Author's note: I believe, ultimately, that the Malfoys were acquitted following the Second War but obviously not without reparation. This is how I imagine Lucius' defence.
It may well be a 2 part story - what happens immediately after - but I don't know.
Disclaimer: None of the characters herein belong to me. They are property of J.K. Rowling and affiliates and I make no financial gain from writing this.
She had never been overtly Slytherin. While a noun in the purest sense, she had always viewed it as an adjective just as equally. Where Bellatrix danced perilously on the border of insanity, proud and eager to illustrate her Slytherin heritage, Narcissa had been a little less intent on letting everyone know how truly she felt the pull of Blood. Despite how it appeared, even Andromeda had been Slytherin through and through. Her means to an end had simply not suited her heritage, rather than she had not fitted the mould of a Slytherin. Privately Narcissa had always considered her sister's choice the most selfish of all; she had eloped and abandoned without thought, without concern.
Something Narcissa Malfoy would never do.
She took her cloak from the little elf at her feet, using her wand to let it rest on her shoulder and tie itself neatly in a velvet bow at her collar bone. Turning to the mirror she examined her choice and wavered for a moment. It was elegantly understated, a midnight blue cloak hanging softly over a pale blue dress. No green. It would be too overt. The choice though, on reflection, seemed contrived. She had worn black on the other days. Today she wore blue – his favourite colour on her – lest he never see it again. It was an insult to him, for a moment, she thought.
"Are you sure I should not come?"
She turned to the voice, disembodied as it was, that still made her feel warm. It was unusual now to feel this; warmth was such a rarity in Malfoy Manor these days. Thoughts of him, little and soft, pushed their way into her memory almost against her will. Now he stood, tall and angular, his eyes dark.
"I am sure," she said gently, "I am more than sure."
"What if-"
"Hush, Draco," she interrupted, "He has done all that he can. It's in the lap of the gods now."
He hated her for than answer. She could see fury chase incredulity across his face. How like your father you are, she wanted to say.
"Mother – "
"He asked you," she said brusquely as she pulled on her gloves, "To watch his interests. That is what you must do. You cannot do that in a court."
"You're trying to protect me from it! Merlin knows I've seen enough."
If she wanted to, she could interpret this as an accusation. And accusation, she knew, she was guilty of. Yes, she felt like saying, I watched as blood pooled in our gallery and dining room too. She forgave her son his irritation though; it was trying, in these days, to be the son of Lucius Malfoy. Bitterly she thought of how difficult it was to be his wife.
She should have run when she had the chance. Narcissa Malfoy never ran though, so instead she threw her lot in with Lucius and his politics.
Because it had always been politic.
"You are my son," she said, beckoning him towards her and watching as he stepped reluctantly, "And though I might fail, it is something I will never stop endeavouring to do."
He dipped his head as he came towards her.
"What do we do if-"
"We will survive," she said, refusing to allow him any more room to conjecture.
Every time he had tried, she had wanted to hex her own son. She hated that he wanted to examine any other possibility.
"I should come with you."
"No," she whispered, surrendering to the need to comfort him, "No darling. It would anger your father."
She embraced him then and found herself disappointed that he had grown so much when she wasn't looking. She had been looking the other way, into an oblivion she couldn't imagine.
Once upon a time she would have been inundated with offers of an escort to any public occasion such as this, if Mr Malfoy found himself indisposed. But they are all gone or, worse, dead. She felt the quick tug behind her naval and then stumbled, as gracefully as she could muster, into the tiled halls of the Ministry. Before her, they were finally dismantling that sculpture. It hurt, just a little, to know the value of what they had given up.
And oh, had they given up so much.
The new sculpture, commissioned by the new Minister, was to be paid – voluntarily of course – by the man who was to stand trial today.
