#thbu

Summary: After Narcissa is discharged from St. Mungo’s, Y/N tries to return to normal — but Draco’s voice lingers. With just one word, echoes of the past begin to bleed into her life. 

Warnings: swearing, angst, blood, war, and mentions of death

Word Count: 4.9k

A/N: I had so much fun writing this chapter! It took a lot longer than I thought it was going to but there's so much unsaid between these two that I can't wait to show you. The next two or three chapters are going to take a bit longer to write but I promise that they are in the works. I hope you enjoy!

Hogwarts was burning. Smoke curled through the broken stone corridors of the castle like a living thing—thick, cloying, choking the air with ash and fear. Spells cracked in the distance, their light cutting through the dark haze. Somewhere, someone screamed. Yet, another number added to the rising death toll. The war wasn’t over, but pieces of it were already dying. With Voldemort dead, victory dangled heavy in the air in front of them. But it didn’t feel like triumph. It felt like survival dressed up in borrowed robes.

Y/n’s boots crunched over fallen stone and shattered glass, trying not to count how many bodies she’d passed. She stopped looking at their faces after the first few she had found in the courtyard. There was no glory in her role as a healer—no rallying cry, no wand raised in defiance. Just the wreckage. The quiet horror of checking pulse after pulse and feeling nothing. Of binding wounds that would never fully heal. Of watching the life bleed out of the youngest of students as she held their hands. She was grateful for the ones that she had saved but the ones she hadn’t hung heavy in the space between her ribs. They would haunt her for a lifetime.

The corridor behind the Charms classroom was in ruins—bits of stone still smoldering, portraits torn from their frames, blood smeared across the wall in a handprint she couldn’t bring herself to look at for too long. 

One of the blasts had created a gaping mouth in the wall. stone gnarled like broken teeth. A hand peeked out from beneath the pile of wreckage, fingers curled mid-reach, as if he had tried to claw his way free from the stone. Forgotten.

Y/n swallowed hard and stepped closer. With a wave of her wand, she began to clear the debris, lifting broken beams and shattered marble until the body beneath was fully revealed. Another flick of her wand turned him gently onto his back. He couldn’t have been more than a fifth year. Dark hair matted with dust, eyes wide in frozen terror. She recognized him—he was a Chaser for Ravenclaw

Y/N crouched low, pressing two fingers to the neck of the boy beneath her wandlight. His skin was cooling. No thrum of life beneath her touch. With a sigh too heavy for her lungs, she produced a cloth from her wand and laid it over his body. She should have whispered something — maybe a prayer, maybe just I’m sorry —but she moved on. There was no space left in her heart to grieve another victim of this war.

She advanced toward the west wing, wand drawn, her adrenaline dwindling. Deep down, she was too tired to fight anymore.

And there he was. 

Draco Malfoy stood frozen in the archway bathed in ash and firelight. His robes were torn at the hem, soot streaked across his cheek. No wand. No threats. Just wide, terrified eyes locked on hers. 

She blinked twice to see if the exhaustion was playing tricks on her mind but he didn’t move. Her eyes didn’t leave his as she took a cautious step toward him. He didn’t flinch. Just watched her, like he wasn’t sure she was real. Like he didn’t know if he was more afraid of her reaching for him—or turning him in.

Behind them, the castle groaned—stone grinding against stone, a ceiling collapsing somewhere far off. But here, in this ruined corridor, time had paused.

Y/N stopped a few paces away, heart hammering against her ribs. He looked like the boy she used to know, but less put-together, less proud of what he had done. The war had stripped something away—peeling him back to something bare and human underneath.

His lips parted slightly, as if he might say something. But nothing came out. He just looked at her like he was trying to memorize her face. Like this might be the last time.

“Go.” 

The word weakly tumbled from her lips. It was barely a whisper but Draco had heard it. His jaw clenched and his eyes lingered just a few seconds more. And then, without a word, he turned and disappeared into the smoke, leaving her in the crumbling corridor.

