Even with a nearly plausible explanation assembled by the Ministry officials, an irate Barty Crouch had no patience for accepting Winky's innocence.
Hermione was bitterly disappointed. How could Mr. Crouch abandon Winky so carelessly?
Throughout the day, under Mr. Weasley's easy guidance, she had met all manner of Ministry officials — some easygoing, some amusing, some stern-faced but fundamentally fair. Even the most serious among them had maintained a basic sense of decency.
Mr. Crouch — the very man Percy admired above all others — was supposed to be one of the most respected wizards in the Ministry. In reality, he was far harsher than she had ever imagined.
Rather than acknowledging that the chaos and terror of the night would have frightened any creature, he was consumed by fury at Winky's "disobedience in leaving the tent without permission." He had no patience to consider that a house-elf with a fear of heights, faced with Muggles being dangled spinning through the air, might have had every reason to flee.
He pronounced the cruelest sentence he could: clothes. The dismissal.
Poor Winky dissolved into desperate, heaving sobs, unable to accept the fate that had crashed down on her so suddenly. Mr. Crouch took a step back in distaste — as though sidestepping something unpleasant — and shook her off.
"How can he do this?" Hermione said indignantly to Draco, keeping her voice low. "How can he be so heartless to Winky? Shouldn't we say something?"
Draco shook his head. "Hermione, there's nothing we can do," he said quietly. "You can't change the mind of someone who's already made it up. And this is an internal matter of the Crouch household — even the Ministry can't interfere."
Hermione looked around and realised, with a sinking feeling, that he was right.
No official made any move to intervene. They were occupied with containing the scene, sealing off the area, and searching for any overlooked evidence of whoever had conjured the Dark Mark.
"These children are no longer needed here," Mr. Diggory said kindly, glancing over at them. "Arthur — take them back."
Arthur Weasley was only too relieved. He wanted to get the children out of the woods as quickly as possible. This was no situation for young people their age.
As he gathered himself to go, Arthur's gaze drifted briefly to the Malfoy boy standing quietly to one side. The sight of him stirred a familiar unease. He carried himself with the same cool arrogance as his detestable father — standing apart from the bustle, not offering a word to anyone, as though entirely unmoved by everything around him.
The difference — and it was a remarkable one — was that Lucius Malfoy, that pureblood supremacist, would never have stood docilely while a Muggle-born girl defended him. And he certainly wouldn't be standing this close to one, hand in hand.
Even now, the boy was tilting his head and calmly removing a few blades of grass from the girl's hair. She was looking up at him and murmuring something, entirely unbothered by his hands near her face — as though the closeness between them was nothing unusual at all.
It was something Arthur had never seen before. He had never imagined that any Muggle-born witch would be treated with such evident care by a Malfoy — any Malfoy.
A peculiar thought rose in his mind: if Lucius could see this, how would he even begin to react?
And then a stranger thought followed: this boy might not be his father, after all.
Even so, on the long and well-documented history of Malfoys and Weasleys being unable to so much as look at one another civilly, Arthur's approach was a little hesitant. "You — come with us, yes? Let's get out of here."
"Yes. Thank you." Draco replied evenly, plucking the last blade of grass from Hermione's hair and giving Mr. Weasley a brief nod.
He had not forgotten that, when Crouch had turned his wand on him, Mr. Weasley had spoken up. Arthur Weasley, whatever the history between their families, was a decent man.
And so, as the dew began to fall heavy in the trees, they left Winky's grief behind and made their way through the woods.
Mr. Weasley led the way, quietly questioning Harry and Ron about the night's events. Draco followed at a small distance, carrying Hermione on his back.
She had refused twice, going red in the face, but he had simply said, "Your ankle needs rest. Unless you'd prefer someone else to carry you?"
"That's not — no," she muttered, with a furtive glance at him.
She had spent so much of the evening in his arms and on his back that she was almost growing accustomed to it. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, she hadn't yet decided. He was playing the role of the caring older brother again — that had to be it — which explained why he was being so attentive. She was grateful for it. She was also, quietly, a little sad.
