He stared at himself in the mirror. The large, glass wall of his Slytherin bathroom allowing him the ability to check his attire over from head to toe, he smoothed the material of his jacket down; leaning to sniff it just in case. It was clean, thank Merlin. He combed his hair once more, making sure it's shine was bright and visible, his eyes wide and bright with fear.
The letter had come, strapped to yet another over worked owl, the previous evening.
Two aurors would arrive, with a warrant and an overly skilled legilimens, in the morning, and they would take any memories he had pertaining to his father and points in the trial. There would be no hiding. There would be no lying. They would use veritaserum if they had to.
If anything would jeopardise his future more, it would be giving trouble to the aurors. Merlin would know what it would do for his father, how badly he could damage his trial. It scared him, just how much hung on the judgement of other people, that his own life could be tied so closely to his parents despite him being of age.
They were due in a moment, and he'd done everything he could have to be ready. A good impression was everything.
He'd bathed; a bath fit for deities was had. His clothes were fresh. His hair was neat. He smelt good. His shoes had been shined. The afternoon previous, after receiving the letter that told of the fate he'd endure in the morning, he'd gone for a walk around the grounds of Hogwarts with his mother before she was to be escorted back to her home. They'd spoken of how they'd both behave at the trial; with decorum of course, and had both resigned themselves to the fact that attempting to hide anything from the legilimens would harm them more than benefit them.
He'd soaked in the fresh bright rays of sunlight, taking in as much as he could before his own visit to Azkaban. His mother had stroked his hair affectionately, demonstrating the most outward love for him she'd displayed ever. He'd relished in it, attempting to drown out thoughts of Hermione Granger and her words about love, family and friendship.
He'd gone to dinner, sitting in a bizarre comfortable silence with Granger, who had sat at the other end of the table, a book propped up against a jug of juice. He'd hung his head back, admiring the Great Hall's ceiling for what must have been the millionth time, trying to force her out of his head.
He'd given in.
Granger.
She'd been lingering in the back of his thoughts since he'd discovered that she would be at his father's trial. At night she'd visit, screaming. He'd stood close to her yesterday, deliberately to annoy the Weasel-King; over hearing her turn him down had been a wonderful way to find entertainment whilst he was unable to do anything else. It had been far too easy, just hovering so close he could touch her, making it look like she wasn't that close at all. The Weasels face had been a sight; he'd almost had an aneurysm. He smiled at the memory, but his brows furrowed with realisation. Ron's temper was far more explosive than he'd remembered it, and he couldn't figure out why. Most likely, it was the war. It had affected everyone. He relaxed his being for a moment, shaking himself off as if enjoying his ability to move before he sat before Potter and Granger and the rest of the world, watched as every single tiny indiscretion his family had made was highlighted.
Hermione's face floated into the forefront of his vision. He blinked, wondering where that sudden vision had come from. If any girls face was going to appear in his mind, he would have expected Pansy's pug dog features. Not the china doll, peaches and cream complexion of Granger. He sighed, momentarily deciding that if a girl's face was going to haunt him for the rest of his existence, Granger's wasn't the worst he could do. He shuddered, remembering Millicent Bullstrode; thanking Merlin that Daphne Greengrass and her unobtainable airs had been enough to balance the women of Slytherin out.
The wall of the Slytherin dungeon opened, and Professor McGonagall entered.
The woman of steel was crumpling ever so slightly under the sheer weight of stress. Her traditional bun, usually placed right at the back of her head was sagging; evidently she'd done her hair in a rush that morning. She'd pulled on the first robes she'd seen, an ink stain Draco had seen a day or two before was still upon her knees, and in her hand was a large roll of parchment.
"Mr Malfoy," she began, just as Draco spoke her name in surprise. "I believe what I have to say should take precedent," she finished, gesturing for him to take a seat in his own common room. He did so, carefully lowering himself down into one of the overly expensive armchairs so as to not mess any part of his appearance up. Nor did he particularly want to incur her famed wrath when she held so much of his life in the palm of her hand. No, he'd be as placid as a kitten in front of her.
He waited patiently as she watched him settle, clearly expecting some sort of battle or retaliation, a look Draco had come to loathe with a passion. What made his stomach churn was that it was the natural reaction of everybody who encountered him; it was a reflex action, honed from years of experience.
