Chapter Fifty-Two
The Wizengamot was hung-over. Or at least the younger half of it was. The older half ('older' usually meant a century or more) had a noticeable spring in their step and wore their plum coloured hats at a jaunty angle.
Zacharias Smith was the exception to the revelry, but only because his job as Courtroom Scribe specifically entailed paying attention and writing everything down. Being mentally present was pretty much written into his job description. They had experimented with a Dictoquill in the previous year, but that hadn't gone down too well, what with the Quill's penchant for over-description resulting in some very colourful sentencing.
There had been a mass retirement of senior Ministry officials the day after Bellatrix had been taken into custody. Those who had remained to serve out their contracts were in a decidedly celebratory mood, or rather post-celebratory. If the current mood of the Ministry could be colour-coded, it would be a warm and barmy yellow, having been a tense and brittle red for a number of years.
There was a new, hopeful breeze blowing through the ministry and it was blowing right up the Dark Lord's skirts.
Harry emerged from Court Room Eight where an Inquiry Committee was convening and resumed sitting on a bench outside, beside Draco. It had been a very long morning.
"They're only on page ninety-seven of your statement," said Harry, in a slightly accusing tone.
Draco made a noncommittal sound and turned the page on the Daily Prophet he was reading. He had made a point of catching up on current events since his return.
"I suppose it was too much to ask that you could have given them the abridged version?"
"That is the abridged version," Draco replied, still not looking up.
There was a short silence, during which Harry stared down at Draco's black leather lace-up shoes. They were Harry's shoes, as was the (admittedly cheap), dark grey Muggle business suit that Draco was wearing that morning. He hadn't bothered to use any pressing charms on it either. What was slightly irksome was the fact that even bargain basement micro-fibre looked like runway couture on Draco's lanky frame.
Instead of looking unkempt and disrespectful before the Winzengamot, Draco merely looked calm and at ease. Not so Harry, who had spent a sleepless night before the Hearing tossing and turning in bed. So much so that Ginny had kicked him out of the bedroom so she could get some sleep before work that morning.
A distracted Harry had wandered into the dining room, once again leafing through Draco's hundred and seventy-five page statement as if the secrets to a restful sleep lay within the pages.
It felt wrong that such harrowing, disturbing experiences could be put to paper in such precise, elegant and decidedly neat handwriting. It was a lot like watching someone get robbed and bashed to Tchaikovsky.
Draco didn't seem to be at all worried about the prospect of the Committee finding his activities over the past five years suspect enough to order further investigation or require temporary custody at Azkaban while they deliberated.
It was now six weeks since his return and the Ministry Investigators had just turned in their report on whether Draco's lengthy account was fact or fiction.
The statement contained more than a few eye-brow raising incidents. Harry was surprised that some of Draco's more hellish experiences had not left an indelible mark on the man. Or perhaps it did, but hard earned experience just meant that Draco was able to hide it better. Merlin knew he had never been an open book to begin with. Hermione had certainly found him to be interesting reading.
It had taken some willpower on Harry's part to be able to look Draco in the eye again without letting too much emotion show through. It wasn't pity or concern or respect or awe that Harry had felt most strongly, though he did feel all of these things.
Mostly, it was envy.
Envy that Draco had been able to do what Harry could not bring himself to do – to leave those he loved behind and to embark on his own mission where the only life risked would be his own. It was a constant, insidious temptation.
Harry knew all about the destructive need for revenge and was all too aware that despite the pain it caused, the greater good required that he stay where he was. Lately however, the Greater Good was starting to look a little pudgy and complacent.
Just because Voldemort seemed to be lying low did not mean it was alright for their community to wipe its collective brow and resume life as if nothing untoward had ever happened. That had been their problem the last time Voldemort had vanished.
But that was the difference between the two of them wasn't it? Draco did what he wanted and Harry did what everyone else wanted. Harry would have applauded the other man's courage but for the fact that Draco's actions had directly resulted in Hermione's broken heart.
Selfish or self-less, perhaps that was what the Committee ought to have been deciding.
Presently, the chamber doors swung open and there stood a slightly ink-stained Zacharias. He was massaging the cramp out of his right hand.
"Alright, you can come back in now."
Harry and Draco stood up.
"Just Malfoy this time," Zacharias said, looking a bit warily in Harry's direction. "They're about to make their decision."
Harry sat back down, wordlessly taking the newspaper that Draco had neatly folded and handed to him.
**
"This…mission that you assigned yourself. You would call it revenge?" Dumbledore asked from the judges' balcony.