-

The hues of sunrise filtered in through the thin curtains, too soft for the heaviness in her chest. Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, mug of tea long forgotten on the windowsill. She hadn't slept well. Her dreams had blurred into memories—shadows of war-torn corridors, the metallic scent of blood, and eyes the color of a thunderstorm staring at her like she was something he couldn't look at and couldn't look away from.

"Stay."The first word he’d said to her since before the war. It echoed now—low and hoarse—lodged somewhere behind her ribs where she couldn’t reach it. It was easier when he said nothing and pretended she wasn’t there. When they were strangers in silence for the few minutes between the Healer’s station and Bay Four. But this… this was worse. A single word and everything that she had once been carefully buried had clawed its way back to the surface.

Her eyes flicked to the clock. She was running late. Or maybe just dragging her feet. The idea of stepping into St. Mungo’s again—of seeing Narcissa’s pale face recovering in Bay Four, of catching another glimpse of him pacing the ward like a ghost trying to haunt her made her stomach heavy with dread.

She stood, finally, and banished the cold tea. With a flick of her wand, she tied her hair back into something respectable. She turned to face the mirror that she promised herself that one day she would hang up. The face in the mirror looked steady, clinical, composed. Nothing like the emotions that were tearing through her body.

-

The familiar crack of Apparition outside St. Mungo’s didn't jolt her like it used to. The building loomed tall and strange as ever—its façade still charmed to look like a shuttered department store—but Y/N no longer paused before stepping through the glass.

Inside, the halls were already buzzing. A trainee Healer sprinted by holding a floating chart, and two witches argued over cauldron burn protocol near the lifts. It should have grounded her, the rhythm of the ward. But her breath still caught when she passed Bay Four. She didn’t dare peek through the curtain.

Her feet carried her past it, faster than she meant, until she was safely inside the staff break room. She just needed ten minutes. A cup of tea. A potion. Anything. But when she opened the door, she stopped short.

“What’s all this?”

The break room of St. Mungo’s emergency department had been turned into a bakery. Pale blue boxes were stacked high across every surface—some carefully tied, others already half-raided by her colleagues. A Healer with ink-stained hands was licking sugar off her thumb. Croissants enchanted to stay warm. Lavender scones that could settle anxious moods better than any calming draught. All of it laid out like a banquet in the middle of the emergency department. No note. No explanation. Just quiet indulgence from someone who couldn't say thank you the normal way.

“They must have bought out the whole shop!”

Y/n picked up the box closest to her and her stomach instantly plummeted. The light blue box wrapped in pale ribbon was unmistakable.

Bellamy’s.

The name was embossed in elegant gold foil. It stared back it her almost mockingly. To her there was no generous, mystery donor. Just crumbs from the past that she had spent years sweeping away, only to find them scattered at her feet again.

-

The last place she expected to end up was in the alleys of London—wand tucked into her coat pocket, heels in her hand, rain soaking through her dress robes. But there she was, with Draco Malfoy trailing behind her as he muttered about Muggles and aristocratic lunacy.

“Are you going to explain where we’re going?”

“We’re almost there.” she called over her shoulder.

“Great, that still doesn’t explain where you’re taking me.”

They had both ditched the High Tea gathering—a monthly exchange hosted by some of the oldest pureblood families who thought eating small sandwiches, tight polite smiles, and exchanging heirloom rings could make the world a better place.

Draco had pulled her into a secret corridor before she had entered the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. His fingers curling around the edge of her sleeve. The grip wasn’t firm, but it was enough. She paused, and when she turned, his eyes met hers — a silent, pleading look beneath the weight of expectation. He didn’t need to speak. She understood.

When they had emerged from the tunnel into the countryside of Wiltshire, it had been a warm afternoon. The sun melted the chill that had settled in her bones. Y/n held her hand out to him and with a crack, the English countryside morphed into the busy streets of London. 

Y/n was still getting used to the phenomenon of apparating. The force of changing places in time and space caused her body to go crashing into Draco. His hands caught her waist, steadying her before she could hit the sidewalk. The warmth of them seeped through the layers of her dress robes. A heat that had nothing to do with the weather creeped into her face. Gently, his hands on her waist pushed her away from him.

