A/N: Last chapter! Little bit of bad language from Draco near the end, but I think he figured he was entitled at that point.

Thankfully (in Draco's opinion, at least), the warrant for Peakes' arrest and the search of his home proved without a doubt that he was the kingpin behind the surge in Catatonius abuse.

A Muggleborn, he'd been familiar with Muggle technology – enough so that Draco and Hermione found the mate to every e-mail that had been sent from Peakes to Dewey. Skilled at potions, Peakes had warded his workshop competently, enough so that it took them several hours to break through (and needed Bubble-head charms once they succeeded, against the cloying smell of the drug).

Smart enough to know that his Half-Blood son would be safe at Hogwarts when the Ministry fell, Peakes had not been so successful with himself and his wife, Pearl – they'd been interrogated, found guilty, and thrown into Azkaban. Already in fragile health, Pearl Peakes had passed away inside the prison after a few months, and Barnaby Peakes had only the thought of his son to sustain him through his imprisonment.

He'd been released, brought back to Hogsmeade – only to find out that his son had perished in the Battle of Hogwarts.

All of the previous facts could be backed up and verified. Of Barnaby Peakes' terrible grief, however, Draco could find no evidence but discarded and crinkled pillowcases in the house. Puzzled, he ran an analysis on them – finding them soaked in the saline of old tears.

After three days of collecting evidence from the Peakes home, Draco returned to the Investigations Department to find Hermione blotting her own tears with a handkerchief, her back to the door.

"Are you all right?" he asked uncertainly. He was not as uncomfortable around weeping witches as other wizards usually were – Pansy's spur-of-the-moment waterworks had prepared him in that sense.

"I'm fine," Hermione said, wiping hurriedly at her face. She thrust a small stack of parchment at him. "Harry gave me a copy of Peakes' statement."

Draco took it with some trepidation and began to read.

BIBULUS: And you have been giving the Catatonius potion to witches and wizards, gratis?

PEAKES: Only to those that needed it. I'm not like that scum in Knockturn Alley. I don't sell to kids or idiots looking for fun. And I did take some things.

BIBULUS: What kinds of things?

PEAKES: What I couldn't get elsewhere. Portkeys, equipment for the potions. I took some money from those who could afford it to buy the ingredients and to shut that scum Dewey up.

BIBULUS: Mr. Peakes, you do realize that this means long-term imprisonment for you. Despite your intentions, the court is unlikely to look kindly on anyone distributing illegal potions. Several have ended up in St. Mungo's for overdosing and nearly dying. More than a few of those witches and wizards have dependent children.

PEAKES: Mr. Bibulus, imprisonment holds no horrors for me. Living, however…that's fresh horror every day. Each morning, when I don't wake up with my wife beside me…when I don't get an owl from my son telling me how well he played at Quidditch…that's all the horror I'll ever need. You tell me, Mr. Bibulus, how prison compares to being without my family. When you have something so wonderful in your life – and then it – and then they're gone, why is it that you only remember the loss? I'm trying to help people remember the good things.

Draco didn't want to read any more. Beside him, Hermione seemed to have gotten control of her tears, slumping into her desk chair.

"There's more," she said croakily. "Bibulus asked him for the names of the people he'd given the potion to. He knew all of their names by heart. All of their stories. It completely matches the list we found."

He didn't need to ask what list she meant. When the Aurors had taken Cootes into custody, they'd found the parchment, folded into squares, in the breast pocket of his robes, right next to a tattered picture of the Peakes family. The image had stuck with him – Barnaby Peakes, standing proudly beside their front door. Pearl Peakes stood beside him, pink-cheeked and grinning broadly. Between them perched Jimmy Peakes, no older than three or four, swinging between their arms. Pearl seemed to be torn between smiling for the camera and making sure her son didn't fall. Barnaby seemed to have the same problem, but seemed more confident of his son's ability to stay in their arms.

"What if he was right?" Hermione whispered. "What if we're doing the wrong thing?"

"We're not," Draco said firmly. "Hermione, we're not. Remember Dai? His father's going to be a long-time, if not a permanent resident at St. Mungo's. Dai can't remember his mother, but he's never going to forget finding his father half-dead on the floor and running to the neighbor's for help. Should we start him on a regimen of Catatonius?"

He sat down heavily beside her, staring at his hands. "No matter how much it hurts, you can't run away from the bad things. That's the only real way to remember the good things."

Hermione looked over at him, and he wasn't sure he liked the speculation in her gaze.

