Chapter Text
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Azkaban Prison was full of many unfriendly noises. Screams of prisoners who’ve finally lost their minds and sobs in the dark of night of those who haven’t. Howling winds and torrential rains. Rattling chains and rattling breathing of Dementors. Clinking bars and maniacal laughter. It was always wet and cold. Always dark and dank. All of it was part of the soul sucking ambiance so graciously provided by the Ministry of Magic.
Draco Malfoy had grown accustomed to the sounds and smells over the last seven years, eight months, and five days, and did his best not to add to either. He had no desire to draw the attention of his fellow prisoners or the horrifying guards, both wizard and creature as neither were particularly pleasant under the best of circumstances.
Unfortunately for him, he shared one of the highest floors in the prison with all the surviving Death Eaters. Or more accurately, anyone with a Dark Mark, whether they had wanted it or not, all to be locked away for life. His father was down the hall and around the corner from him, but also largely kept to himself. Not that they were technically allowed to speak to any other prisoners anyway, but sometimes they would see each other in passing. Draco could see the longing and regret etched on his face, but truly didn’t give a fuck. Lucius was the reason he was forced to forfeit his life, and they both knew it.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Draco tried to keep himself busy by keeping his cell tidy, daily meditation and occlumency practice, staying fit, or as fit as a malnourished body could be, and reading and rereading the muggle literature they were all subjected to once a month. At first, many of the Dark Lord’s sycophants raged in their cells and ripped the books into shreds that still littered the hallways, but after a few months many began to read them or simply ignored them. A few psychos still raged like Jane Austen had suddenly appeared in their cells to maim them, but Draco assumed many were grateful for the distraction. Some sane individuals would even help the brainless oafs like Crabbe Sr. sound out words from time to time.
Click. Click. Click.
Draco was wrenched away from his toiling by a new sound.
Click. Click. Click.
Well, no, not a new sound to him, but new to Azkaban.
Click. Click. Click.
A witch’s high heels were echoing down the stone hallway. It couldn’t be a solicitor, because the prisoners were always brought to them on the ground floor, and it was quite obviously not a guard. A small unexpected bolt of fear struck him on the mystery witch’s behalf. What in Merlin’s name would possess the type of witch who wore sharp high heels to come to the fiftieth floor of Azkaban Prison?
His fear was immediately validated when catcalls and lewd propositions began to echo through the stone corridor.
The witch said nothing, but kept walking.
“You are not safe here, my dear.”
His father was talking to the witch, warning her. Draco froze as the clicking of heels stopped. He couldn’t hear her response, just the soft tones of a feminine voice.
“Are you certain— I-I mean to say—“ Lucius stuttered out, and that put a pit of dread in his stomach. He had never heard his father stutter. It was quiet for a moment, until a deep sob wrenched the air. “Thank you, you darling girl. I don’t know how to repay you for this.”
“There is no thanks necessary, Mr. Malfoy. I am just correcting a wrong,” the witch responded politely. “Just try not to hex my future children, I know that was a joyous pastime for you.”
Lucius Malfoy, a lifetime prisoner in Azkaban, laughed deeply. Actually fucking laughed. “I believe I have outgrown that business.”
A tinkling feminine laugh echoed just before the sound of her heels filled the corridor once more.
Click. Click. Click.
Draco looked down at his grubby bare feet as the witch approached. Deciding he would only look up once she had passed. Except for the fact that she didn’t pass, she stopped. Right outside his cell. He kept his eyes downcast until the bars unlocked and a bright silver form forced him to look up and scramble back against the damp stone wall.
After a few moments of squinting and shielding his eyes, he realized that the light was a Patronus Charm in the form of an otter. The silvery creature was almost cartoonish and, reluctantly, he had to admit it was fairly adorable as it somersaulted through the air, looking at him cheerfully. He was completely mesmerized by the sight and the sudden lack of a chill in his bones that he had all but forgotten about the witch until she spoke.
“Are you hurt?”
Draco’s eyes shifted from the otter to a face he never thought he’d ever see again. Hermione Granger.
Well, certainly not the Hermione Granger that he remembered. The disheveled, bushy haired, emaciated girl that had spoken up for him at his trial was gone. The Hermione Granger in front of him had flourished in the last seven years, eight months, and five days. Her long chestnut curls were shiny and soft looking. She was no longer gaunt from the war, but filled out and womanly with generous curves. Her face was still beautiful, with full pink lips and freckles, and her eyes were still exactly as he remembered them. Warm, brown, and vaguely judgmental.
You see, being beautiful was never Hermione Granger’s problem. It was her attitude.
Admittedly, during his first year at Hogwarts, he had sworn that her blood was the problem, but it had been nearly 15 years since he’d truly believed that.
Her delicate brows pinched together and she crouched down a few paces from him, or as well as she could in her pencil skirt. “Malfoy? Are you hungry? I’ve brought you some food.”
“Why are you here, Granger?” His voice was raspy from disuse, and he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually spoken out loud.
