing his efforts at climbing the bookshelf to notice.

Over the next few days, Draco spent every spare minute writing and re-writing the draft he'd painstakingly constructed in the library. It had to sound perfect, or he hadn't a chance. At last, when he was finally satisfied with both the quality and the content, he sealed a copy in an envelope and gave it to his owl.

"This is for Hermione Grang—Weasley," he told the bird, stroking its soft feathers as he carried it to the window.

The next day, the owl brought a response back. It was only one line: Come to my office.

"It really makes days of work seem appreciated, doesn't it?" Draco said to his owl, carrying it to its perch and offering it an owl pellet. "Puts a perspective on things."

Granger wasn't in her office, however. Draco found her in the library. She was seated on the floor in what appeared to be a nest of parchment piles, with several books spread before her and a quill in her hand. Draco recognized some of the books as those he'd studied earlier in the week.

"Busy?" he asked her, and she jumped in surprise.

"Oh—it's you."

"No need to sound so disappointed," he drawled. "You did invite me. Remember?"

"Yes, I did." She climbed carefully out of the parchment nest, holding a folded paper that he recognized suddenly as the document he had sent to her. "May I have a word with you—privately?"

"If you must." Draco bent down. "Scorpius, do you want to look for more treasure?"

Scorpius nodded eagerly. "Go on, then," Draco said with a smile, "but don't climb any shelves!" he added, as Scorpius disappeared amongst the bookcases.

"What in the world is this?" Granger asked, without preamble, after he had gone. She held out the folded parchment.

"Well, if you had read it…"

"Of course I read it!" she said indignantly.

"Then you know what it is," Draco said pointedly. "I fail to understand your confusion. I thought it was very clear."

Granger went pink. "Don't be ridiculous," she said. "That's not what I mean. You can't just—propose sweeping changes to Wizarding law—without a damn good reason—"

"Sweeping changes? I'd hardly call it that, Granger."

"Weasley!" she said fiercely. "And what you're proposing is to officially redefine Squibs as 'magical persons' for the entirety of Wizarding law—"

"Except where official policy on Squibs supersedes," Draco finished. "Yes, but I think you'll agree that what I've proposed is hardly more than semantics—as you know, Squibs aren't Muggles by the legal definition, they're simply not officially categorized as magical persons—"

"Semantics?" Granger looked incredulous. "You won't pull that over on me, this is not semantics—"

"Do you disagree with it?" Draco asked coldly. "I had the impression that you valued equal rights for—" he stopped himself on the verge of saying half-breeds "—non-Wizarding groups. Perhaps I was mistaken."

"That's not the point!" Granger struggled to contain her frustration. "Fine. Say I agree with you—say I think that Squibs should have equal protections under Wizarding law—that doesn't explain why you're doing this!"

"That's not very Gryffindor of you, is it?" Draco asked scathingly. "I thought you were supposed to do what you think is right for its own sake. If you agree with it, what's the problem?"

"The problem," Granger said, sounding as if she were controlling her temper with an effort, "is that you won't tell me where the problem is. Do you expect me to believe that you woke up one day and thought, 'oh, I'd better fix the systemic legal inequalities between wizards and Squibs'?" Forgive me if I find that a bit far-fetched. That's not how legal changes work. They only happen when a problem—an actual specific case comes up—and it can be demonstrated that a change ought to be made."

"I see. So systemic inequality is less than a priority for the Ministry," Draco said, curling his lip in disgust.

"No—that's not what I said, or what I meant. But it's awfully hard to make a change if no one can see a problem with the status quo. I want to know why you're doing this."

"I told you," Draco said coldly, "it's personal."

There was a brief silence, except for the sound of Scorpius chattering happily to himself several aisles of shelves away. Granger frowned at Draco.

"Look, I want to help, but—"

"Clearly, you don't."

"I do—"

"Then take that—" Draco pointed to the parchment in her hand "—and do something with it. But keep my name off of it."