A throng of journalists, Skeeter amongst them, stood to attention for the pariah wife. They had twigged, she realised, that she arrived at nearly the exact same time every day. She had wondered if they might grow bored over her constantly black, demure robes but even that hadn't stopped them snapping away. Today though she wore blue – icy and cool – a message to him, of confidence, of her love.
To think she had courted their attentions once made her feel almost unclean. She stuck her chin up just a fraction, so she did not have to look at them, but they shouted her name nonetheless.
Only once she drew her eyes to Rita Skeeter, the tawdry and petulant woman who had once been overly fond of Lucius, as she cried 'How does it feel? Today's the day Mrs Malfoy.'
How right Skeeter was in her estimations.
Still clinging to the past, the Ministry still held the trials of varying import in the bowels of the labyrinthine structure, and had been building towards this particularly climactic one for a year. As she descended, the gaggle of press filed behind her as if it were the old days and for a moment she dreamed of them like she hadn't before. At the ante-chamber of the largest court, Harry Potter and his friends were standing with the Minister. Each day they had stood here, waiting for her as if she too were on trial when in fact all of them had been instrumental in her acquittal. In light of this, she felt compelled to give them a nod of recognition every day and, every time she did, it made her prostrate with humiliation. To be beholding to these people was more degrading than what she'd faced every day in that chamber.
Taking her seat, she waited with the sort of passive dread she knew made her look cold and untouchable. This look, the straight-back of a woman who thought herself above everyone, had been derided almost daily in the wizarding press. In contrast to her appearance, she was entirely too desperate for him to appear in the centre. On the first day, when he'd emerged from that circular platform in the floor, she'd been horrified to see him shackled but sated by a glimpse of him in this, their year of starvation. Not at all perceptible, her relief at seeing him was so strong she had thought she might collapse right there and then. Though they'd not imprisoned him in Azkaban, it appeared that his incarceration in the Ministry hadn't been the stay they had calculated it might. She'd been allowed to see him, of course, through the course of the other trials at which he'd stood Ministry's Witness, and had sent him books and parchments and quills in between her visits to him. In the latter part of his trial he hadn't been shackled and he'd been allowed to speak more; the ceaseless forgetfulness of a community scarred by a long war, and softened by the ancestral wealth of the Malfoys, was starting to become visible.
To think this Ministry was as corrupt as the last, to her mind, was not a stretch.
Today he was dressed in the robes she had sent the evening before – velvet and ermine, commissioned for this, his long-awaited trial. Locking eyes with her, just for the tiniest moment, he nodded his recognition of her as he had every day in the last week. To some it might seem a cold, compulsory way to greet one's wife; to her, that look sustained her through the worst of the nights.
He'd been particularly insistent on catching her eye the day the Potter boy had taken the stand in her – and by virtue of that his – defence. That night her tears had come in torrents.
Eventually everyone took their seats, allotted to their specific positions and purposes, and he was asked to stand against his accusations.
Which, of course, were multitudinous.
She had almost memorised the list.
Today, for the first time, the once graceful politician was to lay bare his machinations for this world of hungry beasts.
As he was called and escorted to the witness stand, the reporter's enchanted quills scribbled furiously, breaking the tense silence that had descended. She wondered how they might describe him as he was now, when they went to press. He was not hunched, not cowed. He still bore the pride of Slytherin that had, as a girl, made her weak at the knees in a cliché so retched she hated herself for it.
He still had that pride that made her love him, despite who he was.
Because who her husband was, ultimately, was not very pleasant to consider.
Then again, nor was Narcissa Black a particularly nice person.
Nice, she thought for a moment, was such a terrible word.
He took the stand and the second Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot stood, his little grey head coming only to the dais at which her husband was seated. He had been one of Scrimgeour's advisors and war had aged him terribly. Looking around this endless room, age had won over many, many people.
At the far end, sitting almost directly across from her, was Andromeda.
Narcissa's breath was not taken from her – in a world as small as this, seeing your exiled blood-traitor sister was untypically common – but it shocked her that she was there nonetheless. She let her eyes slide to her husband though, once he spoke. She did not want to wonder why her sister was here.
