Forgive me Harry.
It was very hard for anyone to imagine how Draco Malfoy felt as he sat in that courtroom. He had already had his last remaining family taken from him by the people sitting only five feet from him and he was waiting to hear what they had in store for him.
After the war the wizarding world had been sent into turmoil, with controversies springing up everywhere, on all matters, ranging from the re-establishment of the ministry of magic to the sorting policy at Hogwarts. But perhaps the most volatile and disputed area was the punishment of the former death eaters. No family had been left intact by Lord Voldemort's campaign, and everyone, quite understandably, wanted retribution and revenge for the lives they had sacrificed. It had been left to the Wizengamot to find a solution that both satiated this need and was appropriate for the actual crimes committed.
It didn't seem to have occurred to anyone that the war had had an equal impact on the families of those who supported Lord Voldemort. When He had risen again, it had become more a matter of self-preservation than true allegiance. The Malfoys had chosen what seemed the lesser of the two immediate dangers – they had seen for themselves the horrors wreaked upon those who opposed the Dark Lord, but now they were paying the ultimate price for that choice.
After a three month long trial in which every detail, each closely guarded secret of their lives had been examined and cross-examined, all their secrets exposed to the public, the verdicts had finally been reached two weeks ago.
Lucius Malfoy had been sentenced to death by hemlock infusion. There was no sympathy shown to such a 'leading' death eater, especially because of the embarrassment caused by his influence in the ministry that went unchecked for over 20 years. He had been executed two days ago, none of his family were allowed to be present.
Narcissa Malfoy had been sentenced to imprisonment in Azkaban with a review in ten years. This was far more lenient than many of the spectators had been hoping for to begin with, but after a surprise appearance in the court by none other than the great Harry Potter himself, the jury had been convinced that, whilst she had committed unspeakable acts, her actions at the final battle showed a genuine penitence for her crimes. Whilst this sentence seemed lenient, Draco knew his mother wouldn't last long in Azkaban, she had lived in luxury her whole life and still suffered major panic attacks in her own home, she wouldn't last long in the awful prison.
Draco's punishment had yet to be revealed, although rumours were flying as to what it would be. The former Slytherin student had, in an unexpected twist of public opinion, become something of a tragic hero. Despite the crimes he stood accused of, including the torture and murder of innocent muggles, the population, and most importantly the Daily Prophet, seemed to only see this as further proof that he had been manipulated himself by Lord Voldemort and the other Death Eaters.
And much as Draco wished they were true, in his heart of hearts he knew. He hadn't done those awful things because he had been manipulated or forced. He had done them because in some dark, twisted place in his psyche, he enjoyed it. And that knowledge scared him more than anything.
Of course, rationally he knew that killing was wrong and under normal circumstances he would never seek to harm anyone. But when he had been standing there in front of those pathetic creatures, men and women who reminded him so much of the spoilt children who had gone to his muggle primary school. Children who had bullied and taunted him throughout his imprisonment in that exclusive private boarding school in East Sussex. And it wasn't just that they had mocked his 'old-fashioned' name or his dislike of their muggle sports (especially the barbaric 'rugby'). No...it was more than that...come parents visiting day, all those wretches had run into loving embraces from fur-clad mothers and stoic yet loving fathers whilst he had been left alone in his room, clutching the one photograph he had of his family, which he had to keep underneath his mattress like a dirty secret.
For his parents had refused to spend an entire day in the company of muggles for so little a reason as seeing their only son and heir for the first time in several months. And he certainly couldn't have told them about the beatings he endured day after day – his father would have laid into him even worse for allowing himself to be bested by apparently 'weak' muggles. There was to be no relief for the skinny pale boy who just wanted to be hugged by another warm body.
So when he had finally reached Hogwarts he had wrapped himself in mystery and surrounded himself with loyal followers but still he felt empty, seeking petty arguments with the 'boy who lived' just to keep himself at the centre of the attention he craved.
Better to be hated and feared than forgotten and ignored. That was the motto of the Malfoys.
And Draco had stood by that motto for so long that he had lost himself in it until he could no longer tell the difference between laughter and screams.
And when those wailing creatures had been dragged in front of him Draco felt no pity for them. They symbolised everything he had been denied in life, everything they had, family, friends, birthdays, sleepovers, hugs, valentines day, junk food, lazy Sundays, support, happiness . . .
