Chapter Text
Draco drew shallow breaths, the air strangling him. The blend of parchment, perfume, lemon oil, and wool had lost all sense of comfort. Now they clawed at his throat like foreign invaders after months of breathing nothing but rot, salt, and mould.
When did clean become suffocating?
He shifted against the rough wool of his prison robes, chasing even a moment of relief. The fabric grated his already raw flesh in the creases where his skin wept, the garment slowly eating him alive. Its bite was barely distinguishable from the lice that visited him nightly.
The cool kiss of silk. The warmth of cashmere. Both long forgotten and lost to another life.
His nerves, plucked fresh like violin strings, drew his attention to the shackles encircling his wrists. The iron hummed, a vibration that burrowed beneath his skin as the enchantment latched onto his magical core squeezing and wringing it out. The sensation made Draco feel cramped. As if someone had stuffed all six foot three of him into a ring box and expected him to breathe.
He tried to escape it. But the movement only made the manacles bite deeper, the scabs at his wrists tearing open. Fresh warmth trickled down his palms.
Brilliant. Well done, Draco.
A nearby guard who’d been watching him spelled the wounds shut with a lazy flick of his wand. Except, they’d neglected the raw skin around them, leaving it angry and weeping beneath the iron’s edge. Just enough to stop him from bleeding visibly. It was always about optics with the Ministry.
A wooden chair cradled his aching body. It was smooth—worn slick from the friction of many a dark wizard’s arsehole. Including his father’s. The armrests bore indented half-moons, perfectly cupping the edge of his shackles. He traced the groove with his yellowing thumbnail, wondering idly about the age of the piece.
Wizards had a predilection for keeping old things—objects, traditions, and ideas. He was witnessing the death of the last.
Whether the wizarding world liked it or not, pureblood ideology had kept it running—kept the Ministry functioning. Safeguarding their way of life from the Muggle chaos on their doorstep. And now they denied it. All of them. The same families who'd smiled at his mother’s galas, who'd shaken hands for back-door deals with his father—they sat above him now in plum-coloured robes, their faces arranged in careful neutrality.
Hypocrites. Every last one.
Now, Draco and his so-called ilk were a dying breed. Neutered by the stroke of a quill. Punished for ideals they’d all once shared.
Here he sat, the last of the Malfoys to face judgement. Father, sentenced to life in Azkaban. Mother, on temporary house arrest at their Hampshire estate. His verdict would be the punctuation on the lengthy Malfoy legacy. A heritage he’d carried with pride for twenty years.
But his father had got greedy. Hungry. Made critical missteps under the assumption that his master would never rise again.
Instead, they all paid the price.
His father’s verdict was effectively a death sentence in the eyes of the wizarding world. Upon the sealing of Lucius’s incarceration, Draco had become the head of the House of Malfoy. He looked down at his hands—skeletal and trembling—the light catching the platinum signet ring on his little finger. Its face had fallen to the side, refusing to sit upright with no excess flesh to keep it buoyed.
Head of the House of Malfoy. The title felt like a cruel joke.
While the Malfoys dominated headlines, other purebloods with Death Eater ties had found themselves in the spotlight. The past few years of trials had been an ongoing spectacle, each juicy detail sensationalised by the Daily Prophet. The newspaper had been the only reading material he’d been allowed beyond a few paltry Muggle-authored books.
In the wake of the so-called “Reformation,” the full Wizengamot filled the chamber to show its might. Amidst this parade of punishment, Kingsley Shacklebolt—the new Minister of Magic—had starred as Chief Warlock in these proceedings. Determined not to repeat the “sins” of his predecessors.
A cauldron of bubotuber pus. A politician would commit unspeakable acts to sway public opinion.
Every trial and deliberation spanned weeks. Sometimes months. Punishments were especially harsh, with little leeway. Shacklebolt’s creativity for doling out justice was lauded in the Prophet in pages of arse-kissery that would’ve put Wormtail to shame. To further fuel the fire of justice propaganda, unflattering photographs of the accused were splashed across the front page. The public, dim-witted as they were, gobbled it up with ferocious abandon.
Deep down, Draco had taken a modicum of comfort in the camaraderie of suffering. It made him less lonely—not that he’d ever admit it. In the end, he was just another face among many. Another arse rubbing a new layer into this wooden chair.
He was so very tired.
I just want to go home.
As Draco sat there in his silent suffering, he observed Shacklebolt who sat front and centre in his plum-coloured robes. Fresh grooves carved age at the corners of the Minister’s mouth. Cracks snaked from the outer corners of his eyes. His shoulders drooped, and twin chips of onyx bore into Draco with something that looked distressingly like sadness.
Like a disappointed parent. Something in his stomach twisted. Spare me.
He became suddenly, keenly aware of the public audience behind him. They’d filtered in while he drowned in his own thoughts—witches and wizards of varying ages, dressed in their finest robes, silenced by a magical barrier.
Sprinkled throughout, Muggleborns glared at him. Almost foaming at the mouth like a pack of wolves with the scent of fresh kill. He bristled at the ravenous glee on many faces—wizarding and mudblood alike. A few visibly cackled, shoulders shaking with silent mirth.
I hope you choke on your satisfaction.
Draco furrowed his brow and jerked his gaze back to the Wizengamot.
At the same moment, Shacklebolt produced his wand, pressing the tip to his throat.
“We will now commence with the sentencing of Draco Lucius Malfoy.” His voice boomed, magically amplified, resonating in Draco’s chest like a second heartbeat. “Head of the Malfoy Family, for his actions during the Second Wizarding War on this day, Tuesday, September twelfth, 2000.”
The silence that followed pressed against his eardrums like palms clamped over his ears. It felt heavy and oppressive. The sort of quiet that made the blood rush loud in the ears and the pulse tick visibly at the throat. Above him, the full Wizengamot stared down—expressions ranging from polite indifference to open hostility. Draco forced his spine straight, biting back a hiss as his prison robes chafed against raw skin once more.
Regardless of his beliefs, there was no turning away. It was his turn to pay.
Just like his father.
He gathered the ragged edges of his mind, pulling them together like torn fabric. But the occlusion walls he managed were thin. Tissue paper against what was coming.
“Taking into account your father’s testimony of his involvement, and those of numerous other individuals—” Shacklebolt paused. Something flickered across his face—a tightening around the mouth, there and gone. “—most notably Harry James Potter, we’ve concluded a lesser sentence is to be applied.”
Bloody Potter. Draco’s jaw clenched like an iron trap. Has to be a hero. Sticking that ruddy scar in everyone’s business.
Shacklebolt cleared his throat. “For the following charges: partaking in the conspiracy to commit murder, accessory to unlawful entry, third-degree torture of Thorfinn Rowle—”
He did almost nothing to Rowle. Only plucked a fingernail. Transfigured his upper half into a rodent. Child’s play compared to others.
“—accessory in the torture of Hermione Jean Granger—”
The named landed like a physical blow. His lungs seized. The acrid stench of the outdoors flooded his nostrils—phantom grass, phantom night air—and beneath it, the hard wood of the Manor’s drawing room floor. Aunt Bella’s laughter ringing off the walls like shattering crystal. The mudblood’s screams as she carved—
Draco shut his eyes. Exhaled a shuddering breath that rattled through his hollow chest. Wallpapered another layer over his crumbling mental walls.