"I am sure you did not expect to see me today, especially at this time, but I believe this is important." McGonagall said in the voice she used when she disciplined unruly students, it had a way of making people sit up straighter, and hanging onto every word she spoke. "I have been made aware that you are to be visited by a legilimens to gather memories from you pertaining to your father's trial. I am aware you must attend, and I am aware you will not be called to speak or explain anything due to your own current status as a criminal."
"Rest assured, I am not stupid enough to fight the man," Draco told her a hint of disbelief that she thought him so stupid bleeding into his tone. She pursed her lips immediately, and Draco felt moisture on the palms of his hands, nerves rising.
"Actually Mr Malfoy, I was hoping I could encourage you to give truthful memories to be judged. I understand, by all means, that you would want to protect your family as best you can however if I have learnt nothing over my many years is that the truth always comes out in the end. Any attempt you make to warp the case of your father will come back to bite you, either now, in a few weeks, months, or even years; it will haunt you." She spoke plainly, her eyes boring into his own so sharply his eyes began to water.
"May I ask why you're trying to persuade me?" He asked carefully, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
"Albus Dumbledore was a brilliant man, a truly, brilliant man. He saw good in you. He thought there was hope for you. Mr Potter tells me he offered you and your mother sanctuary before Professor Snape killed him in order to protect you. All of me, Mr Malfoy, longs for his death to not have been wasted. We may have killed Lord Voldemort, but he still planned for his death in order to save the soul of a man who spent more time tormenting his peers than anything else. If there is even a smallest shred of decency in you, it is time for it to be polished off and put to the forefront of your character. You may have helped repair the Hospital Wing, and believe me when I say I am forever grateful, but money does not solve problems. I would like to see that Albus was right, that there is hope for you, and that you are worth protecting." She said sternly. It was a speech that made him sit up straighter under the force of her glare, but the tone of her voice forced him into the ground, making him shrink. He was shamed.
"Can I ask something?" He asked, looking to his old transfigurations mistress hopefully.
"Yes?" She replied expectantly.
"Why… why am I finding out now that I have to submit memories? I mean, Dad's trial is in… its today! I have to be escorted to the ministry in less than three hours! It's ridiculously early in the morning!" He protested, suddenly distressed and ranting. McGonagall regarded him warily, a sadness developing.
"Mr Malfoy, if you think Minister Shacklebolt considers the short notice acceptable, you would be mistaken; however, as I am sure you are aware the general public want to see some sort of justice. I believe he assumed that seeing the pictures of-" she swallowed, afraid suddenly, "Voldemort dead that the public wouldn't be so… desperate to see justice doled out. However, the damage caused wasn't just by one man was it? Your family is famous, and your father…" She sighed, looking at him apologetically. "Minister Shacklebolt wants to put your father on trial first as people have been submitting things about him the moment the Prophet announced he was one of those arrested. The date was set thinking that everything would be sorted before today, yesterday at the very latest. What was not expected was the sheer volume of people wanting to get involved. Postponing the date was also not an option, due to… He is hoping by putting the most famous on trial as early as is feasible, that he can avoid more unfortunate situations." She finished delicately; clearly uncomfortable.
"Such as?" He pressed, concerned. She looked at him astonished.
"Riots, Mr Malfoy. People want every single trace of Lord Voldemort's influence abolished as soon as possible. Many have experienced this before. The relief and jubilation that they were free from the threat of Voldemort, but… his tendrils never really left, people do not want to take the risk again. I believe it is understandable; but it has left an incredible burden upon a Ministry doing its best to recover after a tremendous blow." She finished her mouth still open as if there was a whole more she wished to say; but simply didn't have the time or know what to vocalise. Her words however, had given him plenty to think and worry about.
McGonagall stood up, checking a pocket watch as she did so, turning her gaze to him once more.
"It appears you have roughly a minute or two before you'll be visited by the officials," she said him in a tone that was softer, far less harsh than it had been a moment ago. "I do wish you the best Mr Malfoy," and with that, she swept out the Slytherin common room, allowing Draco to breathe deeply again.
:: :: ::
"Granger!" He exclaimed, as the Gryffindor Princess sauntered into the great hall, wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair left wild about her shoulders and a pair of boot like slippers on her feet.
