The air between them pulsed, thick with something volatile. It wasn't just tension. It was resentment with teeth, pacing between their bodies like it was waiting to pounce. Malfoy stood rigid near the window, arms folded across his chest in a stance that looked practiced, like it was meant to hold everything in place. His eyes, pale and unreadable, tracked her every movement.
Granger sat across the room with her spine too straight and her hands too still, like she was fighting the urge to launch something sharp. Her voice, when it came, didn't waver.
"They took our limbs and threw them to the wolves," he said, quiet at first, but full of heat. "Every shred of dignity, stripped away. And for what? So your side could stitch the world back together with threadbare lies and pretend it was healed?"
She didn't blink. "Cry me a river, Malfoy."
Her words cracked through the air, clean and merciless. "Don't you dare talk to me about dignity. You lost the right to use that word a long time ago."
His mouth twisted into something that almost resembled a smile, though there was no humor in it. Just spite.
"I know what it means," he said, voice low and dangerous. "But you—" he jabbed a finger at her, not moving from his spot, "you think you've got me all figured out, don't you? Just like school. Always the brightest in the room. Always so sure."
"I don't need to figure you out," she said, her tone icy. "I already know what you did."
The words cut deeper than any wand ever could. Something flickered in his eyes, too quick to name, and then it vanished behind the same wall he always built when things got too close.
"Oh, do you?" he said, each syllable slow, deliberate. His fists curled at his sides, as if he didn't trust them not to shake. "And let me guess. You got your facts from Potter. Or maybe Weasley. Or one of the other golden boys who wouldn't know the truth if it bit them in the—"
"No," she said, and her voice could have cracked glass. "I got it from him."
The room fell silent. It wasn't just awkward. It was suffocating. Even the air seemed to stall. Malfoy's expression faltered, just for a moment, before his jaw tightened.
"What he told you," he said, slower now, almost choking on the words, "was a lie."
"Was it?" Her voice rose, each word sharper than the last. "Because every one of your friends tells the same story. Everyone but you. So either they're all lying, or you've built yourself a version of the truth you can live with."
He stepped forward, just once, but it was enough to crack whatever barrier had been keeping him in check. His face had gone pale, mouth pulled tight with rage.
"I TOLD YOU I'M NOT LYING, YOU—"
He didn't finish. The insult hung there, sharp and ugly, even though he hadn't said it aloud.
Hermione didn't flinch. Her voice went quiet in that way that always made people lean in, just to hear the full force of what was coming.
"Go on," she said. "Finish it."
He froze. The words caught in his throat, tangled in something he hadn't expected to feel. His mouth opened slightly, like he meant to speak again, but nothing came.
And then her hand flew. The sound of her palm meeting his cheek cracked through the room like a whip, sharp and shocking. His head snapped to the side, and for one long heartbeat, he stayed there, stunned into silence.
"That's what I thought," she said. Her voice shook with the effort of holding herself together, though her words landed with the weight of a blade. Her hand hung in the air, trembling slightly, the sting of impact lingering in her palm.
He turned his head back to face her, the slow movement deliberate, his cheek already flushed crimson. For once, his expression betrayed nothing he wanted her to see. There was fury, yes, but beneath it something softer, almost breakable, flickered before he buried it again.
She wasn't finished. She leaned forward, her tone low and dangerous, every word pressed out like it cost her something to say it. "You want redemption, Malfoy? You want me to believe you've changed? Then stop lying. Stop hiding. Because all I see in front of me is the same coward you've always been."
The words hit harder than the slap. He flinched, barely, but enough for her to notice. His jaw worked as though he were biting back a thousand replies, none of them good enough to leave his mouth. His fists tightened and loosened, again and again, the only proof of how much he was fighting to stay composed.
She rose from her chair in one swift motion, the scrape of wood against stone ringing louder than it should have in the silence. "We'll try this again tomorrow. Maybe by then, you'll have something worth saying."
She strode toward the door, her movements clipped and precise, her heels striking the floor like hammer blows. But just as her hand closed around the knob, she hesitated. Her shoulders dropped slightly, and her voice, when it came, was softer, carrying exhaustion instead of fury.
"Don't make me regret trying," she said.
The words lingered in the air long after she was gone, more haunting than the slap, more dangerous than any threat.
Draco stood alone in the quiet that followed, the echo of her hand still burning across his skin, though the ache in his chest hurt far worse.