Draco didn't care too much for his former Headmaster's officious tone of voice, which seemed so out of character for Dumbledore, but he supposed the man had a role to fulfil on the Committee.
"Long, drawn out, often times badly planned revenge, yes."
Another Inquisitor, a grey-haired, middle-aged woman who bore a striking resemblance to Terry Boot spoke next. "This is certainly not light reading, Mister Malfoy," she said, with gravity. "What you have endured…" she waved a hand over the copy of the report that was set down before her, "…near starvation, illness that brought you within a hair's width away from death, periods spent in some atrocious places in even worse company. I daresay your particular upbringing could hardly have prepared you for all of this. And it was all to capture Bellatrix Lestrange and bring her to justice for masterminding the killing of your mother?"
Draco's jaw tensed somewhat, but the look in his eyes was nothing if not cool. "Nothing builds character like a good bout of starvation," he said, lightly.
Horatio Coon, seated in the highest level of Inquisitors, made an impatient sound. He had been surprisingly silent for the most part. "This is no laughing matter!" he warned.
Draco was amused to note that the recently promoted Coon was no longer bald, instead opting for a limp looking toupee in a brassy blond. Really, the man could afford better. The toupee clashed rather badly with the standard issue, purple Winzengamot headwear.
"Neither is having to subsist on dung beetles, I assure you," replied Draco, who missed the slight upward quirk on Dumbledore's mouth.
"Do you have any information regarding the whereabouts of your father, Lucius Malfoy or one Gregory Alexander Goyle?" Dumbledore asked next.
This, Draco guessed, was why they had decided to call an Inquiry instead of merely clearing him on the basis of their own investigations. Ginny Weasley had been correct. In the six weeks since his return, Draco suspected he would most likely have been more forcefully interrogated had it not been for Potter.
"I do not."
"You have shielded yourself from Ministry eyes for five years and in all that time you expect us to believe that you made no attempt to contact your father who also happens to be conveniently missing?" Coon demanded.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do."
Coon sniffed with disdain. It was frighteningly Umbridge-like. "Frankly, I find you unconvincing, Mister Malfoy."
Draco nodded sympathetically. "I feel the same way about your hair, Mister Coon."
Zacharias Smith hastily disguised his laugh as a sudden, unexpected coughing fit, but the noise was already echoing through the large chamber. To his credit as a scribe, his quill never stopped.
There was an undercurrent of muttering as Coon glared down at him, his complexion matching his attire.
Dumbledore cleared his throat and the muttering stopped. Draco could not make out his expression, but he thought Dumbledore looked quite' twinkly'.
"We came to a decision an hour ago," he informed, in a way that felt like they were together alone, talking in Dumbledore's Hogwarts office
Ah, that explained why Coon had such a bee in his bonnet only now.
"After the chief investigator's report submitted this week and after intense deliberation, it is the opinion of this Inquisitorial Committee that you are herewith cleared of all suspicion regarding the escape of your father Lucius Malfoy and the disappearance of Gregory Goyle."
Draco sighed. It had certainly taken them long enough.
Dumbledore broke into a smile "Welcome home, Draco."
**
"You've been doing a splendid job at avoiding Malfoy."
"Thank you," said Hermione, having to shout a little over the wind. "I've been working hard at it."
Ginny sighed, but only because Hermione wouldn't have heard it. They were standing outside the main gates to Azkaban prison, having walked from the security Floopoint, which itself was in danger of being blown away.
Several dark shingles from the tiny guardhouse came off, twirling about in the wind like panicked crows caught in a whirlwind. It was just as well that she had chosen to wear trousers and a thick coat that morning instead of her more usual business robes. The lightweight robes wouldn't have fared well in the harsh North Eastern coastal gale.
The young guard who escorted them was now turning a large key at the wide doors. His free hand was busy keeping his hat on his head.
"Well it can't go on indefinitely," Ginny added. "Plus, I think he's starting to grow on Harry."
"What, you mean like mould?"
Hermione missed Ginny's amused look as the gates to Azkaban Prison swung open, assisted by the wind. The two women were greeted by very still, damp air. It wasn't any warmer than outside though, and certainly much darker despite lit torches attached to the walls at three meter intervals. Hermione pulled her moss green pea coat more tightly about her.
She regretted not bringing along a thicker scarf. The one she had on was very presentable, but something from Molly Weasley's bottomless knitting cupboard would have withstood the cold much better. The wind continued to howl outside, sounding fittingly forlorn.
