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Draco scowled at the woman across from him. Of all people she was the last person, he wanted to be indebted to. It was bad enough that Potter was helping with his trial, but this felt like a step too far.

Granger looked strange, grown-up somehow. She was wearing Muggle attire, a grey silk blouse that was buttoned to her throat and a sensible black skirt. Her usually wild curls were restrained in a low twist, with a few rebellious coils framing her face. Granger shifted uncomfortably under his glare, crossing and uncrossing her legs with such frequency that her skirt slipped up her thighs. When she noticed Draco’s gaze shift to the now exposed flesh, she huffed and wriggled it back down.

“Why are you here Granger?” he asked, eventually. “I’m not one of your little house-elves. I don’t need saving.”

She scoffed again, “Come on, Malfoy. We both know that you don’t deserve this.”

Draco raised a single eyebrow, sneer on his lips, “We do?” 

He kept his steel-grey eyes locked on her amber ones. If she was lying, he wanted to read it in her face.

Granger’s expression softened fractionally, “No one deserves to be locked away for as long as you will be if the Ministry gets their way. You may have been a bully at school, but you were a child when you took that mark,” she gestured at his covered left arm. The atmosphere in the tiny interrogation room at Azkaban suddenly became stifled. Draco fought the urge to mimic her shuffling in his uncomfortable wooden chair.

Draco was taken aback by her response. Granger was not wrong. On anything. Bloody swat . He had been a bully, and a burk, and a bigot. Before the events leading up to and following Dumbledore’s death, he would not have even deigned to sit across the table from her. Would not have entertained the idea that she nor Wonderboy would be able to help him. It made Draco feel a bit sick that she was so willing to look past his actions so completely.

“Don’t misunderstand me, Malfoy,” Granger said, her countenance hardening again. “You are not forgiven. You may have been a child when you took that mark, but I was a child when I decided to fight against what it stood for. But you never killed, and you tried to stall your Aunt when we were captured and taken to your home.” She scratched absently at the jagged scar across her throat where Bellatrix’s blade had left its mark. “And while your father deserves any punishment that the Ministry can make stick, it would make me no better than him if I allowed you to rot in here.”

Draco flinched inwardly at her casual vitriol toward his father. He did not blame her for it, especially given his own complicated feelings toward the man.

“Shall we begin?” Granger asked, her tone clipped.

Reluctantly, he nodded.

Granger was wearing the same clothes she had worn on her last visit. Did she not have any other clothes?

Draco was not sure why she had decided to visit him again. Potter visited him more than once only to tell him that Granger was going to be making a statement at Draco’s trial alongside him. The only other person who had come to this Merlin forsaken rock to see him more than once was his lawyer. Draco inwardly sighed at the thought of the man who had agreed to take his case. The usual family lawyer was busy trying to weasel his father out of the charges he was facing, so Draco had been stuck with the man’s subordinate.

Draco was trying to ignore the tightening in his gut at the thought that she may be there to tell him she had changed her mind. That there was no way he could change from the child he had been. That the way he had treated her when they were children was inexcusable. Had she not told him that she had not forgiven him the last time she was here? 

It felt like there were boulders in his stomach. Draco’s entire defence relied on Granger and Potter. Without their testimony, he was a marked Death Eater who plotted to kill one of the most respected and powerful men to have ever graced the Wizarding World and let a legion of Dark Wizards into a school full of children.

Draco was snapped out of his thoughts by the thunk of a large pile of papers being dumped on the wooden table between them. He looked at Granger, shocked.

“Has your lawyer spoken to you about the case of Flora Selwyn in 1845?” 

Draco’s face moved from shock to confusion. “No,” he replied slowly.

“It’s not an identical case, of course. Flora’s case was based in matrimony law, but there are enough similarities that he can use the case as a basis for your defence strategy.”

“You’ve been researching case law to help me?” Draco asked.

“Like I said last time you don’t deserve to rot in prison for your father’s sins.”

Draco looked up at her. The fire and determination burning in her amber depths made his heart stutter.

“Thank you.”

The tilt to Granger’s chin in the courtroom challenged anyone to defy her. Draco watched magic restricting chains around his wrists, with a mixture of awe and fascination. She was wearing the same sensible black skirt that she had worn on her visits to Azkaban, but the blouse she wore was more conservative. He had to admit that seeing her dressed in Muggle attire in front of the entire Wizengamot was one of the most rebellious things he had seen her do. The way Granger was standing, with confidence and her shoulders back, reminded him of the moment before she punched him in Third Year. Defiant. Righteous.

