"And when nobody wakes you up in the morning, and when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want. What do you call it, Freedom or Loneliness?"

— Charles Bukowski

3.5 years later

Draco Malfoy stood before her, face gaunt, eyes guarded, and pale features smoothed into a cold indifference. Despite the bags under his eyes and face smeared with ash and blood, his countenance held a hint of arrogance in the arch of his aristocratic brow and upturn of his pointed nose. He almost loomed over her, three and a half years adding significantly to his height and build. Nevertheless, Hermione stood straight a few feet away from him, eyes defiant and unwavering as she stared straight into his eyes, wand pointing steadily towards his neck.

"Granger."

"Malfoy."

"Hermione," Kingsley Shacklebolt said in his deep calm voice, "we've discussed this."

Indeed, they had discussed this. Last night, Draco Malfoy showed up at one of the True Order's confidential meeting points, surrendering his wand and seeking asylum in exchange for information. Malfoy Manor was reported to have been consumed by a fire, no known inhabitants escaping. And hours later here he was, Draco Malfoy covered in soot and cuts, offering to turn sides after three years of service to the Dark Lord.

Had the Order of the Phoenix — the True Order — not been desperate, had they not been forced underground as the Dark Lord solidified his hold on Wizarding Britain, controlling the Minister of Magic and news publications with what he called the Order of Serpents, the True Order would not have been so willing to let a Death Eater so easily into their ranks. A Death Eater from one of the most prominent pureblood families that advocated for everything Voldemort stood for

Yet here he stood, wandless in the safehouse she currently inhabited, under her supervision. Hermione's jaw tightened.

"He's been cleared, Hermione," Kingsley said in exasperation."We've used veritaserum on him, searched his memories, and his information seems legitimate. We need his information, you know we do."

Hermione inhaled, having already read the reports.

"But we will be taking caution, which is why we want you to monitor his behavior." Before she could protest, he continued. "We're running out of information, of resources, of manpower. Look, I understand your hesitancy to trust another person, especially him. You've been used to operating on your own over these years, running missions without a partner, gathering vital information, indeed — and we have respected your wishes to isolate yourself from everyone. I know it's been hard after... the battle, and after Ron ran away —"

"Don't."

"Yes, I know, I know. But we need you to do this. This is a risk we need to take."

"And what is his motive? Are you telling me he simply had a change of heart?" She laughed without humor.

"His son."

Hermione lowered her wand at Kingsley's look of warning, noticing Malfoy's lips twitch almost imperceptibly. As Kingsley reiterated the terms of his supervision, Hermione mentally went over the information on his file. He had been married to Astoria Greengrass a couple months after the battle. She had died, however, while giving birth to their son due to a blood illness. Both his parents were dead, Lucius dying during an ambush, Narcissa during the fire that consumed Malfoy Manor a couple nights ago. And all the while he had remained devoted to the Dark Lord, having not only been involved but a leader of multiple raids, battles, and assassinations to rid the world of mudbloods.

Twelve major battles, seventy-five raids, responsible for the death of over 156 muggleborns and muggles alone — numbers she had already committed to memory as she scoured the dead bodies and rubble in the aftermath. It was his face on the papers, sculpted with a cold cruelty, a lack of remorse, and a look of superiority as he stood behind his master. Even as he stood before her now, claiming a change of heart, the numbers and images were seared into her perfect memory.

"Let's make something clear, Malfoy," she said with an icy calm, cutting off Kingsley, "if you even so much as try to threaten me or the Order, or even hint at betraying us by lying or refusing to disclose information, you'll wish you were consumed by that fire."

"Trust me, Granger, being chained to your presence is a punishment in itself," he snarled as he stepped closer.

"Put one fucking — "

"Hi." A pale blond head popped out from under Malfoy's robes. Round silver eyes peeked up at her shyly. "Who you?"

For a moment, Hermione paused at the sight of the little boy, about two years-old, clutched protectively in Malfoy's arms. A Notice-Me-Not charm must have been cast on him before Malfoy surrendered his wand, she thought, as she had not noticed the child with curious eyes that was evidently wrapped under Malfoy's robes.

"Hi," she responded breathlessly. She stood there, stunned, staring at the small child who burrowed his head into Malfoy's neck then curiously peeked at her between his fingers. "I'm Hermione. What's your name?"

"Mi-ni?" he said tentatively, looking at his father who gave him a terse nod. "Hi, Mini. My name is Scow-pius."

"Hello, Scorpius," Hermione said slowly, glancing briefly at Malfoy who gave her a dangerous look. His body was rigid as he assumed a defensive stance. "I'm not here to hurt you. You'll be living with me from now on, is that ok?"

She looked at Malfoy again with a guarded look of her own, nodding at him rigidly. He nodded back as Scorpius blushed and smiled at her.

