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Chapter Sixty Three: Counting on.
Thirty nine spikes.
Fifty Wizengamot members.
One prosecutor.
Forty two piece of parchment filled by the Court Scribe's quick-quotes quill.
Draco watched as the forty third piece of parchment was floated onto the building pile and a new sheet began. He wasn't surprised by the amount. His trial had been going for many hours, too many, with no clock to count. He had taken to counting as people spoke around him instead. Their words were like a drone, akin to the buzz of a lazy fly. They described his upbringing, like they knew anything. Surrounded by Death Eater relatives. Given Dark Magic toys as a child. Bullied fellow students for their blood status. As if they knew a thing about his childhood; of the sunny French holidays playing Quidditch with his Father on the beach. His mother laughing while waltzing him around the sitting room to teach him to be the best at his etiquette lessons, laughing when he stepped on her toes for the fourth time. Racing down the front drive with Greg and Vince, competing to be first and win the last cauldron cake. His childhood was not perfect, not by a long stretch, and nor was he, but there were moments. Moments of happiness and laughter and love. For strangers to attempt to brand it a Death Eater breeding ground angered him. But he was helpless to disagree, for he knew it would only aid their cause to show anger and lash out. He would remain stoic and accept his punishment, when it was inevitably decided, as he had committed so many crimes that deserved such.
"There is conclusive research that supports my argument!" Granger fumed at the Prosecutor, "I have them here, for your viewing, if you'd like to see." Swishing her wand, she distributed thick stacks of parchment to each member of the Wizengamot, "And while he may-"
"I think we need to adjourn this for today, Miss Granger." The Prosecutor interrupted her sternly.
Hermione looked like she was ready to argue, but she couldn't contest the Prosecutor's request, for fear of her disorder reflecting badly onto Draco's case. He watched her chest deflate and she laid her hands purposefully over her remaining papers.
"Of course." She conceded, "When shall we re-adjourn?"
"Tomorrow morning at eight a.m. sharp." He replied in a loud tone, addressing everyone.
The cavernous room was suddenly filled with noise as people eagerly left their seats and chattered against one another. Draco watched a couple of the Wizengamot members tutting with each other about the amount of evidence Granger was producing. The Scribe packed away the quill and parchment quickly, before darting away through the crowds to the exit. Apparently exhausted with sitting and listening all day, the Prosecutor wiped his brow and shot Granger an exacerbated look. Everyone here had thought his trial would last a few hours, half a day at most, considering the amount of crimes noted before them. But his defence was laboriously going through every moment she could, determined to reveal some truth that would lessen his punishment. He thought her in denial and she had called him pessimistic at their last meeting in that filthy visiting room in Azkaban. There was almost a sick enjoyment in his stomach at seeing Granger fail, even at his expense. It would be the first time she failed at anything; even in their flying lessons, she determinedly persisted to ensure it did not mar her perfect educational record. To witness the first downfall of the Witch that had beaten him at everything for almost a decade didn't give him the same level of satisfaction he had once daydreamed in his youthful fantasies.
Watching her now, she showed no signs of failing. She carefully packed away her parchment and books, a stubborn expression on her face. With her mane of curls painstakingly pulled back in a sensible French twist and soft curves shrouded in a smart Muggle suit, he could glimpse the woman she would grow into; formidable, powerful, and righteous. She would find her calling in doing for others, just as she had now. He could see how the wrinkles would crease her skin and the grey hairs would pepper her coils. She would be striking. Age would become her. From this angle, he could almost see her clever mind whirling with arguments and defences and evidence. It tightened her lips and made her movements sharp and purposeful.
She turned to him then, just as the Court's guards signalled to one another to send him down to the bowels of the Ministry, where convicts were kept in temporary cells while on trial. She strode over, satchel slung on her shoulder, and glared at each of the Guards, as if daring them to attempt to take him away before she spoke with him. When she reached him, her face softened. The rusted bars between them radiated cold, cooling the pink flush in her cheeks from arguing all day with the Wizengamot.
"I will get you out of there." She said, eyeing the cage surrounding him, "You deserve better than to be punished for crimes of survival."
"Good luck, Granger." He sneered, but there was no malice, merely no hope in his tone.
"I will." Hermione replied without faltering, placing her hand on a horizontal bar, and looking at him honestly in the eye, "I promise, Draco, I will get you out of there." Then she stepped back, nodding her goodbye to him. He watched her disappear as the internal cage move downwards, taking him away from her kind eyes and determined mouth.
Later that evening, when he found himself completely alone and in total silence in the cells beneath the Ministry, he thought of Hermione. Not of her strong voice ringing reasoning around the Court. Not of her loyalty to the Right cause or to the ones she cared about most. Nor her squinting at pages of evidence and winces of pain, subtle signs of her torture under his Aunt, as she stubbornly gulped Pain Relieving Potion from her tea cup – unbeknownst to anyone else, that showed her resilience. Not of the things the Prophet would proclaim of her performance in the morning papers. He thought of none of them.
He thought of her skin, finally regaining its sun kissed colour, after months hiding underground. Her riotous hair no longer restrained, that would be spread across her pillow right now, deceptively soft under the frizz. Long, lean legs outlined in a navy pencil skirt. Papers being organised and reorganised by petite hands stained with ink. He knew those hands well. He'd held her hand throughout a night that felt like a lifetime ago, when they were weaning her down on the Pain Relief Potion, and he'd clutched her hand into the early hours, offering comfort in a way words failed. Lay in his dingy, rickety, threadbare bed in the cold and damp cell, he could nearly feel her hand in his again, this time offering him comfort…
He scoffed at himself and his absurd notions. Tossing over onto the other side of the cot, he dismissed all thoughts of Granger and her gentle kindness. He would never have it. He did not deserve it.