“Watch it.” he grumbled. 

For a beat, she just blinked at him dazed and embarrassed  then turned to take in their surroundings. She groaned.

“Oh fuck.” 

“What?” 

“I was six blocks off!” She spun in a slow circle as if expecting a patisserie to materialize in the sea of black umbrellas and hurried pedestrians.

“You mean to tell me,” he said, gesturing around to the grim grey street, “that you dragged me out of that godforsaken tea party to Apparate us into Muggle London, six blocks from our destination, and now..” he paused, squinting at the sky, “it’s going to rain.”

“We’ll make it before-”

A loud crack of lightning split the sky, followed by a downpour so sudden it was as if the clouds had lost all patience. The clouds split open in a torrential downpour, soaking through their dress robes in seconds. And that is how they ended up in the last place on earth they thought they’d be on a Thursday afternoon.

“Brilliant,” he muttered, the rain slapping against them with every step. “Absolutely bloody brilliant.”

“We’re here!”

Bellamy’s was a secret nestled between two Muggle offices, with frosted windows and golden lettering. To any Muggle, the shuttered building had been abandoned for decades a whispered curse to anyone interested in opening up their next capitalist endeavor. But to y/n it was a place of sanctuary. 

A bell hanging above the door had announced their arrival. The smell of steeped herbs and baked vanilla curled through the air like a welcoming spell. Soft jazz played from a cluster of levitating instruments hovering on a tiny, intimate stage. The notes drifted lazily between clinking mugs and whispered conversation.

“You owe me for this,” Draco snapped, teeth chattering as he shook water from his sleeves.

“Me?” Y/ns voice rose an octave. “You’re the one who wanted to ditch the stupid tea party!”

“Because I thought you knew how to Apparate with precision.”

“I did. I do. I—shut up.”

He withdrew his wand from his robes, lips parted as if to start the incantation to dry his robe. She stopped him, reaching her hand out to take hold of his wrist.

“No, I’ll do it. I can’t have you setting my robes on fire. Again.”

With a flick of her wand, she dried Draco’s clothes and hair, then her own.

“See?” she said, tucking her wand away with a smirk. “No fire this time.”

Draco muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but she caught the way his lips twitched — like he might’ve smiled if he wasn’t trying so hard not to.

The old witch behind the counter barely spared them a glance, as if two fourteen-year-olds wandering the streets of London in damp dress robes was just another Thursday afternoon. With only a slight raise of her brow, she scribbled down their order and handed off two steaming mugs without a word. Before she could fish out a few galleons to pay for her share, Draco pulled out a small pouch from his robes and set it on the counter with a clink. It was more than enough to cover their bounty.

The witch oggled the pouch before coming to her senses and swiping up the pouch like a goblin, “Let me know if I can get you two anything else.”

They found refuge in the farthest booth, tucked between overstuffed bookshelves and a window fogged over by the rain. The wall sconces above them cast everything in a soft gold. Here, there were no forced laughs, no talks of international trade, and no arranged marriage contracts for teenage wizards. Just warmth, sugar, and the comfort of a space not owned by the expectations of their last names.

Y/N cupped her mug between both hands, letting the steam kiss her cheeks. Across from her, Draco was uncharacteristically quiet, staring out the rain-fogged window like he was somewhere far off. 

After a moment, he turned to her. “Do you ever think about leaving?”

She tilted her head. “Like… running away?”

He nodded. “Just disappearing. No titles. No headlines. No bloody heirlooms.”

She gave a soft laugh. “All the time. But then I wouldn’t get to watch Montague flirt with his second cousin for the billionth time.”

A beat passed and then, unexpectedly, Draco laughed. It wasn’t the quiet and reluctant type that usually escaped him. This laugh was bright and unrestrained. His head thrown back and a true smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes adorned his features. For a moment, y/n was stunned. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him laugh like that but she’d give anything to hear it again.

Merlin,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair, “you’re insufferable.”

“Yet, here you are,” she shot back, raising her mug in mock salute. “Stuck in a booth with me, sharing overpriced pastries and philosophical dread. Cheers.”