Granger's expression darkened further. "I suppose you wouldn't want your name tarnished by association with public association with Squibs, would you?" she asked sarcastically.

Nothing left to tarnish, Draco thought, and recalled the Ministry security guards sweeping probes over his son—the Malfoy name was already so tarnished that suspicion fell on a five-year-old simply because he carried the name. Scorpius would have to fight all his life to be seen for himself instead of his name, and the fault for that was Draco's own. Disproportionately stung by Granger's remark, Draco sneered at her.

"The Squibs wouldn't tarnish my name as much as the association with you would," he said viciously. Granger turned white with anger.

"Why, you—"

"Spare me the petty insults," Draco told her derisively. "Will you take this and do something with it, or do you want me to go around you and bribe someone? Either you can push it forward because you think that Squibs should be treated better, or you can watch someone else propose this and know that they did it for money. Which would you prefer?"

"Are you threatening me?" Granger demanded. Her hand lingered near the pocket of her robes.

"It's not a threat, it's a fact."

They glared at each other through a thick, tense silence.

"Well?" Draco prompted. "Will you do it, or not? You can call it an altruistic work."

"Altruistic!" The word seemed to snap Granger's restraint. She looked furious. "Altruistic? This is not—do you know what I think this is? This is some bloody twisted form of self-preservation—this is not altruism—self-centered egotism, maybe—"

"Self-preservation?" Draco asked, absolutely perplexed. "Granger, what on earth are you talking about?"

"Weasley!" she half-shouted, drawing her wand. Pink sparks flew from the end of it, and Draco took a hurried step back. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you? You're—you're a Squib!"

If Draco had ever been more baffled in his life, he could not have said when. Granger was pointing an accusatory finger at him.

"You want to have the law changed so that you'll be considered a wizard. This has nothing to do with altruism!"

"Do you have any idea how little sense you're making?" Draco asked, in frank astonishment. "Of course I'm not a Squib—you've seen me do magic—"

"I've seen you do magic ten years ago," Granger amended. Her wand had stopped sparking, but her thick ponytail looked alarmingly bushy and her face was taut with rage.

"Oh, I suppose I've just—what, lost my magic, have I?"

"I looked it up!" Granger said hotly. "It's extremely rare, but it's possible to lose magical abilities, especially when—"

"When what?"

"It can happen," Granger insisted, reddening again. "And that would technically make you a Squib—legally, Squibs are 'individuals without magic, born to magical parents.' There's nothing that says they have to be born without magic—"

"I'm not a Squib," Draco interrupted her scornfully. "I don't know where you're getting your information, but if losing magical ability is even possible—which I doubt—"

"It is possible! I found it in Advanced Theory of Innate Magical Essence! And I've heard of—"

"—it certainly does not apply to me!"

"Then why won't you do magic?" Granger challenged.

"Excuse me?"

"When Scorpius spilled ink the other day," Granger said, "you could have cleaned it off easily, it's a very basic cleaning charm. That's what made me think—there's no reason for you not to use magic for that, unless you couldn't—"

Draco felt an unpleasant swooping sensation in his stomach with the realization that he had asked himself almost that exact question at the time. "Or," he added coldly, "if I wanted to teach my son that not all of his mistakes can be magically vanished, and he should think about what he's doing. Perhaps that could be a reason? I wonder," he went on, recklessly, knowing even as he spoke that he should not say it, "why it might be so important to me to teach my son that some things don't wash off?"

Granger looked as if she had been slapped, and Draco felt a wrenching mixture of shame, confusion, and vindictive pleasure.

"That—" she started, and stopped. Finally she continued, sounding less certain in her anger. "Fine. So maybe you had another reason, but that doesn't explain this." She gestured with the parchment she held, now rather wrinkled. "Why else would you, of all people—"

"Your track record of guessing the personal reasons behind my actions is quite poor," Draco snarled.

