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The jeering reached his ears before her echoing footsteps did. It spread down the hollow halls like wildfire until it was raging and roaring and utterly suffocating. He detested whoever was the culprit, as it had woken him from a nap. But then she slowed, glanced at her sheaf of parchment, and stopped right in front of his cell. Shock quickly replaced loathing when he realized who it was.
The cacophony of inmates' rage had not yet died down, but she appeared unaffected.
"Malfoy," she said, her voice sounding sad.
He tried to muster up his old swagger as he met her eyes.
"Granger." His voice was hoarse from disuse.
She glanced down at her papers again.
"I see you've been in here for four years now."
"And a day."
She raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"
"Four years and a day."
Her eyes darted past him into his cell, briefly scanned the space, and then returned to him. A small frown appeared between her brows.
"Looking for tallies?" This time his smugness was more convincing.
"Well," she said, a bit defensively, "most people here can't tell me what year it is, let alone the exact day."
She looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for an explanation. He stared back silently. Let her wonder.
For Draco didn't need to to tally up the walls. He had the stars.
He had discovered them at the end of his first miserable year here. He had taken to huddling against the bars of his window, hoping a tiny wisp of summer air might find its way into his frigid cell. He had never stopped feeling cold since his arrival to Azkaban. The Dementors had left, but their cold and misery lingered.
So there he was one summer night, huddled pitifully against his window bars in the dark, when he happened to look upwards and was thunderstruck. He could see the sky. It was only a small patch, partially obscured by the overhand, but still. It took his breath away. A tapestry of bright, twinkling, dazzling stars had been waiting patiently for him this whole time. He had felt a glimmer of warmth then, for just one glorious, devastating moment.
After that he spent every night stargazing. He found his own constellation: Draco the Dragon, and the surrounding ones: Hercules, whose foot was annoyingly close to Draco's head, and Lyra the Lyre. He had always been good at Astronomy, and he managed to deduce what day it was based on the stellar movements. He had found his bearings.
Every night he found the brightest stars—the Lyre—and traced their graceful, harplike shape to Lyra's handle, which pointed him to Draco. It was overwhelming, sometimes heartbreaking. He knew it was pathetic. It's not like he hadn't seen stars before. But he had spent the past year shivering, watching the stone walls cave in on him, his dark thoughts his only companion.
He imagined the great twisting body of his namesake winding across the deep black sky, endlessly twisting and straining towards Lyra. The two appeared to be reaching out to each other. They were only a span away, after all. He wanted them to meet. If only Hercules would pull back his intrusive left foot.
He became obsessed. He had dreams that played out like love stories, with Lyra holding a bright blue lantern for Draco to follow. He willed them to reach each other. He yearned for it.
He was probably going mad. Nonetheless, his infatuation had somehow snapped him out of his year-long stupor. The slow, miserable fog was dissipating. The next three years passed quickly with the six stars of Lyra as his companion. He had regained the will to live. He had woken up.
And now here he was, fully aware of not only the date, but also the absurdity of Hermione Granger standing in front of him.
"Why are you here?" he asked bluntly.
"I'm here in a professional capacity, as your solicitor."
"I didn't order a solicitor."
"I'm aware of that. Malfoy, were you ever told how long you'd have to stay here?"
"Regrettably, they forgot to provide me with a syllabus."
She pursed her lips.
"Has anyone updated you about when your trial would take place?"
"My—pardon? What trial?" She couldn't mean his trial. He had realized years ago that he'd be here for life.
"Your trial," she repeated. "Where they hear your case and decide whether to convict you."
"Thank you, Granger, for explaining to me what a trial is. Have you considered a career in education?"
"Just answer the question!"
He enjoyed her annoyance, but he answered honestly.
"I was never told about a trial."
"You're absolutely certain?"
"I would have remembered that. Trust me."
She clenched her jaw and came closer to the bars where he was leaning outwards. He became suddenly aware of his filthy clothes. He promptly ran his fingers through his hair, which was, of course, horrifically greasy.
"Okay. Good."
"Good?"
"Yes. You're not the only one who didn't get a hearing, nor a word on when it would be. A Death Eater hearing hasn't taken place in years, despite a backlog. It's a massive miscarriage of justice. So I'm working on a suit against the Wizengamot for negligence."
"Bully for you," he said dryly. He suddenly craved a nap and a pleasant evening of stargazing.
"I wasn't finished! I've decided to use your case to set the precedent. If—if you'll let me."
This gave him pause. "Why?"
"Keeping people in perpetual uncertainty is violence," she said fiercely. "And it's our own government doing it. We cannot pick and choose who is allowed their rights."
"Fascinating, truly. But you misunderstood. Why me?"
