Breath Mints / Battle Scars
XLI
February 22nd, 1999
Draco Malfoy is rather determined to die.
That much is clear not even five minutes into the proceedings. He shifts around in his cage as the extensive list of charges is read, snorting and scoffing at times and drawing shrewd eyes. The way his body sways each time he pushes off one side of the bars in favor of the other leads Hermione to believe he's somehow managed to get drunk. Which seems both impossibly stupid and impossibly
And if Theo could bribe a guard for the Prophet, then it's hardly unthinkable.
Hermione only realizes she's digging her fingernails into her palms when Harry's hand falls into her lap, covering her gathered fists.
"Breathe," he says, lips barely moving. "And remember you have eyes on you."
She goes stiff instantly, turning another fraction away from the swarms of press and trying to focus solely on one bar of the cage. Trying not to look past it.
Very quickly, it becomes clear that this trial is going to go a lot like Pansy's. It's hours. Hours and hours of charges against him. Evidence. Witness accounts — all against, nothing for.
They bring out the necklace he cursed in Sixth Year — not destroyed, apparently — and Hermione has to disguise her sharp intake of breath as a cough.
They remind him that his father is in Azkaban, and that his mother might as well be, and that 'the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, you know.'
They wheel in that bloody Vanishing Cabinet, and Hermione feels sick to her stomach.
All the while, Malfoy stares at his accusers dully. Eyes glazed. Almost like he might fall asleep, which is the last thing she needs from him right now.
Without Harry's hand twisted into hers, she doesn't think she'd still be upright — and as they make their massive case against him, she just keeps reminding herself that this is manageable. This is debatable. Defensible. She can bring them around. She can take the reins and steer them away from all this damning rhetoric.
She repeats it like a mantra in her head, until the moment everything gets turned upside down.
"As I understand it, this year has also been quite turbulent for you, Mr. Malfoy," says Burbage.
Hermione makes the mistake of looking at him. She keeps doing it — doesn't think she'll be able to stop doing it.
Malfoy's expression remains flat.
"We've received a rather compelling piece of evidence from a peer of yours — one they would like to share with us all now." And Burbage tips her head sideways to look upon the newcomer, taking their place in the witness stand.
Hermione feels like the floor drops out from under her. Squeezes Harry's hand until he grunts at the pain.
"Please state your name for the record."
"Zacharias Smith."
"Fuck," she whispers under breath. Because she knew. She knew. She was so sure this would come back to haunt her, and then she'd had the absolutely moronic nerve to forget about it. To think it'd all blown over, as nothing ever does.
And now here he is. Ready to do more damage than she can possibly imagine.
"And what evidence do you have for us today?"
"A diary," says Zacharias, and she can literally feel the blood drain out of her face. "One that belonged to Malfoy." He holds up that unmistakably purple journal for the whole of the courtroom to see.
How did he get it?
How did he get it?
I had it last. How did he fucking get it?
No, no, no. This is unimaginably bad.
She'd had to make a choice whether or not to include the diary as part of her defense, and she'd decided there was far too much inner violence spilled across those pages — too much for those small slivers of his humanity to shine through.
And that's exactly what Zacharias is going to play up.
She shoots a desperate glance at Malfoy, turning Harry's hand to mush inside her fist — and Malfoy's just…
He's still not reacting. Like he's not even there behind his eyes. Like a dazed statue.
Zacharias clears his throat, and she whips her gaze back to him.
"It contains several concerning entries that I believe suggest the fragility of his mental state."
"He's been coached," she hisses, feeling Harry glance her way. He has to've been. She seeks out Dawlish in the crowd — doesn't have the chance to find him before Zacharias continues.
"Should I…read them now?"
There he is. That timid fool of a boy. Oh, she wants to watch him choke on poison. Wants to throw him from eighty stories. Wants him a million ways beyond dead.
"'Mione, please," Harry all but whimpers. "I'm sorry, I can't feel my fingers."
Releasing him is like prying an industrial clamp loose, but she manages, never taking her eyes off Zacharias's treacherous face.
"Yes, if you please," says Burbage primly.
He clears his throat again. Opens the diary to where it looks like it's been bookmarked. "I — erm — apologize for the, uh…language," he mutters.
Malfoy wakes from his daze enough to huff a laugh. He's — he must be delirious, or something, at this point.
"Right. I'm — erm — I'm just going to skip to the highlighted bits."
Hermione has to swallow back a growl. Of course. Of course they're going to take his words out of context.
"September 8th, 1998…Fucking Granger…you don't know her but you'd be sorry if you did…erm, skipping ahead a little, uh — I'd been so hoping I'd be ordered to kill her during the war. So hoping—"
The crowd openly gasps, and Hermione just squeezes her eyes shut because she knows they're looking at her.
"Uh…You'd kill her too, if you had the chance. You'd wring that ridiculous, avian little neck before she got a full sentence out. Um. Right. Next entry. Ahem, uh — September 18th, 1998…and wouldn't it be rather lovely if that mudblood Granger didn't exist? One less know-it-all in the world to deal with…uh…" He flips some pages.
Of course — of course he's going to make sure they're all the worst entires about her, because she's the one who's about to fucking defend him.
"October 2nd, 1998…I take back what I said. Nothing's working. I just want to be gone. Let me be gone. I'd love to be gone…and then, let's see — right, I think it's important to mention that this is around the time he physically assaulted Miss Granger on school grounds—"
Hermione jerks to a half-stand, but Harry's so quick to yank her back down almost no one notices it.
