Hi everyone! This is a re-upload of my first-ever Dramione WIP, Invisible. There are 35 chapters.

-It is riddled with tropes and mistakes! Characters are OOC, read at your own risk.

-I am uploading this for my group members who asked me to, because they wanted to be able to read and re-read. They literally have been asking me for months

-The demon non-con has been censored

-There are over 200k words

-The formatting and author's note will not match the PDF version that other people created in November, because I am removing them for flow and consistency with my newer works.

-This is on indefinite hiatus and with likely never be finished HOWEVER! The Dramione plotline is resolved and they are in love by the chapter I wrote to, and there IS smut!

-Please do not get attached to the Greyback plotline, as this story might never be completed.

-Again, this story will be marked as on indefinite hiatus and we will see what happens next year.

DO NOT FEEL OBLIGATED TO REVIEW!

This is just for viewing pleasure! I will upload the chapters multiple times per day, but there will be no announcements in the groups.

Invisible

Chapter One - A Confusing Savior

Panic Room by AURA and Words of Gratitude by Hail the Sun

O

Draco POV

"Have you given it any further thought, my dragon?"

At the sound of Narcissa's delicate soprano, Draco looked up from his breakfast plate. He'd fascinated himself with pushing his eggs benedict around the rim of the porcelain, ignoring his mother's attempts at conversation on what could be the most devastating day of both of their lives. His grey irises lit upon her face, taking in the way the lines around her mouth had deepened and the way the light never quite reached her eyes anymore. His heart wrenched for his mother, and he felt remorse settle deep into the pit of his stomach. He spent the majority of his days lamenting his decisions and he truly believed he was the cause for her melancholy.

"Thought to what, mother?" he asked, his voice coming out in a murmur.

"To your class schedule for the year." The Pureblood witch dabbed at the corner of her mouth with an ebony linen napkin. She didn't seem surprised that he hadn't been listening to her, and she certainly didn't appear miffed, but Draco felt chastised nonetheless.

"Oh," he said, and he set his fork down. His voice had an airy quality to it, as though he were tired or his energy were drawn. "Well, yes, I suppose I have given it some thought."

He didn't want to talk about his Eighth Year, the special year Headmistress McGonagall had set up for last year's Seventh Year students. He didn't want to talk about the plans he didn't have, and the goals he'd never gotten around to setting, and the failure he was terrified of becoming. He wished his mother didn't put on airs. He didn't want her to pretend that they weren't going to watch the Wizengamot destroy their family today. He wanted her to tell him that they were both going to be okay. That no matter what happened, everything would turn out all right. Because even though he was eighteen and a man in the eyes of the wizarding world, he felt like a child who'd been put onto a bike with no wheels for the first time.

Before the war, he knew exactly who he was and what he wanted. Now, he could hardly sleep without nightmares, let alone possess enough energy to sit and think about his class schedule.

Narcissa's perfectly coiffed salt-and-pepper hair and satin dress robes looked a bit out of place amongst the emptiness of their once great dining hall. The Aurors had taken everything - even the paintings on the walls. Their long dining table had been confiscated because Voldemort had held court around it, and now, they sat down at a much smaller four-person table that his mother had transfigured from a dusty footstool.

When the one House Elf they had left in their employ came to bring them breakfast, it had taken her a much longer time to walk across the empty hall to their table than normal. Draco hadn't been able to look away from the frown on his mother's face when the elf did so. Typically, with the longer table, the Malfoy family would have seated themselves closer to the entrance. Therefore, the elves didn't have far to walk.

"Tinky," Narcissa had chided. "You know you can Apparate right beside the table."

"Tinky knows," the three-foot tall creature had stated. Her large nose wrinkled as she offered her mistress an encouraging smile. "Tinky just likes the exercise, miss."

Draco knew her short legs did not like the exercise of walking across the forty-foot long dining room. Tinky just didn't want Narcissa to be reminded of the fact that everything was gone. After Narcissa presented her with clothes that past June, Tinky was just as dear as a member of the family; the last thing Draco thought she would want to do is upset Narcissa.

"And what have you chosen?" his mother pressed before taking a demure bite of her eggs. Her cerulean eyes fixed on him, and he sensed a desperation for normalcy hanging in the air about her head that rivaled his own.

"I need several to pass my N.E.W.T.s," he mumbled, picking his goblet up and taking a sip of his water. "Likely Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Ancient Runes, and Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"Indeed?" Narcissa responded, her dark brows arching with grace. "Ancient Runes? Do they really require runic knowledge to be an Auror?"

