And She Was Golden

and it's a new start (with an old enemy)

He's ushered off to another room by two Aurors. One of them keeps glancing at him, barely hiding his disgust. Draco wonders if this is how it will be from now on--they will despise him for the simple act of existing. The room is standard enough with multiple chairs surrounding a long conference table. A small podium tucked away in the corner confirms it as a meeting room of some sort. They have vanished his bindings--removed the chains. Draco rubs at his wrists, trying to soothe the phantom pain of the manacles digging into his skin. He can hardly remember a life without them; their weight a physical reminder of his new standing.

A lanky-looking man sits in the middle of the table and he gestures to Draco to join him. The Aurors escorting him linger at the doorway, eyes fixed on his every move. What do they expect him to do? He doesn't even have a wand, let alone the energy to try something. Draco looks at the man; he is wearing a worn set of robes and his wide-set eyes look as tired as Draco feels.

The trial was unexpected. It's taken more from him than he realized. He wasn't ready to see her--it's thrown him off-kilter. Draco lets his eyes glaze over, giving himself a moment to stabilize after she came crashing.

He thinks of his room, filled with towering shelves reaching an unknown top. Draco takes in the ruckus caused by her, the shelves in complete disarray. Hermione Granger was a force of destruction. He bends down and gets to work. He picks up the boxes strewn on the floor. Slowly sealing up the ones that have popped open before putting them in their spots.

He glances at the one labelled Hermione Granger in an innocuous gold script. The box itself is a white thing, crisp and clean.

It's easy to overlook, quite unlike the memories it carries.

It is overflowing- begging to be opened, to be expanded. It taunts him, filled with everything he knows he can't have. Draco won't give her the satisfaction, so he grabs it and places it high, as high as he can go and wills it to disappear.

The box is as stubborn as her. It stays on the shelf, unmoving as it mocks him with everything he wishes he deserved.

Draco is hesitant as he walks to the man. He pulls out a chair across from him and sits down- not that he has any other choice.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

The man heaves a sigh, shuffling through a thick file. With a start, Draco realizes the file is his as he recognizes the prisoner number.

It was a series of symbols and numbers that were tattooed onto the base of his neck. A number he had traced in his isolation until it was branded not only in the skin but in his very soul.

"You're one lucky bastard, Malfoy," the man spits out. The hostility startles him. He supposes he ought to start expecting it.

"Your kind ought to be locked up in a cell and here you are." Draco blinks, once, then twice. He remains silent. He spots a small name tag pinned to the robes, and Draco has a name to put to the man--Fredrick Evards.

"Don't know what you did or what you pulled, but..." He flops the file down in front of him, tapping on a section. "The Wizengamot has decided. They're letting you off free"

He lets out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding.

"That father of yours, still as crafty as ever. Should've known he'd pull something after he got off so lightly. Not that anyone can prove anything." Evards mumbles the last bit under his breath.

Of course. The Ministry had always been in the hands of the powerful--the hands of the rich.

"What was the sentence?" Draco questions.