"Is 'kay."

***

After Granger clinically gave them a quick tour of the safehouse they inhabited, she left them at their room. It wasn't much, but the safehouse was remote and secure from what he could sense with the wards. Granger had told him it had previously been owned by a muggleborn family that had died in the war, looking at him accusingly as she did so. His jaw had clenched but he simply ignored her righteous look.

The safehouse had only one level but it was moderately spacious with a living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a small library. Although it was acceptably clean, no paint peeling and furnished with light wood, he couldn't hide his sneer at the mess of books and parchments laying around.

Finally alone in their room, Draco's arms twitched towards his bare holster on his arm before remembering that he had no wand to set up wards around the small room. He let out a sigh, gently placing Scorpius on the bed, his head lolling having fallen asleep during Granger's tour. Merlin, he thought as he lay beside his son, she was still an arrogant bitch with a know-it-all complex.

In many ways she looked the same and didn't. She still had a riot of curls on her head that he was still convinced breathed to life if she ever deigned to stay still. The war had definitely filled her out — no longer the scrawny awkward girl in the library. Instead, she was honed with a kind of poise of someone sharpened by years at war. There was still a softness to her in her dimpled cheeks and pert nose but a hardness in her eyes where he observed her Gryffindor-fire dulled into cool hardness.

And the way she looked at him— straight in the eye. It was almost unsettling.

"Daddy?" his son mumbled, reaching out for him.

"I'm here, I'm here, Scorp. We're safe now." Draco gave a weak smile, shutting his eyes and inhaling the scent of his son. They were gone, fucking gone. Trading one cage for another perhaps, but away from that fucking monster.

"I promise I'll do better. I'll make this right," he murmured before pressing his lips to his son's forehead. In response, Scorpius buried himself further into his father's neck.

***

Hermione had been going over her orders for an upcoming mission in the library, when she heard an argument in the kitchen.

"Watson doesn't serve anyone, Watson is a free elf." Hermione walked into the kitchen, seeing Malfoy red in the face, towering over Watson. Despite the angry look on Malfoy's face, Watson held his ground, his wrinkled leathery face contorting into a sneer, watery purple eyes glaring into slits.

"Is there a problem here?" Hermione asked, eyes narrowed. She had been in and out of the last two days verifying Malfoy's information. The Death Eater hideouts contained blueprints and recipes on experimental weapons that she immediately reported to the True Order. She was still uncertain however how successful their experiments have gone and the true extent of their damage.

"I was simply asking this house-elf to prepare some lunch for Scorpius and me."

"He's not a house elf Malfoy, he's an Order member." She smirked at his incredulous look. "In fact, Watson over here has a higher authority over you. He oversees escape routes and emergency response strategies given his knowledge of pureblood homes. And he aids in communication and evacuations given his ability to apparate anywhere."

"I see." His jaw clenched. He looked down at her as a mask slipped over his features, then walked out the room.

"How much trouble did he give you?"

"Watson has it handled. Watson is used to pureblooded aristocrats, he is." Watson scowled.

Despite Kingsley's comment that she had been working primarily in isolation, only reporting to Order meetings when necessary, she was often with Watson. They got along well, her and the old elf. She had found him in an abandoned pureblood manor, chained and his master dead. After freeing him, he wanted to help. It was easier with him and the silent understanding they had — no need to talk or pry.

"Good." She smiled at him. "I verified the initial information Malfoy gave us. It's legitimate so far," she commented as she pulled down a mug and started making tea. Ever since the True Order was put into hiding, only able to instigate selected targeted attacks, Hermione had taken on the role of strategist and information gatherer. She was ranked highly, privy to confidential information and she was free to go on her own missions, as she preferred.

After years of acting as the brains of the Golden Trio, she was in her element uncovering information and making connections through logical deduction and research. And for once, no one belittled her for it or made her feel ashamed of her intellect. During her days at Hogwarts, she had not been willing to pay the price of intellect, not been willing to have no friends nor be excluded from the crowd. So she had kept quiet when knowledge excited her, tried to compromise herself into staying silent and indulging others in common conversation. But that was over now — she was done trying to muffle her intellect, she had nothing to lose anyways.

Harry was gone. Ron was gone, having run away, being unable to accept that Harry was dead. Her parents were safe, but obliviated. The remaining Order members from Hogwarts including Ginny, Seamus, the Patil twins, Cho, and others were there. But she couldn't connect with them, no matter how much she tried. Some even clung on to hope that Harry was still in there. And she couldn't stand sitting there, forcing a smile and trying to focus on the good things while pretending they weren't in the middle of a war. And so, there she was, with only herself left.

"Ms. Granger must still be careful. Watson has heard plenty about the Malfoy heir."

"Don't worry, I will."