Because his parents had never exactly been interested in what he did for personal study, Draco felt an awkwardness rising up within him. He bit his lower lip, holding his goblet with one hand while tapping his fingernails on the wooden table with the other. His eyes slid to the right, to where his father would likely sit if he were home. He could almost visualize his father's disapproving stare.

School had always been perceived by Lucius as a means to an end. Not only did his father want Draco to take over his private financing company, Malfoy Association & Trust, but his bones would rattle in the cage of his skin if he knew Draco had any fleeting desire to become an Auror. The Malfoy legacy was steeped in the Dark Arts and magic of shadows - why ever would Draco want to break tradition?

Draco feared his mother would ask him not to take the class, and he feared even more that he would do whatever she told him to do.

"They do not require it," Draco said, because he couldn't lie. Rather, he could lie, but when it came to Narcissa, he had no desire to. "I have a personal interest in Runes."

Narcissa, much to Draco's astonishment, nodded and gave him another smile. "I support you exploring personal interests this year, Draco. I think it's an excellent idea. It will warm my heart to know that you'll be occupied with entertaining pursuits at Hogwarts, rather than ones that do not bring you happiness."

Draco's heart clenched and he averted his eyes again. The truth hung unspoken between them in the dust-heavy, oppressive air of the disgraced Malfoy Manor. Narcissa wanted her son to have a good, fun year because she would not, in fact, be having a good, fun year. Her year would be spent tucked away in Greece, leaving the despair of the Manor behind for a small chateau near the coast of Denmark.

It was best for her to be as close to Lucius as possible, not wandering listlessly about an empty house that no longer felt like home.

"Thank you, mother," Draco said, and the corners of his lips twitched up into softness. "But do know: I'm still unsure of what I want to do after graduation."

Narcissa said, "Oh? You no longer have the desire to become an Auror? I thought you spoke of following that pathway just this past July?"

"I know I spoke of it," Draco said, and he lifted his hands to his platinum blond hair to brush his bangs out of his eyes. "But I don't . . . I don't suspect they will take me. Not after . . . Well, everything."

"What would you do instead?" Narcissa didn't look angry, like Draco knew his father would be if he knew how indecisive Draco was being.

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but trepidation held his words back. He had no idea what he wanted to do, and he knew it would stress Narcissa to have to worry over him while she was busy worrying over his father. And with how stressful that day's events were bound to be, he didn't want to exacerbate any anxieties she might be harboring.

"I'll know fairly soon after term starts," he told her. "I promise."

"Good," she said, and she set her fork down, her eyes falling upon his still-full plate. "Will you not be eating your meal?"

"I'm not quite hungry," Draco said, and he placed his elbows on the arms of his chair. He steepled his fingers in front of his face and allowed himself to wander his thoughts for a brief moment.

He knew not eating would only serve to concern her of his well-being, but his stomach felt like it had been twisted into a bowtie. He felt queasy as well, and worried that the nerves would cause him to heave the breakfast up if he ate it. And when he glanced back up at his mother, when he saw the way she was quite visibly masking her sadness with her impeccable appearance and questions about his Eighth Year, he knew for sure that she needed him well today. Not ill and hurling eggs benedict all over the floor of the Ministry.

Before Narcissa could reply, the wand that she had laid on the table began to tremble. Draco didn't miss the flash of terror in her eyes before she carefully disguised it behind a Pureblood smile.

"Come, my dragon," she said demurely, rising to her feet in one fluid moment. "It's time."

Draco stood and smoothed out the lapels of his black suit jacket. He adjusted the buttons and took a deep breath. In just a matter of thirty minutes or less, he'd be laying eyes on his father for the first time in over two months, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to look at him directly. He'd been ashamed of his father for a lot longer than anyone would suspect. Seeing his father in a cage especially reserved for Death Eaters, spikes pointed inward along the bars to prevent movement and magical chains around his wrists that prohibited wandless spells, would most assuredly provide Draco with the cherry on the top of his shame sundae.

"Here," Narcissa said, standing before him when they were at the Floo in the Drawing Room. "Let me adjust your hair, love."

Draco leaned into the soothing touch of his mother's slender fingers in his hair, his eyes scanning the barren room with its high ceilings and shattered windows. They'd never bothered to fix the windows after the Aurors destroyed them out of pure hatred for their family. Narcissa had said it didn't matter, not when the entire house was a reminder of their ordeal. In any case, Draco hated the Drawing Room for more reasons than one. This room was where the Dark Lord had ensured that he had no real choice in which side to fight on, the room where he'd experienced the singular worst moment of his life by taking the Dark Mark, and the room where another equally shameful event had taken place.