She frowned and bit her lower lip then stood to close the space between them, sitting primly beside him on his threadbare cot. She looked him in the face like she was calculating odds, then nodded to herself. “I’ll make a bargain with you. I will explain everything, if you eat. Sound fair?”
He leaned away from her, just by a few inches, overwhelmed by her floral and fresh rain scent, and narrowed his eyes at her.
“I’d rather skip a meal than be subjected to another bowl of Azkaban slop, but thanks so much for the consideration,” he snarked.
Granger laughed quietly, not at all intimidated by his glaring. She produced a large silver cylinder from her cloak and twisted off the awkwardly large lid, flipping it over before pouring steaming chicken broth soup with small pieces of meat, small cuts of vegetables, and noodles. Draco realized that the lid was awkwardly shaped because it was intended to be used as a bowl, clearly some muggle contraption. He would have asked for more information, but the steaming bowl of soup and hot rolls on a little plate were forced into his hands. The plate also came with a spoon and a little napkin.
“What the fuck is this, Granger?”
“That is chicken noodle soup and two dinner rolls. Made from scratch by Molly Weasley, just for you,” Granger explained softly.
What was that? Was he imagining things? Or was this some sick joke? His head snapped up to look at her, and she looked completely sincere. “Why the fuck is Molly Weasley cooking anything for me?”
“Well, you’re being practically starved here, and we didn’t want to give you anything too rich that might make you sick. Blaise was going to make you one of his Nona’s recipes, but Molly thought this might be easier for you at first. I was going to bring just the broth, but she insisted you needed some vegetables too. The rolls have a few splashes of Strengthening Solution and Nourishment Potion in them, but other than that, they’re just regular rolls.”
Draco couldn’t help but stare at her like she had swapped heads with a flubberworm. Why was Blaise Zabini talking to Granger about his grandmother and her prized family recipes? Or negotiating his meals with the Weasley matriarch? And why would any of the Weasleys even care if he ate or starved to death? Nothing made sense.
Granger could clearly see his spiraling thoughts and reached back into her cloak to produce a stack of documents and a small photo album. “Now don’t panic, I know this probably feels like a lot, but I can explain.”
She flipped to the middle of the photo album and turned it towards him. Sure enough, Blaise stood at the center of the photo in bespoke dress robes clutching at Ginerva Weasley in a silk wedding dress, smiling like the happiest man on earth. Several other Weasley children could be seen in the photo, as well as Granger herself in a sage green bridesmaid gown, Harry Potter sporting a full beard of all things, and his best fucking mate, Theodore Nott. He was snogging the life out of one of the Weasley brothers in the background of the photo, looking terribly smitten.
After a few moments of silence, Granger turned the page with a slow deliberate motion revealing a photos of his other best friend, Pansy Parkinson, in a matching bridesmaid gown. One was of her and Granger flanking Ginerva, both hugging her tightly before pulling back to laugh wildly. The other showed Pansy smiling brightly and perched on the lap of some broad shouldered man with a scruffy beard and looking up at her with lusty eyes. Then it dawned on him.
“Is that Longbottom?” He nearly spat out.
“Yes,” Granger said patiently. “A lot has changed in the last five years or so. They all wrote letters for you, and I have them with me.”
Rage and something very close to jealousy twisted in his gut. “Why are you here? To torment me with the knowledge that everyone is better off without me? Seems pretty fucking sick, even for you.”
She just blinked at him owlishly for a moment then closed the photo album and leaned towards him. “Our bargain, remember? You eat, and I’ll explain.”
Draco took a calming breath and tried to occlude his rage away. Once he was certain he wouldn’t throw the bizarre muggle bowl across the room, he made a show of picking up the spoon and scooped up a mouthful of broth. Some might think he was foolish for eating it, but being poisoned to death would be a happy surprise when compared to a lifetime in Azkaban.
And fuck him, it was so delicious that he could very well have started crying full blown tears of gratitude if not for his heavy occlusion.
Granger smiled as he took a second spoonful. “Right, well I am here in an official capacity as a lead prosecutor for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Unofficially, I am here to spring you.”
The spoon dropped to the bowl and splashed them both with broth. “What did you just say?”
“It’s a bit of a long story, so please keep eating,” she said gently and nudged the plate of rolls towards him.
“Don’t fucking toy with me, Granger,” he sneered. “Explain.”
“I’m not toying with you, Draco,” she said looking a little put out, while his heart broke into a sprint. It had been years since anyone had called him by his name. She held his gaze for a long moment, then seemed to squirm in her seat and cleared her throat.
“I am here to spring you. You will be leaving Azkaban today.” She absentmindedly tucked a curl behind her ear then cut a look between him and the soup bowl in his hand. He took another small spoonful and the corner of her mouth ticked up in approval.
Draco abruptly realized he quite liked her approval and took a more generous bite. She might have been his insufferable school rival on the opposite side of the war when they were younger, but right now she was a pretty witch smiling at him after he had spent years thinking he would never see another witch again, pretty or not.