"If you're not a Squib, then prove it," Granger spat. "It should be easy enough—you've got your wand, otherwise the Ministry wouldn't have let you in—"

"You want me to do magic simply to prove to you that I'm not a Squib?" Draco said disbelievingly. "You must be joking, Granger, this is ridiculous—"

"It's Weasley!" she shouted at him.

There was a soft sound from off to the side. Both Draco and Granger turned to see Scorpius, half-hidden behind a bookshelf, watching them with wide, scared eyes. Draco felt ill. He took several deep breaths to calm himself, and then said in a low voice, "It's alright, Scorpius. Come here."

Scorpius kept well away from Granger as he made his way over to his father and attached himself to Draco's leg. Draco bent and picked him up, and Scorpius buried his face in his neck.

"It's okay, Scorpius," Draco told him softly. Scorpius was shaking, and it made Draco want to exact bloody vengeance on whatever had frightened his son—but the problem was, that was himself. "You're alright."

"Why are you yelling?" Scorpius asked timidly.

"I—" Draco wished he had an answer. "I got angry. I shouldn't have, it was—it was very wrong for me to do."

Scorpius peeked around at Granger, who was staring at the floor and looking abashed. "Was she mean to you, Daddy?"

"What? No, it's not that, Scorpius. Miss Grang—Miss Weasley and I had a disagreement—it was my fault, I shouldn't have gotten angry. I'm sorry." He kissed Scorpius on the forehead, and hoped that Granger would understand that the apology extended to more than just Scorpius.

"I'm sorry I scared you, Scorpius," Granger said quietly. "I shouldn't have raised my voice."

"I should leave," Draco said. He still felt sick at the thought of Scorpius's frightened face peering out at him. Never before had he seen Scorpius's fear directed at him, and it was something he never wanted to see again.

"About this," Granger said, holding up the crumpled piece of parchment she held, "I—I'll have a look, alright?"

As he left without answering, Draco tried very hard not to think about how disappointed Astoria would be in him. He could almost hear her saying, very gently, Darling, was that necessary? She had a habit of being very kind about his faults, but she was also unfailingly honest. No, he thought, as if he could answer his memory of her, it wasn't necessary. I'm sorry. But it wasn't Astoria to whom he owed an apology, it was Scorpius; and his son was too young to understand how badly Draco wished he could take back what happened. Whatever Draco said to him, it would not erase the memory of fear that Scorpius had—fear towards his own father.

"Are we going home?" Scorpius asked, as they entered the lift. Draco was glad to find it empty.

"Soon, sweetie," Draco told him. "I have to do one thing before we go home. It won't take long, I promise."

The book was very clinical.

Magical loss, defined as the loss of, or loss of control of, magical ability, is a little-known phenomenon, Draco read, which has been reported in few instances. It is possible that this is due to its low prevalence. However, it has been suggested that the stigma against non-magical members of the magical community may cause those afflicted to conceal their condition.

Of the few reported cases of magical loss, even fewer cases have been well-documented. However, those which are well-documented show more than conjectural similarities. Magical loss is thought to be the result of acute psychological or emotional suffering, such as abuse, violent attack, loss of a family member or close friend (especially if traumatic), or similar event. Little is known about the factors which influence a witch or wizard's recovery from magical loss.

There are two known varieties of magical loss: direct loss of ability, and loss of control over abilities. Either type of magical loss may be partial or complete, and may be permanent or temporary. Loss of ability has been less commonly reported, which may be due to lower frequency, or to the fact that it is less frequently conjoined with mental instability or dangerous magical outbursts than is loss of control over magical ability. (See: Obscurials.)

He read it three times over, as if doing so would force the copy of Advanced Theory of Innate Magical Essence, which he'd bought in Diagon Alley on the way home that day, to reveal further information. At last, when it became clear that there was nothing more to be gleaned from the book, Draco closed it with an angry slam and pushed it to the side of the desk. The motion knocked a half-filled inkpot onto the floor, where it shattered loudly. Draco waited a moment, listening for any sound from upstairs to indicate that Scorpius, who he'd tucked into bed almost an hour ago, had been disturbed. All was silent.