His eyes lingered on the spot on the cold floor where she'd lain, sprawled out under the pain of the cruciatus. When Draco's cowardice had reached a height of no return - when Draco had stood by and listened to her scream and to his aunt Bellatrix as she laughed and laughed and laughed.

Narcissa's tender hand against his angular face snapped him back to the present, and his eyes locked with hers. She smiled again, but the light still didn't reach her eyes.

"It's going to be alright," she said, patting his cheek once. "No matter what you choose to do with your future after Hogwarts, it will be alright and I will be here. Don't fret."

Draco lifted his hand and caressed his mother's cheek with the back of his fingers. "I would also like to say the same to you, mother. No matter what happens today with father."

Draco and Narcissa rarely spoke of Lucius after his arrest, and after the Aurors came and took everything but the family portraits, their beds, and their clothing, they didn't speak of him at all. But now the day had come - the day of Lucius's penultimate sentencing - and the amount of words Draco wanted to share with his mother were so numerous that they weighed down his heart. He loved his father, and it was love that made his shame feel like a betrayal. Especially with Draco moving through the rest of his life knowing that his father had chosen to shoulder the brunt of the family's crimes, taking the punishment that all three of them should be sharing just so his wife and son could be safe and happy.

Draco had almost landed himself in a cell beside his father's, however, when the Aurors came. One of them was handsy with Narcissa when he'd destroyed a glass vase that had been given to her by her mother. She'd thrown herself at him in a fit of tears, and he'd slapped her in response. Draco had rushed from where he'd been salvaging some books in the Malfoy Library to the East Wing only to discover an Auror not much older than himself beating Narcissa about the head with his fists. The fit of possessive rage that overcame him was too much to handle, especially after watching a particularly nasty wizard set Abraxas Malfoy's portrait on fire with a diffindo spell, and it had taken three wizards to subdue him. It was only the kindness of a female Auror that had kept him from being arrested and while he was glad for it, he couldn't help but wish that she'd just thrown him in jail with his father if only to shorten Lucius's possible sentence.

The once illustrious Malfoy family barely existed amongst their own shadows, and Draco felt sick to his stomach knowing how pitiful it was to wish you could be imprisoned with your father as a sacrifice.

A loud pop sounded out, and Tinky appeared directly beside Draco. Her smile appeared genuine, revealing a mouth full of missing teeth.

"Tinky wanted to say good luck," she said, curtsying in the simple cotton dress Narcissa had sewn for her. "Tinky hopes the master Lucius will be able to return home soon."

Draco saw his mother's chin tremble ever-so-slightly, and he took the opportunity to kneel down in front of the little elf. He fixed her with a smile and patted her on the top of the head. Tinky didn't know or understand how the world of wizards worked. He knew and Narcissa knew, but it didn't make her comment any less upsetting.

They both knew Lucius would never set foot in Malfoy Manor ever again.

"Thank you, Tinky," he said. "You're most kind. Will you watch over the Manor while we're out today?'

"Of course," Tinky said, voice chipper. "Tinky will be happy to dust, if you please."

"If Tinky pleases," Draco repeated, grinning widely and patting her on the head one more time. He stood.

"Much appreciated, my darling Tinky," Narcissa said, smiling down at the beaming elf, and then together with her son, she stepped into the Floo. With a tremble to her voice, she said, "British Ministry of Magic."

The speed of the Floo helped to dry the sweat from Draco's nervous palms.

O

Getting to the Ministry was the easiest part. It was getting past the mob of people, flashing camera bulbs, and yelling reporters that proved to be the most difficult. Draco had to use his full 189-centimeter height and a firm hand on his mother's back to get them past it all unharmed. But it was Narcissa that retained the strength. When voices in the crowd of onlookers began to hurl insults and jibes of "Death Eater scum!" their way, she held her head high and nose upturned, and it helped Draco to calm his swirling ire.

"Draco Malfoy! Narcissa Malfoy! Do you think they'll give Lucius the Kiss?" A reporter's voice screamed out above the others.

"After they're done, ask them to give you both the Kiss, too!" came another voice, and his comments caused a series of raucous laughs to erupt from crowd members, Ministry workers, and reporters alike.

Draco nearly stopped and spun to give them a kiss with his knuckles, but Narcissa shot him a scathing look in warning. Cowed, the eighteen-year-old lowered his gaze. He knew his mother was hurt by the words the same as he was, but she didn't want any more reason for their names to be in the papers than the reporters already possessed.