“If it were not for his actions that day, Harry may well have not been able to defeat Voldemort last May,” she said. Her voice had the same clipped tone she had used the first time she had visited him.

“Miss Granger,” a man with a lot of chin and not much neck said, drawing her attention. “This man is responsible for the attack on Hogwarts that resulted in the death of Albus Dumbledore.” He straightened his plum-coloured robes of indiscernible creases, “He attempted murder three times at the age of sixteen. These acts are irredeemable, he is a danger to society.”

Draco could just make out that Granger’s eyes had narrowed and mouth set in a straight line. “Did you never do anything as a teenager to please your parents? Impress your friends? Did you hurt anyone, physically or emotionally when you did those things?” Draco watched, stunned, as Granger squared up to the man several decades her senior, “Do you hold the same beliefs, opinions, make the same rash decisions you did when you were sixteen?” 

Granger rounded again to face the entire Council. “The man you are judging today has barely had the opportunity to grow,” her tone was confident and Draco could tell that she was just getting into her stride. “He faced a choice and he made the decision he thought was right but nine months later knew wasn’t,” she continued, the entire hall captivated. 

“I know that Harry will have told you what he saw on the Astronomy Tower that night, but what he did at his Manor helped to save every life in this room,” Granger’s voice was softer, almost pitying. “He only identified Ron and me when interrogated by his parents, the people he loves above all else. The people who, if Harry’s account is right, he joined the Death Eaters to save ,” there was a crack in Granger’s voice on the last word. Draco, along with the entire Wizengamot, was stunned at her compassionate words. 

Granger spun to face him in that moment, as though the next thing from her lips was for him alone. That it was something she wanted, no needed, for him to hear. As though the entire Wizarding World was not watching on. Her amber eyes glowed with the same determination he had seen in the interrogation room weeks before when she had told him about Flora Selwyn. “He was hesitant. He hedged. He tried to buy us all as much time as he could. I was tortured in front of this man,” at her blunt declaration Draco felt pain like ice slashing at his soul. He watched the faces of the entire Wizengamot flinch, pale, and grimace. Granger’s eyes never left him, never wavered. 

“I was tortured in front of him and all I could see when I looked at him was a scared little boy.” Draco was not sure how to feel about that so he broke her gaze. He knew how it had felt that day, watching one of his former classmates convulse and writhe with unimaginable pain on his drawing-room floor. He had discovered that day that his reaction to trauma was to freeze. He was ashamed that instead of saying anything, doing anything to stop his Aunt his feet had turned to lead. He had felt like his toes had grown roots and burrowed into the ground.

“I am no seer,” Granger continued, facing the court once again. “I don’t know what Malfoy will do with his life if he is released, I don’t know whether he has learned from his actions. But I just fought a war against hate. I am done with hate. I am done with not giving people the opportunity to change and grow.”

The entire chamber was silent after Granger’s tirade. Draco waited a beat before looking back up at the men and women who would decide his fate. There were a few faces he knew, Kingsley Shacklebolt, as acting Minister for Magic was presiding and Draco was sure he spotted the dead bird that topped Augusta Longbottom’s hat and at least three redheads. He had also caught a glimpse of his estranged Aunt Andromeda, so similar in looks to her older sister. But many of the members of the Council had been arrested or killed during or after the War. The old guard of his father’s colleagues were all but lost, and he was both relieved that those who were in charge while he was young had lost their power, and terrified that many of the people in front of him had been adversaries of his family for centuries. There was no love lost between these people and who he represented. Draco knew that his life was truly in Granger’s hands.

“Thank you, Miss Granger,” Shacklebolt said. “You have given us a lot to consider.”

Granger nodded before striding purposefully for the door without a backward glance. Draco was overwhelmed with an urge to follow her to freedom.

The guard at Azkaban shoved a bag of Draco’s possessions at him, a sneer on his face. One of the first things to happen in the wake of the war was the dismissal of Dementors from their posts at the prison. The moral question surrounding the creatures’ presence at Azkaban had ultimately come to a head. Shacklebolt recognised that not only were soul-sucking wraiths inhumane as guards, they were also untrustworthy given the side they had taken in the War. The new guards were a vicious group, however, with a chip on their shoulder when it related to old, pureblood families. 

“Don’t know how they let a Death Eater like you go free,” the greasy looking man spat with disdain.

Draco could not help but feel the same way. He had not expected to be released so soon, given the gravity of the charges he faced. He knew that both Potter and Granger’s statements were key to helping him gain freedom.

