Chapter Text
Please, Just Live. (Or, The Boy Who Was Left Behind)
Excerpt from The Daily Prophet
Front Page — 5th of April, 2003“DEATH EATERS WALK FREE: JUSTICE OR BETRAYAL?”
“In the wake of the upcoming fifth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, the Ministry of Magic has confirmed that a number of former Death Eater sympathisers and convicted collaborators will be released from Azkaban this week. The decision comes after years of prison reforms and rehabilitation efforts designed to reintegrate lesser offenders back into wizarding society.
Public opinion, however, remains bitterly divided. Many families of the war dead call this release a mockery of justice, arguing that no length of time could atone for the losses inflicted. “Five years is nothing when my brother will never come home,” said Amelia Cartwright in a touching tale from last week’s Lest We Forget column. Devin Cartwright was one of the many muggle-born victims to fall at the hands of Dolores Umbridge during interrogation from the now defunct Muggle-Born Registration Commission. “The Ministry is handing out second chances that our loved ones will never get.”
In contrast, members of several prominent pure-blood families insist that many of the accused were scapegoated for crimes orchestrated by the late Dark Lord. A member of the Nott family who has asked us to withhold their identity for safety reasons, stated: “These young men and women were children when they were swept up in the war. They have paid their debts. The war is over - why must our sons continue to suffer for the sins of their fathers?”
The Prophet has obtained the official list of names scheduled for release: Theodore Nott, Corvus Blain, Avery II and several others convicted of aiding or abetting Death Eater activities. Notably absent, however, is one name that has loomed over post-war debate since the trials: Draco Malfoy.
The only son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Draco’s case has long been a point of contention. Whilst guilty of aiding the Dark Lord, initial interviews with a variety of witnesses established that he acted under duress, forced into compliance by threats to himself and his family. While no public record of his incarceration can be found, a source close to the Daily Prophet that will not be named for their safety has verified that the youngest Malfoy male is currently being held at the island. Others convicted of far graver crimes have since been released or pardoned, leading many to believe that Draco’s unusually harsh, and to date, undocumented sentence is intended less as justice and more as a warning to other pure-blood families about the consequences of clinging to old allegiances. The Malfoy family failed to respond for comment.”
She had expected outrage. She had even prepared for it, rehearsed polite phrases for journalists who would inevitably corner her at lunch or on her way home, eager for a quote that would make her sound either merciful or monstrous depending on the day's appetite for scandal. The article was, by all account, remarkably more tame than she had been expecting it to be. But still, seeing the headline printed so boldly made her stomach tighten.
The photograph beneath the headline was the same tired image the Prophet always used, the thick cloud of smoke from a burning field, black-robed figures caught mid-step as if formed from the smoke. Cruel skeletal masks, burning hateful eyes below them. Nothing new. Nothing accurate. The faces weren’t even the same as the men and women she had interviewed these past months, people broken and quiet, people who wept when she spoke the names of the dead. The Prophet always has preferred a scapegoat over a success story.
Her gaze slid down the list of names printed beneath the article, those to be released under the Ministry’s Reintegration and Deradicalisation Initiative. She knew each one intimately. She had read their files, memorised their histories, fought for their chance to re-join the world.
Yet there was one name that had haunted her that was missing from the list. A chill passed through her, slow and certain, and she set the paper down as if it had burned her fingers.
Malfoy.
She had not thought of him in years. Not once since the war had his name crossed her mind. There had been too much to do, too much to rebuild, laws to amend, policies to draft, reparations to distribute. She had given herself to the work with the same relentlessness she once gave to study, until there was nothing left of the girl who had hidden in library stacks, only the woman who sat now beneath the Ministry’s cold lighting, clutching a paper that seemed to rearrange the very timeline of her life. There had been moments, of course. A sporadic spell of sleepless nights with flashes of a cold Manor floor and long thick tendrils of matted black hair hanging over her face, the scent of a fetid blade inches from her throat. Yet even in these moments spiralling into nightmare, Malfoy's presence wasn't something she liked to dwell on. He had always been cruel, childish, an exaggerated playground bully who relished in the misery of others. Yet seeing him stand there, watching as his aunt tortured her and doing nothing at all, had always left her with an irrational and profound feeling of betrayal. He had disliked her, yes, but they had been classmates, and the thought that even he could watch his own family stand there and carve hatred into someone he had spent six years going to school with had disturbed her. His cruelty before that moment had always seemed juvenile more than anything else.