"You don't have to answer this…but is that why you stayed here?"

Draco hesitated, but then shrugged. "That was... kind of the rationale, yes."

He could see that she wanted to ask more, but was restraining herself. He was grateful for that.

"Do you think we could give this back to him?" he asked hesitantly. "I mean, it's evidence right now, but after the trial and sentencing…"

"I think so," Hermione said in a small voice.

Now that look in her eyes…he could live with that.

"I'm not going." Actually, he was considering it, despite his many misgivings about this being another step in the wrong direction. Father hadn't said where they were going, but he'd give just about anything not to go back to the Manor. Too many screams echoed throughout the hallways, too much blood soaked the floor. The Manor was no longer the happy setting of his childhood – it had been steeped in horror, and the memories could not be washed out of the walls.

They were under house arrest, awaiting the moment when the Ministry would have them taken up for trial. Until then, proximity wards were stationed around the Malfoy grounds, Aurors ready to swoop in should they step outside the grounds. Father had decided to risk it, though, once Ollie the house-elf had managed to filch a Portkey from the Ministry.

Father had also been very, very wrong about a great deal of the strategic moves he'd made in the past few years. Before he left this place for good, however, Draco wanted him to admit it.

"What do you mean?" His father stopped in his tracks. The enormous travel bag beside him stopped in its tracks as well, supported as it was by Ollie. Mother also paused, her brow furrowing as if she wasn't hearing him correctly.

"Exactly what I said," Draco replied, setting down his bag. "I'm not running away again."

"This isn't running away," Father said, looking impatient. "This is a strategic retreat to keep out of Azkaban. Now, come along."

"I've run away before, I know what it feels like," Draco said snidely. "And strategic retreat? Really? The Dark Lord is dead at last. Bellatrix is dead. Most of the Death Eaters are dead or captured. We'd be better off here, working to restore our name. Mother, do you really think Potter won't speak up on your behalf? You did save his life, after all."

"Restore our name? In the eyes of who? Potter? Mudbloods? The blood traitors?" His father snorts, but there's desperation coloring his tone. "We must find other like-minded wizards in the world. The Malfoy name is respected internationally-"

"Not anymore," Draco spits back. "We lost all pride with both sides, if you don't remember. In the last two years, the thing I'm proudest of is lying to you when you asked if it was Potter." It's true – nothing was forcing his hand when he refused to identify Potter, no threats against himself or his parents. Just the thought that perhaps, if he kept Bellatrix from summoning the Dark Lord, Potter would have a chance to destroy him. He was risking his own life far more surely in that split-second action than in the entire year he spent trying to kill Dumbledore. Even so, there was a measure of satisfaction in what he did.

"You knew?" He was braced for his father's shock and dismay, but not for when Mother's face went slack, and her disappointment was written across her brow. "We could have been honored…Draco, it could have been over weeks ago, and we could have been honored above all others!"

His father's mouth was still hanging open in shock.

"Look at what happened to Snape," Draco spat. "An honored Death Eater – but when he got in the way, the Dark Lord had him killed without a second thought. Is that the ruler you hoped to follow? Look at our choices! Look where they've gotten us!"

He had never before raised his voice to his mother. Not once.

"This…we'll talk about this later. Now, Draco, come on!" Father rolled his eyes, tried to grab at his arm to pull him along. Those were the wrong words to say. Draco could hear an echo of them in Snape's voice as they struggled to run from Hogwarts. Bellatrix had been cackling madly, the Carrows cursing foully as they dueled with the Order of the Phoenix. All he could think of was running as far away from the old man's dead body as he possibly could.

He's tired of being screamed at, given orders, trying to hide from responsibility. Everyone had told him how to live his life – hate these people, make this person your friend, kill Dumbledore, wear this Mark, torture these people, tell us if this is Harry Potter!

For one moment, though, he'd acted of his own volition – not to please someone else, or do as someone else ordered. If he leaves with his parents today, that memory will fade into the old routine of following orders, and the one moment in which he'd only been Draco Malfoy would disappear.

No more. He's ready to be a man now. This is the only way he's going to be able to walk through life without constantly seeing the dead faces of Dumbledore and the Muggle Studies professor, the screaming faces of Yaxley and Dolohov, Crabbe's face paralyzed in pain, before crumpling and charring in the Fiendfyre's grip.

"I love you both," he said, voice shaking. "But I'm staying here."