"Let them talk," Narcissa said to him in a clipped tone as they stood in front of the lifts. "It's naught we haven't heard before."

Draco banished the mental image of himself throwing punches left and right into the mob, and then the lift nearest them opened its doors for them. His anger had been steadily growing hotter and hotter over the months, and it had grown nigh unbearable in emotional moments. What with the amount of howlers they received via owl every day, Draco wasn't sure he'd be able to make it through one day at Hogwarts without getting into a fight. He had his sights set on a couple of Hufflepuffs already - ones who'd had the nerve to threaten his mother directly via the post.

They stepped into the blessedly-empty lift, turning to face the crowd of people outside and their angry voices. They raised their arms and held onto the straps that hung down while Narcissa told the attendant which floor they needed. The lift descended downward, each passing floor seeming to push on Draco's nerves.

What would Lucius look like, after his time in Azkaban so far? What would the Wizengamot say when they reiterated his crimes to him aloud and then decided his future as a prisoner of Azkaban prison? Would they be harsh or lenient? Would anyone come to speak for him before sentencing, to try and lend some form of support? Draco doubted it, especially with how despised their family was. Out of all the Pureblood families who'd thrown their lots in with Voldemort, the Malfoy family seemed to be the family the wizarding world hated the most. Even when Narcissa had come forward publicly for an interview on the front page of the Daily Prophet and announced that the Malfoy family was reneging on their previous stance against Muggle-blooded witches and wizards, there had been no respite from the vitriol. If something drastic didn't happen, Draco feared there would be no forgiveness for them, and Lucius's sentencing would provide no tourniquet for the bleeding rage of the wizarding world.

The corridor leading to the courtroom stretched long and quiet, the ink-black stones seeming dizzying with how heavy the darkness of the hall pressed in on them. In spite of the lit wall sconces, Draco felt like he needed to cast lumos just to make it to the door. He linked an arm through his mother's, who patted his elbow gratefully, and they made their way to the door.

A tall wizard in light blue robes stood by the door, and he offered no smile when he gazed across the space of the hallway at Draco.

"Narcissa Malfoy, you may enter," he said, his deep baritone making Draco's ears itch and crawl. "However, Draco Malfoy may not."

"What?" Draco blurted out, his arm tightening in indignance around his mother's. "Why not? He's my father!"

Narcissa looked pale, but said nothing, clearly nervous.

The wizard's beady eyes regarded Draco without emotion. "Due to Lucius's request that your crimes be considered his responsibility, given that you were recruited into You-Know-Who's ranks before the age of seventeen and were thus a minor, the Wizengamot has decided it best not to allow you to be present at court. Narcissa, as his wife, may enter and sit amongst the audience."

Draco wanted to protest, but something in the worried way his mother's lips curved downward told him it would be best if he just followed the rules. This day would be extremely difficult for his parents, and his mother had no need for any outbursts of immaturity. He swallowed his pride and his dismay at not getting to tell his father goodbye, and he turned to his mother.

"Will you be alright?" he asked, concern furrowing his brow as he placed his hands on her thin, frail shoulders. His mother was excellent at following rules if her loyalty to Lucius throughout the war was of any indication, and this surprise hadn't thrown a wrench in her calm demeanor. Still, he worried for her.

"I'll be most well, my dragon," she assured him, leaning up on the tips of her toes to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. "I shall see you afterward."

"Very well," he sighed. "I'll wait here."

Draco crossed the hall and leaned up against the wall with his hands in the pockets of his trousers and one foot kicked up against the wall. He watched the tall wizard and Narcissa disappear into the room, his eyes fixating on the room as the door swung open. He heard a cacophony of voices, and he saw the benches that lined the walls full to the brim with witches and wizards of all ages, but he could not see his father. Then, the door swung shut, and whatever silencing charms they had on the room settled in.

It grew quiet.

The blond let his eyes fall to the floor, studying the grey concrete grooves between the rectangular stones. Alone, there in that hallway, it felt very easy to let his guard down. He allowed his Occlumency walls to crumble, and the weight of his sadness sagged his shoulders. He hung his head, his bangs falling forward into his eyes, and he let himself wallow in his self-hatred for as long as necessary.

Draco blamed himself for this, for everything. For being weak and scared, for never standing up for himself, and for allowing his father to make such a sacrifice for him. Draco dreamed often of that night on top of the Astronomy Tower, remembering how violently his wand had trembled as he held it pointed at the only person who probably could have helped him. The only person who could have stopped the war from happening. Everything that happened after that, Draco knew was his fault.