“—conspiracy to kidnap, and the aiding and abetting of Lord Voldemort during the period of the Second Wizarding War and in the Battle of Hogwarts on May second, 1998.”
Shacklebolt’s obsidian gaze moved from the floating parchment and levelled on Draco. “We, the Wizengamot, sentence you to domestic cursed exile for a period of five years.”
Draco’s chest tightened—a fist closing around his sternum. The air punched out of him as he stared at the floor, the polished wood blurring at the edges of his vision.
Not Azkaban. Not Azkaban again. Anywhere but that horrid place.
“A portion of the cursed exile will include house imprisonment for the first year.”
His gaze snapped to the Wizengamot, mouth unhinging slightly. He exhaled slowly, relief coursing through his veins like a calming draught—warm and immediate, loosening the bands around his ribs.
Home. I’ll be home.
“During that year, Ministry officials will catalogue and sweep for dark artefacts, literature, and further evidence of Lord Voldemort’s crimes from his occupation of Malfoy Manor.”
The relief curdled instantly. Soured in his stomach like milk left in the sun.
Strangers. His fingers curled against the chair, nails biting into the worn wood. Strangers in the Manor, touching Mother’s things, Father’s study, the library—
“This will aid in the upcoming trials and convictions of other Death Eaters. The house imprisonment will cease once the estate has been cleared.”
Shacklebolt’s dark eyes fixed on Draco. For a moment, they simply looked at each other across the vast, silent chamber.
“The terms of the cursed exile are as follows.”
Here it comes. The catch. There’s always a catch.
“For the duration of your exile, you will be cursed to wear your Death Eater mask while you’re conscious.”
The words didn’t make sense at first. Draco heard them—mask, conscious, cursed—but they refused to arrange themselves into meaning. They floated above him like smoke, shapeless and untouchable.
“This will exclude meals, bathing, and sleeping. Furthermore, you will not be allowed to set foot outside wizarding Britain during your exile.”
His Death Eater mask. The cold porcelain weight of it against his face. The way it had made him feel both powerful and utterly expendable—a lamb dressed in wolf’s clothing, marching willingly toward the slaughter. Instinctively, his fingertips reached for the bruise that was his dark mark beneath his sleeve.
Five years with that thing on my face.
“If you are found to have performed an Unforgivable or dark magic of any kind during this time, your sentence will alter to an additional ten years in Azkaban. This includes violating the aforementioned restrictions.”
Five years. Ten if he was bad—in Azkaban no less.
“If certain conditions are met, which will be communicated to you after this hearing, you will be eligible for parole and released from the cursed exile.”
Draco sat up straighter, ignoring the scream of protest from his spine. Parole. Conditions. I can meet conditions. I can—
“And finally.” Shacklebolt’s voice dropped, settling into something low and leaden. “For acts committed by the Malfoy Family as an entity, your house seat, Malfoy Manor, and a large percentage of your fortune shall be given as reparations to Hermione Jean Granger.”
The chamber went sideways.
No.
The scroll before Shacklebolt snapped shut with a sound like a thunderclap, gold sparks erupting from its purple seal. Draco felt himself collapse inward—a building with its foundations kicked out. His fingers paled to bone-white as he gripped the leaden chains connecting his wrists the metal biting fresh crescents into his palms. Then, like a wispy shroud ripped away by the wind, his occlumency walls collapsed entirely.
A thousand thoughts shot out, ricocheting in his mind like errant fireworks.
The Manor. They’re taking the Manor. Ten centuries of Malfoy blood and magic and—they’re giving it to HER.
Five years. Five years of a masked existence. He was losing his family home. An immense portion of his wealth. And the only thing he had left—his face.
Maybe Azkaban would’ve been a better fate. But that was a lie. Anything was better than that horrid place. His body knew it even if his mind refused to accept it—every muscle had gone slack with relief at the word exile rather than imprisonment. The flesh remembers what the pride tries to forget.
Around him, pandemonium erupted amongst the audience—cheering, jeering, the satisfied baying of a crowd that had finally tasted blood. Draco’s posture crumbled as he pointedly ignored it, his gaze fixed on some unremarkable point on the floor where the gaslight pooled like spilled gold. The Wizengamot muttered amongst themselves, many members gesturing wildly to others. Shacklebolt, brow furrowed, spoke softly with Susan Bones on his left. A Daily Prophet reporter at the end of the grandstand muttered to a floating blue quill that darted across parchment.
Time sped up, besieging Draco with his new reality. Too soon, a scroll unfurled before him—a purple Ministry wax seal gleaming in the gaslight. The moment of signing his life away stared back at him.
He was but twenty years old. The noose of anxiety tightened around his throat, pulling the air thin.
Draco drew a shuddering breath and reluctantly reached for the proffered black quill. The iron manacles clanked with the movement as he wet the parchment with his signature, the quill’s nib scratching against it like a fingernail on stone.
Draco Lucius Malfoy.
His signature looked wrong. Shaky. The ‘M’ had a tremor in it that his father would have sneered at.
“Unacceptable penmanship, Draco. A Malfoy’s hand does not waver.”
As the ink dried, so did the meaning of his existence. A home held in the hands of the Malfoys for ten centuries… gone. All that wealth accumulated…cut down to a hollow shell and given to the mudblood.
Somewhere behind him, a woman laughed—high and bright and victorious.
Draco closed his eyes and felt the noose pull tight once more.
On the seventh floor, at the farthest reaches of the Dark Artefacts Department, Hermione tore a corner off her coronation chicken sandwich. The curry and sultana mixture turned to mortar in her mouth, yet she swallowed it anyway. Between bites, her right hand continued spilling her thoughts onto the report before her—cramped, precise handwriting filling the parchment in neat rows.
Behind her, the fireplace crackled. Turquoise flames licked at the logs, releasing the scent of juniper berries with each snap and hiss. A clever little spell she’d discovered buried in The Proper Pureblood Wife, Volume XV. Despite its rampant misogyny—with chapters on “managing one’s husband’s moods” and “the proper deportment of a hostess”—she’d picked up quite a few handy charms.
She’d kept the book. Some knowledge was worth the distasteful packaging.
Her Ministry office was half the size of her small one-bedroom flat in Diagon Alley. Semi-spacious by institutional standards, cavernous compared to the glorified broom cupboards most junior employees occupied. She’d even seen some offices on the lower floors bedecked in monochromatic shades of grey with an open floor plan. Those newly starting out or stuck in stagnation slowly withered under it’s low gaslights, like a plant forgotten on the shelf.
But she was no ordinary witch and in no ordinary department.
Unlike the common sterile boxes normally assigned, with their plain office furniture and bare walls with the one enchanted window, Hermione had made this space hers.
The office was arranged in tidy chaos. Maximalist, some might say. Which suited her perfectly. Bookcases ringed the room like mismatched panelling, stuffed to bursting with manuscripts on dark magic, wizarding history, pureblood genealogy, and their associated social customs. The spines were a riot of colours and textures—cracked leather in burgundy and forest green, cloth-bound volumes faded to the colour of old tea, one ancient tome wrapped in what appeared to be dragon hide that still shimmered faintly in certain light.
Several small plants in hand-glazed pots trailed greenery to the shelves below, tendrils threading between photographs and trinkets. Most of them were a gift from Neville. Hardy specimens that thrived on neglect, which was fortunate given her schedule.