Draco stared at the mess of ink on the floor. It's a very basic cleaning charm, he could hear Granger saying contemptuously; and didn't he know it? Hadn't he done it a thousand times, since Astoria's cleaning charms had a tendency to leave a slightly smoky smell behind if she wasn't entirely paying attention? It was, indeed, very basic, and yet he felt oddly reluctant to attempt the spell. Slowly, he drew his wand from his pocket and stared down at the smooth, dark wood. He noticed that his hand was shaking very slightly. This was ridiculous, he told himself, suddenly angry and impatient, it was utterly absurd to be afraid that—

"Scourgify," he said firmly, aiming his wand at the puddle of ink on the floor.

Nothing happened.

Draco took a deep breath and attempted to calm his racing heart. He set the wand on his desk, wiped his sweaty palms on his robes, then tried again. "Scourgify!"

Again, the ink remained stubbornly splattered across the floor of his office.

"Scourg—"

It was no use. Draco's hands were now shaking badly. Loss of a family member or close friend, the book had said. He tried to push the words away—the book had also said, hadn't it, that it was extremely rare…

"Lumos," he said, as firmly as he could. A weak white light flickered at the tip of his wand. As he watched it, the light trembled fragilely and disappeared. Draco sat motionless for a while, staring at the spot where the light had been. Finally he set the wand aside, rose, and left the office to retrieve a bucket of hot, soapy water, and a sponge. He knelt on the floor and began to scrub up the puddle of ink.

Acute…emotional suffering, the book seemed to say to him, such as…loss of a family member. Magical loss…may be…conjoined with mental instability or dangerous magical outbursts.

What if his heated argument with Granger this afternoon had been more than simply allowing anger to get the best of him? And hadn't he, Draco wondered, been picturing what Astoria would say to him, if she were here? Talking to her in his head…as if she could hear him…hadn't he been doing that all along, since her death? And what if, something murmured at the corners of his mind, what if the illness that had almost killed Scorpius a few weeks ago hadn't been an illness at all? After all, Draco himself had wondered at one point if the illness could possibly be a curse…dangerous magical outbursts…but he'd know, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he feel it, sense what was happening? This was absurd, he tried to tell himself; they'd discovered the cause of Scorpius's illness, an obscure but known Muggle disease with an explanation…

But wasn't it, Draco's mind whispered back at him, just faintly possible? Imagining himself talking with his dead wife…was that normal?

Astoria, he thought, unable to stop himself, I need you. And just like that, when he closed his eyes, he could see her face smiling back at him, as if she were still here, alive and well, here to tell him that everything would be alright and that both he and Scorpius were going to be just fine, that his magic would return, that this, like everything, would pass…

But she was dead, and everything was not alright. The image faded and Draco was alone, kneeling on the floor with his hands covered in soap and ink.

Draco slept late the next day, and woke to Scorpius crawling boisterously across his back. "I'm hungry!" Scorpius chirped.

"Hi hungry," Draco muttered, half-heartedly trying to remove his son from the perch on the small of his back, "I'm tired. Why don't you go back to bed?"

"It's morning, Daddy!" Scorpius said, as if the answer was obvious. "It's time to wake up!" He slid off the bed and skipped out of the room. Draco rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes sleepily with hands that remained, despite his best efforts at scrubbing them, slightly ink-stained. With Scorpius awake, there was little chance of catching even a few minutes' sleep, no matter how desperately he could use it. He'd been up very late on the previous night, and not just because the spilled ink had proven remarkably disobliging. After finally getting as much of the stuff up as he could reasonably hope for, he'd stayed up to write a letter.