"Consider it thanks," he said lightly, smiling at her. "For standing up for me."
It wasn't the first time she had done so. He remembered clearly: in their second year, she had argued herself red-faced with a group of Hufflepuffs in the library simply because they'd said he was "unworthy" of his place as Seeker.
That was the moment she had become something more than a name from his past life's memories. She had given him a new meaning entirely.
She was protecting him — passionately and entirely without reserve. The thought of it warmed him even now, and he walked steadily, his stride not faltering despite the weight on his back.
Being protected by her was a feeling he had never known before. His parents had always shielded him, bound by blood. But this was different. This was Hermione Granger, who owed him nothing, choosing to stand in front of him anyway.
His brave girl.
He still couldn't quite comprehend how such force of will could come from someone so slight. She had faced down the Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation and a former Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement without so much as a waver. Her presence had been every bit their equal.
She was wonderful. He felt something very close to pride.
She had given him a defence when he had none — when the accusations from outside and the memories rising from within had nearly broken him. He had been afraid, frozen in place: afraid of the fate he couldn't rewrite, afraid of repeating what he had once become, afraid that his blood was a sentence he would never outrun.
But she didn't believe in sentences like that. She believed in people. She was willing to stand up for someone the rest of the world had already dismissed — and she had stood up for him.
There was an idealism in her that frequently astonished him. It drew him in, every time.
"What will happen to Winky?" Hermione asked, the moment they were clear of the clearing.
"I don't know," Draco said.
"I can't bear the way they treat her," she said, her voice tight with feeling. "Neither the other officials nor Mr. Crouch — not one of them treats her as though she has feelings!"
"No," Draco agreed. "Wizards rarely do, especially those from old pureblood families. They don't believe house-elves are capable of it."
"That's what makes me most sad," Hermione said, and rested her head gently against the back of his neck. A few loose strands of her hair fell against his skin. "For Winky."
"Mm," he said, and listened as she continued.
"She has a fear of heights — everyone could see that — and yet Mr. Crouch sent her to that high suite to hold seats for him. And tonight, with those masked men dangling Muggles through the air... who wouldn't be terrified? Any creature in her position would have run. But Mr. Crouch punished her for it — for being afraid! It's completely unreasonable."
"Crouch is a high-profile figure," Draco said slowly. "A great many eyes are on him. He can't afford for his house-elf to be found carrying a wand — that violates the third clause of the Code of Wand Use: no non-human creature may carry or use a wand."
"But he knew she hadn't done it! And he dismissed her anyway — without a second thought for how frightened she was, or what she'd been through." Hermione's voice rose with controlled fury. "That condescension — he didn't care whether she lived or died."
"No. Crouch has always been extreme," Draco said, his tone measured. "But perhaps you've come to realise, over the years, that some wizards draw distinctions between people — never mind between species entirely."
Hermione went quiet.
Her anger didn't leave, but it shifted — deepened. She had been reacting to the injustice in front of her and hadn't yet thought past it to the larger shape of things.
He was right. House-elves weren't the only ones who suffered this.
She was silent for a while against his back. Then, softly: "What about you, Draco? Do you draw those lines? I'm Muggle-born — do you look down on me for it, the way those pureblood wizards do?"
"And you?" he replied. There was a quiet edge to his voice. "Do you look down on me for being the son of a Death Eater?"
"Of course not — that's not your fault, any of it," Hermione said quickly. "I know what kind of person you are —"
"Then I'll give you the same answer." He kept walking, steady and unhurried. "I feel exactly the same."
He heard her laugh softly in his ear — genuine and warm. He smiled, just slightly, and the bitterness that had been sitting in his chest eased somewhat. He adjusted his grip, holding her a little more securely.
He had known, from the beginning, that the question of house-elves' rights would eventually strike something deep in her. She had that quality — of caring about things others had decided weren't worth caring about.
If he were honest, the version of himself from his past life would most likely have considered Winky's punishment entirely appropriate. House-elves that defied their master's orders and brought embarrassment on the household ought to be severely corrected — that was the logic of the world he had been raised in. Order required it. It was simply how things worked.