Another guard approached. He gave Hermione a wide, friendly smile. "Miss Granger. Back already? Not that we mind, of course. Few enough visitors as is."
"Hello Horace. How's the leg?"
"Much better, thank you for asking." The guard turned to Ginny, looking slightly less welcoming now. "Would you please sign in?" he pointed to a large, dog-eared register that was hovering in a corner.
A jittery looking quill was tethered to the book, occasionally trying to make a break for it. Ginny walked over to sign the register and was in turn given a yellow visitor's pass to wear.
"Will you be alright, then?" Horace asked Hermione.
"We'll be fine. I'll take her up myself."
"Still not warming up to me, I see," Ginny remarked, after Horace left to resume his post.
"They're like that with all lawyers," informed Hermione. "The fact that you're the Minister's daughter and you happen to be representing Snape doesn't help matters, of course."
The two women made their way to the lifts. Hermione pressed the button and a loud metallic groaning noise started.
"The fact that I'm representing Snape or the fact that I'm representing him well?"
"Oh? The appeal is going well, then?" Hermione asked.
Ginny's usually full mouth hardened to a thin line. "Hardly, but any reduction to a life sentence is preferable."
Hermione was in agreement. "I've spoken to your father about it, but he says he trusts in the process."
"The fact that we caught Zabini only because Snape set Lucius free doesn't hold much water, unfortunately,"
Ginny said. "There's also the small matter of the Ministry considering Lucius Malfoy to be a greater evil than Blaise Zabini."
Hermione thought of Lucius as she had last seen him in his study at Malfoy Manor: imposing, frightening, seemingly unrepentant of his ill treatment of Draco. "I'm inclined to agree," she said, softly.
It was hard to square that image with the Lucius who had risked his life to free Draco from the Recruiter's hideout in Wales. It had been quite the daring rescue when you considered that Lucius was wanted on both sides of the fray: dead by the Dark, and alive by the Light
"So are you planning on avoiding Malfoy indefinitely?"
Hermione shrugged. She hit the button again since the lift seemed to be taking its time. "He'll be back at Malfoy Manor once the Committee clears him, which will happen soon enough. I'm guessing he'll be busy getting reacquainted with his home and his money."
"You really believe he's only back to see about the manor and his inheritance?" Ginny asked, sounded intrigued.
"His family fortune and status have always been of utmost importance to him. He has always made that quite clear."
"What about revenge?" Ginny prodded. "Spending all that time and energy hunting down the person responsible for his mother's death is hardly a selfish act."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it?"
"All I'm saying is I think he might have other concerns other than ordering new drapes for his house and counting his piles of money. I'm finding it hard to believe you haven't still got feelings for him."
"That was a long time ago. I was very young," reminded Hermione. With a frown, she pressed the lift button again, more forcefully this time.
"As opposed to being very old now, oh crone of twenty-three?" Ginny replied dryly.
The lift arrived.
Hermione gave her friend an amused, sideways look as they entered. "I was younger. You remember our youth, don't you?"
Ginny snorted. "Vaguely."
"I made a mistake. God knows he tried enough times to warn me off. I didn't take the hint, did I? Why are you so intent on defending him all of sudden? You certainly weren't singing his praises a few years back. And does Harry know you two are having late night hair cutting sessions?" Hermione asked, tucking a short coffee-coloured curl behind her ear.
"I have never sung Draco Malfoy's praises, to be sure," Ginny replied coolly. "And I'm not asking you to forgive him, but it's just that you haven't seen him, Hermione. He's…well I know it sounds clichéd but he's changed. Suffering changes a person."
They arrived at the fourth floor, labelled 'Maximum Security' in a dial inside the lift. Hermione held out her palm, ushering Ginny out first. "If he suffered, it was his choice. I didn't make him leave, Ginny. Remember that. He's missed the boat."
"Maybe he felt he had no choice? We were all still children, really. It might have been a bad decision but sometimes we can only make decisions based on our limited understanding of things. And somehow I don't think Malfoy had much experience in anyone caring very much about him unconditionally. What happened on that last day of school would have done anyone's head in. I mean, you died, Hermione. Ron says Harry nearly took Zabini's head off."
"You don't leave the people you love," Hermione said, as they were halfway down the corridor. "That's about as simple a rule to understand as you can get. Harry gets it."
Ginny's expression darkened somewhat. "Sometimes I wonder…"
Hermione spun around to give Ginny an incredulous look. "Harry would never leave you!"
