Mia was healing.
It wasn't fast, and it wasn't linear — some mornings she barely spoke; some nights she wept in her sleep. But there were signs: the way she started brushing her own hair again. The way she laughed when Luna visited with enchanted origami creatures. The way she hugged Hermione a little longer, clung a little less.
Draco watched it all silently, steadily. He never rushed her. But inside him, a storm brewed, each new moment of Mia's recovery another reminder that someone had tried to break his daughter.
And someone would answer for it.
The Name
He got it from Harry, two weeks after.
"He was wearing Polyjuice. We almost didn't catch it," Harry muttered, throwing a stack of parchment on Draco's desk in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. "But forensic magic traced the wand signature. His real name is Corvus Mulciber."
Draco froze. That name. He knew it. Knew the family.
One of the old Death Eater lines — hidden, bitter, rotten. Lucius had once tried to match Draco to a distant Mulciber cousin during the war. Filthy bloodlines protecting their own.
Draco's jaw clenched. "Where is he?"
Harry eyed him carefully. "Draco—"
"Where?"
Harry sighed. "A flat in Knockturn Alley. We've put surveillance on him. He'll be arrested soon."
Draco gave a small nod. "Not soon enough."
The Confrontation
It was raining when Draco found him.
Mulciber's flat was rotting with the stench of damp stone and cheap Firewhisky. The door gave way too easily to a whispered spell.
Corvus was there. Laughing with someone — until he saw Draco Malfoy step into the light.
The smirk fell from his lips instantly.
"You—"
"You touched my daughter." Draco's voice was ice.
Mulciber reached for his wand. But Draco didn't use his.
He struck him. Hard. Fists, not magic. A storm of fury built over years — against Death Eaters, against his father, against the bloodline hatred — unleashed all at once.
"Do you know what she cried?" Draco growled, grabbing him by the collar. "Do you know the sound she made through our bond while you—?"
A punch. Another. Blood.
"Do you know what it feels like," he seethed, "to be a father and not make it in time?"
Mulciber wheezed, collapsed, broken and breathless.
"Do you know what it feels like to have the power to protect someone — and still be late?"
Draco stood over him, chest heaving. And then, with a final whisper, "You'll rot. In Azkaban."
He turned his back — just as Aurors apparated behind him. Harry must've been tracking him.
Draco didn't flinch as they dragged Corvus away.
He just walked into the night.
The Aftermath
Back at home, Mia was sitting by the window, blanket over her legs, watching the rain.
Hermione looked up from the sofa when Draco returned, soaked through, hands bloodied but calm.
"He won't hurt anyone again," Draco said.
Hermione's face didn't need to ask the rest. She just crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him.
"He'll answer to the law," she whispered.
"He already has."
They stood like that, rain echoing outside, hearts steady. There was no triumph in Draco's eyes — only relief, and grief, and a quiet fire that hadn't dimmed since the day he became a father.