-

“Y/n?”

“Hmm yes?”

She startled slightly. The warmth of Bellamys and jazz warping back into the break room and muted sounds of the ward beyond its door. Padma stood in front of her, not a hair out of place. 

“Can you do the discharge note for Bay Four? She’s being moved to the fourth floor for further care.”

“Yes of course.”

Y/n’s heart pounded with every step towards the curtain of Bay Four. She lingered outside it, the thin fabric the only thing shielding her from twin sets of steel eyes. It was just another patient and family she reminded herself. With shaking fingers, she gripped the curtain and pulled it back.

The chair next to the bed was empty. Narcissa was sitting upright, regal even in a hospital gown, her pale hands resting neatly on a soft green blanket. The only sign of Draco’s presence was a beautiful bouquet of enchanted winter roses — the kind that shimmered like frost and never wilted — sat in a crystal vase on the table beside her. 

“Hello y/n dear. You just missed Draco he’s off to the Ministry on important business.”

“That’s no problem. I’m just here to check on you.” Y/N murmured, scanning the chart at the foot of the bed “Looks like you’re being transferred to a private room upstairs. They’ll be able to give you the care you need as well as some physiotherapy before you go home.”

“Wonderful,”Narcissa said with a gracious nod. “I’m quite ready to be rid of this floor. The poor lad next to me wouldn’t stop moaning last night! I nearly had half the mind to enchant the curtain if I had had my wand. How does anyone sleep in these conditions?”

Y/N allowed herself the faintest smile. “You’ll be in good hands.”

She moved through her diagnostics with practiced ease, checking bandages, testing reflexes, brushing her wand along pressure points to assess sensation. The glow of Narcissa’s vitals hovered steadily above her, soft gold pulsing in quiet reassurance. Y/N jotted a few quick notes on a scrap of parchment, the scratch of her quill the only sound in the room for a long moment.

Her eyes met Narcissa’s patient gaze, “All looks good! Transport will be by in a few minutes to take you up.”

A sigh of relief passed her lips, “Thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me. It's my job, Narcissa.”

Narcissa caught her hand in hers, warm and fragile in her worn one. Her gaze was soft, overwhelmed with unspoken gratitude. 

“No, I don’t mean just for that. For saving my boy.”

Y/n stiffened under her words and touch. The tight feeling in her throat made it impossible to respond. Instead she offered one last small, professional smile, turned on her heel, and stepped back into the corridor before the weight of it all could settle in her chest again.

The rest of her shift passed in a blur of spellwork and steady hands. A young boy with accidental cauldron burns. A mother in early labor after a broom accident. A teenager too brave for his own good who’d dislocated both shoulders during a Quidditch stunt. She stitched, charmed, and soothed — slipping into healer mode like it was armor. She could breathe easier knowing that Bay Four wasn’t haunted by the ghosts from her past.

- 

At Hogwarts, Y/N had never quite had a place to call her own.

The Slytherin gang never fully embraced her — not with the way she spent her free time in the infirmary or with the Gryffindors, offering kindness to sick and broken students or spending hours in the library with a Muggle-born. And though the Gryffindors had tried, there was always a quiet wall built from years of house rivalry and the unmistakable tension of pureblood prejudice. She was always in between — too much of one thing, not enough of another. A floater. A shadow at the edge of friend groups who always seemed to be invited but rarely chosen.

After the war, though, things shifted. There was no Gryffindor and Slytherin tension anymore. The lines that once divided them, drawn in house banners and whispered legacies, had blurred under the weight of shared loss. The war hadn’t cared about house points or prefect badges; it had leveled everyone the same. And grief was an equalizer.

Pansy and Y/N had slowly dismantled the schoolgirl feud that once defined their interactions. Time, trauma, and a shared sense of survival had stripped them of the pettiness that once kept them apart. They weren’t just classmates anymore — they were women with matching scars in different places, still learning how to move forward.