“Where can I change into my robes?” Draco asked the guard.

“Through there,” the man said, gesturing toward a heavy door to Draco’s left. “Once you’ve changed, tap the marked brick twice with your wand and a door will appear to lead you into the outside world.”

Draco grimaced as he entered the damp chamber where he was expected to dress. He took his time, shedding the tired, worn robes he had been living in for the past several months. Pulling his expensive, dark robes on he noted the difference in his frame. The usually well-tailored shape was loose around the arms and chest. The shining black boots that had once felt like the height of comfort were large and heavy on his feet. Once dressed, he reached delicately for the final item in the bag. Wrapping his slim fingers around his wand, he welcomed the familiar, warm tingle of magic running through his fingertips and his entire body. Electricity coursed through his veins, awakening him from a slumber he had not been aware he was in. It was the first time Draco felt normal, whole.

Many of the grey, moss-covered bricks were disintegrated or cracked, making the greasy guard’s instructions difficult to follow. It took him a half an hour to find the brick marked with the Ancient Rune he recognised as Uruz. Tapping his hawthorn wand against the Rune twice, the brick glowed blue and an archway appeared in the wall. Draco closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, filling his lungs with the crisp sea air of Orkney. He held the air in his lungs for a moment before exhaling and opening his eyes. The person he saw waiting for him was unexpected.

“Granger?”

“Malfoy,” she said. She looked different from the last few times he had seen her. Her hair was the wild mass of curls that he remembered from their school days, unconstrained by the prim chignon she had worn during his trial and her visits. She wore a thick knitted jumper that looked handmade and a pair of blue jeans in a style he had seen on a lot of Muggleborns. Her arms were crossed over her chest and hip cocked as though he had greatly inconvenienced her. Draco was suddenly hit by the disruptive thought that she was quite good looking. In a mousey, average sort of way.

His eyebrow rose, “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“Seemed unfair for you to have no one waiting for you when you were released,” she shrugged, arms still crossed.

Draco was struck by the fact that he could no longer count the number of times Granger had surprised him. He was fully prepared to make his way back to the Manor by himself, his mother unable to meet him as she was still awaiting her own trial.

“I’m not a charity case, Granger,” he returned.

“I know,” she said slowly. “I’m not treating you like one.” She moved to walk down the winding path toward the Apparition point. “Coffee?” she asked over her shoulder, “I’ll buy.”

Draco, unwilling to return to his large, empty childhood home, rushed after her.

When they landed, Granger had led him to a small cafe on the Muggle side of London.

“Figured you didn’t want to get stared at in the Leaky,” she explained when Draco had thrown her a puzzled look.

It was only after they ordered and had taken a seat at a small corner table that he noticed the amount of pink and hearts around them. He frowned at a garland hanging from the nearby window that had a large picture of a chubby baby with wings.

“Valentines is next week,” Granger said as she brought their orders to the table.

Draco nodded absently, taking his Earl Grey from her. “Why did you do it, Granger? Really. Why do you care?”

Granger took the seat opposite him, cupping her mug in her hands. She was staring at her tea as though it held the answers, wild tresses falling to cover most of her face. “I just… I can’t hold grudges. Not anymore,” she sighed. She sounded older than her years, weary. “Don’t get me wrong, even a year ago I wouldn’t have done what I did, but now… Do you know how much energy it takes to hate? And it gets you nowhere. Just bitter and angry at the world. I am tired of being angry at the world.”

Draco knew what she meant. He had not realised until he had been arrested just how tiring it was to carry hate around. As much as it had been one of the worst experiences of his life, the burden that lifted from his shoulders when he had walked into his Azkaban cell for the first time was indescribable. Draco did not want to return to the Manor and his old ways and he could feel the pressure building already. He could hear his father’s poison dripping into his ear, telling him that he should not be there. In Muggle London with a woman who was so far beneath him. 

But this was his chance to shed the unbearable weight. Granger was giving him the opportunity, the olive branch, to find some kind of balance. She was sitting across from him, hands nursing a mug of Assam, vulnerable to him. Granger knew his hatred, had felt it directed at her, and was still willing to have a conversation with him. She was a strange creature, alien in her consent to be exposed so blatantly. It was like she saw something in him that he had not seen in himself. That he was more than the stuck up, prideful child who had been rejected by Harry Potter on his first day of school.

“Okay,” he said.