"Is your name Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, of Wiltshire, aged forty-five?"
He was so young, she thought, in the grand scheme of things. They both were.
"Yes," he answered.
"Good," the chief said, "Well we can get on."
"At what age did you first become involved with Voldemort?"
Imperceptible as it was, she saw the almost- grimace which threatened his face.
"Eighteen," he said, "I was encouraged by some acquaintances."
"And who were they?"
"The Lestrange brothers," he answered, truthfully, "And Bellatrix Black. Three years my senior."
"Those you gave evidence against recently?"
"The same," he said, "Yes."
Of old Blood but little money, the Lestranges had hung on his coat-tails since their days in the Slytherin common room. They had brought him, this canny Malfoy with wit in abundance, to the self-styled Dark Lord.
"And?"
"And I saw the joining of the Death Eaters as a means to an end."
There it was, she thought, the golden phrase. Curiosity descended in a murmur across the court.
"Could you explain?"
The chief seemed perturbed by this enigmatic answer.
"By all means," Lucius answered, scanning the room, "In spite of my belief in the purity of Blood, for which I will not apologise, it was not my initial reason for siding with – if you'll pardon my insistent habit – The Dark Lord."
"It would be better," Kingsley Shacklebolt said a little tersely, jutting into the silence, "If you didn't refer to him by that name, Mr Malfoy."
Lucius' mouth tightened in the threat of a sneer but she saw, in that instant, that he trained it back to a dispassionate frown.
"Of course," he continued, "As I said, Blood purity – while an important factor in my ideals – was not my reason for joining him. I was interested in what he could do for me."
A ripple of uncomfortable laughs flew through the chamber and she suddenly felt stiflingly hot. She had expected everything but the truth. Your vanity, she wanted to suddenly say, might not be the best defence. Then she remembered that she had to trust him.
"I thought, in my naivety, that he would be useful to my ambitions."
"And those were?"
He smiled, almost serenely, and sat a little further back in his chair. She watched him through the eyes of everyone else in that moment for, just like them, she had no idea what he planned to say next. She thought of those quills and ink and parchments she'd sent him and wondered if he'd used them at all in the preparation of himself.
"To be powerful in the Ministry and the wizarding world. If things were different," he turned to Shacklebolt, genuineness in his address, "Perhaps I would be occupying, now, the position Mr Shacklebolt finds himself in. I worked very closely with Cornelius Fudge when he was in power. In fact, I financed his campaigns. I liked the idea of politics; of being the man who affected, who had the final say in, policies implemented. I wanted, in essence, to lead."
"Are you implying, Mr Malfoy, you like the idea of being the brains behind the power?"
"At first that's what I thought I might be," he shrugged delicately and almost the entire court winced in sympathy, "But I misjudged. I was a child. When I tied my colours to Voldemort's mast, I was genuine. When I tied my colours, I thought he might be my puppet."
He was not genuine at all in his discomfort, despite how he wanted it to appear; daring to say his name, he didn't even flinch.
"At your first trial, in 1983, you claimed you were under the Imperius curse."
"And we all know that was a lie," he said gently, almost as a hiss, "As I have previously admitted to the Minister. The Minister has, if you will, heard my full confession. I know next, of course, your line of questioning will be about the most recent war?"
At the wizard's nod, her husband continued in his rhetoric that seemed to draw each and every individual in. She stole a glance around the chamber and was reminded of their days of glory, when Lucius would hold and entire court to attention. Even Andromeda, dark and brooding, was drawn to the possibilities of what he might say.
In that moment, as he stood upon the stand and told half-lies and truths, she loved him more than she ever had.
"I was forty-one when he returned. I went because, like those who had followed him before, I had no choice. I simply had no choice. My fear was, of course, for my wife and son."
He did not look at her as he said this but the rest of the court did and the reporter from Witch Weekly looked satisfied with her titbit of romance to take to the editor. The scrutiny, acute and wondering, was humiliating in the extreme.