Her and Hermione had always been something steadier. Their friendship started in third year — quietly sitting across from each other at the same library table that blossomed into sharing study guides and passing scribbled notes in the margins of dusty Arithmancy books. The golden trio was always a force, but over time Hermione’s gravity had pulled y/n into orbit. She had always been grateful for that. 

Now, even as they ran the wizarding world — international policy reform, magical trauma healing, and personal relations professional to the Ministry of Magic — the three women still made space for one another. Once a month, no matter what corner of the world they were saving, they came home to each other. 

The restaurant Pansy had chosen was beautiful. Low candlelight flickered gently on every table, casting a golden sheen over crystal glasses and delicate silverware. Blooms in shades of blush and ivory spilled from enchanted trellises overhead, their petals gently fluttering in a breeze that wasn’t quite real. The air had been charmed to hold the warmth of a late Italian summer evening. It looked like the summer home that the Parkinsons had in Italy that she visited three summers ago. 

After a few glasses of wine, Pansy and Hermione slipped into easy conversation about Ministry business — something about Muggle legislation reform and the latest disaster in the Department of Magical Transportation. Their voices floated around her like the music playing somewhere in the background, distant and delicate. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the ache in her chest that hadn’t quite eased since St Mungos. But as the candlelight danced across the tablecloth and the jasmine-scented breeze curled around her shoulders, the warmth of Italy sank into something darker. Memory and mood twisted, turning soft nostalgia into sharp edges.

-

“Miss Y/L/N, do you understand the weight of testifying on behalf of a former Death Eater?”

The question echoed through the chamber, heavy and absolute. A sentence in itself. Y/N straightened in her chair. Her voice didn’t shake, though her fingers, tucked beneath her robe sleeves, twisted into knots.

“Yes, I do.”

Her eyes flicked to the defendant’s bench. Draco Malfoy sat rigid in dark, formal robes. His wrists were bound in front of him, more for show than necessity. He hadn’t spoken once during the proceedings. Not when they listed his crimes. Not when they brought up the name Bellatrix. Not even when the names of the dead were read out like a litany.

“Before you begin, the Wizengamot has called your character into question due to your family’s alignment with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

Kingsley’s words buried themselves into her chest, twisting with a pain that she thought she’d no longer feel. 

“When the fighting began, my mother and I fled Y/L/N Manor. My father and brother stayed behind to fight for a cause I never believed in.” Her voice wavered slightly, but she caught it before it could unravel. “They died in the Battle of Hogwarts. I mourn them—but I do not mourn what they stood for.”

Another witch from the Wizengamot, stern and silver-haired, leaned forward, voice clipped and suspicious. ““And you’re certain your judgment isn’t clouded by grief? Or loyalty to those who once shared in the same ideology?”

Y/n’s hands curled into fists in her lap, “I would like to clear the air. I am not my family. My father and brother made their choices. I made mine. I chose to fight against them. I chose to heal. I was seventeen, patching up third-years with half-missing limbs and watching my friends die because someone else had made the decision not to hesitate.”

Kingsley frowned. “Do you believe Mr. Malfoy deserves mercy?”

She glanced over at Draco willing him to look up, “I believe he deserves a chance.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up at her. His eyes were fixated on his bound hands and the dark mark burned into his skin. 

“He was just a child. We all were. Except some of us were lucky enough to be guided by the right people. The Death Eaters preyed on his innocence, his fear. He and his mother would have died had he not done the things that they asked of him.”

The silence of the courtroom was thick save for the scratch of an enchanted quill on parchment immortalizing her testimony. Shacklebolt dismissed her gently. Hundreds of eyes picked her apart as she stood and made her way up the steps to her seat between Hermione and Harry. Hermione reached for her hand the moment she sat down. Y/N’s legs shook under her robes. She couldn’t look at Draco. Couldn’t look at anyone. Her words echoed in her head over and over again.

She was exhausted.

The deliberation dragged on. Hours passed. The courtroom emptied and refilled. Yet she remained glued to her seat. Someone brought tea, which she didn’t drink. Even Hermione stopped talking after a while, just squeezed her hand every so often to remind her she wasn’t alone.