Granger looked up at him then and smiled tentatively, “Okay.” She laughed to herself, “I never thought I’d see the day that Draco Malfoy would sit with me, willingly, in a Muggle coffee shop.”

His lips twitched slightly. “I’m full of surprises, Granger.”

“I’m sure you are,” she chuckled, her eyes dancing with mischief. Draco was unexpectedly overcome with the desire to see that sparkle in her eyes again. More. For him to be the one to put it there.

“Give me a chance and maybe I’ll surprise you again.”

Granger looked at him, a mix of apprehension and amusement on her face, “I think I’d like that.”

A bell chimed charmingly as someone entered the small cafe, bringing a blast of cold air with them. Draco’s head shot up to glance at the newcomer but scowled to see a family gathered by the wooden door, wrapped up against the February chill. He lowered his head and returned to reading the final contracts to ensure that The Malfoy Institute for Neuromagical Development. 

A lot had changed in a year. When Draco had returned home after his release from Azkaban he had wanted to burn the entire place to the ground. As a boy, he had been so proud of the legacy it represented but in that moment he wanted to vomit on his shoes for what had happened there over the previous fifty years. It was not a pillar of all that was pure, it was cursed with hatred and fear and death. Rattling around the empty Manor before his mother’s return had been agony. All of his friends were either awaiting their own trials or dead. He had stayed in his rooms for five days, not wanting to walk the halls haunted by the shade of The Dark Lord or his Aunt on every corner. And then, on the sixth day, he had awoken to tapping on his window. Grateful for any contact with the outside world, he ripped the letter open to see it was from Granger.

The bell tinkled again, and Draco glanced up once more. A young couple, clearly caught up in the season, walked in with eyes only for each other. Draco huffed and pulled out his pocket watch. He was getting ahead of himself, she was not due for another three minutes. And she was always punctual.

The meetings with her had been awkward at first, stilted. For some reason, that was entirely her own, Granger insisted on meeting again. And again. Eventually, given that he had nothing better to do and no one else to talk to, he relaxed. It was Granger’s idea to create the institute, in fact.

“Why don’t you change what it represents?” she said after a thoughtful pause when he had told her how much he despised the place. “Make it a place of healing.”

Draco was not sure when, but the regular catch-ups with Granger started to feel different after that. Not long after his mother had returned in mid-April did he realise that he was calling them dates in his head. There were light touches, and lingering glances, and open smiles. Their first kiss was in the summer and had come to represent the season for Draco; Granger in a light green sundress, tresses wild about her shoulders, smelling of rose and lemon and sunshine.

The bell jingled once more and Draco peered up to see Granger in the doorway. His lips twitched up at the vision. Her body looked shapeless in the puffed coat she insisted on wearing during the colder months, and he could barely see her face between her curls, scarf and woollen hat. She searched for him as she pulled her mittens from her hands and beamed when she spotted him.

“Hey, love,” she said when she arrived at the table, lips pressing to his cheeks in greeting.

“Your nose is cold,” he complained as she took her seat across from him. She chuckled, shaking her head. 

“All done?” Hermione asked, gesturing to the paperwork before taking the mug of Earl grey he had ordered for her from the tray beside her. 

“Nearly,” Draco said. He quickly cleared the contents away from the table and piled the papers neatly. Once everything was packed in his briefcase he returned his attention to Granger. She was cupping her mug of tea as though it were the only source of warmth in the room and Draco was suddenly taken back to a year before, almost to the day, in the same cafe. He shifted uncomfortably.

“I, erm, got something for you,” he said. Draco Malfoy was never one to be nervous but there was something about the witch that made him stutter sometimes. Reaching into a pocket of the briefcase beside him he pulled out a small envelope. “I know Valentine’s Day isn’t until Monday, but I thought you weren’t the type to want a big fuss.”

Granger’s eyes met his, curious, as she took the small card. Delicately, she unsealed the envelope and read the contents. Once she was finished her large, brown eyes snapped to meet his. “You’ve never… that word.”

Draco could not bring himself to say anything so simply nodded.

It was a word that he had not heard much growing up, save from once or twice from his mother as a small child. He had admired Granger that she could use the word so freely, in greeting, in passion, in joy. Draco could not utter it.  Even then, after a year of being shown what it could heal. After feeling it so completely for the woman across from him for months.

Draco may not have been able to say it. But when he had signed the card, the card for his Valentine, he had written it. He had put it in ink on paper for her to know and see. When he had done it, he had hoped it was enough to convey to her the depths of his feelings, the extent to how she had changed his life. 

Four letters did not seem enough for that.