Still, despite her reluctance to be reminded of his existence, she found herself furious that she had somehow overlooked his case, of all people. Her eyes drifted to the top of her desk, where stacks of parchment sat neatly arranged. She had reviewed every prisoner’s file. There was no mention of him. Not a whisper. She rifled through the papers anyway, her fingers moving with mechanical precision, searching for a name that wasn’t there. No updates on his progress, no record of therapy, nothing. Not a single indication of his existence within the system, not a shred to say that he had ever been imprisoned.
The Malfoys had withdrawn entirely from public life, holed up in their estate with only occasional and sporadic sightings of the Malfoy patriarch as a name on a list of donors and supporters of whatever charity was popular that month, and she had assumed by default that Draco had been lurking in that house with his father. She had no reason not to believe that he’d been pardoned as his parents had. She hadn’t been in this department at the time, too busy finalising her juvenile, idealistic efforts with S.P.E.W into something substantial and worth passing through the Wizengamot. She’d heard nothing about the Malfoys and her one attempt at contacting them in relation to one of her other cases had been ignored. With no reason to think of them as a threat, she had cast them off in her mind. Under typical circumstances, she might have dropped by for a courtesy visit, to see if the family could benefit from any support. But they had made it obvious in their complete absence from wizarding society that they had no interest in reintegration, and if she was being honest with herself, she had never been in any hurry to return to that place.
Hermione gripped the Prophet as a cold weight settled in her chest. How had she missed him being in Azkaban? How had no one mentioned it?
Two years ago, she had been asked by Harry, now head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, to lead a new subdivision: the Reintegration and Deradicalisation Department. Its mission was delicate, controversial even: monitoring former Death Eaters and those with close ties for signs of extremism, and guiding them back into society when possible and Azkaban when not. She had hesitated at first. The work was politically fraught and morally complex; it demanded impartiality she feared she might not be able to maintain.
Harry had insisted. “I can’t trust anyone else, Hermione.” he had told her, his green eyes unflinching. “Old allegiances, old grudges run deep for all of the other candidates. I can’t even trust myself to be impartial. You’re the only one who has the ability to look past all of that.”
And so she had taken the post, quietly proud of the work her team had done. Her previous work for the rights for house-elves had been won, and she had taken what she had learned in pushing the fragile new political landscape towards a more gentle world into policies to ensure fair treatment of rehabilitated prisoners, programs to reintegrate those who had shown genuine remorse. Little by little, progress had been made. The public was not a fan of her, of course, on both sides; the pure-bloods and loyalists insisted her work demeaned and humiliated what little dignity their broken families had left, whilst those she had fought alongside hated her for trying to humanise those they still considered to be murders and monsters. The truth was somewhere in the middle, but it was too uncomfortable for most to face. Whether either of them liked it or not, surviving in this new post-war world required both parties to coexist, lest they fail to learn from the difficult lessons that had been dealt to them all.
She tore through her files, double checking she hadn’t missed him. She hadn’t. She stared at the blank space where his name should have been. The boy she had known was arrogant, sharp-tongued, infuriating. Yet in some corner of her memory, still just a scared child who had gotten in over his head. And now, weeks before the fifth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, the weight of that absence pressed down on her like the walls of Azkaban itself. She couldn’t ignore it. When she leaned back in her chair, her pulse thudding painfully in her throat, she thought of the last time she had seen him. Pale and haunted in the chaos of the castle, the mark on his arm still dark, his mother dragging him by the wrist toward safety. A boy shaped by fear, not conviction. A boy who had barely spoken as the world burned around him.
Had he truly been in Azkaban all this time?