A small skull of a newly born basilisk from the Rowle estate sat preserved in a bell jar. One of a few vials of the first attempt at wolfsbane sat untouched on a gold-plated hook of intricate filigree from the Avery estate. The wax seal had grown brittle with age, hairline cracks spider-webbing across its surface, but the iridescent purple liquid within remained perfectly still. A goblin-made bracelet, previously filled with a few grains of time-turner sand that had ended up with the Unspeakables, sat unclasped on a velvet cushion like a sleeping serpent.
They wove a living tapestry of her life over the past few years—collected from various decommissionings and meaningful moments. Trophies, some might call them. She preferred to think of them as rescued things. Objects that might have been destroyed or locked away in Ministry vaults, never to be studied or appreciated again. Here, at least, they could be seen. Remembered.
Her socked feet curled into the thick-piled tapestry rug that blanketed half the stone floor. Meticulously woven medieval maidens sat beside unicorn companions in faded threads, their expressions serene despite centuries of footsteps. The colours had dulled with age—what had once been vibrant blues and greens now muted to softer tones—but the craftsmanship remained exquisite.
Worth every sodding galleon.
She rubbed her big toe along the pile, feeling the soft fibres catch between her toes.
She’d spotted the rug during the Yaxley decommissioning, her first major assignment. Day after day of cataloguing cursed heirlooms and dark objects, and every evening she’d found herself lingering over this rug. Tracing the faded outlines of the maidens’ faces with her eyes. Fingers hovering just above the woven threads.
“Quite attached to it, aren’t you, Miss Granger?” The barrister’s voice echoed in her memory. “Well. We could perhaps arrange something. For a tidy sum, of course.”
A fond smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she scratched her quill across the page.
Dismantling centuries-old pureblood estates was glacial work. To start, it involved seven departments minimum. Legal. Magical Law Enforcement. The Department of Mysteries for anything particularly nasty. Goblin Liaison if there were vault concerns, just to start. Endless stages of legal red tape before anyone could so much as touch a doorknob. Her department—Magical Curse Breaking—entered midway, once the solicitors had exhausted themselves arguing over property rights and inheritance claims.
A select few, herself included, swept for dark magic and remediated its effects. Room by room, they’d systematically hunt for cursed objects, catalogue them, and neutralise what they could. The goal was to decommission and cauterise. prevent the poison of pureblood ideology from seeping into new hands.
Now, Hermione was deep into the final stage. Her least favourite part.
Months of documentation. Piles of reports that transformed her Eastlake-style desk into a mountain range of parchment. If she’d ever held any love for paperwork, it had long since withered and died.
The Carrow estate had been particularly brutal. Within the past few months alone, she’d catalogued well over one hundred and forty objects. Each more creative in its cruelty than the last. Her hand hummed with a continuous ache from the endless quilling. She could have used a Quick-Quotes Quill, but the memory of Rita Skeeter’s poison-green abomination still made her skin crawl.
Never again.
Thank Godric, there were only ten more days until the case resolved. Her eyes darted to her personal calendar, where discreet tick marks counted down the days like a prisoner scratching stone.
The current object glittered up at her from its photograph. An ebony cane, platinum filigrees curling across the handle, mother-of-pearl inlays catching the light. Breathtaking. The sort of thing that begged to be picked up and admired. Held.
And if I’d touched it, my eyes would have wept blood before dropping from their sockets.
Using her refillable quill—a recent invention she’d grown quite fond of—she inked its details across the parchment.
Self-defence charm, blood-triggered, affects only those of Muggle parentage. Upon contact, causes acute haemorrhaging of the ocular cavities...
Thankfully, diagnostic spells had revealed that detail and not, say, personal experience.
She no longer made those mistakes.
Sighing, Hermione finished her findings, attached the photograph, and closed the folder with a satisfying snap. Leaning back in her leather ergonomic Muggle office chair, worth every strange look from her colleagues, she flicked her wand toward the radio and let her eyes fall shut. Her hands folded across her chest as she let out a steady exhale.
Just five minutes. Just five minutes of not thinking about cursed body horror and bespoke cursed objects.
“Wizarding Wireless Network, for all your wizarding news and grooves,” crooned a voice from the device, smooth as warm honey.
Hermione kept her eyes closed, letting the sensual tone weave its spell over her tired mind.
“In Wizengamot news today, the sentencing for the final Malfoy, Draco Lucius Malfoy, was read in court.”
Ah, that was today. Not that she’d been paying much attention to the spectacle.
“He was sentenced to cursed exile for five years. Unfortunately, at this time, the particulars of his cursed exile are unknown to the general wizarding public. However, we do know one of those years will be carried out strictly within Malfoy Manor as house arrest. Conditions for parole were not discussed nor publicly disclosed.”
Cursed exile. Not Azkaban, then. Kingsley’s new approach—rehabilitation over re-incarceration, or whatever the slogan was.
“In addition, his assets, the revered Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire, and a large stake in the Malfoy fortune will be rewarded to Hermione Jean Granger of the Golden Trio for reparations of her torture within his ancestral home.”
Her eyes snapped open.
She sat up so fast her chair rolled backward, wheels catching on the edge of the rug. Her heart battered the cage of her ribs—once, twice, three times—before she remembered to breathe. Her gaze fixed on the tombstone-shaped radio across the room, nestled between a potted devil’s snare and the framed Muggle photograph of her parents. Buckbeak’s feather stood beside them, its edges ruffled with age and dust.
Malfoy Manor. They’re giving me—
“Lucius Malfoy the second was tried only a few short months ago and sentenced to life imprisonment within Azkaban with no parole. While in contrast, Draco’s mother, Narcissa Malfoy, maiden name Black, received two years of house arrest at their secondary property in Hampshire.”
Her fingers picked at the ragged edge of her cuticles without conscious thought. Tearing at a hangnail until it stung. The sandwich sat forgotten at her elbow, coronation chicken congealing.
“It was expected that Draco Malfoy would receive a harsh sentence for his actions leading up to and during the Second Wizarding War. Ex-Wizengamot members had predicted a twelve-year stint in Azkaban and a lifetime ban on international travel. But we believe the sentence was lessened due to Harry James Potter, the famed defeater of You-Know-Who. His testimony revealed Draco’s actions during the night of his kidnapping by snatchers and on the Astronomy Tower preceding the late Albus Dumbledore’s death. We also believe his father, Lucius, was given the lion’s share of the punishment in place of his son due in part to Draco’s age.”
“In other news, tomorrow, we have the trial of Tiberius Nott—”
She silenced the radio with a sharp jab of her wand.
The office fell quiet, all except for the snapping of the fire and the creak of her chair.
Hermione dragged her palm down her face, pressing her index finger into the space between her brows. Harry had mentioned Malfoy’s case during their Friday lunch, just a few days ago. He’d testified weeks prior, determined to repay some “life debt” he felt he owed Narcissa Malfoy for lying to Voldemort in the forest.
Not that he needed the excuse. The facts were plain enough. Harry was simply the mouthpiece—the Wizengamot could take the information and use it as they saw fit.
She’d been summoned to speak as well. But standing before a full chamber, with him sitting there watching...she’d submitted written testimony instead. Clinical. Factual. Easier to write the words than speak them aloud.
Her hand drifted to her left forearm. Through the thin fabric of her sleeve, she traced the raised edges of the scar. The letters pulsed with phantom heat, the way they always did when she thought about that night.
She remembered his eyes. Mercury bright. Bleeding with terror. The way they slid away from hers, unable to hold her gaze.