"Malfoy," she replied, stifling a yawn as she did so.
"I didn't expect you'd be here too," he said dumbly, the surprise still evident in his expression.
"Well, I got a message about having to submit evidence for this trial, they want specific memories or something from me, so, here I am," she shrugged, clearly too tired to do much at all. He looked briefly at his watch, wondering exactly what time it actually was, and to his surprise found it was nearing half six in the morning. It certainly explained the lack of food in the hall, and the worn out, sleep filled look of the two aurors that had arrived to escort him from his common room to the hall, and then to his father's trial.
He sat opposite her, noting the warning glances the aurors were giving him as he had spoken to Granger, their faces solemn and threatening.
"Do you know how much longer we have to wait?" she asked him, "I need to be at the Burrow to get ready for the trial soon," she finished, starting to comb her hair with her fingers as she looked to the doors anxiously.
"It should be now," he answered, following her gaze, and to his relief, a group of figures sloped through the doors, quiet, commanding.
An old man, so old he could have stood still, and his skin would have turned to stone, fossilized forever more was at the head of the small group. He wore the robes of the unspeakables, and despite his age, his gait was easy, carefree, as if he were simply gliding along the floor. Behind him were several aurors, all of them with hard, battle worn faces, all of them still nursing a wound of varying degrees of severity. Draco finished paying them any attention, as the elderly man casually cat leaped over a particularly large chunk of rock that was left from the final battle as if it were simply a twig in his way, that he did not wish to snap.
"Forgive me, please, I hope I am not late, but I have been most extraordinarily busy, most busy." The man began his voice both powerful and feeble at the same time. "You may call me Alvis." He permitted them as he and his party finally came to a stop between the pair of them.
He turned, deliberately to Draco, holding out his hand to shake, warmth emanating from every inch of his body. He smiled kindly at him, as he took his hand; a jolt of shock rammed itself into his spine. Alvis's eyes were completely white. They were moons within his face, milky and grey, completely empty and yet utterly all seeing. When he peered deeper, Draco could see the slightest hint of a previously hazel coloured iris, but no longer.
"Mr Draco Malfoy, a pleasure. A pleasure." He repeated, letting his hand go, and turning to Hermione, offering his hand the same way he had to Draco moments before.
"Miss Hermione Granger," Alvis cooed, "It is the greatest of honours to be meeting you in the flesh, despite your destruction of my work place." He said warmly, covering Hermione's small hand with both of his as he greeted her kindly. Hermione flushed a bright pink immediately, biting her lip. Draco looked at Hermione curiously, wondering what exactly her part had been in the department of mysteries, as Hermione clearly understood, and was highly embarrassed, but before he could do anything about it, Alvis was gesturing to the pair of them.
"Sit, I have things to explain, with such little time," he said, gesturing for them to sit as an auror from behind him walked forward, placing a large, ornate case on a table and opening it, withdrawing deliberately labelled glass bottles from it delicately. They sat, unable to take their eyes off the man who, despite his age, held himself as if he were a titan.
"Now, I am sure you have both been notified as to why I am here, but I will explain the process and what we are actually doing, the more you co-operate, the faster and easier it will all be," he spoke quietly, his feeble voice managing to fill the entire room and reverberate within the pair of their bodies. "It is a branch of magic based upon what we have studied from the pensieves. I will be withdrawing a memory we have knowledge that may exist from you. We will ask you if it exists. I am expecting honesty. I will know if you are lying." With that, the pair of them repressed a shudder, aware that he was most likely noting every single vibration of their beating hearts somehow. Alvis took a pause, as a cloth was thrown over the table behind Hermione, and a small bottle was placed, obviously, onto the middle of it.
Veritaserum.
"We have a warrant, we are able to use this should it resort to that, although, I doubt it will. I am sure neither of you will cause me trouble." They both looked back to him, taking their eyes off the small bottle as Alvis continued to speak, "I will be creating a duplicate of the memory you hold. You will not be giving up the memory to the Ministry completely, just a copy. The original will still be held in your mind. I will expect your concentration, and your focus. I think you may be able to figure what will happen should you decide to not listen to the instruction I give." Each word Alvis said held a threat. It was entertaining that he'd come with so many aurors, Alvis reminded Draco of Dumbledore, immensely capable and you knew it simply by his presence, yet the way he spoke sounded as though he'd encountered those who simply saw him as a doddering blind old man.