“I’m also here to save your life.”
The threat of death somewhat dampened his spirits, but it wasn’t really anything new to him.
Granger cleared her throat again, and picked an invisible piece of lint off her skirt. “I have been working with your mother and friends for years, collecting information about your actions during the war and some of the things that happened to you. Last month I finally found a loophole in the blanket life sentencing policy for those with the Dark Mark. Kingsley signed your release paperwork just this morning, which is why I’m here now. There are conditions of course, but nothing unmanageable.”
Draco huffed out a laugh and reached for one of the rolls. “I don’t really give a fuck about the conditions as long as I’m not here.”
Tension dropped from Granger’s shoulders and another smile tugged across her lips. “I’m glad you said so, just keep that attitude when I tell you this next bit.”
She quickly shuffled the stack of documents and angled the stack so he could read the title.
Official Decree No. LXXIV: The Repopulation and Restorative Marriage Act of 2006
Draco arched a brow at her. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“This is a Ministry mandated marriage law that forces every man and woman from ages 18-40 to marry and produce a certain number of children with arbitrary timelines. That part isn’t really relevant at the moment,” she heaved a heavy sigh and flipped to a page marked with a little yellow tab. “Those in a relationship can choose to get married or let the Ministry assign their new spouse. Assigned spouses will be announced January 15th, and those not married by June 30th will have their wands snapped and the existence of magic Obliviated from their minds.”
“And they think I’m a criminal,” he scoffed. “I can’t truly say I’m surprised. Last I knew an auspicious group of the Dark Lord’s followers still ran the Wizengamot.”
Granger hummed in agreement, then tapped the page again. “It’s buried in the fine print, but you are included in this law, Draco. Except those with no memory of magic cannot stay in Azkaban as they are. You would be facing the Dementor’s Kiss. As would every other person with a life sentence within the appropriate age range.”
Draco nearly choked on his broth at her words, and felt all the blood drain from in his face as dread filled him. He was going to be forced into a marriage with some strange witch or face having his soul sucked out. So much for so-called freedom.
She must have seen something in his face before she nodded and sighed in defeat. “I know. It’s barbaric. We have been fighting it for months, but have done nothing more than paint targets on our own backs. Me especially, you know how I can be,” Granger added with a little self deprecating laugh.
“I’m certain I can still imagine, yes,” he responded, giving a small laugh of his own.
Granger sat up straighter and smiled at him sadly.
“Draco, I don’t want to cause you any stress, but we have it on very good authority through one of your mother’s contacts that you and I have been matched. To be frank, they, meaning the Wizengamot, did this to try and get rid of us both. You know your father was stripped of all of his titles and authority over your family estate?” He nodded, feeling the horror of the situation wash over him while she continued. “If you were incapacitated, the Ministry would be able to seize the Malfoy and Black assets. And I’m sure you can see the obvious benefit of me no longer being in the Wizarding World.”
Her words felt like a slap in the face. From where he was sitting, homemade food and signed release papers nearly in hand, Draco could see no benefit to losing Hermione Granger, insufferable know-it-all or not.
But he understood her true meaning. Certain portions of the Wizengamot and high society would celebrate her loss, as there would be no one else who would challenge their corruption or bigotry.
“Are you proposing to me, Granger?” He asked wryly.
She gave her tinkling laugh and scrunched her nose, causing something different to stir in his chest.
“Not quite. But I have a proposition for you, but it seems like we will be married either way.” Draco found he quite liked how the thought didn’t seem to upset or frighten her, but didn’t interrupt. “You have certainly earned your freedom, so if you would like to spend the next few years doing as you please while we play house, I will fully understand and respect that.”
Granger paused and bit her lip again, appearing nervous for the first time. “Or… when you’re ready, we can get revenge and make their lives a living hell. You take your place as Lord Malfoy and use that power to bat down all their schemes from the outside, while I dismantle them from the inside. They will have no idea what they unleashed upon themselves.”
Draco just stared at her blankly. What she had said sounded insane. Did he want to be a kept man and just play house with her? Or did he want to make all those slimy fuckers pay for what they had done? When you’re ready. Well that sure as fuck wasn’t right now.
He gave a heavy sigh. “Fuck, Granger. I really don’t know what to say. To any of that.”
To his immense surprise, she smiled kindly at him, almost sweetly. “That’s okay. You don’t have to decide now. I truly don’t expect anything from you, Draco, so please don’t worry. I won’t take any other choices from you, I promise.”
He had always been told he had made all the wrong choices, but truth be told, Draco Malfoy never really had a choice at all. Not in how he was raised, what he was told to believe. Not in how he was required to carry himself. Not in taking the Dark Mark. Not in his first mission as a slave to the Dark Lord. Not in what would happen in his future.
Hermione Granger was now giving him choices over his own life, even if the hand he had been dealt was less than ideal.
His impenetrable occlumency walls cracked at her words, and an unexpected sob tore through his chest. For the first time in almost seven years, tears flooded his eyes and ran down his face before he could stop them.