Leaving her pinned beneath Bellatrix’s wand.
SLAM.
Her body jerked violently, rattling the desk hard enough to send a stack of parchment cascading to the floor. Hermione clutched her chest, heart dancing wildly, eyes round and unblinking.
The door had swung open with enough force to scatter the occupants of a nearby painting—a pair of tuxedo and orange-striped cats fled their canvas in opposite directions, leaving behind an empty wicker basket littered with abandoned toys.
Ron stood in the doorway, slightly hunched, one hand braced against the frame.
His scarlet Auror robes vibrated with each heaving breath, the garish colour bright against her dark and moody office. The collar sat askew, buttons misaligned on the front placard of his uniform. Scuffed dragon skin boots tracked dried mud across her floor as he staggered inside.
“Her-Hermi-Hermione,” His face had gone the colour of raw beef, sweat beading at his temples and dampening the ginger hair at his forehead. “Didja hear?”
If the walk to the seventh floor winded him this badly, he really needed to lay off Molly’s heavy cooking. The ruddy cheeks alongside his Auror robes did him no favours paired against his ginger hair.
“Hear what?” She sat up straighter, arms crossing over her chest.
Ron was intelligent in his own way. Brilliant at chess. Surprisingly insightful about people when he bothered to pay attention. But noticing had never been his strength. During those brief months after the war when they’d tried to be something more, she’d realised what she could tolerate in a friend became unbearable in a partner. He’d been sweet, attentive even—in the way a golden retriever might be attentive.
But it hadn’t been enough.
She’d needed someone who noticed the things she didn’t say. Ron saw what was directly in front of him. And sometimes not even that.
She continued staring at him, waiting for the point.
“Ferret face,” he wheezed triumphantly, swiping at his damp upper lip with the back of his hand. “Merlin, I forget how far your office is.” Another gulp of air, chest heaving. “Malfoy got sentenced! Not Azkaban, mind you, but a cursed exile. Haven’t seen one of those in ages.” His face split into a grin of unabashed glee, eyes crinkling with delight. “What d’you think the curse is? Transfiguration again? Turn him into an actual ferret this time?”
He laughed at his own joke, a loud bark that bounced off the bookshelves.
Hermione remained silent.
She knew almost nothing about cursed exiles. That branch of magic belonged to Judicial, shrouded in layers of bureaucratic secrecy and need-to-know classifications. Transformation curses, binding spells, magical brands—vague mentions in history texts, nothing more.
“Hermione!” A voice echoed down the corridor, growing rapidly closer. With the door open, her silencing spell was temporarily lifted.
Ron twisted around as Harry rounded the corner at a half-jog, flushed but less alarmingly so. His Auror robes, at least, were properly buttoned, though his hair stood up in its usual chaotic disaster.
“You okay?” Harry asked immediately, green eyes scanning her face with that familiar intensity. Only slightly breathless.
She rolled her eyes, fighting the urge to smile despite everything. These boys. “I’m fine, Harry. Really.”
He didn’t buy it. His eyes narrowed behind his round glasses, arms crossing over his chest. That particular tilt of his head, assessing, searching for cracks in her composure.
“Hermione.”
“Harry.”
The corner of her mouth drooped before she could catch it.
Ron threw up his hands. “She said she’s fine, for Merlin’s sake!”
Harry’s shoulders dropped, but his gaze held steady. “You’re okay with inheriting a home where you were tortured.” Soft. Careful. “A home where that evil woman carved a slur into your body.”
The scar flared to life.
Her hand moved without permission, pressing against her forearm through the thin fabric of her sleeve. The letters burned beneath the cloth—smooth and permanent, raised like braille. Mudblood in Bellatrix’s jagged, manic script. A cursed wound. One that would never fade, no matter how many healing potions she drank or how many spells the Healers at St Mungo’s tried.
She’d stopped trying years ago.
Across the room, Harry’s fingers drifted to the back of his right hand. I must not tell lies, carved by a similarly cruel woman. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Her breath hitched.
Not here. I can fall apart later. Not here.
Her hands trembled. She gripped the armrests until her knuckles bleached white, trying to erect the mental walls her mind healer had taught her.
Deep breaths. In through the nose. One, two, three. Out through the mouth. One, two, three. You’re safe. You’re in your office. You’re not in that drawing room. Bellatrix is dead.
But the barriers crumbled the moment she leaned on them, like wet parchment or peeling wallpaper.
Occlumency had never come to her. One of the few branches of magic that refused to yield to books and sheer determination. It required a proper teacher, and her mind healer was barely more skilled than she was. Harry had been taught, after a fashion, but Snape’s methods had produced survival instincts, not mastery.
She continued trying to erect the brittle walls to no avail. Instead, she redirected her thoughts.
Hand pies, a warm cup of tea with a cube of sugar, the crisp kiss of an autumn day. Crookshanks purring in a warm patch of sunlight—
A hand pressed between her shoulder blades.
Warm. Firm. Moving in slow, steady circles over her spine. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know it was Harry. She’d memorised the weight of his palm over the years. After funerals following the war, when they’d stood in black robes and watched coffins lower into the earth. When they’d had nightmares on the run, and huddled together in the freezing tent. At the end of days when existing took more strength than she had.
Her breathing steadied. The trembling eased. The scar’s burn dulled to something she could carry.
She opened her eyes.
His hands hung awkwardly at his sides, uncertain what to do with themselves. To anyone else, it might look like jealousy. But she recognised it for what it was.
Incomprehension.
Ron had suffered. Fred had died. She’d seen him at the funeral, hollow-eyed and grey, clutching Molly’s hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. But his wounds were different. He’d never been held down and carved into like a piece of meat. He’d never learned to count his breaths to keep from shattering.
She hoped he never would.
Harry withdrew his hand, and Hermione turned to offer him a small, grateful smile. “I’m good now. Thank you.” She caught his wrist, squeezed once, felt the raised letters beneath her fingers.
He smiled back—crooked, the edges sagging with tiredness. Dark circles shadowed beneath his eyes. The trials were wearing on him too, along with capturing lingering Voldemort supporters.
“Can we talk about something else?” she asked softly. “Please?” She was loath to let this endanger the rest of what had been a decent week.
The boys exchanged a glance. Something passed between them—a silent agreement, the shorthand of a decade of friendship—and then identical grins broke across their faces.
“So,” Ron said, rocking back on his heels, “McLaggen almost got his knob bitten off by a vampire the other day.”
Hermione blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Luckily,” Harry added, shallow crinkles deepening at the corners of his eyes, “there wasn’t enough of it for the vampire to get a proper grip.”
A startled laugh escaped her. “That’s terrible.”
But she was smiling, properly smiling, and the weight on her chest had lifted enough to breathe.
They had quite a knack for that.
After the boys left—Ron clomping down the corridor with all the grace of a Hungarian Horntail, Harry pausing at the door to give her one last searching look before she waved him off—Hermione stared at her half-eaten sandwich. The coronation chicken had congealed into something distinctly unappetising.
She was always forgetting to cast a stasis charm on her lunch.
Her appetite had vanished entirely.
She vanished the sandwich with a flick of her wand, watching it blink out of existence.
Tonight, she promised herself. I’ll order from that new Italian place. The one with the pear ravioli. Perhaps a tiramisu to finish. Something decadent.