The thought of that letter made him wince uncomfortably. As carefully-worded as it had been, there was a reason he'd sent it before going to bed—sometimes, nighttime provided a sort of reckless disregard for consequences that better judgement, by daylight, would overrule. Had he waited until morning to send the letter, he probably would not have sent it at all. The fact that this had been his reason for sending the letter on the previous night did not, in the slightest, alleviate the discomfort he now felt at the fact that he had sent it.

The answer arrived halfway through breakfast, by way of Draco's owl swooping through the window and onto his shoulder, holding a letter.

As soon as the door opened, Draco could see the family resemblance. Andromeda Tonks shared the heavy-lidded, dark eyes of her older sister, but her cheekbones were more delicately reminiscent of Narcissa's. She had wavy hair, bordering on curly, which had once been brown but had now faded to silver, with only the slighted trace of color showing here and there. She looked very composed and aristocratic, and Draco wondered momentarily if his mother would look something like this, were she still alive…

"Hello, Draco," Andromeda said, and she smiled very slightly. "This must be your son, Scorpius."

"Hi!" Scorpius said, beaming. Andromeda bent to speak to him, and as she introduced herself at Scorpius's level, a boy of about twelve or thirteen came clattering down the stairs, tripped over the last step, nearly landed face-first on the floor, and somehow recovered his balance at the very last second.

"Hi! I'm okay!" he announced brightly. His hair was brilliantly turquoise and his eyes had a mischievous gleam in them. Draco realized, with a shock, that he'd forgotten—

"I'm Teddy," the boy said, politely offering his hand to Draco. As Draco shook his hand, Teddy's turquoise hair shifted momentarily to blond. "Oh, sorry," Teddy said quickly, ruffling his hair in mild embarrassment, "it does that sometimes." He screwed up his face and a moment later, his hair had returned to its former bright color. Scorpius watched with wide eyes, looking amazed.

"Teddy, this is your cousin Scorpius," Andromeda said.

"Hi, Scorpius," Teddy said, crouching down. "Look what I can do!" And in a second, his nose had turned flat and pink like a pig's snout. Scorpius jumped in shock, then giggled.

"He's a Metamorphmagus," Draco said in amazement. "I hadn't realized it would be under control so young."

"Only partly," Andromeda said. "He still has a bit of trouble with his hair, as I'm sure you noticed. Teddy," she added, to the boy, "why don't you show Scorpius your collection of chocolate frog cards?"

"Okay!" Teddy agreed good-naturedly. "Come on, Scorpius, I'll show you—"

Draco opened his mouth to say that he wasn't sure whether his son would want to immediately go to play with a stranger he'd met only minutes ago, but to his surprise, Scorpius followed Teddy happily up the stairs.

"It's alright," Andromeda said reassuringly, "he's very good with children. He's been around them a lot."

"I see," Draco said, feeling suddenly awkward without the children to smooth over the moment.

"Come in, Draco," Andromeda said. "I'll make us some tea, shall I?"

"He's thirteen this year," Andromeda said, as she put the kettle onto the stove to heat. "He'll be going off to his third year in Hogwarts—and honestly, she added, wryly, "I'm not sure whether I feel sorrier for myself, not having him around, or for those poor teachers who have to make him sit still."

"Scorpius is the same way," Draco told her.

"Where do they get the energy?" Andromeda wondered. "If I had half that energy…" she trailed off absently, turning to the cabinets to retrieve mugs and plates. "Here, would you set these on the table?"

She kept up an intermittent stream of small talk as she retrieved half of a fruitcake from the cupboard and set it to warm on the side of the stove near the kettle. Draco attempted to hold up his end, but his heart wasn't in it. It felt so strange to be standing there, in the kitchen of an aunt he'd never known, being welcomed as if his visit was simply an ordinary family matter.

"Mrs. Tonks," he burst out suddenly, interrupting her remarks on the new tea shop that had recently opened for business in Hogsmeade, "I'm sorry."