No one had told her. No one had done anything. If any family were a symbol of what needed to burn in order for the new world to rise from the ashes, it was the Malfoys. Now that she thought about it, If there would be any poster boy for the redemption she was trying to show the world was possible, Draco Malfoy was the perfect fit. So where was he? She was furious at herself for letting her aversion of that house underplay what good she could have done using his family name if she had thought to look into him. She had built the entire department meant to ensure that such oversights never happened again, so that the ministry would never be complicit in fanning the flames of another war, and yet this, this single name, suddenly made all of her careful work feel hollow.
She rose abruptly, the chair skidding behind her, the Prophet still spread across her desk, the hateful eyes in the moving photograph glaring at her as shadow engulfed them.
There was only one person who could give her answers, whether he liked it or not.
Hermione stormed through the winding corridors of the Ministry, her skirt brushing the polished floors with each determined step. The chatter of witches and wizards around her felt distant, muffled by the whirlwind of anger and disbelief swirling in her mind. How could she have missed him, someone she’d gone to school with? How had she allowed someone from such a prominent family to slip through the cracks? Every cubicle she passed, every office she glimpsed through the windows, passed in a whirl. The more she walked, the angrier she became at herself.
She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms, and pushed forward, the familiar corridor of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement head office now feeling suffocating rather than safe. Each step echoed her frustration: the bureaucracy, the endless reports, the endless meetings - how had all of it blinded her to what could be such a significant case? What would the media say once she did find whatever hole he was being kept in?
By the time she reached the thick oak door of Harry’s office, her chest was tight, her mind a storm of fury and disbelief. She drew in a sharp breath, steadied herself for just a moment, and then pushed it open, striding in without hesitation. Her green eyes locked on Harry immediately, unyielding. There would be no preamble, no polite exchange today. There was only one thing she demanded, and she would not leave without it. She tried to forget that the man in front of her was her friend and forced her to see only a workplace superior.
“Harry,” she said sharply, eyes flashing, “We need to talk. Now.”
Harry looked up from a mess of papers, startled, and ran a hand through his messy black hair. There was a flicker of nervousness in his green eyes. “Right. I-”
“You saw the Prophet, didn’t you?” she cut him off. “Tell me why there is no record of Draco Malfoy being in Azkaban and yet the Prophet seems to think he is? Why isn’t he on any of the lists? Tell me why I can't find any evidence at all that he is there?”
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I—I did see it,” he admitted slowly. “Look, Hermione… I knew he was in Azkaban. I thought you did too. It happened before you became department head. They picked him up when his family attempted to flee to Sweden after the war, they were concerned that Lucius was going to reach out to people sympathetic to Voldemort and rebuild there at the time. They took Draco to stop the rest of the family from leaving. I had just… I had forgotten. With everything else, with rebuilding the Ministry, reforming laws, tracking down the active sympathisers, I lost track of him. I assumed he’d been condemned by the previous department head. I never looked into it, he was such a prick I just guessed he’d done something to get himself put in there. You never mentioned him, so I thought maybe he’d gone off the deep end or something.”
Hermione’s hands clenched into fists. “You assumed? You forgot? Do you know what that means, Harry? For five years?”
Harry’s shoulders slumped. “Hermione, I-”
“Give me the correspondence. All of it. Now.”
He hesitated, then sighed and opened the drawer at his side. From within he drew a thick bundle of letters, bound neatly with a pale blue ribbon. He set them on the desk between them.
Hermione reached for them slowly. The parchment was almost crumbling in its age, the top letter on the stack coated with fine dust. The first envelope bore Narcissa Malfoy’s name in delicate ink. Hermione untied the ribbon and flipped through the stack. The first letters that had been opened were formal, polite, inquiries about visitation schedules, requests for confirmation of her son’s welfare. Then as Hermione reached later letters, ones that Harry had not even broken the seal on, the tone changed. The later letters were frantic, the handwriting uneven, as though written through tears.
Please. I have received no word in months. Lucius has cooperated, I have cooperated, why are you doing this? Has something happened? I am begging you for a reply.