°°°°
She stormed out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her with a crack that reverberated through the walls. Her footsteps echoed in the corridor, brisk and determined, until halfway down the hallway her resolve broke and the emotions she had been shoving down came surging back.
Her hands shook as she stopped, leaning hard against the cool stone. What was I thinking? The question cut through her like a knife. Taking this case on pro bono. Convincing herself, even for a moment, that Draco Malfoy could be saved.
He was a lost cause. She knew it, had always known it. He wasn't a man clawing for redemption, he was a man who clung to his ruin. He wore his arrogance like a shield, his bitterness like a crown, and he seemed to take pleasure in twisting the knife whenever he found a weak spot.
She pressed her palms against her eyes, fighting the prickling burn of tears. She had handled impossible clients before. She had faced down people far more dangerous, people who had done far worse. But this was different. Malfoy didn't just resist her. He calculated every word, every glance, with the sole intention of unraveling her. He had a way of finding the places she thought were untouchable, the parts of herself she had locked away, and pressing until they hurt.
And yet.
That moment when he had said, It's not a lie. The crack in his voice. The flicker in his eyes that looked less like defiance and more like despair. She couldn't erase it. Something in her wanted to believe it had been real. That beneath the venom there was something breakable, something human.
She shook her head hard, refusing to give it power. No. He's just playing games. He has always been good at that.
Inside the room, Draco remained exactly where she had left him. His cheek burned from the slap, and his hand hovered near the sting as if drawn to it without permission. His breathing came sharp and uneven, chest rising and falling too quickly, the effort of keeping control wearing him thin.
And he hated himself for it.
He hated himself more because he liked it. Because some sick, twisted part of him loved that she had hit him with such fire. That she had cared enough to lose control.
"Stupid," he muttered under his breath, his voice thick. "Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The word he had nearly spoken still clung to the room like smoke, bitter and corrosive. He hadn't let it pass his lips, but the thought alone had been enough to ignite her fury, and he could not blame her for it.
She was right. She had every right to strike him, to leave him, to decide he was beyond saving. But what she could never know, what he would never admit, was how much it scorched inside him. The burn never left. The weight of every decision, every mistake, pressed against him in the quiet hours and refused to loosen its grip.
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing the room with uneven steps, restless as a creature locked in too small a cage. The walls seemed closer than they had a moment ago, the air thicker, his skin too tight around him. His mind turned, unwillingly, to his mother. She had been the only one who had ever truly seen him, the only one he had ever loved without condition. And still, he had failed her. That was the memory he could not escape.
The fire drained out of him all at once. He dropped into the chair she had abandoned, shoulders heavy, head falling into his hands. What is the point? The thought came bitter and cold. No matter what I say, she will never believe me.
Yet even as despair coiled through him, something small refused to die. A stubborn spark, faint but alive, flared deep inside his chest. Because for all her anger, for all her words, Granger had not truly left.
She had promised tomorrow.
And tomorrow meant another chance. A chance to convince her. A chance to prove her wrong. Or perhaps, if the world had decided that was to be his punishment, a chance to prove her right.
••••
The next morning, Hermione's footsteps rang like hammer strikes through the sterile halls of the Ministry's holding wing. The polished stone gleamed beneath her heels, each sharp click carrying her irritation forward. Her robes flared behind her in a sweep that announced she was not to be trifled with. She was exhausted, she was furious, and she had no patience left for pleasantries. Certainly not where Draco Malfoy was concerned.
She was halfway to his cell when a figure stepped into her path. Narcissa Malfoy. Regal as ever, though desperation shadowed her eyes. Even here, under the harsh glow of enchanted lamps, she managed elegance. Her chin lifted, her movements smooth, as though dignity could be summoned and worn like armor.
"Hermione Granger," Narcissa called, her voice calm but lined with urgency. "Miss Granger, a moment of your time, if you please."
Hermione stopped dead, lips pressed into a thin line, her patience already fraying. Of course. The queen herself.
"Mrs. Malfoy," she said, her voice clipped. "I am in the middle of something. What could possibly require my attention right now?"
Narcissa drifted closer, her pale blue robes catching the light, shimmering like silk even in the cold sterility of the corridor. "I wanted only to thank you," she said, her tone measured to perfection, "for taking Draco's case. I am well aware this... arrangement is far beneath your considerable expertise."
Hermione arched an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest. "Oh, don't worry. I am sure you are very grateful. Grateful enough to keep paying me, I hope. My mortgage will be delighted to hear of your generosity."