Hermione flipped open the Carrow file and reached for her quill, forcing her mind back to the task at hand. The next object stared up at her from its photograph: a silver hand mirror, ornate and beautiful. Almost certainly lethal.
143 down. 22 to go. Ten days.
She could do this. She’d survived worse than paperwork.
The hours dripped past like honey from a cold spoon. The enchanted window behind her shifted the artificial sunlight across the floor in gradual increments, marking time in slow golden bands that crept across her rug like lazy cats. At some point, she turned the radio back on. Soft instrumental jazz filled the spaces between catalogue entries, saxophone notes gliding on the air like autumn leaves.
Her foot tapped absently against the floor as she inked her deactivation process for a jewellery box. The little trinket had appeared utterly unassuming when she’d first examined it—cheap brass, no embellishment, the sort of thing one might find at a market stall for a few Knuts. An object you’d overlook entirely if you weren’t looking for trouble.
But when opened, the closest witch or wizard would lose a week’s worth of memories. Just... gone. Excised like cutting a page from a book. A week of their life, vanished into the ether, never to be recovered.
Thankfully, the counter-curse had been straightforward. Runes, mostly. She’d handled worse.
Hermione clipped the accompanying photograph to the report and felt her energy waver, the familiar fog of exhaustion settling over her shoulders like a heavy cloak. She glanced at the clock on her wall—twenty minutes left in her workday. Hardly enough time to start the next item without running over, and she’d promised herself—promised—she’d stop bringing work home.
Her friends called her a workaholic. She preferred thorough. But there was no denying the way unfinished tasks made her skin buzz with a low, persistent urgency that followed her home and into her dreams. She’d wake at three in the morning, heart pounding, convinced she’d forgotten something critical.
Not tonight.
She leaned back in her chair, lacing her fingers behind her head, and let her gaze drift to the devil’s snare in its purple-glazed pot beside the radio. The tendrils wriggled subtly in the soil, slow and content. McGonagall had given it to her after she’d completed her elected eighth year—a cutting from the original plant she’d “defeated” during first year.
Defeated. She snorted softly. She’d panicked and nearly got them all killed before remembering it hated light. Harry had been wrapped in vines up to his neck. Ron had been screaming. She’d been fumbling for her wand with shaking hands, trying to remember anything useful from Herbology while her friends slowly suffocated.
Hardly a victory.
The corner of her mouth lifted anyway. They’d survived. That was what mattered.
Her eyes moved along the shelf, drifting past the basilisk skull, the wolfsbane vial, the goblin bracelet—and then stopped, deliberately, carefully avoiding the photograph of her parents. She could feel it there, though. The weight of it. Their static faces frozen mid-smile, unmoving, unchanging. A Muggle photograph, because that’s what they were. Muggles. Ordinary, wonderful, completely ordinary Muggles who had no idea they’d ever had a daughter.
She wished she’d thought to get a magical one before the war. Before she’d pointed her wand at them and whispered obliviate, watching their eyes go glassy and unfocused, watching everything they knew about her drain away like water through a sieve.
They were still the Wilkins in Australia. Still happy. Still safe. Still waiting on a list for a pair of specialist Healers who might—might—be able to undo what she’d done to them.
Harry had urged her to use her fame. Pull some strings. Jump the queue.
“You’re Hermione Granger. You helped save the wizarding world. They’d move mountains for you if you asked.”
She couldn’t. It felt wrong, asking for favours that weren’t life or death. Her parents were safe. They were healthy. They were happy, even if that happiness was built on a foundation of lies she’d constructed.
She could wait a little longer.
She had to believe that.
Her gaze drifted to the enchanted window, watching the false sunlight begin its slow fade toward artificial dusk. But her mind turned elsewhere. Darker places. Like it was want to do nowadays.
Malfoy’s sentencing. The reparations.
She didn’t want or need the Malfoys’ gold. What would she even do with it? Buy a bigger flat? Commission a solid gold statue of Crookshanks? Buy ten closets-worth of new robes? The idea was absurd.
And the Manor? She had no desire to own it. Burn it, for all she cared. The horrors committed in that house couldn’t be scourgified from the walls. That type of evil seeped into stone, into foundations, into the very earth beneath. It would corrupt anything built atop it for generations to come.
She’d let it rot. Let the pureblood Malfoy legacy crumble alongside its ancestral seat.
Or maybe she’d torch it with Fiendfyre. Watch the cursed thing burn to ash while she stood at a safe distance, warming her hands on the flames of ten centuries of blood supremacy.
The thought was more satisfying than it should have been.
Pop
Hermione startled so violently she nearly tipped her chair, arms windmilling for balance as her heart sprinted beneath her breast. The folded parchment—gemstone blue, crisp edges, sealed with a familiar crest—landed softly on her desk, apparating through her closed door with the distinctive pop of inter-office correspondence.
She pressed a hand to her chest, willing her pulse to slow.
Sweet Morgana. One of these days, those bloody memos are going to give me a heart attack. She’d already had enough surprises today.
She unfolded the parchment with careful fingers, smoothing out the creases. She knew only one person who used that particular shade of blue.
Hermione,
I kindly request your presence in my office at your earliest convenience. It is imperative we discuss the terms of your reparations from the Malfoy estate. I would like to extend my sincerest apologies for not informing you in advance about this news. I’ll explain once we meet.
Kingsley
Ps. Ursa Minor
Well, she thought, as the memo ignited spontaneously and curled into ash on her desk, the Ministry’s standard security measure. That explains things. Or rather, it explains nothing while promising everything.
Loath to keep the Minister waiting, she flicked her wand toward the filing cabinet. The Carrow documents soared through the air in a neat stack and tucked themselves away, the drawer clicking shut with a decisive thunk.
Hermione stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her brown wide-trousers and straightening the collar of her cream silk blouse that lay underneath a moss-green tweed vest. She caught a glimpse of herself in the darkened window—hair a glossy pillow of curls, shadows beneath her eyes, a smudge of ink on her chin. She rubbed at the ink, only partially successful, and decided she didn’t care enough to find a mirror.
A quick accio sent her clutch sailing into her outstretched hand. The beaded bag was old now, worn soft with use, but the illegal extension charm she’d placed on it during the war still held strong. Inside, she had enough supplies to survive a week in the wilderness. Old habits died hard.
The hallway outside the Dark Artefacts Department was quiet, the gaslights dimmed to their evening setting. Her coworkers had either departed early—Friday privileges—or were tidying up to leave. She could hear the distant murmur of conversation from somewhere down the corridor, the shuffle of papers being sorted, and the whistle of a kettle from someone pulling a late night.
Hermione’s footsteps echoed against the polished wood floor as she made her way toward the golden grille of the lift. Her brown low-stacked heels clicked out a steady rhythm—click, click, click—filling the empty space with sound.
Blessedly, the lift was empty when it arrived. The gates rattled open, and she stepped into the centre of the brass cage.
“Minister of Magic’s office,” she said clearly.
“Password?” The lift’s voice was serene, disembodied.
“Ursa Minor.”
“Very good. Please grab a hanging strap for your safety.”
The lift jolted backward with its characteristic violence, then lurched sideways, then dropped three floors before shooting upward again. Hermione had widened her stance, long accustomed to its jerky movements. She tucked her wand into the expanded interior of her clutch. Most of her bags were charmed the same way, and some pockets in her most used coats.
