Merry early Christmas! I've been working on this for a few days, the ending is eh. Please review!
"Here's the last toast of the evening, here's to those who still believe
All the losers will be winners, all the givers shall receive
Here's to trouble free tomorrows, may your sorrows all be small
Here's to the losers, bless them all.
Hey, Tom, Dick, and Harry, come in out of the rain
Those torches you carry must be drowned in champagne."
-Here's to the Losers, Frank Sinatra
The sun is breaking the horizon over Draco Malfoy's head, cold light filling the room.
He sits on his bed, where he had always roomed in the summers as a boy. A bookshelf beside his bed holds a hapless collection of thick encyclopedias and case studies explaining the justice in prejudice, their broken spines crinkled and pages yellowed from weather.
Today could be the last day he spends in Malfoy Manor. He's not sure if the thought fills him with dread or hope, but there is certainly some type of excited, nervous anticipation knotted in his stomach. No more will he have to be locked in his room, unable to speak to a soul the last eight months. No more will he have to quake with fear at the hearing. The hearing is today. One way or another, he will know his fate before the sun sets.
"Mr. Malfoy," Qesteral says, knocking on his door. "Your hearing begins in one hour."
"Yes, sir," Draco says. Ever since he had been put on house arrest to his room, he had been guarded by Aurors who took rotating shifts. Qesteral is Draco's favorite. The others sometimes refused to feed Draco his meals as adhered by the Geneva Convention, and would refuse to let him out to go to the restroom. Qesteral is nice. Qesteral sometimes even made small talk from where he stood on the other side of the door. They had given him Qesteral for today, because they knew, one way or another, that this could be his last day of house arrest, or the beginning of a longer sentence.
"Mr. Malfoy," Qesteral says again, a hint of urgency in his voice, "We should leave now. Are you ready?"
Malfoy tries to take his time tying his shoelaces. "Quite ready, sir." He stands and puts on his black blazer. He wore his finest suit for today, but had reflected it might have been better to wear his worst, to appeal that he was poor now. But Draco didn't want his freedom to come through deception.
"Mr. Malfoy," Qesteral repeats, knocking on his door this time. "Proudfoot tells me that your mother, Mrs. Malfoy, urges you to ready yourself for the trial."
His parents had been tried a little over a month ago. Narcissa had been placed under house arrest. Lucius had been sentenced to Azkaban for two years.
"I am ready," Draco says calmly.
"Mr. Malfoy, the Wizengamot are requesting your presence now."
"I've got an hour until my trial."
"They moved it up."
Draco stares at his shoes, contemplating yanking open the window and diving out, but the fall would kill him, when he didn't have his wand. It had been taken by the Ministry as soon as he had been taken into custody, and would be returned if and when he was found innocent.
"Why did they schedule it today?" Draco wonders aloud.
"Mr. Malfoy, I would suppose they think you would fancy the outcome as a Christmas present," the Auror says impatiently. "If you do not open the door within five seconds, I'll have to open it myself."
So Draco steps outside into the hallway, his hair combed and parted to perfection, not a hair or lint to be found on his suit. His black leather shoes gleam.
"Well done, Mr. Malfoy," Qesteral says. "I am told to escort you to the Ministry of Magic. We will Apparate." He pulls his wand out of his cloak. It's a long, spindly thing; Draco notices. He links arms with the Auror and screws his eyes shut. Several seconds later, he opens them, seeing that he's in the Ministry of Magic. They're in the lobby, surrounded by witches and wizards traipsing to their offices. Few pay mind to the young Auror and even younger fellow.
"Policy dictates that I bind you hands," Qesteral says, almost apologetically. Draco doesn't struggle as the Auror places a Binding Curse on his arms, keeping his hands behind his back.
"Do you think I'll get off?" Draco asks him. In the past eight months, his friends had dwindled and Qesteral was his only one. He isn't sure if his captor even counted.
"I'm not allowed to give my professional opinion, Mr. Malfoy."
"Do you support the Falmouth Falcons or Chudley Cannons?"
"Falcons. They crushed the Sumbawanga Sunrays last week."
"Do you support Minister Shacklebolt?"
Once again the man became guarded. "I'm not allowed to say, Mr. Malfoy. Carry on."
"Any kids? Wife?
Qesteral glares at him this time. "Continue, Mr. Malfoy."
The fall silent as they pass through various Departments. At last they made it to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Arthur Weasley stands outside of a staircase beside McGonagall. They talk in low voices and stop when they walk past. McGonagall slips ahead and down the stairs, no doubt to wherever the trial will commence.
"If you'd be kind enough to leave the door open for us, Minerva," Qesreral says. She obliges, and sure enough, at the end of the hallway, a door is open into a formidable court. Draco tries not to vomit.
"Sit down on the Accusation chair," Qesteral mutters in Draco's ear. "As soon as the chains bind you, I'll lift the Binding Curse."
The room falls silent as the Court of the Wizenagmot realize they are in the presence of the next accused. Qesteral pushes him forward, and he sits down on the chair, his arms limp behind his back. The chains rattle and wrap around him so tightly his ribs hurt. In front of him, Minister Shacklebolt clears his throat.
"Disciplinary hearing of the twenty-fifth of December, 1998; into offenses committed under the Geneva Convention, Ministerial Decree 17, the First and Second Hague Conventions, International Statute of Curses, Hexes, and Jinxes; and multiple unspecified offenses that took place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry between the years 1991 and 1998, by Draco Lucius Malfoy of Ludgershall, Wiltshire. Interrogators: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic; Percy Ignatius Weasley, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Icarus Titus Undersee, Court Scribe. Malfoy has chosen to defend himself, and is therefore able to call witnesses to the stand. Weasley will give a summary of the charges held against Malfoy."