The pair sat in complete silence as Alvis was handed a roll of parchment, unfurling it deliberately upon his lap, from his sleeve, his wand slipped into his hand, as if it had always been there.
"I believe we will start with you Miss Granger," He said, still looking at the parchment as if he were reading it.
"Of course," she answered, shifting in her seat, sitting up straighter, the way she usually did when she was in class.
"The memory of the fight between Mr Lucius Malfoy, and Mr Arthur Weasley, and the moment leading up to it if you would." He stated, as Hermione's faced twisted into a look of recollection.
"Oh, yes, that, I remember." She answered a slight smile upon her lips.
"Excellent, now, listen and do as I say, as I say," he murmured, raising his wand to her temple. She eyed it warily, obviously expecting a foul curse or jinx to explode from its end. "Hold the memory to the forefront of your mind. Hold just that memory. No stray thought, nothing else but the event, nothing but what I have asked you, hold it exactly at the very front of your mind. Done? Nod your assent." He said as Hermione nodded, clearly listening.
"Excellent, now the hard part. I need a copy of the memory, so you need to duplicate that memory for me as you give it to me. It helps to imagine a mirror, and you see the memory in the mirror, and you allow me to take the image from the mirror, or from the surface of a perfectly still pool of water. When you are ready Miss Granger," He spoke, not looking at her, but at the parchment, his finger upon a line of text, his wand still at her temple. Hermione nodded.
"Breathe carefully as you release it." He told her.
Hermione closed her eyes, breathing in and out deliberately, her chest rising and falling slowly, her shoulders stock still as she used her arms to brace herself on the bench she was seated upon. Alvis's wand shivered at her temple, despite the man himself being as still as a statue, slowly, he began to withdraw it, as Hermione winced ever so slightly.
A tendril, as silver as the lining of a cloud, the moonlight upon a lake, clung to the tip of his wand, shimmering and quivering as he deftly deposited it into one of the labelled bottles.
"Beautiful mind, Miss Granger," he complimented as he pressed a cork into the top of the bottles neck, passing it off to be sealed with wax and placed carefully into the case.
"Thank you, it felt like a pinch," Hermione replied, clearly curious.
"Yes, you duplicated it perfectly, just as it was about to leave, beautiful mind." Alvis repeated his compliment as he traced his finger to the next memory he was due to enquire about and collect. The bottle of veritaserum still sat within range of his grasp, threatening. Not that he'd need it, not with his legilimency, and a small army of aurors. Hermione was sitting patiently, watching her memory be carefully stored in its special slot within the travel case.
"Now," Alvis spoke once more, "It is said you visited Malfoy Mannor, any truth to this." He stated, not asked, he knew it was true already. Of course he did. Draco shuddered to himself, wondering how he could have seen their minds so effortlessly already. He'd not shielded his mind since the final battle, willing himself to keep his mind open lest people misinterpret his desire to remain at Hogwarts, however, legilimency was usually noticeable, and intrusions of one's mind were usually uncomfortable.
"Oh fuck." Hermione said weakly, "I know what memory you want, just take it." She permitted, closing her eyes and concentrating, as Alvis immediately raised his wand to her temple, not even looking at her as she released the memory of her screaming and bleeding upon his houses floor. Within a heartbeat, that memory too was placed inside a bottle and gone.
"Any other memory you wish to submit to the court?" He asked her politely, as unlabelled bottles were produced from an unknown entity.
"Not that I can think of right now, but if I can think of anything, I'll let you know." She answered and Alvis nodded turning his pupil-less gaze to Draco.
"You have until the time I am finished with Mr Malfoy, and Mr Potter has supplied memories of when you were in the Hall of Prophecy," he told her, as the thought had clearly entered Hermione's mind. She closed her mouth sitting back satisfied, unsure of if she had been dismissed or not. Alvis apparently didn't mind her staying to watch his own memories be withdrawn from his mind.
"My turn I assume," Draco spoke softly, watching as Alvis's finger trace down the parchment his eyes still upon Draco's face.