"Not for lack of thinking about it, I can tell you!" Ginny seemed surprised at how vehement she sounded.
"Harry harbours some stupid notions," Hermione agreed sympathetically. "But above all other things, Harry is reliable."
They reached another set of gates beside which a young female guard was seated at a tiny desk. She'd been dozing, but quickly stood to attention when the women approached.
Ginny and Hermione wordlessly surrendered their wands and any other restricted magical items they carried on their person. For Ginny, this happened to be a weather predicting locket that Bill had given her for her twentieth birthday.
Hermione removed a piece of blank, rolled up parchment from inside coat and showed it to the guard.
"I need to bring this in with me."
The guard nodded, having already been informed about the item. "You may have twenty minutes with Snape today," she told Ginny.
"I may have as much time with my client as I need, thank you very much," Ginny retorted, sounding annoyed.
The young woman shook her head. "Twenty minutes, Miss Weasley. Only he's due to be questioned by the DMLA at ten thirty."
"What about?" Hermione asked, frowning.
"The Malfoy heir's return, is all I was told. Routine questioning to wrap up the case." The young guard leaned closer to Hermione. "Word is that Snape freaked out when he heard Malfoy was back. Maybe he thought it was the other Malfoy, you know, the father."
Now that would have been something to worry about, Hermione thought. "I seriously doubt Severus Snape could 'freak out' if he tried," she deadpanned.
"I guess I'll be finished long before you," Ginny sighed. "Don't wait for me."
"Care to swap?" Hermione mused.
Ginny shuddered. "For Bellatrix? Thanks, but no thanks. The things you do for the Department of Mysteries. I'd rather shovel dragon dung for Neville's botanical menagerie."
Hermione peered into the darkness. The corridor seemed to go on forever and this wasn't due to magic. Azkaban was just that creepy and gloomy.
"Last cell on the right, isn't it?" she asked the guard.
"Yes, Miss Granger."
Ginny wished her good luck and was quickly off in the opposite direction, to spend what little time she had with her difficult client that morning.
**
Bellatrix Lestrange's cell was identical to every other cell in Azkaban prison. It was five feet by six feet of stone along three walls, while be-spelled metal bars made up the fourth wall. There was a narrow cot built into one stone wall and a privy basin recessed in the opposite wall.
Each cell was also encircled by wards. In the absence of Dementors, this was something of a necessity given how difficult it was to actually keep a witch or wizard in a place if they didn't want to be at. With or without a wand.
The status of the prisoner invariably determined the strength and type of wards used. Suffice to say that Bellatrix's cell had been literally doused with spells, so much so that it exuded a faint glow. It might not have done much to lessen the general eeriness of the place, but at least it provided additional lighting.
As it happened, there were currently no other female prisoners at Azkaban. That was still enough to make Hermione obliged to feel embarrassed on behalf of her entire gender.
"Hello Bellatrix."
The prisoner rose in a fluid motion, from where she had been seated on her cot. A mere husk of her former self, Bellatrix was skin and bones and wildly matted, greying hair. Her eyes were a wild, deep, blistering blue. They looked out of place in her gaunt face. As wasted as she was now, there was still an echo of great beauty about her. Grace, even. No denying the Blacks had that quality about them.
"Well, well, well. Potter's little Mudblood has come to see me. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
For such a frail looking creature, her voice was deep and resonant. It was a fitting match for her eyes, Hermione thought. She couldn't recall Bellatrix's voice sounding quite so commanding, but she supposed the only other time she recalled hearing the woman was when Bellatrix had been cackling madly at Harry and the others at the Ministry in their fifth year.
It was not exactly a pleasant memory.
Bellatrix trailed her fingers along the bars of her cell as she observed her visitor, looking nothing more than coy and curious. The wards crackled at this contact.
They had given her the standard Azkaban black-striped tunic and pants to wear. There was no denying the regal way she bore this attire, as if it was silk and brocade and not rough homespun cotton covering her skeletal frame.
Hermione unfurled the magically treated parchment. She only needed a moment to copy Bellatrix's Dark Mark and really, she had no intention of spending any more time in the woman's presence than strictly required.
"I'm here to take an imprint of your Mark. Pass your arm out through the bars." It was not a request.
Bellatrix stared down at the paper for a moment and then lifted taunting eyes to Hermione. "Couldn't find a real Auror to start my interrogation? What have you people been doing for two months now? Or is it three?" Her easy insolence was very reminiscent of Sirius. She turned to the wall behind her, licking her lips somewhat distractedly. "Can't see the moon…"
"I'm not here today as an interrogator, but rest assured, they haven't forgotten about you," Hermione replied, though Bellatrix didn't seem to want to listen.