Narcissa had run Malfoy Manor on precisely that principle.
No one considered what the house-elves felt. In pureblood families, they had never been treated as though their feelings were real; and so each new generation absorbed the same assumption without question — that house-elves were made for crude and unequal treatment, and that this required no further examination.
But Draco had seen Dobby come back.
He had watched, in his previous life, as Dobby broke into Malfoy Manor and saved Harry and the others. In that moment, something had shifted in him. He had understood, for the first time, what it was that she was always insisting on.
He was grateful to Dobby in a way he could never fully express. Grateful that Dobby had possessed the human emotions and the free will to do what Draco himself had not dared to do.
If Dobby had been any slower —
He didn't let himself finish the thought. He knew where it led: to Hermione, to Bellatrix, to the Cruciatus Curse, to Fenrir Greyback — to outcomes he could not bear to picture.
She was on his back. She was perfectly fine. She was going to be alright.
He tightened his hold and forced his thoughts elsewhere.
"Am I heavy?" she asked suddenly. "Are you tired?"
"Not at all," he said, and smiled to himself. "You're very light."
A comfortable silence settled between them.
"Draco — the Dark Mark," Hermione said, after a while. She shifted slightly against his back. "Who cast it? A Death Eater?"
"Yes." He steadied himself before continuing. "Only Death Eaters know how to cast Morsmordre. Whoever conjured it tonight was a Death Eater once — though not necessarily still active."
"Why conjure it at all?" she asked. "Just to frighten people?"
"I'm not certain." He paused. "But I think it may have worked differently than intended. Did you notice — the moment the Mark appeared, all the hooded figures vanished? The screaming stopped, the attacks stopped, no new tents were set alight. I think it frightened them away too. Former Death Eaters, used to hiding the fact that they ever served the Dark Lord — seeing his Mark blazing over the camp... I'd wager they all Disapparated on the spot."
"I think you're right," she said quietly. "Tonight was terrible. Everything — what those men did to the campmaster's family, the Mark, the way they treated Winky..."
"I know. It was." He paused. "My only consolation is that you weren't hurt." A beat. "I worry about you."
"I was worried about you," she said. Her voice was growing slower, heavier. "You were nearly accused of something terrible by Mr. Crouch..."
"Thank you," he said quietly. "I didn't expect you to stand up for me like that. Thank you."
"Of course I would," she murmured. "I always will..." She yawned softly into his ear. "You smell very good, by the way."
"Do you like it?" he asked, his voice warm with quiet amusement. "It's from that French perfumer I mentioned."
"Mmm..." A pause, slow and drowsy. "It smells wonderful... on you..." She settled her cheek against his shoulder, breathed in, and gradually fell still. She pulled her arms a fraction tighter around him and then went quiet entirely.
If Draco had possessed a tail, it would have been wagging shamelessly. Every worry that had plagued him throughout the holiday seemed to dissolve at once.
She hadn't ignored him. She hadn't kept her distance. She had stepped in front of him without hesitation, and now she was trusting him enough to fall asleep on his shoulder.
This ridiculous, wonderful girl. She had been genuinely worried he might be tired. She was the kind of burden every boy in the world would consider a privilege, and she thought she was being an inconvenience.
He walked on, and found himself thinking that if the path had no end, he would keep walking down it without complaint.
Her breathing, light and even, brushed against his ear like the softest thing in the world. She must be exhausted, he thought. She'd earned it.
He quickened his pace through the last of the anxious crowd and came back to the tents. Harry and Ron were standing blearily at their entrance, waiting.
"What's wrong with her?" Harry asked, mid-yawn.
"She's asleep," Draco said quietly. "Go to bed, both of you — I'll take her in."
"Oh — next door," Ron said, gesturing vaguely toward the neighbouring tent, already half-asleep on his feet. "We'll leave you to it, then —"
"Goodnight," Draco said, nodding to them, and slipped toward the adjacent tent.
Ginny Weasley was standing at the entrance. She stopped dead as he appeared.