Y/N stared at the floor and thought of all the people she hadn’t been able to save. She hoped that Draco wouldn’t be another one added to the list.

Then, finally, Kingsley emerged from the door to the courtroom and returned to the dias, his Minister robes flowing behind him like a storm threatening to split the heavens. 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy is hereby sentenced to three years in Azkaban for his crimes against the wizarding world. He will not return to repeat his final year at Hogwarts, unlike the rest of his peers.” 

There was no applause. No mourning. The chamber was filled with the shuffle of cloaks and low murmurs. She watched him stand as they led him away, head high, mouth tight, eyes focused straight ahead. For one brief moment, just before he passed through the exit of the courtroom, their eyes locked. Something flickered in his steel eyes, brief and undecipherable. 

-

“Can you believe it? He thinks I can just drop everything and birth his red-headed children.”

“Y/n? Are you with us?”

Y/N blinked, the warm golden haze of the restaurant refocusing into the present. She was met with two pairs of concerned eyes studying her. 

“Sorry. What happened?”

“You’ve been hardcore staring at the poor waiter. I think he’s scared you’re about to hex him or maybe devour him” Pansy quipped, leaning on her elbow.

“I’m sorry. I had a rough week at St. Mungos.” she sighed.

“This doesn’t have to do with a certain Malfoy family ending up in your department?” she arched a perfectly groomed brow at her.

Hermione grimaced at the mention of the name. Y/n’s body tensed.

“How do you even know about that? That’s classified information!”

“I work in PR, darling. Everyone’s business is my business.”She winked at her. “Besides, it’s not every day an old friend sends you a new pair of designer shoes.”

Y/N felt her stomach twist. “I didn’t even know he was out. I mean… I figured it’s been long enough, but no one really said.”

Hermione sipped from her glass, “When did he get out, Pans?”

“About two years ago.”

“Pansy!”

“What?” she innocently took a sip of her drink. “It’s not like you ever asked.”

Just then, the waiter who had been hovering near their table approached them ready to take their order. She was grateful for the interruption. Pansy took over ordering for the table resuming her natural role as hostess. As the waiter jotted it all down and turned to leave, Y/N’s gaze met Hermione’s across the table. It was soft, knowing — the kind of look you only exchanged with someone who had seen too much of you and stayed anyway. Whatever tension had briefly settled over the table seemed to drift away with the waiter. Their conversation lightened to match the golden ambiance of the restaurant.

-

The walk home through the balmy London summer air was something of a dream. The wine flowing through y/n’s bloodstream dimmed the harshness of the London streets. The glow of streetlamps a little warmer, the hush of passing cars a little softer. The wine buzzed softly in her bloodstream, making the glow of streetlamps a little warmer, the hush of passing cars a little softer. For a while, she let herself enjoy it; the quiet, the stillness, the illusion that everything in her world was light.

But as she turned the key in the lock and stepped inside, the illusion vanished. The flat greeted her with silence so complete it was almost cruel. The clink of keys on the table, the faint scuff of her shoes on wood floors were all too loud against the vacuum of absence. She should have felt relief — one quiet night, one empty home, no patients or paperwork or ghosts. Instead, the quiet that had once been a friend was cold, exposing the loneliness underneath.

Then a sharp tapping at her window. Y/N turned just as an owl, pale and elegant, with a light blue box clutched in its talons, tapped again with its beak. She opened the window and the bird swept in, dropping a soft blue box onto the windowsill before vanishing into the London night.

She toyed with the pale ribbon holding the box together. The lid lifted with the faintest crack, revealing four perfect chocolate croissants nestled inside. The warmth and the rich scent of chocolate and butter fanned her face. She hesitated only a moment before picking one up. The pastry flaked beneath her fingers, delicate and golden before taking a bite. For the first time in days, she felt the ache between her ribs ease. Y/n leaned against the counter, chewing slowly, as the silence folded around her again but this time it wasn’t quite so hollow. That single bite seemed to warm the space. 

A message wrapped in butter and flour. I remember. She didn’t want to admit how much it meant or that she had remembered too.