Several Ministry employees joined her along the way. A harried-looking witch clutching a stack of scrolls, two wizards in deep conversation about the upcoming quidditch of the Tutshill Tornados vs the Falmouth Falcons and an elderly warlock who smelled strongly of pipe tobacco. She nodded politely as they entered, exchanged no words, and watched them shuffle off at their respective floors.
By the time the lift reached her destination, she was alone again.
The gates opened with a melodic chime.
“Minister of Magic’s office. Have a magical day.”
She stepped out onto gleaming black marble. Her reflection stared back at her, distorting as she moved. The hallway never failed to steal her breath, no matter how many times she walked it.
Deep green tiles arched overhead like a cathedral—or perhaps an elaborate sewer, if one were feeling less charitable. Art deco sconces in burnished gold glowed in pairs along the walls, casting warm pools of light that didn’t quite reach the shadows between them. And between each pair of sconces hung portraits. Not of witches and wizards, as elsewhere in the Ministry, but of moments—life-altering wizarding discoveries and historic landscapes.
The invention of the Wolfsbane Potion, the signing of the International Statute of Secrecy, and the founding of Hogwarts. Four proud figures standing on a hillside, looking out over an empty valley that would one day hold a castle.
Hermione walked the long, curving corridor as it swept left, her footsteps echoing in the cathedral hush. At its end, set within the wall like a jewel in a setting, waited an intricately carved mahogany door. Serpents and lions twined together in the woodwork, along with badgers and eagles—the four houses united, a symbol of Kingsley’s administration.
It swung open before she could knock.
“Hullo, Hermione.” Kingsley sat behind a massive desk, surrounded by neat stacks of parchment that seemed to multiply every time she visited. His quill scratched across a document as he spoke, not looking up. “Come in. Sit down.”
The desk itself looked centuries old. Made of dark wood, it appeared worn smooth by countless hands, scarred here and there with the marks of history. She suspected it had been here since the ratification of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, if not earlier. Every time she visited, her fingers itched to touch its weathered surface. To feel the grain beneath her palm and imagine all the Ministers who had sat behind it, all the decisions that had been made, all the fates that had been sealed with a signature and a wax stamp.
As close to time travel as one could get without a Time-Turner.
She pushed the thought aside. This was business, not a social call.
“How are you?” Her voice came out flintier than intended, edged with something that might have been accusation.
Kingsley finally looked up. He set his quill in a brass inkpot with a soft click. “I believe an apology should be our first order of business.” His voice was low, resonant, carrying the weight of genuine remorse. He knew her well enough to skip the pleasantries.
Hermione nodded stiffly, setting her clutch on the corner of his desk. She turned to face him fully—
And then she stiffened.
Deep lines etched weariness around his mouth and eyes, carved into his dark skin like river valleys in ancient earth. He looked as though he’d aged a decade since she’d last seen him—or drunk a thimble of rapid-aging potion. His shoulders, usually so straight and proud, had developed a permanent forward curve. Dark circles shadowed beneath his eyes, visible even against his complexion.
A holiday and a week’s worth of uninterrupted sleep might iron out some of those lines. But she suspected the damage went deeper than exhaustion. The trials and the post-war reconstruction were exacting an enormous toll—she could see it in the grey threading through his dark brows, in the way his hands trembled slightly as he reached for a scroll.
So far, his leadership had helped wizardkind forge a fresh path in this post-Voldemort world. They were calling it the “Reformation”—his determination not to perpetuate the sins of the past had become a cornerstone of his administration. New laws protecting Muggleborns. Reformed educational curricula. Restructured departments purged of blood purists.
Hermione was proud to call him her Minister. Prouder still to call him a friend, even after today’s surprise.
He gestured toward one of the chairs facing his desk—deep leather, a sultry navy, worn soft with age. She sank into the upholstery with a soft exhale, crossing her legs. The leather creaked beneath her, warm and familiar.
“I wanted to forewarn you of this development yesterday,” he began, folding his large hands on the desk before him. “But a matter of greater importance required my attention. We’re having—” He paused, jaw tightening visibly, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. “—difficulties coming to an agreement with MACUSA. International laws relating to Muggle spouses of wizarding folk. It’s become rather contentious.”
Hermione nodded slowly. She’d heard grumblings about the struggle. MACUSA remained entrenched in their xenophobia of “No-Majs,” in some ways even more rigidly than the British Ministry had ever been. Their Rappaport’s Law had only been repealed in 1965, and old prejudices died hard. Many American witches and wizards still viewed any fraternisation with non-magical people as somewhere between dangerous and disgusting.
Kingsley had looked beyond Wizarding Britain’s own shores, determined to improve the prejudice that seemed to infect the entire globe. Not content with reforming one nation, he’d set his sights on the international stage.
He does nothing by half measures. Even when it’s slowly killing him.
“And per Wizengamot bylaws, I was forbidden to disclose the verdict or its stipulations prior to official sentencing. My hands were bound by procedure.”
Hermione waved her hand dismissively. A moment of transparency and all was mostly forgiven. She understood bureaucracy, even when it frustrated her.
“It’s quite alright. A shock, certainly.” She studied his face. “The more pressing question is how you’re holding up. You look like you need a holiday. Or three.”
He exhaled a low, humourless laugh, barely more than a breath. “I’ll be glad when these damned trials—” He caught himself, grimaced. “—pardon my tongue—can be put behind us.” He dragged a large hand down his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes for a long moment. “It feels as though I’ve relived this war an immeasurable number of times. Every trial, every testimony, every piece of evidence...it brings it all back.”
She understood that feeling intimately.
In the beginning, after the war ended, she’d devoured every article, every account, every scrap of news about what had happened while she and Harry and Ron were on the run. Her insatiable hunger for knowledge had demanded she fill in the gaps.
It had been a grave mistake.
The things she’d read had fuelled her nightmares for months. The massacres, disappearances and children—Merlin, the children. Families torn apart, entire bloodlines extinguished, a few partially wizarding villages burned to the ground. She’d lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, her mind cataloguing atrocities like she catalogued cursed objects.
Only after she’d finally sought out a mind healer—only after Harry had practically dragged her to the appointment—had she learned to stop. To look away. To accept that some knowledge came at too high a cost.
Now she made a conscious effort to avoid it. She had enough of her own trauma to carry without shouldering the weight of everyone else’s suffering.
“I can imagine,” she murmured softly.
Kingsley didn’t have the luxury of turning away. He’d been in the thick of it as a member of the Order. Now he sat in judgement over those who’d caused it all. Chief judge and executioner. Every day, he had to look into the faces of murderers and torturers and decide their fates, on top of running a government.
Kingsley didn’t have the luxury of turning away. He’d been in the thick of it as a member of the Order, and now he sat in judgement over those who’d caused it. Chief judge and executioner. An unfathomable burden.
She didn’t envy him. Not one bit.
A silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, but heavy with shared understanding. Words weren’t necessary. They’d both seen too much, lost too much. That kind of knowledge forged its own language, spoken in loaded glances and weighted silences.
Hermione valued that part of their friendship immensely. The ability to sit with someone who knew, without having to explain.
His dark eyes met hers, nearly bottomless in the lamplight. The edges of his mouth tugged down, deepening those new lines.
“It is imperative that you understand how profoundly remorseful I am about this burden.” His voice had dropped, losing its professional veneer. This was Kingsley the friend speaking now, not the Minister. “If there were any other way, I would have sought it out. I spent days—if not weeks—trying to find an alternative.”