Percy stands and clears his throat. "Malfoy has been accused of the use of Unforgivable Curses, keeping unspecified prisoners of war without following the Geneva Conventions' outlined laws, doing nothing when Unforgivable Curses were being performed, laundering money to Death Eaters, being a Death Eater, and not following The Hague Conventions when the use of weapons are applied to the wizard community. We will hear from the defense first."
Malfoy swallowed hard, trying to appease the horrible feeling in his gut.
"Did you take the Dark Mark?" Shacklebolt asks calmly, leaning forward.
He doesn't hesitate. "I did."
"How old were you when you took the Dark Mark?"
"I was sixteen."
"Not of age," Shacklebolt muses, his face thoughtful. "However, the Dark Mark has been compared to the biblical Mark of the Devil-once you get it, there's no going back." He stares appraisingly down at Malfoy.
"I beg to differ," Malfoy says, surprising himself at his own boldness. "I deserted the Death Eaters during the Battle of Hogwarts." He rolls his sleeve up, revealing a black skull tattooed into his skin. The court breaks out into mutters. He catches a journalist, Hermione Granger's, eye. She stares back at him with a mix of pity and anger in her eyes. He can't blame her.
"Allegations claim you were a witness to Muggle tortures, as well as the tortures of Garrick Ollivander, Dean Thomas, Luna Lovegood, Hermione Granger, Griphook, Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley, but you did nothing," Percy breaks in.
He stares at the floor this time, shame making his ears go red. He wouldn't forget the day in a hurry, not the tortures of Granger and definitely not what happened after.
"I was there." Draco murmurs. He can't lie, not in front of Granger, and he has no desire to anyway. "Loony-Luna, I mean-and Ollivander had been in our cellar for two weeks when Dean Thomas, Potter, Weasley, Griphook, and Granger were found." He swallows, his throat constricting. "Thomas had been under the Cruciatus Curse, from the looks of it."
No one scarcely breathes in the Court of the Wizengamot. He catches sight of Qesteral sitting a few rows back behind Hermione. His face is twisted into some odd kind of grief and pain.
"Bella, my aunt-" and he cannot keep the disgust out of his voice as he remembers her- "tortured Granger. I was going to do something, I swear on my life. I-I couldn't watch it, I couldn't take it."
Silent tears were streaking her face, and her quill had fallen out of her fingers and sat on the floor.
"Cruciatus Curse. Sectumsempra. Everything you can get a year in Azkaban for. She did it all. And I... I just stood there." He chokes back his shame and tears, trying to keep his decency. He sees Hermione stand and slip out the doors. Percy looks up suddenly as she does, a trace of worry in his eyes as he watched her disappear.
"After they escaped, my aunt performed Unforgivable Curses on me because I didn't do anything to stop them from leaving." It had been the first time he had been under the Cruciatus Curse. It had been hell. He remembers the sensation of his spine ripping in half, of fire and magma turning his veins into heated iron.
"Were you or were you not supposed to murder Albus Dumbledore?" an elderly witch calls.
"I was, but I didn't. I chickened."
"No surprise there," Percy says with a faint sneer. Shacklebolt gives him a warning look before turning back to Draco. "You've confessed to accepting the Dark Mark, keeping prisoners of war, ignoring The Hague and the Geneva Conventions, tortures, supporting Death Eaters, and working with Death Eaters. Do you know how many laws you've broken?" Shacklebolt doesn't sound condescending or angry, just weary. He must do this daily.
"The Geneva and Hague Conventions don't apply to me, do they?"
A journalist in the front gives a shrill laugh. Percy silences her with a swift glare. "The Ministry works with the British Ministry, Mr. Malfoy. They've felt your crime, too." He sifts through papers. "A witness claims you attempted to perform the Cruciatus Curse."
"I attempted," Draco says quietly. "I did not succeed."
Shacklebolt turned to Weasley, and the two engaged in a rapidly spoken whispered conversation. Draco twisted his hands in their cuffs and met Qesteral's eyes. He was expressionless, his gaze frozen.
"Is there any last defense?"
"I did not side with the Dar- He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in the end," he says, but his tone doesn't match his bold words. "I made the correct decision in the end."
Percy laughs mirthlessly. "Typical Malfoy behavior," he says coldly with a sneer. "Let's vote, why don't we? The charges for your crimes, Mr. Malfoy, amount to three years in Azkaban. Because you confessed there is an alternate, where you will have only five years of house arrest, as of the loophole in Ministerial Decree 348."
"All those in favor of three years in Azkaban?" Shacklebolt says. He raises his own hand, as does Percy, and many others. He counts them in his mind, the numbers on his lips as his eyes pass over the hard faces. A witch writes a number on a piece of parchment.
"All those in favor of five years of house arrest, for Mr. Draco Malfoy."
And there are few at first, but as he watches, more raise their own hands-many, many, and Draco does not understand. He doesn't know why-certainly they would like to see him in Azkaban.
"The Wizengamot declares five years of house arrest," Shacklebolt says, while Percy has a rotten expression. He pounds a gavel. The courtroom breaks out into muttering.
The chains don't loosen on his hands until Qesteral comes and releases them. He Binds his arms again.
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Malfoy," Qesteral says quietly. Draco doesn't know if he's being sarcastic or not, but he knows something about his captor now.
"You're his father, aren't you?"
"Pardon, Mr. Malfoy?"
He remembers his face as he spoke of Dean to the court. He pieces his hypothesis together. "He doesn't have a father that he knows. He's a Half-blood. You're Dean's father, aren't you?"
Qesteral's grip is so tight on Draco's shoulder that he feels his arm going numb. "It doesn't matter. It was a mistake."
"It's Christmas, Qesteral," Draco says softly. "I've got my gift now, where's yours?"