He wished he could have spoken to Snape one last time and told him how much he owed the Slytherin professor for everything he'd done for him. How much he respected him for being the only person to truly accept Draco for who he was throughout the years. Severus had his shortcomings, the temper of a hissing rattlesnake, and a chip on his shoulder the size of Europe, but he was Draco's godfather. He was family. Snape was to Draco as Dumbledore was to Potter, and he advocated for Draco where others expected the worst.

And Draco wished he could have been there when he died.

Draco yearned for many things, and for many opportunities to go back and fix his mistakes. If he could go back to the beginning of Sixth Year, he never would have delved as far into the Dark Arts as he had. If he could go back, he'd turn nights spent poring over books about Dark Magic into nights spent sleeping soundly. He'd have destroyed the vanishing cabinet and shattered the bottle of poisoned wine before ever even sending it. He'd have chosen death over joining Voldemort's ranks and taking the Mark.

If he could go back, he wouldn't have stood there while Aunt Bella made her scream. He would have stepped forward and done something. He would have chosen the right side.

But Draco didn't have the courage of a Gryffindor. He had the self-preservation of a Slytherin, and so he'd chosen the route that would keep him alive. He'd truly believed that Voldemort was more powerful than any other wizard simply because Voldemort said so. Everything he'd ever lived by had been because his father told him so. So why would Voldemort have been any different?

Draco felt stupid, thinking that now. Voldemort had, in fact, been the weakest wizard to live. The snakelike buffoon had operated under the assumption that if he was terrifying enough, he could earn respect and rule the wizarding world. But he hadn't known that without earning the love of his subjects, a king cannot gain their respect. Voldemort's self-hatred of being born with Muggle blood had twisted his mind, but no matter how many speeches he gave, he'd never been able to twist anyone else's mind. Not truly.

Except maybe Aunt Bella's.

After Potter killed Voldemort and his body melted into dust and shadows, nearly every Death Eater defected instantaneously and showed up at the gates of the Ministry clamoring for leniency. Even Draco had done the cowardly thing and run for the hills with his parents and his regrets. Both he and his father would have to live with their Dark Marks for the rest of their lives - a wicked brand and testament to their poor decisions and the pain they'd not only caused, but had also endured.

And yet, nothing seemed to be as cowardly to Draco as that fateful night in the Drawing Room of Malfoy Manor. Draco remembered watching the House Elves scrub her blood from the stone floor by hand because something about the curse Bellatrix had used affected the ability to tergeo the blood. Spells wouldn't get rid of it, and so Bellatrix, angry about her encounter with Dobby, beat the elves and forced them to do it on their knees. The entire time, Draco had watched them with unfocused eyes, his self-hatred burning ever deeper.

Draco was jealous of Potter for having the friends he had, and yet one of the reasons he had those friends was due to his bravery. When faced with the opportunity, Draco hadn't possessed any bravery at all. He hadn't done anything. He'd just stood there.

As Draco lifted his arm, preparing to pull up his sleeve and look at the Mark out of habit, the soft clack-clack of shoes against the stone broke him out of his tormented reverie. He glanced up and his breath caught in his chest. At the same time as he laid eyes on the newcomer, the door to the courtroom opened, discordant noise pouring out in a jumbled mix of angry voices. The tall wizard in the cerulean robes stepped out and ignored Draco.

"Ah, Hermione!" he said, and just hearing her name spoken aloud made Draco's throat go dry.

Hermione Granger came to an abrupt halt in the center of the hallway, her eyes sliding over Draco for a millisecond before she rested them upon the tall wizard with warmth. Draco couldn't help but notice that her hair was not the wild mane he remembered, but was right then pulled up into a tight chignon at the base of her head. The severe hairstyle and prim beige business suit was so utterly Granger, and yet she looked nothing like he remembered. He hadn't ever noticed how dewy and clear her skin was, nor the heart shape of her face and the gentle slope of her narrow frame when they were growing up. He certainly had never noticed how the largeness of her eyes were surrounded by a thick fringe of long, dark lashes, nor how her lips were the absolute perfect size for her face. His eyes narrowed for the briefest of seconds.

When had she grown attractive?

Draco cursed internally, shaking the thoughts from his head as though they burned. She was a girl, likely eighteen just like him, and he was a boy. Most girls with legs were attractive, but Draco knew the reality. No amount of cleaning up would ever erase the way her cheeks flushed when she was screaming, nor the way her tears clung to those long lashes like morning dew when she wept.