He looked at her. "Which bed is hers?"
Ginny raised one stiff, disbelieving hand and pointed.
She could hardly process what she was seeing. Draco Malfoy had carried Hermione all the way back to camp — without complaint, without ceremony, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
How was this possible? Something had gone very wrong somewhere, Ginny thought wildly.
She kept her doubts about Draco Malfoy firmly in place, whatever Hermione said to the contrary. It was no wonder she harboured them. He wasn't a kind boy — everyone at Hogwarts knew it. There were always rumours: cross him, and he'd give you a pleasant smile on the spot. A few days later, something unfortunate would happen to you. You'd never be able to prove it. But everyone knew who you'd made an enemy of.
In Gryffindor, very few people were on any kind of real terms with Malfoy. Only Hermione — with some inexplicable conviction — insisted he was decent underneath it all. Harry, for some reason, would always nod hello to him. And Ron, when Ginny pressed him, would only say: "Don't worry about Draco, he's always been alright with Hermione."
Ginny had privately considered this evidence of her brother being dangerously naive.
Perhaps Malfoy had reasons of his own for keeping close to Harry and his friends. The Malfoy family's reputation was built on contempt for blood traitors and Muggle-borns alike — so what possible motive could there be for befriending them?
That poor, besotted Hermione had clearly been taken in. And that was dangerous.
So, as much out of distrust as out of genuine concern for her best friend, Ginny slipped quietly behind the curtain at the entrance to Hermione's section of the tent to watch what he would do.
He was careful. He lowered Hermione onto the bed with the kind of steadiness that comes from practice, eased off her shoes, and drew a thin blanket over her, tucking the edges in neatly.
Those movements, Ginny thought, with a strange feeling she couldn't name — were rather skilled. As if he had done this before.
This was absolutely outrageous.
How could Draco Malfoy — the boy who looked down on everyone at school, whose childhood friend Pansy Parkinson frequently ended up in tears because of him, who had apparently reduced at least two Hufflepuffs to near-hysteria over the years — how could he be doing this?
Yes, he was handsome. Yes, he was academically brilliant, a capable Seeker, from one of the oldest families in wizarding Britain. He had every reason to be arrogant, and he was, and the general student opinion at Hogwarts was clear: aloof, cold, merciless. Harry was enormously more likeable.
And yet. Right now. That same cold face had gone entirely soft. It was completely ridiculous. His suit jacket was wrinkled beyond recovery from being used as Hermione's blanket throughout the night, and he didn't look remotely bothered.
He was nothing like the imperious, iron-willed young man who kept the whole school at arm's length. He looked, instead, like a large cat that had decided Hermione was the only person in the world permitted to pet it — and was now being entirely docile about the whole arrangement.
Ginny held her breath.
Through the gap in the curtain, she watched him pause. He reached out very gently and lifted a loose strand of hair from Hermione's cheek, turned it slightly between his fingers, and inhaled. A quiet, entirely contented smile crossed his face.
Ginny's eyes went wide.
This was the "ordinary friend from the neighbouring house" Hermione had so casually mentioned?
Ordinary. Right. Merlin's pants.
But even that wasn't the end of it.
In the soft, unsteady candlelight, his shadow fell long and still across the tent wall beside the bed. It leaned toward the sleeping girl's face — slowly, hesitantly — as though considering. It held there for a long moment.
Just when Ginny was beginning to wonder if he had simply frozen in place, the shadow moved. Carefully, it brushed the hair back from her forehead. And then, softly — so softly it was barely visible — it pressed a kiss there.
Then he straightened abruptly, as though startled by his own actions, and glanced around.
Ginny spun away from the curtain and pressed herself flat against the tent wall, one hand clamped over her mouth.
She stood there, heart hammering, staring at nothing with very round eyes.
She swore — to Merlin, to Dumbledore, to every magical portrait that had ever watched over Hogwarts — that if she ever took Hermione Granger's word about anything again, if she ever once accepted the phrase "just ordinary friends from the neighbouring house," she would willingly Transfigure herself into a flobberworm and stay that way.