There was more pleading, and Draco had to use his wand to prevent his mother's attempts at stunning him and dragging him along. In the end, his mother, anger evaporating, pressed her smooth cheek against his own, weeping, hugging him till he thought his ribs might crack.

Eventually, however, the Portkey glowed blue, and Draco backed away to keep his mother from yanking him forward. His father, however, turned his back. Draco raised his hand in farewell as the three of them winked out.

The Manor was suddenly very, very quiet. Draco sat down on the staircase and waited for the Aurors to come.

Hermione had left him to his reverie, scratching out notes on a sheaf of parchment. He sighed and pulled out his own notes.

He'd only found one Death Eater mark carved into his desk this week. Progress, he supposed.

They sat in companionable silence for over an hour, the fire crackling behind them as the only sound. Both were compiling their progress reports for the department, organizing their notes into documents that would come under scrutiny at trial. This was the rhythm of things – being called to account for something, and backing it up with what you could. Draco liked it.

Oddsbodds broke the silence, stepping into the small office and folding his hands across his portly belly.

"Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy," he said formally. "I wish to be the first to announce that you will be moving up to becoming accredited Investigators within the week. I've also made the recommendation that you two remain working together as partners – you do work so very well together. There will be more to discuss, but I thought you could use this announcement to keep you going as you sort through the Peakes house."

Both Draco and Hermione struggled to their feet and began shaking Oddsbodds' hands, thanking him profusely. Once Oddsbodds had left, grinning heartily, Draco turned to Hermione with a smile of his own. To his surprise, she was smiling…at the thought they would be working together?

He wondered if she would hug him, or if she'd shake his hand as she had with Oddsbodds. Did this mean that she was happy about being his partner? Was he supposed to hug her back, if she hugged him?

Some of his consternation seemed to show on his face, because Hermione's smile dropped, and she withdrew slightly.

"I'm going to go run and tell Harry," she said, a little lamely. "But I'll be right back."

He nodded, and wished that he had someone he could run and tell. He could Floo 'Meda and Teddy, but he'd see them tomorrow, and could save it as a surprise.

The joy that had so recently taken root began to ebb, and Draco decided to take an early lunch rather than face Hermione and sort out whatever had just happened between them. Grabbing his pail, he headed out to his usual nook in the Ministry's back hallways, settling down with a sigh on a backless bench.

So Hermione…wasn't unhappy about being his partner? And why was he happy to hear that he wouldn't be transferred elsewhere?

The first, he decided, was because Hermione saw it as her duty to stick up for those she sympathized with, and couldn't stand the thought of being proven wrong about anything. Why she testified on his behalf was still a mystery, though. If he'd had the chance to be revenged on someone to do the kinds of things he'd done, he'd have taken it. Even if she didn't have the desire for revenge – what led her to stick up for him in the first place? He shook his head and moved to the next thought burrowing in his guts.

Did he…like Hermione Granger? Swotty as they came, believing that she knew what was best for everyone, she had an odd charm about her, something that led him to trust her. You could confide in Hermione, and she wouldn't tell, unless she thought your life was in danger. He wouldn't have to work for trust with someone else in the department, and he liked arguing with her – at least when she wasn't being unreasonable.

The object of his thoughts suddenly appeared before him, and a carrot stick fell from his nerveless fingers.

"I was going to suggest we go out to lunch to celebrate," Hermione started. "But I came back and you weren't there."

"Took an early lunch," he said dryly, avoiding the question in her statement and focusing on the two cups she held in either hand. "What's that?"

"Frozen yogurt. Your favorite flavor is peach, I believe." She proffered the cup in his direction, but he didn't take it.

He could only blink in shock. "You've been stalking me."

"No, I've been observing you. There is a difference."

The beginnings of an awful, awful suspicion whispered through his mind. "Granger…were you assigned to keep tabs on me? Become my friend, watch my movements?"

"No," she said firmly, in such an affronted way that he didn't doubt her. "I think there may be other people doing that. Watching you. But if they wanted someone to sidle up to you, they wouldn't have chosen me, you know."

She was right. They would have chosen a pureblood, someone of dubious allegiance, someone whom he had little prior contact with. He nodded, his shoulders relaxing, and took the cup of yogurt from her.

"Thank you."

"Can I sit down with you, then?" she asked, in such a way that he knew she felt awkward saying it.

"Aren't you afraid of being seen with me?"

"No. And besides, we work together, right? We're partners."