What the Hell? he thought, repulsed by himself and his train of thought. His palms began to sweat.

He didn't think he'd be able to look at her much longer without his guilt from the Drawing Room overwhelming him. He felt ashamed. He was a far cry from the tough kid he used to be in school, patrolling the hallways with his lackeys and harassing kids he didn't think were as good as him. How could her wearing a boring pencil skirt and sensible two-inch mary jane heels mug him off so badly?

"Minister Shacklebolt," Granger said, and her smile shone pearly-white, full of a friendliness Draco had never experienced from her. She then greeted Malfoy out of her incessant need to be polite. "Malfoy."

Draco straightened his back and slammed his Occlumency walls into place to compartmentalize, pretending not to be irked by the way the kindness in her voice flattened into barely-concealed distaste. Not only did he not want her to know he'd been self-destructing in the hallway outside his father's sentencing hearing, but he didn't want either of the two people to realize that he hadn't known the man in blue was the new Minister of Magic. Had the Summer truly been so stressful that Draco hadn't been paying any attention to the news?

"That's Kingsley to you, Hermione," Minister Shacklebolt said. The monotone he'd given Draco and Narcissa had disappeared, to be replaced by one of sunlight and fond memories. It seemed obvious to Draco that these two were acquainted.

"Oh, of course!"

The tall wizard shook Granger's hand with enthusiasm. "Now, are you sure you want to do this?"

"Positive," Granger said, and her voice ran thick with strength. Her body stood rigid, chin tilted up in an almost defiant manner. She avoided Draco's gaze.

Draco felt a pit of dread open up in his stomach. Could she be here to make things worse for his father?

"Sure you want to do what?" he snapped, barely able to keep the sneer out of his voice. He already felt enough guilt and shame, and his family had suffered so much. If she were here to cause trouble, the sneer would be well-warranted.

Granger looked up at him. She spoke at him, but it appeared that she was talking to the stone wall by his head. She was a lot shorter than he remembered her being, or maybe he'd just never paid attention?

"I am here, Malfoy, to speak on your father's behalf," she said in a matter-of-fact voice. "Now, if you'll excuse me. Kingsley?"

"Yes, Hermione, this way," Minister Shacklebolt said, still ignoring Draco's presence. He led her inside, and for another few seconds, the loudness filled Draco's ears. Then, the door swung shut and quiet settled in again.

Though it was silent in the hallway, a cacophony of noise bounced around the walls of Draco's mind. He was screaming inside. Hermione Granger, Golden Girl and Warrior of Light, the know-it-all bookworm with the beaver teeth and bush for a head of hair, was speaking on behalf of Lucius Malfoy before the Wizengamot? He fell back against the wall again, one hand in his messy hair and the other on his hip. He felt so confused, and yet he also felt somewhat elated. To have one of the three heroes of the final battle against Voldemort speaking for his father was an honor. To have Granger do it? Surreal.

He hoped she made a difference.

Draco couldn't believe this was happening, and he had no idea that it would be occurring whatsoever. After everything he'd put her and her friends through, after his own contributions to the dark path Voldemort tried to take the world down, why would she want to help the Malfoy family in any way? And what did Potter think of her decision? He wasn't present, so obviously he either didn't feel the same, or he simply didn't know Granger was present and doing this. And if she could be secretive with Potter of all people, then what was the real reason she was here?

He narrowed his eyes at the closed courtroom door. Could Granger have some ulterior motive? Slytherins were nothing if not careful, so he didn't want to think too highly of the situation.

He flushed slightly when a mental image of her appeared before his mind's eyes, almost as if by attack, and he was unable to deny that she'd certainly grown into her looks. Also by attack, his memory reminded him of the small, secret flame he'd held for her during First Year, before his father had found out and lectured it out of him. He'd never really dealt with that, and sometimes, over the years, he wondered to himself if he'd teased her because he wanted her to feel bad about herself . . . Or if he'd done it to keep her at arm's-length.

He stood in the hallway for a good ten minutes, fidgeting with the buttons on his suit jacket and staring at the courtroom door. He wondered what she was saying about Lucius, what type of questions the Wizengamot could be throwing her way. Surely she couldn't have anything positive to say about him? To be truthful, if Draco were asked, he probably couldn't think of any qualities of his father's that didn't include insane loyalty to a fault and inherent racism. How would Granger have the memories available to provide something better?