For the briefest instant, Narcissa's flawless composure cracked. Her eyes widened just slightly, the mask slipping to reveal something startled and raw. But she recovered with remarkable speed, her lips curving into a smile so thin it almost cut. "Naturally," she replied, her tone dripping with sweetness that rang false. "You will be compensated well for your efforts. I would never presume otherwise."
Hermione's gaze sharpened, her voice dropping colder than the dungeon air that seeped through the stones around them. "Good. Because if you imagine for one moment that I am here out of some misplaced sense of moral duty, let me correct you. I am not. Your son is a lost cause."
Narcissa's gasp was soft enough to be missed by anyone less attentive, but the shock in her eyes spoke louder than words. For a fleeting instant she looked less like the untouchable matriarch of the Malfoy family and more like a porcelain figure, fragile and brittle, her composure splintering under the weight of Hermione's bluntness. She was not accustomed to such cruelty, least of all from the mouth of a woman she had once dismissed as filth.
"Miss Granger," Narcissa managed, her voice trembling as she forced dignity back into it. "Please. I am begging you. Draco is not beyond saving."
Hermione let out a short, cutting laugh, the sound colder than the walls around them. "Spare me," she said, flicking her hand in casual dismissal. "He isn't worth saving. And if you believe he is, then you are delusional."
Color rose in Narcissa's pale cheeks, indignation burning through the cracks in her composure. The mask slipped further, just enough for her to release a muttered curse in French, quiet but laced with venom.
"Stupide fille, perchée sur son grand cheval," she hissed under her breath.
Hermione's lips curved into something sharper than a smile, her eyes alight with a dangerous sort of satisfaction. "Merci Merlin de ne pas avoir supposé que je parle français," she replied, her accent smooth and polished, each word falling with precision. Then, with a sweetness that cut like glass, she added, "Je transmettrai mes salutations à votre mari. Oh, attendez. Il est en prison."
The words landed with surgical cruelty. Narcissa's face went rigid, her lips parting in horror. For once she had nothing to say. The humiliation washed over her like ice, stealing the last remnants of her composure.
"Now, if you will excuse me," Hermione said in crisp English, sweeping past her without hesitation. "I have business with your lost cause of a son."
Narcissa remained where she stood, her hands trembling at her sides. The corridor felt colder, emptier, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, the formidable matriarch of the Malfoy family found herself powerless.
•••
The tension in the cell felt alive, pressing in from the walls as if the room itself was holding its breath. Hermione shoved the door open without so much as a knock, her presence cutting through the stillness like the edge of a storm.
Draco was sprawled on the edge of his bed, shirt hanging open just enough to feign indifference. His grey eyes flicked up, cold and unimpressed, though there was a glimmer of irritation there that betrayed the act.
"Ever heard of knocking?" he drawled. "What if I had been busy with something private?"
"Private?" Her eyebrow arched. "What could you possibly be hiding in here? Unless you managed to sneak in a mirror to wank over your own reflection, I think I'm safe."
His mouth twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at one corner. "Very clever, Granger. Is wit your new coping mechanism, or just a side effect of being a sanctimonious Gryffindor?"
She didn't take the bait. Instead, she stepped further into the room, her eyes sharp. "Your mother is almost as unpleasant as you are. Thankfully for me, she's also desperate. Her generosity will keep my mortgage paid as long as I put up with this farce."
"Your mortgage?" His smirk spread wider, voice dripping with mockery. "I thought this was pro bono. Just for me."
"I wouldn't spit on you for free, Malfoy. It's free for the Ministry, not for me. Your mother's vault will do nicely to cover the cost of this ridiculous case."
He rose to his feet in a sudden movement, tall and imposing, closing the space between them in an instant. His eyes glittered, taunting. "What cost? You don't have a life outside of this crusade. Tell me, Granger, is your great romance with Weasley just a quick, boring shag once a month to keep things interesting?"
Her head tilted slowly, her lips curling into a smile that was nothing short of dangerous. "If I wanted scraps, I'd settle for your father. But Lucius, tragically, is… unavailable."
The smirk vanished. His expression hardened, fury flashing in his eyes as he glared at her. "Don't you dare speak about my father."
"Or what?" she asked, stepping closer, her voice low but blazing. "Will your mother storm in again and tell me to climb down from my high horse? Please, Malfoy. Try harder."
His fists clenched tight, knuckles whitening as his composure frayed. "This is pointless. You are insufferable."
"Just like your father, then," she shot back. "Pointless."