She went momentarily still, then turned toward him. "As you very well should be," she said, in an unexpectedly sharp voice. Draco blinked.

"I beg your pardon, I—"

"Thirteen years," Andromeda said. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel, then crossed them over her chest. "Draco, you have had thirteen years in which to make yourself acquainted with myself and my grandson. Thirteen years, in which your mother—my sister—died, and you did not speak a word to me. Not even a letter. At first, I thought you were afraid that, after the war, you would be unwelcome. But that was over a decade ago."

She waited for him to answer. Draco could not find any words; he did not know what to say for himself.

"You are my sister's son," Andromeda said, "and although your mother, and you, made choices that I consider to be unwise—to be wrong—there has never been a time, since the end of the war, that you, or she, would have been unwelcome in this house. You are not a child, and you have not been a child these past thirteen years. You had no reason, even if your mother was unwilling, to avoid me for thirteen years."

"I'm sorry," Draco repeated, quietly. He stared at the tile flooring.

"You look like her," Andromeda said, in a softer tone.

"What?"

"You look like Narcissa," she said. "You look more like Lucius…but I can see my sister in you too. Draco," she added, the sharpness now entirely gone from her voice, "as I say, you ought to apologize for these thirteen years. However, you have always been welcome, and you are so now."

Scorpius and Teddy came tumbling down the stairs at the smell of fruitcake, and the four of them had a lively tea, what with Teddy switching noses every few bites and Scorpius, trying to imitate him, displaying a wide range of highly comical expressions in an effort to change the shape of his own nose. By the end of the small meal, Draco had begun to fear that his son would abandon all sense of social decorum, and he was relieved when Scorpius also followed Teddy's example in carrying his plate over to the sink before the two of them disappeared back up the stairs. There was a loud thump from the upstairs hallway.

"I'm okay! Nothing's broken!" Teddy called down. Draco heard Scorpius giggling.

"Now, Draco," Andromeda said, when they had gone, "would you like to tell me why you're here?"

She let him take his time to find the words he wanted.

"I wondered," Draco said slowly, "whether I might—possibly—ask you about…Mr. Tonks."

"Ah," Andromeda said, softly, "I thought that might be it."

He looked up at her in surprise, and she offered him a sad smile.

"I heard about Astoria. I'm so sorry…she must have been a lovely woman."

"She was," Draco told her. "I think you would have liked her. Most people did."

"I'm sure I would have. Of course you may ask me about Ted, Draco."

"When you—lost him," Draco asked hesitantly, "how long did it take you before you stopped—"

"Missing him?" Andromeda suggested gently, when Draco floundered for words. He shook his head.

"No, that's not what I mean. More like—expecting him—expecting to see him there. Forgetting that he was gone—and being surprised—not really, you know, realizing that—that she's gone."

"It takes a while," Andromeda admitted. "It took longer with my daughter. Ted had been on the run for some time—as terrible as it sounds, I think that may have made it easier to get used to him being gone. Nymphadora stayed with me for a while, during her pregnancy, and there were times when I spoke aloud to her before I remembered that she was gone. It must have been months before I got used to that."

Somehow, Draco had almost forgotten that Andromeda's loss had been so much greater than only the death of her husband.

"When you get used to it, you'll start to miss not being used to it," Andromeda said. "Because then, it means that it's become normal to have them gone."

Draco didn't think it would ever feel normal to have Astoria gone, and he said so.

"It will, one day," Andromeda told him. She sighed, and took a sip of her tea. "Don't feel guilty when it does…it doesn't mean you're forgetting her. You'll never forget her, or stop missing her."

"After—after him—did you ever feel—different, somehow? Like—physically different—or maybe magically?"

"Different? Different how?"

Torn between horror of admitting what he feared to be true and a desperate need for advice, Draco stared blankly at the tabletop. The silence dragged out between them, and Draco began to feel that he would never be able to speak aloud the black thoughts clawing at him. Andromeda reached across the table and placed her hand on top of his. Her fingers were cool and dry, and the light touch reminded him startlingly of his mother.