His shoulders sagged beneath his robes, as if the weight of the words physically pressed him down.
“We cannot afford the Manor falling into the wrong hands. It served as Voldemort’s temporary seat of power during the war. His inner circle met there. Strategies were planned there. People were...” He paused, throat working. “People were tortured there. Killed. We couldn’t risk his fringe supporters obtaining it as...” He searched for the word, fingers tapping against the desk. “A talisman of sorts.”
His mouth thinned into a grim line. “Additionally, our ongoing endeavour involves drawing up a full account of Voldemort’s crimes for historical record, for future generations. Malfoy Manor is vital to unlocking those secrets. There are rooms we haven’t even been able to access yet. We must understand and document these atrocities. We owe it to the future to ensure they aren’t doomed to replicate our mistakes.”
Hermione nodded slowly, processing. It made sense, from a strategic standpoint. From a political one. She could see the logic, even through her growing unease.
“I understand. And thank you for saying so.” She inhaled, steadying herself. “I—I think I’ll be alright.” The words came out wooden, rehearsed. “I don’t plan on living there. The place can rot for all I care.”
Her voice sharpened near the end, turning almost to a hiss. Her hands had begun trembling in her lap, and her pulse pounded in her ears.
Kingsley’s grimace deepened. He crossed his arms. “I’m afraid it won’t be as simple as you’ve planned.”
Her chest constricted. “What do you mean?”
“Pureblood estates are tricky things, as you’re well aware.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Their wards rely heavily on blood magic, property enchantments, marital bonds, and ancestral ties. Layers upon layers of ancient spellwork, accumulated over centuries. Malfoy Manor is no exception.” His eyes held hers, unwavering. “And it is vital the estate remains out of pureblood hands. It’s a chip that could destabilise our fragile new existence.”
Hermione understood the value an ancestral seat could hold. After decommissioning a handful of them, she’d seen their power firsthand. They were essentially political tokens in pureblood society. Coveted symbols of legitimacy, of ancient power… of belonging A royal flush if acquired through marriage or death. Families had murdered for less.
“But why was it given to me?” she demanded, leaning forward, grabbing the armrests of her chair. “Why is my involvement necessary? Surely someone else—”
Nothing he was saying made sense. There had to be another option. There was always another option.
“After careful examination by ward experts and consultation with the Unspeakables, we’ve concluded that only three stipulations allow transfer of ownership.” Kingsley held up three fingers, ticking them off one by one. “Marriage, Death, And possibly—” He emphasised the word. “—extended residency. The last is theoretical. Untested. But our best chance.”
“You must be joking,” she sputtered, her voice climbing. Her eyes went wide, disbelief warring with horror. “This can’t be—you can’t possibly—”
“I do not jest.” His tone was flat. Final. The Minister’s voice, not the friend’s.
“But why me?” She gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening. “There must be countless non-pureblood families clamouring for the chance.”
The Minister shook his head slowly. “We inquired. But a great many feel the land is cursed. It’s part of why we took so long putting the Malfoy family on trial—we wanted certain things ironed out before the proceedings. Your involvement was our last resort, Hermione.”
“What about the Weasleys?” The words tumbled out, desperate, grasping. “Political power holds no appeal for them,” she choked.
“We tried. Believe me, we inquired of anyone and everyone we could.” Kingsley’s voice was heavy with exhaustion. “Each offer was soundly rejected.”
“But—”
He held up a large hand, silencing her protests. “I’m afraid this is the only way. Harry would’ve been our last resort, but the optics must be carefully handled. Framing this transfer as reparations seemed the only logical solution. We cannot afford to upset the neutral pureblood families. Wasting such an ancient estate—in their eyes—would be sacrilegious. Political suicide. Their support in the Ministry is essential for passing the laws and regulations necessary for reconstruction.”
“So it’s politics,” she seethed through clenched teeth. Hermione’s earlier goodwill evaporated, replaced by something cold and sharp. “You’re asking me to do this for politics. For bloody optics.”
“With the common enemy behind us, there is no unifying force.” Kingsley’s voice was blunt. Unapologetic. The tone of a man who had made impossible choices and learned to live with them. “We must be strategic. This seemed the path of least resistance.”
She felt physically ill. Her stomach churned, and for a moment she thought she might actually be sick on his centuries-old desk. Then a thought surfaced, cutting through the nausea like a blade.
“How will the estate even grant ownership to me?” She gestured jerkily. “I’m not a resident. I’m certainly not—Merlin forbid—married to a Malfoy. Neither of which holds any appeal.”
Kingsley folded his hands, eyes solemn. “You will have to reside in Malfoy Manor for one year. That is the stipulation of ownership.”
Her stomach plummeted, lips pulled inward as she bit them. The floor shimmered as tears burned behind her eyes hotly.
No. No no no no no.
She wouldn’t go back. Not ever.
“But not immediately,” Kingsley continued quickly, raising a hand to ward off her panic. “Once we’ve swept the Manor and gathered further evidence, then you’ll be required to take up residence. The sweep will take the better part of two months, perhaps longer, as you already know. In the meantime, you can prepare yourself however you see fit.” He paused, and something in his expression shifted. “Though I must warn you of an additional stipulation.”
What bloody more could they possibly require of her?
“Draco Malfoy will need to occupy the manor while you establish your own residency.”
Hermione shot to her feet, palms slamming against the desk, rattling his inkwells and piles of parchment.
“Why!?” The word tore out of her, half shout, half sob. Red blotches stained her cheeks.
Kingsley inhaled sharply, his face softening with something that might have been compassion. Or pity. She wasn’t sure she could tell the difference anymore.
“In cases like these—when magical ownership transfers between unattached families—certain conditions must be met to finalise the transfer. It’s ancient, ancestral magic. Older than Hogwarts. Older than the Ministry itself.” His voice gentled, the Minister receding to let the friend show through. “There’s nothing we can do.”
He paused, letting that sink in.
“The estate’s magic functions similarly to wand magic. It won’t recognise a new owner simply because we say so, even if we eliminate the wards entirely. You’ll have to prove your stake—prove you belong—by spending every night within its walls for one year. Once—”
Her voice cracked. “A year?” She was shaking now. “A year? You cannot be serious. No. Absolutely not. You can’t ask this of me. After everything—after what happened there—you can’t—”
“Hermione.” Kingsley’s voice was weary, worn thin. “We have no choice. Once you’ve completed the year, you’ll be free to do with it what you will. You can leave it all behind.” His eyes narrowed. “You cannot, however, destroy it or let it rot. That will be part of your contract. The Manor can sit empty, but it must be maintained until your death. Only then can it be sold.”
A small mercy. Cold comfort, really. Yet her stomach felt hollowed out, scooped clean and left empty.
“Regardless.” Her voice cracked like thin ice. “You’re requiring me to live in a place where I was tortured.” Her brows drew down, fists clenching at her sides until her nails bit painfully into her palms. “And to live with an ex-Death Eater who’s on house arrest!”
The last words came out at a bellow, bouncing off the gothic ceiling. She left the front of his desk and began pacing in the middle of the room.
Kingsley flicked his wand toward the office door and cast a subtle muffliato before responding.
“The Manor is large. He’ll be relegated to the West Wing. Measures will be put in place for your safety. Anti-apparition wards will cloak the estate, and you’ll have a private floo connection to the Ministry.”
He rose and intercepted her pacing, laying a heavy hand on her shoulder. Warm and steadying just like Harry’s had been.