Each successive letter grew more desperate, more broken. Hermione could hardly read the final one through the smudges of ink.
She felt sick.
“You kept these?” she asked softly.
Harry looked ashamed. “I read the first few. I asked Bell about it, at first. She just said his case had been closed a long time ago. So I stopped opening them.”
“You stopped opening the envelopes of a mother writing dozens of unanswered letters about her son’s imprisonment?” Her voice was low, trembling now, more dangerous than if she’d shouted.
Harry didn’t answer.
For a long moment Hermione stood there, staring down at the letters. She had spent years rebuilding the system to make sure this didn’t happen, to make sure no one disappeared into the machinery of the state. And yet here was proof that someone had. Someone she’d known since childhood, no matter how foul he had been. She gathered the letters into a stack and straightened them with deliberate care. When she looked up again, her voice was steady.
“I’m going to Azkaban,” she said. “Today.”
Harry’s brows furrowed. “Hermione-”
Hermione’s jaw tightened, fury coiling in her chest. “You’ve been withholding this,” she hissed, voice low and trembling, “because of some personal grudge or because you thought it wasn’t important?! He’s from a prominent family, do you realise the kind of damage that could be done if something has happened to him? If, heaven forbid, he's become even more radicalised now? If he gains a following?”
Harry held up his hands. “No! Never a grudge, Hermione. I swear. I just guessed that he was beyond help if the previous head hadn’t released him when I first started, I honestly hadn’t thought of him at all since then until today. I should have sent the letters to you, or chased them up, I know. It’s just been rough. The radical groups never stop forming, I’m spreading myself and the department thin chasing ghosts every week.”
Hermione thought back to the hot, terrible flames of the fiendfyre. How she’d flown straight past Malfoy, not even considering it a possibility to go back for him, but it had been Harry who had refused to leave without saving him. There was something sickening in knowing that all these years later, their roles had somehow reversed.
“I’m going to Azkaban. I’m going to find out what has happened to him and if he’s fit to be released, I want him out. I want full leave immediately, and I want you to give me every file, every scrap of information you have. I will not wait for bureaucracy or excuses.”
Harry stared at her for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll give you leave. Take the letters, but I promise you there’s no files about him on my end. I just assumed that if they existed you’d have them.”
Hermione gathered the stack of letters, her mind already racing through what she would need. Every step she had taken through the Ministry corridors felt insignificant compared to what awaited her in that cold, terrible place. She hated going there, tried to avoid it if she could. Even with the refurbishment, the removal of the dementors, and the carefully crafted focus on healing over punishment that she’d work so hard to put into place, the place was still a grim and miserable prison on the North Sea. Still, it was necessary. She’d never backed away from a challenge in her life. She wasn’t going to start now.
The world was illuminated in green flame as Hermione passed through the Floo network entry to Azkaban. The warm and polished floor of the ministry gave way to cold, wet stone that she felt her feet begin to slip beneath. The gentle sound of candles flickering and heels clicking down the halls was replaced by the roar of a starless sea, the tumbling thunder of the north.
She was situated at a strange location. A lone fireplace on a gritted short beach, crescented in tall black stone. Far above her, the tower loomed, its silhouette sharp and merciless against the stormy sky, like a dagger thrust into the heavens. Rain pelted her skin, drenching her hair and running down her cheeks, but she barely noticed. All her attention was on the path winding upward, a narrow stair of uneven stone carved into the cliff, slick and treacherous under the downpour.
At the top of the path, standing rigid against the wind and rain, was Katie Bell. Her Auror cloak whipped around her like a banner in the storm. She raised a hand, a silent greeting, her expression unreadable, though Hermione could sense the tension radiating off her.
“Stay close to the railing,” Katie called over the roar of the waves, her voice firm. “It’s worse than you imagine up there.”
Hermione nodded, forcing her legs to move, climbing the jagged steps one by one. The closer she got, the more the tower’s black stone seemed to absorb the light around it, cold and oppressive. Her stomach twisted with a mix of anticipation and dread. Somewhere inside that fortress, behind walls built to hold monsters, was the boy that had bullied her as a child. She wasn’t even sure what she was going to say to him.
