Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.

Chapter 5

The Trial

7th July, 1998

As he made his way down the corridor and out onto the second floor landing, he couldn't help but wonder why they were all still living at 12, Grimmauld Place.

It had been a month since the Final Battle, as they were calling it now – when they didn't say the Battle of Hogwarts, or the Defeat of Voldemort (the capital letters were strongly implied). Lupin and Tonks were gone. Bill and Fleur had their cottage on the coast. The other Weasleys could all have gone back to the Burrow. But instead, he mused as he leaned against the railing, they had all stayed at Grimmauld Place, maybe because it was big and allowed them to stay together in moderate comfort. He suspected the family needed to stay together and was too polite to leave him alone. George... George was the only one who had left. He had retreated to the flat he had shared with Fred, just above Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. And no-one really sought him out, because he was a painful memory of Fred, the living clone of a dead man. Lee was more or less living with him, and Luna spent most of her days there, too.

He should have been glad that Ron and Hermione were still staying with him, except things were almost more awkward between them then they were between Ginny and him. He could see the feelings were still there, but neither of them could decide themselves to act upon them – Ron was too sad, and Hermione too understanding. They were just friends. And somehow that made everything uncomfortable. Besides, the way Ron's mouth twitched every so often, whenever he thought of Fred, and the way Hermione had become distant and thoughtful – those things made him realise how much the war, and being on the run, had been hard on his friends. And it was his fault. If he hadn't drawn them into this...

And as for Ginny... it hurt to see her every day. Because, no matter what she said – he had been on the run from the Ministry and Voldemort for a year and he couldn't handle the stress of a relationship? –, she was the one who had broken up with him. She was the one who had said, two weeks after the Final Battle, that they couldn't go on. She was the one who had said Stop, and she was the one who had called him "broken." He resented her for it, because he had wanted her to stay. He could see the looks she gave him and hear the longing in her voice when she spoke to him, but she never faltered in her decision. And it was ripping him apart.

He was somewhat glad that today was a different day, that there was something to take his mind off things for a while. He had thrown himself into his research for a few days, elaborating a strategy and practising his oral skills. Hermione had helped him, somewhat bemused by his energy, and Ron had said, dismissively, that just the fact that he was Harry Potter would be enough. And he was probably right, but Harry hadn't wanted to look like an idiot.

He leaned on the stair railing. "When I found Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest," he recited under his breath, accentuating the name that Hermione had said would still make most people flinch, "he cast a curse..."

"You know it by heart, Harry," Hermione said, coming up from behind him, but her tone was light. "Ron is probably right, anyway. The Wizengamot should be too busy staring at your scar to listen to you. Here," she said, reaching up and pushing a strand of hair aside so his scar was clearly visible. "Now that you're the Saviour, it's your duty to the wizarding world to be proud of this scar."

"You're joking," he said, wondering if he sounded as horrified as he felt. He smoothed his hair back over his forehead to hide the scar again.

"Only a little," she said. "Some people will feel that way. And by the way – everyone will be surprised by your presence at this trial. Some probably won't be pleased. You know that, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course I do. Hermione, I know they aren't priests and nuns. They'll never be the type to donate to charities and love their neighbours. But they don't deserve to rot in Azkaban. I think there's still something in there that's worth saving."

"I know you do, Harry," she said soothingly. "And I believe you. I'm not the one you're going to have to convince." She glanced at her watch. "The trial is in a half-hour. Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Let's go, then."

They made their way down the steps. From the kitchen, Mrs Weasley saw them cross the corridor to their shoes on.

"Is it time?" she asked

"Almost," Hermione said.

Mrs Weasley looked grim. "Well... good luck, then, I suppose."

Hermione shrugged on a thin jacket over her t-shirt, as the air was fresh outside. "Thanks." She looked at Harry's robes appraisingly. "It should be fine."

"How come you get jeans and a t-shirt?" Harry wanted to know as they headed out into Grimmauld Place.

Hermione pointed at an old oak, tall and wide with branches and leaves that provided

sufficient shade, which grew in a small, fenced park down the street.

"Over there," she said, then turned her head to look at Harry. "I'm not the one who'll be pleading at the trial. You have to be presentable. Remember your trial in fifth year? You said Fudge really wanted to find you guilty. Well, it's going to be the same thing this time. The Wizengamot has likely already decided on a life sentence in Azkaban. You're going to have to convince them otherwise. It might not be easy."

"You just told Ron's mother it would be fine!"

"I may have exaggerated a little."

When they reached the tree, she turned to face him. "You are aware, of course, that what you're going to do is illegal."