"I've been having trouble with my magic," he confessed, unable to lift his eyes from the table. Andromeda waited quietly, and after a while, when she did not recoil in horror, Draco went on. "I can't—even simple spells—I can only just light my wand—and it feels so—I don't know, wrong…" he took a shuddering breath. "It's been getting worse ever since she died," he explained. "My wand started to feel strange almost right afterward—like it wasn't mine anymore. And it got harder to do magic, so I tried not to, and last night—" he didn't want to talk about last night, or think about it, "—I could barely light my wand. I don't know what's happening," he added, feeling the familiar gush of panic in his stomach, "but I looked it up in a book, on innate magical essence—and it's possible, it's called magical loss—and it can be dangerous—and sometimes it—" he swallowed hard, trying not to think about the words, "—it's accompanied by mental instability—and magical outbursts—like accidental magic, but dangerous—"

He was shaking. Andromeda's hand was firm on his, and Draco discovered that he was returning the grip tightly. His own hand felt clammy and cold.

"A couple of weeks ago, Scorpius was very sick," Draco said, feeling sick himself with misery, "and he almost died. They said—they did find out what was wrong, it was a Muggle disease, nothing magical—that's what they said—but what if—" the dark sense of wrongness crept again within his thoughts "—what if he was cursed? What if I—I mean, I think I would know—but what if—if I cursed him? I've—I keep thinking about Astoria—imagining what she would say—and talking to her, in my head—and the book said mental instability was a sign of—and," he said, frantic with anxiety and grief, "what if that's what's happening to me? What if I'm a danger to Scorpius?"

He sat trembling, clinging to her hand and waiting in terror for her to jerk away from him with an exclamation of revulsion. She did not. She brought her free hand across the table to hold his hand in both of hers.

"You're worried that you're losing your sanity?"

He nodded, feeling tears pricking in his eyes. "I got angry in front of Scorpius yesterday," he managed, around the knot in his throat. "Not at him, mind—but he looked so scared—and I'm so afraid," he finished, his voice breaking, "that it's because I'm—because I—I couldn't bear it if he was afraid of me—if I hurt him—"

Andromeda's hold on his hand loosened, but a moment later he felt her sit on the bench next to him and knew that she had circled the table to sit beside him. She kept one hand in his and placed the other on his shoulder.

"You're not losing your mind, Draco," she said, very kindly, "although sometimes it may feel like that. I talked to Ted for years—sometimes out loud—sometimes I still do, in fact. And even now I can hear his voice. I can imagine exactly what he would say, and I can see his face as he says it. That's what happens, when you love someone…they're never really gone. And as for you cursing Scorpius—you're right, you would have known. Emotional magic like that isn't subtle. You didn't hurt him, and I think you know very well that you never would."

Draco pressed his free hand against his eyes and tried to convince himself that Andromeda was right. It was such an incredible relief to hear her say this, and yet—

"I know about magical loss," Andromeda said. "It's not common, but it does happen. And sometimes, with time or circumstance, it heals itself; and sometimes it doesn't. But whatever the case for you, Draco, it doesn't make you less of a father to your son. Astoria may not be here to raise Scorpius with you, but that doesn't mean that you can't be the family that he needs."

Andromeda seemed satisfied that her words would have their intended effect, for she sat quietly with him even when he did not reply.

"Thank you," he managed at last, hoarsely. "You have no idea—"

She squeezed his hand briefly. "I do have an idea, Draco. That's why you came here, isn't it?"

He nodded. He had hoped that she might have answers; that, at least, she would understand the agony of losing someone she had loved so intimately and deeply. The extent of her understanding and kindness went far beyond what he'd expected to receive.

"And you're not alone in raising Scorpius," Andromeda added. "I know we've never really known each other, but Teddy and I are family. Don't forget about that. Don't think that you have no one to help you."