"So this is, yeah — this is him, erm, commenting about it. October 6th, 1998…I fucking attacked her…uh…she makes me fucking insane…I called her a—" Zacharias visibly squirms, "cunt. A fucking mudblood cunt."
And the crowd — bloody hell, they just keep gasping. So desperate to be offended. So out for blood.
"I want to fucking kill her…uh, right, and then moving o—"
"Finish that line," she blurts out. Can't stop herself.
All eyes fly to her like hungry wolves to bait.
"Miss Granger, you will do well to remain quiet during testimo—"
"Make him finish that line," she says again, louder now, jerking against Harry's arm and standing up. "You can't accept testimony of something so abridged. You can't let him alter the facts. I've read that entry, and he—" She points roughly at Zacharias, "— needs to finish that line."
Burbage narrows her eyes at her. Her lip twitches, pursed to the point it looks painful. But she does glance down at Zacharias and quirk a brow. "Is there more to that sentence?"
Zacharias shifts uncomfortably. Turns back to the page and clears his throat for what must be the fortieth time. "I want to fucking kill her almost as much as I want to kiss her."
She's expecting more from the crowd. A softening of some sort — anything. The way they softened for Pansy.
But the looks tossed around are wary. Unconvinced.
And Burbage is practically grinning as she turns back to Hermione. "Satisfied, Miss Granger?"
Hermione blows a hot breath out through her mouth.
"Take your seat."
Harry tugs her back down.
And Zacharias just blinks around stupidly until he's given the nod to continue.
"So, um, yeah — November 1st, 1998…I want to rip her fucking hair out…I feel like my blood's boiling…I'm thinking of doing something stupid. Then there's November 12th, 1998…uh, every time I close my eyes I see her screaming. Writhing on the floor. I can see the whites of her eyes and the unnatural curve of her spine and I cannot, for the life of me, stop dreaming about i—"
She launches herself back to her feet, and she's — she's shouting now. She doesn't even care. "No. NO. You do not get to take that out of context!"
"Miss Granger, you are out of line."
"This is enough!" She cries. "Enough! The law is not one-sided. This is not a just representation of that boy —" And now she jabs her finger towards the cage, simultaneously aware and in denial of the wetness she feels on her cheeks. "I won't stand here and let you do this."
"Sit. Down."
Bulbs flash frantically. She glares at Burbage until her eyes sting.
"'Mione…" a pleading whisper from Harry as he yanks at her. "'Mione, please. This won't help."
She practically crumples back into her seat, and Burbage lets the silence fester for a moment. Then, with a sigh,
"Mr. Smith, let's speed this up a bit. Any final entries you'd consider particularly concerning?"
Zacharias looks like a deer in headlights for a moment, then flips urgently ahead — back a few times, mouthing words to himself as though trying to pluck out the single most damning sentence he can find.
And he finds it. Oh, by god, he finds it.
She's gritting her teeth so hard her jaw aches.
"December 7th, 1998…Prompt: If you could change one choice you made in the past year, what would it be? … And then he writes, erm — Almost too easy. My appeal. Mother insisted on it, but if I could go back, I'd plead guilty and accept all of those initial charges." Zacharias pauses to look up and around the courtroom, punching in the last line with all the emphasis he can muster. "Azkaban sounds like a lonely paradise."
Hermione's eyes fall shut.
"Right then," announces Burbage. "Thank you, Mr. Smith. You may step down. We will submit the journal into evidence. The defense may take over after a short recess."
The bang of the gavel is impossibly loud in her ears.
When Harry shoves the cup of tea between her shaking hands, it sloshes over and burns her fingers. She barely feels it.
"Just…try to relax," he says feebly, taking a seat beside her near the atrium fountain. "It's not over. Now's your chance."
"What chance?" she asks flatly, staring straight ahead.
"There's absolutely a chance. Don't giv—"
"Zacharias dug him a grave, Harry. I'm not a fool."
"Miss Granger!"
"Miss Granger!"
"Are you willing to comment, Miss Granger?"
Bulbs flash in her face, momentarily blinding, and she spills more scalding tea into her lap. Vaguely, she registers Harry stepping in front of her. Saying politely, "Not now, please. Thank you. Thank you all, but not now…"
And oh, the way they bow down before their hero, scurrying away with his name on their lips like a reverent prayer.
"Wish I could do that," she mutters down at her teacup.
"Do what?"
"Ask to breathe and then be given the space to do so."
"'Mione—"
There's a sharp pop and then another frantic, "Miss Granger!"
Harry sighs. Turns again. "Please, I said not — oh." He hesitates. "Erm. Hermione?"
She forces her gaze up from the murky tea and finds a house elf, of all things, standing before them and looking particularly small. Her first thought is of Dobby, but this elf's not nearly as filthy. Or bruised. She's got a nice little set of black robes on, big glistening eyes, and a letter clutched in her tiny hand.
"Hello," Hermione manages.
"Miss Granger, Miss — Tepsy has an urgent message for you, Miss."
She forces a small, polite smile onto her face. "Hello, Tepsy. From who, if you don't mind?"
"From my Mistress, Miss Granger. She is not supposed to be sending it, Miss. She is not supposed to, but she tells Tepsy she must." Tepsy pushes the letter eagerly into her hand.
The envelope is thicker and heavier than expected. Like there's something more inside than parchment. A dark wax seal is melted onto the back, but no address.
"Who is your Mistress, Tepsy?"
Tepsy rocks back and forth on her heels, looking nervous. "Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy, Miss."