"It wasn't an Auror who brought me in, in the end, though, was it? Your people couldn't do the job. Lucius' boy got me in the end. Fancy that? I suppose it makes sweet sense…"
Hermione couldn't help it. Of course she had realized she wouldn't have been able to help it the moment she had been assigned the task. Scrimgeour was going to be cranky with her for speaking with the prisoner before the interrogators did their job. The next words out of her mouth were no surprise to her.
"You murdered his mother."
A muscle in Bellatrix's wasted face twitched. She blinked, licked her lips again
"No I did not. The boy, Zabini. He did it."
"Under your orders," Hermione reminded, dispassionately.
"Cissa was weak. " Bellatrix hissed, spittle gathering at the corners of her mouth. "She had always been weak. Now, Andromeda was a pig fucking blood traitor. A whore for Muggles, but at least…at least our dear, demented Andromeda had the Black fortitude." She started pacing in her small cell as she ranted. "I would have guessed my nephew would go the same way as his mother; weak minded, weak willed. How wrong I was. I suppose there was more of his father in him than anyone would have guessed. Draco included, I'm sure. The Malfoys have always been tenacious creatures."
Here, her expression softened somewhat. She still looked crazy, though. "Ah, my beautiful nephew. That boy walked through hell to get to me, did you know? I know. Oh yes, yes, yes, I know. That hell was of my own design, after all. How long was he on my trail for? I heard it said…"
"Five years," Hermione said absently, suddenly feeling colder.
Bellatrix's eyebrow rose. She looked lost in thought for a moment. "Five years? Truly? Shame, such dedication should be made to serve the Dark Lord." Her eyes narrowed on Hermione. Her mind seemed to refocus, mid-rant.
"It is wasted on you filth," she enunciated, with an expression of pure malevolence, "you sheep. Who would have thought our Draco would turn like he has? Not so much a coward in the end, but even that would have been better. He should die from the shame of it alone. Cissa did," Bellatrix said, nodding wildly. "She died because she dared to contemplate a different life for her and her son. Poor misguided, besotted Narcissa thought to escape her destiny."
There we go again with this destiny shite, Hermione thought. She had already had a gutful of it with Draco.
"We all have a choice, Bellatrix."
"And your tainted blood determines the choices you make, Mudblood. It cannot be helped in your case," Bellatrix said, in a voice that reeked of unshakeable conviction.
Hermione realized she was staring at a mad woman but she was still struck with an overwhelming urge to do Bellatrix violence. It would have been justice, for all the innocent lives she has taken and even more lives and families ruined, for all the poison she had spread in her lifetime.
But it was not her job to dispense said justice.
Despite the Ministry's shortcomings, despite its dubious tactics, Arthur Weasley was right in the end. There was a process.
And despite the unfairness of all that the Ministry had done to Draco five years ago, despite the loss he endured, somehow he had still believed enough in that process not to exact the ultimate revenge on Bellatrix. Merlin knew he had had the opportunity to kill her.
Hermione felt a pain in her chest as she thought this. Real or imaginary, she couldn't quite tell. It felt real. It might have been from keeping her anger and disgust hidden from Bellatrix. Or it might have just been her extreme distaste for the job she had been assigned that morning.
But she knew it was probably from the crack that was spreading along the rock hard casing she had been using to keep her heart in. It wasn't entirely a bad feeling, but it was certainly a terrifying one.
Giving in to some of her anger, Hermione walked up to the bars of Bellatrix's cell and said, in a very calm and precise manner, "After we're through with you, we're going to find Tom Riddle and then we're going to stop him. Permanently."
Bellatrix bared her teeth in a feral snarl. Hermione wasn't finished.
"Give me your arm or I'll have two large Muggleborn wizards come in here, strip you bare for no other purpose than because it would please me to see you demeaned. And then, Bellatrix I'll take my sweet time making an imprint of your Dark Mark."
Bellatrix rewarded Hermione with a look of pure malice before she stuck her stick thin, right arm out between two bars. Her pale skin was loose and papery. The Dark Mark was stretched and faded on the inside of her forearm. Hermione took great care not to touch it directly, as she laid the paper over the infected flesh. When she removed the parchment, a copy had transferred across onto the paper, a perfect replica to study from.
Fleeting, ghostly images of an impossibly black pair of wings danced across her vision. Hermione blinked and the unwelcome, memory faded.