"And you watched as a child, your son's age, was hunted by the most evil lord in history? And perhaps worse, you helped him?"
She wondered how he might answer this but she needn't have thought him stumped. He smiled lightly, almost sadly. Bravo Lucius, she thought. Bravo.
"I wonder if, of course, you refer to Mr Potter? Ah but of course. The same child my wife saved in the final battle, the same young man my son refused to identify. The child, as you so lightly call him, stood exactly where I stand now and told you this."
"But this trial," the other man said imperiously, "Is not about your wife or son."
Lucius paused, "Ah but it is. You see this trial is ostensibly about me but what is really on trial here is the name of Malfoy – two thirds of whom have acted admirably, it could be argued quite convincingly, and one who acted under duress."
The chief looked, for a moment, to be furious. Then he regained his footing.
"I wouldn't call murder duress."
Lucius dipped his head then lifted it again. This time his face was lifeless, as if in trying to keep the anger from it, he'd denied every emotion he'd ever felt before. Because no high-ranking Death Eater, particularly Lucius Malfoy, had lifted his wand to kill in a very long time; they had paid Snatchers and had filthy half-bloods to do their dirty work.
"The only evidence you have, Chief Eldmire, is that I killed three Death Eaters in the Great Hall of Hogwarts as they accosted my son and prevented me reaching him, just before they intended to kill him, for his mother's perceived perfidy. If this is your only evidence of my crimes then I am forced to wonder why Molly Weasley does not find herself in my place, on trial for the murder of those she killed to protect her children."
A gasp of incredulity whistled through the chamber. His use of the much lauded, recalled and exaggerated tale of Molly Weasley's motherly sainthood to bolster his own defence was both admirable and, Narcissa imagined to some, appalling.
For a moment she dreaded that he had miscalculated. However the crowd seemed to hum its agreement to his defence and the reporters bent over their notepads to ensure that had been amply recorded.
"That is different, of course-"
"It is not," her husband said plainly, "It is not. Despite the public humiliation it would bring us and the scorn of our social circle and families we knew we had to turn to the defence of the Wizarding world – regardless of who we were defending. And for me, turning to the defence of my son and heir was my only choice."
The court murmured their approval and suddenly the tone, so mixed before, seemed golden in the accused's favour. At this he looked at her and a silent thanks for stealing her defence was conveyed in his eyes. She nodded. If nothing, Lucius recognised sly work. If nothing, he would thank her instead of apologise.
The chief nodded then turned once on his heels, obviously giving himself time to think. She wondered if this choice of cross-examiner had been intentionally weak, intentionally flustered. The Ministry's hand had been forced both in the Malfoy's favour and against and this battle, new and ancient, was being played out in the chamber as she watched.
Since the week after the battle of Hogwarts Kingsley had kept Lucius here and forced him into efforts so philanthropic that it was a wonder they had any money left. At the threat of restricting his right to trade on the wizarding free market – and exposing his historical dalliances in the muggle one – he had been compelled to comply. She had had to hand over the Manor's books and had been grateful for the ancient magic that guarded their vault within the house and Lucius' willingness to bank money in off-shore accounts over the last thirteen years. A world weary of war, there had been whispers that the recanted Lucius Malfoy would not even face trial because he had been so diligent in assisting the Ministry. People wanted to move on, wanted to be free of the horror that had befallen their ruined world. Some wanted the Malfoys back on the free market, wanted the Malfoy Apothecary trading again. The Daily Prophet had even come out vaguely in his defence in the last two days.
"I would like the court to be made aware of my recent…." he feigned searching for the words, allowing his audience time to ingratiate themselves in his rhetoric again, "Attempt at providing restitution to the wizarding community."
Nodding sagely, the more sympathetic Wizengamot seemed pleased he had reached this part of his own defence. It was, she knew, an attempt to caress the ego of the burgeoning Ministry under Shacklebolt, and it appeared to be working.