Katie’s cloak whipped around her as she descended the final steps to meet Hermione. Her hair plastered to her face from the rain, she smiled warmly when she saw Hermione approaching, her expression bright despite the storm. Still, Hermione felt as if there was something tense in her expression, a weight in the lines and bags beneath her eyes that hadn’t been present the last time she’d seen her.
“Hermione,” she said, gripping her arm. “Merlin, it’s been years.”
Hermione managed a nod. “You got Harry’s message.”
“Yes,” Katie said, brushing water from her cloak, “I was told you’re here for a tour. I always love showing people around. You’re going to see how much we’ve reformed the place, how different it is now.”
Hermione blinked, taken aback by the warmth in Katie’s tone. A tour? That certainly was not why she was here, but she nodded stiffly, letting the Bell guide her up the narrow path toward the tower entrance, ignoring the dark spiral steps that wound down into the abyss below. The storm continued to batter them, but Katie seemed almost unbothered, her focus entirely on showing Hermione the upper floors.
Inside the tower, Hermione’s eyes widened at the contrast to the fortress she remembered from her early days in the department. Sunlight filtered in through wide, enchanted windows; the stone was polished and clean; corridors carrying the lingering scent of herbs and fresh air. Prisoners moved about freely, some reading, a couple huddled together playing chess. The reforms were evident everywhere: bright common rooms, private but open sleeping quarters, and even a small library. There were, of course, certain cells in the corners that remained locked, but even those appeared comfortable from the brief glances inside that Hermione got. The prisoners seemed to pay them no notice, far more interested in their books or chess games than the two of them. In fact, it seemed as if they were going out of their way to ignore her - all of them except one.
A young man with messy black hair and nervous posture approached them, book tucked beneath his arm, sheepishly bowing. “Hermione Granger. We haven’t met in person since… since it all happened. I’m Theodore Nott. When Katie told us you were coming I couldn’t believe it. Thank you so much for what you’re doing for us. I… I’m excited to see my friends again soon,” he said, voice hesitantly hopeful. “And I’m thinking about starting a little garden when I get home. A proper one, with flowers and vegetables. Maybe even magical herbs.”
Hermione smiled hesitantly at him.
“You’ve been doing great, Theodore. We’ll catch up soon, on the outside, ok?”
He nodded, smiling back at her, happier than she’d ever imagined to see someone imprisoned be. She had known from the various reports Bell had sent Susan Bones, Hermione's second in command, that the new policies the department had put through demanding liveable conditions at Azkaban were being honoured. It was quite another matter to see it all in person. It was evident, from Theo's bright tone, that the new environment was having a very beneficial effect on her cases, and Hermione allowed herself another small smile, a real one this time.
Katie beamed back to her as they continued on. “Theodore is doing well. Very responsive. He’s opened up a lot in his therapy.”
Hermione followed quietly, letting Katie lead the tour, absorbing the sights and the gentle, open atmosphere. Yet even as the warmth of the upper floors reached her, her mind kept drifting to Draco and the obvious absence of him. He was nowhere to be seen.
Finally, Katie led her to a bright sitting area where several prisoners chatted quietly. She turned to Hermione. “Well, that’s everything. I hope you can see why I’m so proud of the work we’ve done here. It’s been difficult, with the budget. But we’ve tried our best to implement all of your guidelines.”
Hermione nodded, chewing her cheek, unsure of how to broach the subject. She motioned for Katie aside, lowering her voice. “I need to see Draco Malfoy.”
Katie froze. Her cheerful demeanour faltered, and she just repeated his name, stunned. “Malfoy?”
“Yes,” Hermione said firmly. “Malfoy. The Prophet reported he’s here.”
“Oh. We don’t get the Prophet here, I find it upsets some of the prisoners. Hermione, you know what the Prophet’s like, it’s-”
“Harry confirmed he’s here, Katie. I don’t want excuses. I need to see him. Now.”