So he had killed that couple, tearing those superior smiles from their faces and finding glory in their screams of terror. And the second time he killed, he gained yet more acceptance from the other Death Eaters and indeed the Dark Lord himself. Pleasing him became Draco's only focus, he knew first hand what happened to those who disappointed him.
As much as Draco craved his approval, there was no man he feared more than Lord Voldemort. In truth, when he had tortured those people, he was only e-enacting tortures visited on him by the Dark Lord. In the two years after his resurrection Tom Riddle had grown restless in hiding without any available victims, so his attentions had fallen upon the youngest Malfoy as a form of . . . entertainment.
But that was in the past and Draco never wanted to dwell on those summers of hell again.
"All rise for the sentencing of Draco Lucius Malfoy"
The harsh voice of the High Judge shocked Draco out of his reverie. He rose steadily to his feet, strangely calm, seeming callous to most of the onlookers, but to one of the only people in that room who knew him before the War, Pansy Parkinson, he just looked numb, like events had spiralled so far that his brain just couldn't handle what had happened and had shut down.
"Draco Lucius Malfoy, you are charged with the murder of Patrick and Maria Wetlock and Michael Holland, aiding and abetting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in his rise to power and thus being complicit in the murder of all victims of the Great War. The Wizengamot has found you guilty on all counts. However, due to significant evidence of both physical and mental abuse including brain washing and blackmail, and taking your young age into consideration, the court has ruled that you be sentenced to five years house arrest and a visit to the Room of Whispers."
At this, the courtroom erupted. The Room of Whispers was one of the worst kept secrets of the Department of Mysteries, after Rita Skeeter had run one of her infamous inquiries.
It is common knowledge that words carry power, names in particular. "The pen is mightier than the sword" was coined by a Wizard in the 16th century and was so real that even the muggle community had picked it up. But what most people don't realise is that spoken words are even more powerful, and last words, the most important thing to a person in the last seconds of their life, are the most magical of all. And that is why they, like prophecies, all eventually found their way to the Department of Mysteries, specifically to the Hall of Sighs. After the War the Department, in their own, slightly odd way, had paid their respects to the fallen by moving all the words of the victims, and those Death Eaters deemed to be sufficiently penitent, to the 'Room of Whispers'.
It was said that just one moment in the Hall could send any man insane. Of the ten men who had entered the Hall in the last seven years, one had gone back to work after a three year medical leave, two were in St Mungo's psychiatric ward and seven had committed suicide within a month.
The theory of the Wizengamot was that this pain would only be intensified for Draco by the knowledge that he'd had a hand in causing their deaths.
"WHAT!?...HOW COULD YOU!?...YOU CALL THIS JUSTICE!...THAT'S TORTURE!...YOU'RE JUST AS BAD AS VOLDEMORT!" Pansy's shrieks echoed around the room as she was wrestled away by two burly guards. "DRACO!"
He didn't even lift his head as the noise of Pansy's dramatic exit and the protests from his 'groupies' in the viewing gallery filled the air.
No one saw the anguished green eyes that watched him out of the room. No one noticed when a tousled head dropped in despair.
…..
It was just over three weeks later and Draco's facial expression hadn't changed once. He sat on the edge of the concrete bunk and stared at the dull wall of the cell he had inhabited for longer than seemed possible. Three weeks since his sentence had been announced, four weeks since his father had taken from him, five weeks since his mother had been sent away and one hour until he was to be taken to the Room of Whispers.
Pansy had come to see him twice, in a blur of exclamations and gesticulations, but even she hadn't been able to provoke a reaction from him.
He'd even had a visit from the 'Chosen One' earlier that day. That had been odd, the boy-wonder hadn't even said anything, just looked at Draco with those glistening emerald eyes, like he was searching for an answer. Draco didn't know what he wanted, but he didn't want to give Potter the satisfaction. So he stared back into the other man's eyes, searching them for the question.
Draco had never truly hated Potter in fact; there was nothing he'd enjoyed more than the challenge of their encounters. They do say that there's a fine line between hate and love.
They stayed locked like that for . . . he didn't know how long . . . but when Harry finally wrenched his gaze away Draco almost felt disappointed. It was the closest he had come to actually connecting with someone the whole time he had been tucked away in that cramped cell.
A loud clang signalled the arrival of the wizard who would take Draco to the Hall of Whispers. He stood up and faced the door, wondering who it would be, hopefully not Patterson, he was another one of those do-gooders who believed he had been possessed or manipulated or some bull like that.