That was the breaking point. His voice cracked open, his anger spilling fast and sharp. "Listen here, you stupid—"
The word never left his mouth.
Her palm struck his cheek with brutal precision, the crack reverberating through the room. His head jerked to the side, breath caught in his throat. For a suspended moment, he stood frozen, the fresh red bloom of her handprint stark against his pale skin.
She smiled, sharp and merciless, the kind of smile that promised she had won this round.
"I do enjoy this game, Malfoy. Let's try again tomorrow. And for the record—" she leaned close enough for him to feel the heat of her breath, her voice dropping into a whisper meant to wound, "your father is rather handsome. So yes, I would let him raw dog me."
The words cut like a blade, cruel and deliberate. She turned on her heel before he could respond, striding out with unshaken confidence. The door slammed hard behind her, the sound echoing like a final insult.
He remained where he stood, chest heaving with the effort of keeping himself contained. Rage flared hot in his blood, but beneath it something more dangerous pulsed—something he could not name, something he refused to name. She was a storm he could neither control nor outrun, and the truth that unsettled him most was that some hidden, reckless part of him did not want to escape her at all.
•••
For an entire week, the storm between them refused to let up. Their words were weapons, sharp enough to cut skin. Every meeting was a battle, their insults thrown like blades, each one designed to draw blood. It was exhausting, exhilarating, and utterly consuming. Neither backed down, neither surrendered. They circled one another like predators who had forgotten what peace even felt like.
By the second week, though, Hermione felt the edge dull. What had once entertained her began to lose its shine. Watching him bristle, watching his jaw tighten and his composure falter, had been satisfying in the beginning. But now it was predictable. He was too easy to provoke, his barbs too repetitive. The thrill of the hunt had faded, replaced by a restless irritation.
When she entered his cell that afternoon, she didn't waste her breath on civility. The door slammed behind her, reverberating against the stone, and she folded her arms across her chest. He lounged on the bed, one leg bent, feigning disinterest, but she saw the way his eyes flicked up to her, sharp and watchful.
"Listen here, you little bitch," she said, her tone clipped and icy. "Tell me how you managed to hide a time-turner, and maybe I'll consider letting you go."
He rolled his eyes, shifting forward until his elbows rested on his knees. "I already told you, Granger. I didn't do a damn thing."
"Ah yes, the infamous Malfoy defense. Deny, deny, deny." She began to pace, her voice cutting through the stillness with deliberate cruelty. "Why is it that all men do is lie? Don't you get tired of it? Doesn't it bore you to be so predictable?"
His jaw locked, his silence speaking louder than words.
She pressed harder, her face cool, her tone mocking. "The whorehouses must be sending you their thanks. Why not confess and save us both the charade of pretending this isn't a colossal waste of time?"
That struck. His composure cracked. "It wasn't me!" His voice broke louder than intended, frustration bursting through his mask. "I destroyed everything after the war. I didn't want to stay in that cursed house, surrounded by its filth, its rot, its magic. I wanted to be rid of it. I wanted to be free."
The words lingered, raw and unguarded. For a brief heartbeat, she faltered, startled by the naked honesty. But the flicker of sympathy died quickly, hidden behind a slow curl of her lips.
"Hmm," she mused, tapping her chin as if in thought. "I'll let you go, Malfoy, if you apologize."
He blinked, thrown. "Apologize?" His laugh was harsh, incredulous. "You cannot be serious."
"Oh, I am perfectly serious." She leaned down slightly, her voice slipping into velvet mockery. "Excuse-toi, comme un bon garçon, et je te libérerai."
His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then narrowed into a glare. "Are you unwell, Granger? Did you finally knock your head on the way here?"
She smirked, eyes alight with triumph. "Never better."
"Well, allow me to make something clear for you," he said, his voice laced with venom. "Je ne m'excuserai jamais auprès de quelqu'un comme toi."
Her head tilted, her expression unbothered, her tone deceptively mild. "Very well, Malfoy. Begging will be next month's lesson."
She spun on her heel, striding to the door with deliberate grace. Her hand paused on the knob, and she glanced back just long enough to deliver the final blow. "Enjoy your solitude. And do try to be more inventive with your insults. You're becoming dreadfully dull."
The door slammed shut, and the silence that followed was suffocating. Draco stood frozen for a moment, then his hands curled into fists, nails biting crescents into his palms. His face burned with fury, but beneath it a different fire smoldered.
He could not decide what enraged him more. Her audacity. Or the fact that, even now, he was already plotting his next retort.