Katie opened her mouth, as if to argue, but Hermione held up a hand. “I’m not here for gossip or inspection. I’m here because he’s in this tower, and I need to know why.”
Katie’s shoulders sagged in reluctant acceptance. She gave a tight nod. “Right… okay. I’ll take you down. But… it’s not like the upper floors. He’s dangerous, you know.”
Hermione followed as Katie led her toward the shadowy stairwell winding downward, the cheerful light and warmth of the upper floors slipping away behind them. The deeper they went, the colder and darker it became, the air thick with an oppressive chill. Hermione tightened her grip on her wand, heart hammering, wondering why it was he had been kept in the dungeons of this place. Had he really become so volatile in the short years since she’d last seen him? He’d helped Harry at the end. It was hard for her to believe that he had really become so invested in blood purity and hatred beyond surface level intolerance - he had never seemed to care much about anything other than himself.
They went down a long wet corridor past a thick iron door with no window and Katie seemed to flinch slightly as she walked past. Hermione could understand why. The chill emanating from the room felt like distilled misery, as if the cold itself was enough to strip away joy. There must have been some sort of damage there that let the cold in, she could see the faint mist of her own breath in front of her. The hallway narrowed, becoming lower, and they finally stopped at the end, a tight spiral staircase with no light. Hermione looked at Katie, who seemed to be avoiding her gaze, and waved her wand. Hermione heard a clunking noise below.
“Well. He’s down there, I’ve unlocked the door. You can head down. He’s not very responsive though. I’m not sure you’ll get much information out of him.”
Hermione blinked. “You unlocked the door? Is that safe?”
Katie almost laughed, and it sounded unusually cruel in contrast to her usual light demeanour.
“He won’t do anything. He’s very docile these days.”
Hermione turned, trying to ignore the disturbing feeling the comment had given her, and stepped carefully down the spiral staircase. The walls curved close around her, slick with damp. The air grew heavier the lower she went, thick with salt and mould and something metallic and fetid, the tang of old blood. Her wand light flickered weakly across the stones, illuminating the trail of condensation that trickled down them in long, shivering lines. Every step echoed, soft but certain, swallowed almost immediately by the vast, airless quiet of the place.
She could feel it pressing on her chest, the weight of every year he’d spent down here.
Why was he down here, and who had he become to warrant such a thing?
Azkaban had been emptying itself for years. The Ministry’s campaign for rehabilitation and deradicalisation had seen dozens of war-adjacent offenders released early or relocated to halfway houses. There was no lack of space in the warm halls above. There was no reason, no reason at all, that anyone should have been kept down here unless they had done something terrible. Least of all someone with the name Malfoy.
The air grew colder still as she descended. At the final turn, the steps ended abruptly, opening into a small landing and a heavy iron door left slightly ajar. It creaked faintly, as though breathing. Hermione stopped just short of the threshold. The smell hit her first: rot and seawater and something sour that made her eyes sting. She lifted her wand higher and stepped inside.
The room filled her with such a visceral sense of wrongness that she almost staggered.
She had expected a cell, but this was more like a crypt, vast and bare, its walls slick with a perpetual grim and stinking moisture. The light barely reached the corners. There was no bed, no chair, nothing at all to suggest habitation. Only a rusted bucket in one corner, half-filled with stagnant water that reeked, and in the other corner lay a mound of rags and metal, like discarded refuse. Chains, by the look of them, tangled around old cloth and rust. For a moment she thought she’d been brought to an abandoned cell, some unused relic of the old prison, its former occupant long since gone. She felt an absurd flicker of irritation at Katie. Surely this couldn’t be it.
She was just about to turn around and leave, when there was the slightest sound of the moving of metal. Alarmed, her eyes flicked to the discarded cloth and chains in the other corner. Then the pile of rags moved.
It was slight, almost imperceptible, a shudder, a twitch of fabric, as if something underneath had exhaled. Hermione froze. Her wand hand trembled, the beam stuttering against the far wall.
“Malfoy?” she whispered.