"You were a minor during the War, Malfoy, and you demonstrated admirable acts despite impossible circumstances. You're my best chance at success. They'll have to give you a trial date, unless they want a sob story in the press. It'll set a powerful precedent, and then once you're released—"
His hand suddenly shot out between the bars and snatched her wrist, gripping hard. She gasped. "Don't," he said in a low voice. Her wrist was small and warm. But he felt murderous. "Don't you dare say that. Not unless you can promise, with absolute certainty, that it will work."
For every moment of every day, he had meticulously avoided the thought of release. He mustn't hope. She needed to understand this.
Suddenly his hand flashed with pain and he let go of her wrist. Granger was pointing her wand at him with her free hand.
"That is quite enough, thank you," she said primly. "There is no need for dramatics. I am quite good at my job, I can assure you."
His rudeness didn't cause her to leave, surprisingly. Instead, she procured a messy stack of documents, a dusty tome, and a quill. She handed them to him with a stern expression.
"I will return later this week to discuss strategy. You should read this all by then, if you can, and sign these forms to formally appoint me as your solicitor."
He nodded. He should apologize for his behavior. He couldn't find the strength.
Granger turned to leave, but then stopped, sighing.
"Malfoy, I'm here in a professional capacity only. But you should also know that, personally speaking, I've long since decided to forgive you. Kindly refrain from fucking it up, would you?"
After a beat, he nodded again.
"Good. I won't fail, Malfoy. I'm getting you out of here."
He was alarmed to find that he believed her.
---
As he idly paged through the book on wizarding law later that day, he spotted it on the inside cover:
Property of Hermione J. Granger
What an absurd name it was, really. Hermione. He at least had the dignity to be named after a mighty beast. But she had what? Just a feminized derivative of Hermes.
His mind drifted to the uninspiring stories of Hermes, the conniving little thief and messenger god. He'd nearly gotten himself killed from stealing Apollo's cows, the dolt. And when Apollo was predictably angry, Hermes had bought his life by giving his most precious, handmade—
Draco's heart stopped.
His lyre.
Draco's mind raced to retrieve the antiquity stories from the depths of his memory. The lyre had passed from Apollo to Orpheus, who was famous for playing it. And Orpheus's lyre was the one in the sky.
Draco felt he couldn't breathe. His Lyra. His beloved beacon in the dark, his loyal wayfinder through the fog—was this truly the handiwork of Hermione's namesake?
Hermione Granger was his Lyra.
---
Upon her return, Granger was pleased to find that Draco had already read through the book twice. She was less pleased to find his notes scribbled into the margins, but conceded that his suggestions were rather helpful. She left him that day with a roll of blank parchment and several more books, once he promised not to write in them. She began returning to his cell twice a week.
Draco couldn't mention his fateful realization about Hermes and the Lyre. But he suddenly believed in fate, and the more time he spent with Granger, the more he saw her while gazing up at Lyra every night. His beacon of hope.
The weeks flew by, and still no trial. Nonetheless, Granger insisted they prepare their case as if it were tomorrow. She was becoming increasingly frustrated by the Wizengamot's lack of response, and Draco admittedly enjoyed winding her up with sarcastic quips.
"I just don't understand how they can do this to you!" She cried one day. As if she cared about him, not just the case. But he knew that was wishful thinking. The problem was, he had become utterly enchanted by her.
He knew he was being stupid. Of course he felt like he had fallen in love with the first human he'd spoken to in years. But he couldn't help it. She was his Lyra. She was the one leading him, gently and passionately, out of this hellhole.
Finally one day, several months later, she came running down the hallway, screeching to a stop in front of his cell. She was sweaty and pink-faced and had sparks in her eyes.
"We got it!" she panted, waving a paper in front of her. "Your trial is in two days!"
This was, of course, absurdly short notice. Presumably the Wizengamot was trying to force them to request a postponement. But they had already prepared his case in full, and Granger was ready to argue on his behalf at a moment's notice.
He was getting out.
That night he said his silent thank yous to Lyra, for finally reaching the dragon. The air blowing in that night was frigid, but for the first time in four years, Draco didn't feel cold at all.
The morning of the trial, Granger arrived with a crisp set of robes for him to wear, and sent him straight to the showers. He emerged feeling crisp and clean, already like a new man. A free man.
Deep within the bowels of the Ministry, they waited to be called into the courtroom. Draco's hands were chained in front of him. His foot was tapping rapidly.
An eternity later, a door opened and they were called in. Suddenly, he found he could not move.
She stepped towards the door but then noticed he wasn't moving.
"Malfoy?"
But alarms were going off in his head. He had dared to hope. How foolish of him. What if they threw him straight back to his cell? It was too risky. He couldn't do it.
"Draco."
He looked up. She was holding out his hand. He hesitated for a moment, then took it, his chains clanking. Her hand was small and warm. Her eyes were bright with determination.
"Just follow my lead. You'll be okay."
And he believed her.