"You're too kind to me."

"No," she said thoughtfully, "I can see in you the side of my sister that I loved. In a way, I already know a part of you. You are family to me."

The office on the eighth floor of the Ministry of Magic was once again empty, and Draco was tempted to check the library. However, recalling how badly the last encounter in the library had gone, he felt it would be a poor fit for his current purpose.

Magically charmed sunlight filtered down through the tall windows in the wall he leaned against. Down the hall from the busy, desk-filled room, he could hear the racket and chatter of dozens upon dozens of Ministry witches and wizards. He wondered, without much caring, whether the beleaguered-looking wizard had stopped being besieged with complaints about fraudulent cauldron sales. The stillness in the corridor felt quite comfortable, and Draco experienced what might have approached a fleeting sense of peace.

Footsteps approached, and he opened his eyes at the same time that Granger noticed him. She stopped short.

"Malfoy?"

"Mrs. Weasley," he greeted her formally. "Do you have a moment?"

She hesitated, and he could understand her reluctance.

"I will do my very best not to call you Granger," Draco said gravely. As he'd hoped, that brought the faint hint of a smile to the corners of her mouth.

"Come in, then," she said, moving toward the door of the office. "No Scorpius?" she asked, as they entered.

"No, he's with family at the moment."

She looked at him from behind the desk. "I'm sorry about that," she said quietly. "Honestly, I am. I should have been more careful in front of him."

"Trust a Gryffindor," Draco said, mildly annoyed, "to beat me to it. I came to your office, to apologize to you, and you decided to—"

"Well, don't let me stop you," she said, and she was definitely smothering a grin this time.

"I'm sorry," Draco said, seriously. "I was deliberately provocative."

"And I was a busybody," Granger said.

"If you must know," Draco began, uncomfortably, but Granger shook her head.

"I don't need to know anything. You were right—I did agree with you, and it should have been enough for me to know that it was the right thing to do."

"Allow me," Draco insisted. "Consider it…my version of the right thing."

She watched him without saying anything.

"A few weeks ago, my son was very ill," Draco told her. "The Healers at St. Mungo's were unable to find what was wrong with him. He nearly died. The only reason that he survived is that a Muggle physician was able to discover the problem. Afterwards, the Muggle's memory was altered. I did not have the chance to thank him."

Granger's eyes had widened, but she still remained silent.

"His memory should not have been altered," Draco said. "He was the husband of a Squib, and he already knew about the Wizarding world. He was no threat to the Statute of Secrecy; the decision was a matter of politics. I refuse to allow something like that to happen again."

He carefully relaxed his hands, which had begun to clench.

"As you said, nothing to do with altruism. But I understand the importance of concrete examples in proposing legal changes."

"Malfoy," Granger said softly, "I've already submitted your proposal to the Wizengamot. Although it hasn't been put to the vote yet…it looks promising."

"Really?" Draco was shocked out of the formality he'd been tightly adhering to. Granger smiled.

"Yes. Ordinarily I would have spent more time to clean it up before bringing it forward…but it was quite a well-written proposal."

"Coming from you, that's high praise."

"If you ever decide to take up a career in Wizarding law…"

"That sounds appalling," Draco told her.

"It's not as bad as you think. Most of the time it doesn't involve shouting and accusing people of being Squibs…I'm sorry about that, too, by the way. It was a ridiculous thing to say."

"I manage a spell or two, now and again," Draco said, forcing a wry grin and wondering how she would react if she knew that it was the literal truth. Granger chuckled and picked up a stack of papers. As she did, Draco noticed on her desk the black leather-bound book with gold trim that he'd seen in the library on the previous week. "What is that book?" he asked curiously, remembering her odd expression as she'd hurried away with it.

"Nothing important," Granger said, after a momentary pause. "Just…one of those 'right thing for the right thing's sake' sort of things." She smiled tentatively. "I'm a Gryffindor, remember? I have to keep busy somehow."