“I’ll also share the full terms of Mr Malfoy’s cursed exile,” he said softly. “They weren’t disclosed publicly for reasons I’ll explain. I’m hoping they might bring you some measure of comfort.”
He guided her back to her chair with gentle pressure, and she sank into it bonelessly, all the fight draining out of her. He settled into his own seat, the leather creaking beneath him.
“During preparations for the trial, several Wizengamot members and I developed a framework for his punishment. There was no question of guilt—only the severity. You and I both know that boy had no chance of growing up tolerant under Lucius Malfoy’s eye. It’s a miracle he didn’t turn out worse. All pomp, no bite. A typical pureblood destined for a life of leisure and casual bigotry for his own gain.”
His expression softened. “Lucius was sentenced to life without parole. We corrected our previous oversight. There would be no hiding behind the Imperius this time. No bought acquittals. No convenient memory charms.”
Hermione nodded slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
“Draco is still quite young. In the first bloom of youth, really.” Kingsley leaned back, studying her. “He’s younger than you—did you know that?
Hermione blinked, genuinely surprised. She hadn’t known. She’d never concerned herself with ascertaining personal details about her childhood bully and neighbourhood blood purist. He’d simply always been there—a constant, sneering presence, like a persistent rash.
“It would be a terrible waste to throw him permanently behind bars. But I realised we have an opportunity here.” Kingsley slammed his index finger on the desk. “An opportunity for growth.”
“Growth?” Hermione’s eyebrows drew together, scepticism sharpening her voice. “You think Malfoy is capable of growth?”
“Precisely. I can see goodness in him. Deep down, buried though it may be.”
She laughed—a sharp, disbelieving sound. “You’re confusing cowardice with goodness. I’ve known Malfoy since first year. You’re mistaken.”
“I might have thought the same, if not for Potter’s testimony.” Kingsley leaned back, arms crossed. “Portions of it were given privately, in this very office. He showed me a memory of that night on the Astronomy Tower.”
Hermione went still.
“Draco hesitated. He couldn’t go through with killing Albus, even with Dumbledore wandless and weakened. Even knowing Voldemort would murder him and his entire family if he failed. “Kingsley’s voice dropped, somehow even more solemn. “He was terrified. He would’ve been killed if Dumbledore hadn’t died by Snape’s hand. But he still couldn’t do it.”
Harry had never mentioned that detail. He rarely spoke of that night at all. It lived in the same locked box where he kept Sirius’s death and Cedric’s and so many others. Some memories were too heavy to share.
“Hermione.” Kingsley exhaled slowly. “He was a child faced with the ultimate test of his indoctrination. In the pureblood world, what Draco did was extraordinary weakness.” His eyes brightened, something fierce blazing behind his onyx eyes. “But in truth, it was strength. Strength to resist the brainwashing. Lucius ultimately failed, and we can continue that failure. Build on it.”
“And how exactly does a cursed exile accomplish that?” She folded her arms, still sceptical. But curious despite herself.
“This is where it comes into play.” Kingsley trained his wand on a nearby bookcase overflowing with scrolls. A sizeable one freed itself from the bottom of a precarious stack and hovered before them, unfurling to reveal an intricate depiction of a Death Eater mask—precisely Malfoy’s mask. The upper left-hand corner read “The masque of Sanguine Reckoning”. A diagram of spellwork and ancient runes surrounded the illustration, pulsing with faint light. Alongside, a paragraph of Olde English text wrote out the curse and counter-curse.
The illustration itself was quite detailed. Terrifying yet beautiful, like a leopard mid-strike. Inked in black, it was peppered with silver Celtic imagery on the forehead, the temples, and cheekbones. Two silver serpents surrounded each eyehole with tails running down the cheeks to curl at the edges of the slightly open mouth. Three bars that looked like they’d been half-melted covered the lips in three vertical lines.
“Once we’ve taken most of his funds and the crown jewel of his inheritance, the only thing he’ll have left is his face. This, coupled with everything else, will teach a lesson sorely absent from his upbringing.” Kingsley paused. “Humility. Superiority is the cornerstone of pureblood indoctrination. Stripped of everything that makes a Malfoy a Malfoy, only then can healing begin.”
Hermione sat back, puzzled. Her mind raced, brow furrowing. She tapped a finger against her lips as the pieces clicked into place.
“Merlin.” Her eyes widened, hand dropping to her lap. “That’s...that’s barbaric.”
They were going to lock him into a mask. Like that old Muggle film—The Man in the Iron Mask. She bit her lip, worrying at it until she tasted copper. Malfoy deserved punishment, certainly. But this?
“Is it any worse than locking him away for life in Azkaban?” Kingsley asked quietly. “Any worse than letting the Dementors feed on him until nothing remains but a hollow shell?”
She considered the question. Reframed it in the context of lifelong imprisonment—the cold, the screaming, the slow erosion of sanity. The way prisoners wasted away, forgetting their own names, forgetting they’d ever been human. Losing touch with all reality.
He would still have the comforts of home. His wealth, however diminished. Freedom of movement within the grounds. Some might argue it was too lenient.
But the wizarding world operated differently from the Muggle one she’d known most of her life. That had been the biggest shock, nearly a decade ago now—the simultaneous advancement and regression of it all.
“How will he eat?” she heard herself ask, the Curse-Breaker in her taking over, wanting to understand the mechanics. “Bathe? Sleep?”
And then, irritated with herself: Why do I even care?
She tried to smooth her expression into indifference. Failed miserably.
“The enchantment accounts for those necessities. The mask dissolves temporarily for meals and bathing, reappearing once those activities conclude. Sleep is exempt entirely.” A faint smile tugged at Kingsley’s mouth. “You needn’t worry about the logistics. The Unspeakables were quite thorough.”
I wasn’t worried, she wanted to say. I was curious. There’s a difference.
But she kept quiet.
Her frown deepened as she processed everything. “When will I have to move in?”
“We don’t know precisely. The sweep could take two months, or it could take six—the Manor is vast, and we’ve already discovered several rooms that don’t appear on any floor plans.” His expression grew serious. “I’ll inform you as soon as I can. You’ll have at least a fortnight’s notice.”
Another thought surfaced, cold and sharp. “Kingsley...” She hesitated, almost afraid to ask. “What if this doesn’t work?”
From what she could gather, the entire plan hinged on conjecture. Assumptions. Theoretical magic that had never been tested. What if a year of residency wasn’t enough? What if the ancient wards rejected her entirely?
What then?
Kingsley’s expression shifted, becoming cryptic. His hands folded before him, fingers interlacing.
“We cannot execute Mr Malfoy. His crimes, while significant, don’t warrant it. Not by our current laws and the results of his trial.”
The implication hit her like a plunge into the Black Lake.
A flush climbed her neck, hot and furious. “The Ministry cannot ask this of me.” Her voice shook. “I beg you—anything but that. I don’t even know him. Not really. He’s just—he’s just a bigoted bully who happened to be born into the wrong family at the wrong time—”
“Marriage is a last resort, Hermione.” Kingsley’s voice was firm, but his eyes were gentle. “I swear to you on my magic—on everything I hold sacred—we will exhaust every avenue before considering that option.”
His gaze held hers, steady and solemn as an oath.
“But in the meantime, we will try establishing residency and see if that is enough. There’s every reason to believe it will work.”
Every reason except certainty.
But what choice did she have?