When the door opened, Granger exited by herself, one of her hands coming up to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. In spite of her best efforts, the mane had attempted to escape the confines of the bun. Something about that amused Draco, but he ached for information so he ignored it.

Using Occlumency, he was careful to guard his rather raw emotions for his father and his prior thoughts about her. Instead, he focused on the peculiar shade of honey-brown in her irises, and caught her gaze with an intensity he hoped she hadn't the ability to break free of.

"Malfoy."

"Granger," he said, folding his arms across his chest. He tilted his head to the side, asking in a casual drawl, "How well did you mug my father off?"

"Oh, honestly, Malfoy," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Do you truly think I would do something so horrible?"

"Honestly, Granger, I believe you owe me no debts and you have nothing to lose by sending my father to Azkaban for the rest of his life," Malfoy said. And then, because something about the calm way she regarded him put him off, he drew his shoulders back and took a step toward her. Her head moved back marginally to allow herself to look up at him, and Malfoy's trademark sneer spread across his face. "What plans do you and Potter have? Are you here to exact some sort of hidden revenge?"

"Revenge?" Granger laughed, but it lacked mirth and her eyes remained hard as flint. Beside her thighs, her hands balled into fists. "I forgot how insufferable you could be. Is it so hard to believe there are good people in this world, Malfoy? That it's completely possible for good people to do good things for people just because they want to help?"

"If it's coming from you, your weasel, or your four-eyed git, yes!" Draco blurted out, his anger lashing out like a whip. He took one more step toward her, becoming increasingly aware that she smelled of freesia, and stopped himself. "Our prior interactions have been nothing short of unpleasant. Why should I have any reason to believe you'd come to my family's aid after everything that's happened between us?"

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?" Her eyes studied him, jumping back and forth between his face and chest. "As for the lack of pleasantries between you and I, I believe the fault lies with you, Malfoy. And I think you know that."

Her voice strengthened and lips curved up into the hint of a Slytherin smirk at the end of her very Gryffindor sentence, and Draco could tell she thought she'd won the argument. Oh, she thought she'd won, and Draco was annoyed. Granger was the insufferable one, with her books and her constant hand-raising in class and her random facts, and he'd be damned if she won an argument regarding the well-being of his father.

Draco's expression darkened into a silver storm and he gritted his teeth together. He knew the lies that were sitting on his tongue had no business being uttered, but his anger had been getting out of control over the summer. Anyone and everyone, save for Narcissa and Tinky, lay in the path of Draco's temper. Yes, the words he said next had no business coming to life, but he hired them anyway, and regretted it the second they clocked in.

"What I know, Granger, is that my father could be blamed for your screaming that night at my house," he hissed, the rage within his body reaching the tips of his fingers and toes. "He's the one who told Aunt Bella to show you what he felt like Mudbloods like you deserve, to punish you the way he always wanted to when we were kids. And you choose to help a coward who was too scared of dirtying his hands with muddy blood to do it himself. Guess you're not as clever as you used to be."

Granger flinched as his words slammed into her sensibilities, and it felt like watching a balloon deflate. The curl fell forward from where she'd neatly placed it behind her earlobe as she looked down, and Draco's guilt exploded. In that moment, he'd never needed his Occlumency more. He quickly built up the walls so she wouldn't see how much he hated himself for giving in to his anger, and how much he wanted to take the words back. His glare faltered, but he kept his arms crossed so as to not show any signs of weakness.

He didn't want her to know the truth.

Much to his surprise, Granger lifted her eyes from the ground and fixed them directly upon his. Warm honey met molten silver and turned to a blazing fire, and Draco nearly took a step back. As usual, just like when she'd punched him in third year, Draco underestimated her strength of will and her decidedly short fuse. A fuse that next set off a bomb that felt a lot worse than she probably thought it did.

"That may be. But you're the one who stood by and watched. So who's the real coward?"

Draco looked away. He had to because he was ashamed and because she was right. He kept his Occlumency walls up firm so she wouldn't see the way his heart wrenched when she said it, but he had a feeling she knew exactly what he was feeling. He uncrossed his arms and jammed his fingers through his hair, the nerves rippling through his body.

He'd been prepared to witness his mother crying herself to sleep that night. He'd been prepared to watch his father go to Azkaban for however long he was sentenced. He had not, however, prepared himself for Hermione Granger.

After a tense, charged silence, Granger exhaled audibly.

"Though you haven't asked, I'll tell you: it didn't go well. I did my best to advocate for him, for them to consider a reduction of his sentence, but the Wizengamot did not seem amenable. I came here to help, not to fight. We've outgrown this, Malfoy," she said, and she sounded tired. "I've outgrown this toxic dynamic."