No such luck, the short, mousy man stuck his head around the door, cheesy grin plastered into place, greeting the inmate with a cheery 'Well how you doing today Master Malfoy, ready to get out of here for good? Dear Merlin, does that man have no dignity? Draco despaired. At least he would be home soon. Not that he was looking forward to being stuck in his deserted ancestral home with only the ghosts of memories to keep him company, but anything would be better than that cell.
All he had to do was get through the Room of Whispers.
In the end it was Pansy who took Draco home, and for the rest of her life she would regret not staying with him that night. She had driven, since her own magic had been restricted by the ministry, and the whole way her once best friend hadn't so much as looked at her, although he whispered constantly under his breath. She caught only snatches of his mumbled words, but what she did hear had her own eyes watering.
"...Father...No...Lily take Harry...my hands...Severus...please...I'll do anything...look...at...me...
...Draco..."
He was in shock, repeating the dreadful things he had heard in that room. She let him into his home and took him up to his bedroom as fast as she could, trying to make the journey through those halls and rooms were his parents had once walked as painless as possible. She stripped of those horrible clothes he had been forced to wear in that prison and slipped him under the covers of his king sized bed.
As she stood there, looking at Draco and how lost he seemed, cut adrift in an ocean of black silk, she did something she hadn't done since before the war; she closed her eyes and made a wish. Through a slit in the curtains she could see outside to the velvet sky and, embedded in the deep blanket, sparkling like broken glass was none other than Draco's namesake constellation. So Pansy wished on those stars to bring her friend back to her. But when she opened her eyes he was still there, repeating quietly to himself the awful things he had heard in that room.
After making sure the fire was lit and there was a glass of water on his bedside table next to his wand and the only family photograph Pansy had ever seen in which all three of the Malfoys were smiling, Pansy reluctantly left, guilt that she couldn't do more for Draco tearing at her insides.
It was his fault. He should have been stronger . . . better . . .
He should have saved them. But being the coward that he was, he had condemned them.
Blame, self -loathing and an overwhelming sense of loss filled Draco, numbing his body and flooding his mind with the screams and whimpers of the Room of Whispers.
He had heard so many people . . . his own Godfather had spoken into his ear . . . Crabbe, his stupid but loyal friend . . . his old house elf Dobby. . . Professor Quirrell . . . Fred Weasley . . . Dumbledore . . .
. . . his father . . .
Not bothering to even wipe the tears that were threatening to spill from his re-rimmed eyes, Draco leaned over to his bedside table. His questing fingers had been searching for the glass of water, but before that they encountered something very different – the smooth, varnished edge of a photo frame.
Slowly, he closed his fingers around the wood, dragging the photograph closer to him until it was resting on his knees, only a few inches from his dull eyes. After several moments, he was able to focus on the figures in front of him and suddenly the rest of the world spiralled away. The smiling face of his five year old self encased in the loving arms of him mother and father was all he could see. His gaze darted around the photo, taking in all the details it possibly could – the way his father's eyes crinkled as he laughed down at his son, his mother's hair being swept across her shoulders, the ruffled edge of young Draco's muggle style shirt.
And all of a sudden the details that had been so sharp were blurred as tears filled Draco's eyes. Tears raced down his hollow cheeks like blood dripping from a knife. His sobs echoed around the empty house and returned to him . . . mocked him.
How must Harry see him? Shame flooded him when he thought of all the times he had taunted Harry with the death of his parents. How could he have done that? He remembered the day he had first seen Harry, a young boy in ill-fitting clothes standing next to him in Madame Malkins. All his ancestors would have ignored the boy, sneered and spat at him. But there was something about him, and Draco couldn't help but try to talk to him.
Of course, that had blown up in his face when Harry rejected his friendship on the steps of Hogwarts. Draco often wondered how his life would have changed if he'd acted differently that day. But he didn't, and now he paid the price.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the happy memory in front of him, reminders of what he had done, and what he had lost reverberating around his mind, Draco Malfoy reached back across to his bedside table and with eerily steady hands, took hold of the time-worn handle of his wand. He paused for a second, imagined running his hand through that silky black hair and staring into those eyes for one last second.
Blinking back salty tears, Draco Malfoy brought the tip of his wand to the inside of his wrist and whispered Diffindo.
And as he felt his scarlet blood draining out of him, and the image of his family faded to black, only one thought remained.
One thought that would go on to join those in the Room of Whispers.
Forgive me Harry.
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