"It's different on the outside," he replied dismally.

"It always is, isn't it?" she said thoughtfully. "It doesn't have to be, you know."

"But it is," he replied doggedly. "And besides, I don't want your boyfriend punching me out for having lunch with his girl."

"Ron's not the boss of me," she said heatedly – though he didn't think the heat was directed at him. "But you're right, he does tend to jump to conclusions like a kangaroo high on a Cheering Charm."

He nodded, feeling relieved and disappointed all the same.

"So turn around and straddle the bench."

"What?"

She huffed. "Just do it."

Well, she had brought him the frozen yogurt. He shrugged and turned away from her to straddle the bench, knees wide, and waiting for what she was going to do. To his surprise, he heard the rustle of clothing before a back pressed up against his own. Hermione's frame was small – he could feel the back of her head pressing against his shoulder blades, tendrils of her hair tickling his neck. She pressed close to him, and it was hard not to concentrate on the ripple of her vertebrae, the warmth of her body, the intimate movements of her breathing that made him so conscious of his own. It was like a backwards hug, and all the tension left him, an enervating looseness left in its wake.

"Since you're so worried, if someone looks down this corridor, all they'll see is me straddling the bench, eating my yogurt."

"You do know that my head sticks up above yours, right?" he said, enjoying the closeness of another person too much to protest again.

"If people ask, I'll tell them that I got a new blond hat."

Despite himself, he felt a grin stretch across his lips. "Friends?" he asked, wishing he could take the word back as soon as it left his lips.

He felt a rolling motion against his neck that meant Hermione had turned her head to the side. "Friends," she confirmed, reaching out a long-fingered hand, which he took briefly, almost as if they were shaking on an agreement. "I've got your back."

Perhaps this was what not being lonely felt like. "And I've got yours."

She squeezed his fingers. "And drinks are on you tonight."

"What?"

"I will not believe you if you say you don't drink. I'm as boring as they come, and I drink."

"I do drink. But you're not boring. Occasionally irritating, but never dull."

She made a little humming noise, and Draco interpreted it as a pleased sound. He liked it, and decided to give not being lonely a shot.

There was a swagger in his step as Draco left the Ministry later that day. Possibly it was the wrong thing for him to do. He sensed the presence of two men behind him. While this used to be a thing of comfort, nowadays, it put him on edge. The continuing silence didn't help matters.

He was almost to the Apparition point-

"Looking mighty pleased with yourself, aren't you?" a voice snarled. Draco gave up the pretense of ignoring them and turned around to face two burly men – from the Quidditch offices, if he wasn't mistaken. Oddly, they could have passed for Crabbe and Goyle's distant cousins – boulder-sized, boulder-shaped, and boulder-fisted.

"Suppose I am," Draco said, cursing the fact that he'd gotten out of work a few minutes early for the first time in ages. No one else was around. "What's that to you?"

"Means that probably someone else – someone on our side – just got royally buggered," said the one on the left, honey curls bobbing on his forehead. "Means that you aren't paying your dues."

"I was pardoned," Draco said flatly. The men snorted derisively, and he turned to keep walking. The men, however, kept pace with him, hemming him in on either side. Draco felt himself go on edge. Instead of the shell he'd been using to deflect these things for years, however, he felt the reassuring points of teeth.

"So if Shacklebolt and the court's decision isn't enough for you, and Potter and Granger's testimony on my behalf isn't enough…"

"It isn't," said the other man, flexing his beefy fingers.

"Then I've got a question for you," he said, trying to estimate how close he was to the point.

"What's that?" the second man demanded.

He was there. Draco stopped, then deftly turned to face them, taking a few steps forward as he did so, his hand going to his pocket.

"When I tell you to go fuck yourselves, will you put it down to me being pleased with myself, or a high estimate of your athleticism?"

The men's arms shot out, and Draco realized he'd cut it too fine, no matter how good it felt to get his old pride and snark back. He braced himself for the coming blows, clenched his fists in preparation-

And watched as the two wizards went flying backwards. Draco blinked in shock and looked back to the origin of the spell.

Hermione stood there, wand pointed, looking as annoyed as he'd ever seen her- but not at him.

Granger kept her promises. He wouldn't forget his.

The nice thing about teamwork is that you always have others on your side. – Margaret Carty

A/N: Thank you, and much love to everyone for sticking with me and reading this far! The next installment, "Remedies for Love" will amp up the romance angle, I promise. Hoping to get the first chapter up next week!