"It is indeed," Alvis replied, "I do hope you paid attention to what I told Miss Granger," he said sharply, gesturing for Draco to sit where Hermione had done. Immediately, Hermione slid along the bench, making room for him. He went to take her place, nervously sitting between the pair of them as if her were a dead man walking.
"I did," he answered, as Alvis's wand shot to his temple, much the same way it had done for Hermione.
"Good, now, muggle women coming to your home." Alvis requested, and Draco closed his eyes, breathing in deeply.
:: :: ::
For fifteen minutes, Alvis harvested memories from him as if he were a farmer taking a scythe to his wheat. Pinch, after pinch, after pinch. Screams after screams. Tears, promises, tormented faces. They'd started to blur into one after a while, but Alvis had waited like a stone man for him to mentally sort himself out, and release the memory for him. His occlumency had helped him immensely, closing out all that weren't relevant. He'd recoiled in horror at some of the memories that had been requested, disturbed that the knowledge of them had been known to those he considered strangers. Moments that were between just his family, moments captured Death Eaters had willingly surrendered at a hope of a softer sentence or none at all.
"We're done," Alvis said finally as the last bottle was placed into the case, and closed away, ready to be viewed by all those present at the trial.
The aurors were clearly preparing to leave with Alvis, the veritaserum had been removed the moment the finalising words had left Alvis's lips, its presence no longer needed. The two aurors that had escorted him from his common room to the hall flocked to his side once more, their quiet conversations with the other aurors over immediately. Hermione was starting to leave, heading towards the doors with a fast pace.
"Granger!" He called, "Can I ask you something?" Hermione stopped, swivelling on her heel swiftly and biting her lip as she looked at him curiously. "I mean, you're the only one I actually talk to these days so I thought that you may..." He garbled nervously, and Hermione's head dropped to one side, her eyes narrowing as she folded her arms, curiosity swelling in her expression.
"Just ask it," She said, "We're both in a bit of a rush," she reminded him pointedly and he swallowed.
"McGonagall said something to me earlier, about money not solving problems, what did she mean by that?" He asked her; ashamed to admit it had been nagging at the back of his mind since the words had left the woman's lips.
Hermione immediately looked taken aback; she bit her lip once more, unwilling to look him in the eyes until she spoke.
"I don't really know the context in which she said it to you, but I think I can sort have guess. I have to admit it would be vague, but, I'd imagine it has something to do with you and your family and your enormous wealth." He nodded, and she noted it, her eyebrows rising as she considered for a brief moment. "There is a saying, something along the lines of 'they're so poor, all they have is money,' that may have something to do with what she meant."
"That doesn't make any sense..." He said in confusion, as Hermione raised her eyebrows at him.
"Does it not? It seems sort of relevant to you and your family, and in the only context that I can imagine McGonagall speaking to you about cash earlier today. I assume she was probably telling you to not offer the judge and jurors' money or something along those lines," she spoke, getting into a stride before he threw her a dark look.
"Actually, I'd say it was more money doesn't fix problems," he corrected her pointedly and she smirked at him in response.
"Almost the same thing," she shrugged smugly, "the saying means that the only thing a rich person has is money, nothing that a poor person would consider valuable, like friends and family that love them. It's the whole idea that there are other things in life that are valuable, and that money doesn't solve all problems. In fact, the richer you are, apparently the more unhappy you are. I think McGonagall was probably trying to tell you the world is changing, and no one knows how at the moment, but money, money isn't the solution." Hermione said, turning to leave once more.
"But I wouldn't do-"
"You wouldn't." She repeated disbelieving, "have you not already? The hospital wing?" She prompted him, her lips pursing in an alarmingly McGonagall like manner.
"No one asked me to do that! I just wanted to-"
"Can't you at least realise that it might look like you're trying to buy your way into Hogwarts? Like it appears you think money is the solution. You've got a problem; let's just throw cash at it. Didn't you do this in your second year? Got your Dad to buy the whole Quidditch team brooms?" She asked him rhetorically, her arms tightening over her chest as she looked at him far more angrily than he expected. "Pull your head out your arse. Be a better person than your father."
With that, she swept out the hall, her dressing gown swishing about her ankles at the speed of her stride. He watched her go humiliation and anger co-mingling within him at her words. He hadn't even finished asking what he needed.