"Then why come?" His eyes snapped back to hers and he slipped his hands into his pockets with a shrug. He was breaking down inside, despairing with her admission that her best hadn't been enough. "Why step into your, as you say, toxic past and put yourself in this position for my father? It isn't as if he's ever given you any reason to believe there's anything good in him, just as I've never given you any reason to believe so, either. So why come speak for him?"

Granger pushed her hair back and then folded her arms over her bosom. She pressed her lips together before she said, "You didn't choose your parentage, Malfoy. We were all just kids, even up until now. We're all still kids." Silence, and then softly, "I didn't do it for him."

Draco's eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second and then, in spite of his best efforts, his Occlumency trembled and faltered. Because he knew what she was saying, and even though it didn't make any sense, it made him feel as though the floor had lurched and the walls were shaking. Because if she didn't do it for Lucius, and she had no ulterior motives or plans, then that meant that Draco had a lot more to feel guilty about.

If she didn't do it for Lucius, then she did it for Draco, and he didn't deserve that from her.

He lowered his eyes to the ground in front of his feet, setting his jaw. "Why my family? Why not any of the others? The other Death Eaters were pawns and underlings. My father was the worst of them all. But you didn't speak at anyone else's trials, did you?"

She hesitated, pressing her lips together in a thin line. "No."

"It doesn't make sense, does it, then?" he shot back. "Just last week, Crabbe's father was sent to Azkaban and sentenced to the kiss. After Crabbe barely recovered from his Fiendfyre burns. Why didn't you speak at his trial?"

Granger bit her lip, her eyes raging, and she shook her head. "I don't have to answer that question."

Draco could feel his anger rising again, but he allowed his desperation to outrun it. "Tell me why, Granger! Why not Crabbe's father? Why mine?"

Granger didn't back down in body, but Draco could see it in her eyes: her resolve had thinned.

"Remember that night?" She whispered her question, though it seemed more like she couldn't manage to speak loudly. She seemed drained, nervous. Her hand twisted in the loose lock of hair, and she planted her eyes firmly on his collar. "In the Drawing Room?"

Draco said nothing. He didn't need to.

Granger closed her eyes, as if thinking back to that night. "I looked over at you, and you looked haunted. For the entire Sixth Year, you had that same haunted, empty look in your eyes. But Crabbe? In all our years, I've never seen him look empty. When he cast the Fiendfyre spell against us in the Room of Requirement, his eyes were full and alive. Alive with hate. That night, at your home, with Bellatrix, you . . . You looked dead. Inside, you looked dead."

Draco found that he couldn't breathe and for some reason, he'd taken another step closer to her.

How did she know him so well? He'd known that she and Potter watched him during Sixth Year, but he hadn't known that Granger had seen him. How had she known he'd had to kill off the part of himself that felt things, if only to survive?

"Crabbe looks like he sleeps well at night," she breathed, tilting her head up to see into Draco's eyes. "Do you?"

Draco couldn't tear his eyes away from her lips. "Do I what?"

"Sleep well?"

He froze. All of his thoughts halted and his lungs stopped moving and his heart stopped beating, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Draco felt exposed. He slowly dragged his eyes to hers and when they met, it felt like he was looking into the eyes of his mother.

And he had no desire to lie to Narcissa.

"Like I said," Granger said, voice returned to normal. She took a step back, smoothing her hand across her stomach as though it ached. "I didn't do it for Lucius."

Draco gazed at the wall in stunned shock, listening to the clack-clack of her heels on the stone ground as she walked away. Before he could react further, the door opened and Narcissa came out in an icy storm of defeat. He couldn't hide from his mother. His shoulders slumped and the corners of his lips tilted downward.

"Sentenced to thirty years," his mother said, resignation coloring her eyes brighter, "and the Kiss."

Draco looked off down the hallway in the direction Granger had disappeared to, his heart stuttering with grief. Thirty years and the Kiss was as good as death. Lucius Malfoy as everyone knew him was gone, and Draco's family was shattered. His mother would surely mourn, and Draco wished so badly in that moment that he could return to the night of Dumbledore's death and change everything. But he couldn't, and so all he could do was stare at the door of the lifts with dread pooling in the pit of his being.

What would the sentence have been without Hermione's help?

Want to connect with me?

Playlist at honeysweetwriting dot com

HoneySweetWriting on Facebook

Honeysweetcutie dot Tumblr