"This year I have dedicated myself, in the limited way I can, to illustrating my concern for the rebuilding of our world through donating to as many efforts as possible."
"But you certainly haven't left yourself destitute!"
The little wizard spun on his heels, biting quite sufficiently.
Lucius nodded, dipped his head, "That is debateable."
The Chief said nothing, merely nodded.
"Any final words?"
His tone was one of defeat, of the realisation that the decisions to free Lucius Malfoy had already been made.
"None."
Because Lucius Malfoy would never apologise.
She waited for him to bow almost, after that bravura performance, but he merely stood to full height. She knew, privately, that to do so brought him great agony in his body. She had wondered if he'd speak of the torture at the Dark Lord's hands. She had wondered if he'd speak of the punishment that shattered Narcissa's face and body, which still scarred her back and legs despite so many healing charms, after they had allowed Potter to escape.
As suddenly as she had wondered these things she had shut them down – their private hell was not for public consumption.
As they left to deliberate, the court seemed to relax as one body. People started to mill around, greeting friends and acquaintances, speaking of war and regeneration, of ideals and children. They brought coffee and little charmed pastries that tasted of different fillings at every bite. The very prospect of such a thing made her feel sick; the entertainment factor of it all seemed confirmed by half-time snacks. She did not speak to Andromeda and was surprised when Shacklebolt detached himself from the Potter boy and sat beside her. It was the first time in months anyone, bar Draco, had been near her.
"Mrs Malfoy, if you'd like a private room to retire to we can accommodate you."
Facing straight ahead, her eyes on the dais where Lucius had previously been, she answered plainly:
"I'm perfectly fine here."
"Of course you are," he said without feeling, "But-"
"If I make others uncomfortable, that is their issue," she said, "Not mine."
"No, of course not," he sighed.
He stood up to go but seemed to stall as he deliberated, "I think your husband's honesty, however calculated, will work in his favour. You know I was the year above him at school?"
"A Ravenclaw," she affirmed, "And a pure-blood."
He laughed mirthlessly, "If that matters, yes. He was always a strutting fool, your husband. He was always a slippery liar and a politician of equally moral ambiguity. I thought, like anyone did, the Malfoys were finished after this war. Since becoming Minister, it's pained me to realise this world needs people like your husband; no matter how unsavoury a fact that is to swallow."
She looked him straight in the eye, "I could have told you that long ago, Kingsley."
He nodded, sadness darting across his face, "Perhaps I thought I might find remorse in you."
She laughed darkly, turned her eyes away, "Mr Shacklebolt, do you know what house I was in?"
He nodded quietly and walked away.
They found him guilty but, with time served and obvious remorse, set him free with light limitations on the next year of his life. It seemed, even to her and her relief, anti-climactic.
As they gathered in the huge Atrium, he emerged from one of the lifts with two disappointed aurors flanking him. Their last act was to return his new wand to him, which she'd had fixed and delivered to the Ministry the night before. There would be financial repercussions and penalties from today until the endless measure of the guilt people would assume they should have, but it was a small price to pay to see him caress the glinting snake's head softly and then tap the cane on the marble floor twice before he strode towards her, through flashing bulbs and screamed questions. Turning on her heels, she led them to the hearth she'd been appointed.
"Mr Malfoy, Mr Malfoy! What shall you do now, now you're free?"
He help up a hand and stalled, meaning she had to stall with him. She'd have preferred just to depart without a word for the hounding, merciless press.
"Mr Malfoy," Rita Skeeter breathed, "Mr Malfoy, what will you do now?"
He smiled, "Like all good politicians, of course, I'll write a book. Would anyone like exclusives?"
As they clamoured to offer their support of his authorial debut his hand closed around hers, hidden by their respective cloaks, and his squeeze said more than his mouth ever would. The grip was that of equals; the grasp of Slytherins.
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