"It's the fastest way, since you've never been there."

"Highly illegal," she said, placing emphasis on the word highly. "Since you don't have your license yet."

"Hermione, we knocked out three Ministry employees and broke in to steal something belonging to another Ministry employee. How legal is that? In fact," he went on, "how legal was anything we did last year?"

He held out his arm and she placed her hand on it. He closed his eyes, felt the uncomfortable tug of Apparition that signalled success before they were sent spiralling toward their destination: Ministry of Magic, visitor's entrance. Or at the very least a few feet off, somewhere Muggles wouldn't see them appear out of thin air. They walked the rest of the way, trying to look inconspicuous.

"Okay," Hermione said, eyeing the telephone box, which looked like any other telephone box – once-red, covered with graffiti and missing glass panels. "I've never been here. Are you sure this is the place?"

Harry looked around. "More or less. Get in."

"Won't it look weird, two people..."

"I don't think they'll notice. The telephone box is probably Charmed. Here – hold the receiver while I dial. Do you know how long it's been since I last held a phone in my hands?" He paused. "Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure the Dursleys never did let me touch their phone."

He muttered the numbers as he punched them in, knowing he had remembered them correctly when the dial whirred back into place and a female voice started speaking.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

"Harry Potter, invited by the Ministry to bear witness in a trial, and Hermione Granger, erm, accompanying me."

"Thank you," the voice said. "Please take the badges and attach them to your robes."

There was a clanging sound as the badges hit the bottom of the metal chute. He took his – Harry Potter, Trial Witness – and handed Hermione's over to her.

"Visitors, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium."

The telephone box shuddered as it began to sink into the ground.

"Courtroom Ten," Harry said, looking at the door. "Here it is."

It was unmistakable. He'd remembered as soon as he set foot in the dark, stone hallway, dimly lit with torches in brackets. Cold stone walls, dark wooden doors. The door to Courtroom Ten seemed to be the darkest of all, with an iron bolt and rusty hinges that promised to squeal loudly when you opened the door. This was the courtroom where his own hearing had been held a few years previously. Where the Lestranges had been sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban.

"Harry?" Hermione asked, her voice very quiet.

He looked over at her without seeing her. She had put the Cloak on as soon as they had entered the hallway. She wasn't allowed to come into the courtroom, and this was what Harry had come up with to make sure he wouldn't be going in alone. He knew that if he could see Hermione right now, her expression would be one of concern.

"Spell," he said.

He heard Hermione whisper an incantation that would silence any sound the door might make as it opened and closed. The last thing they needed was anyone wondering why the door had suddenly slammed open and shut by itself.

"It's done," she said. "The trial should start in about five minutes. Do you want to go in?"

"We might as well get it over with," he said, and bent his knees a little so Hermione could reach up and throw the Cloak over him as well. He didn't know how many people had been informed he would be present, but he was counting on the effect of surprise.

Slipping into the courtroom was disturbingly easy. Not a single member of the Wizengamot looked up as they entered. Harry supposed there were no charms protecting the courtroom doors from the outside – possibly from the inside, so no one would escape, but who would want to break into a courtroom? They slid past a few empty benches on either side of them, then chose one, far enough away from the aisle that no one would accidentally trip over them, but close enough to the Wizengamot benches that they wouldn't miss anything.

In the centre of the room, three chairs stood, arm to arm, covered in chains that, Harry suspected, would gleefully leap up to bind the Malfoys into place. He felt sick just looking at them.

The door was brutally pushed open, and six guards strode in smartly, half-turning as soon as they had entered so they were lining the passage. Three shapes followed, moving more slowly but deliberately, their dark robes hanging loosely, making them look more like shadows than actual people. Six more guards ended the small procession, slamming the door behind them and bolting it.

"Ah," said the wizard at the very centre of the first row, straightening up. "Have them take their seats."

Harry looked at him for the first time. So this was Jonas Barrelton, whom Kingsley had chosen as his right-hand man. He had been a member of the Wizengamot for many years before Kingsley elevated him to the position of Senior Undersecretary. Harry had never met him before, but McReady had written about him in his letters. He was an unremarkable man, probably in his fifties, not very tall but straight-backed and proud, with white-streaked hair and a crooked nose. Something in his expression made him seem vindictive, but he had to have some qualities if Kingsley trusted him. Kingsley was busy and often chose to delegate on things that were more administrative than political. This week, he was in Bulgaria, at a meeting which reunited the heads of three of the most prominent wizarding countries. Unexpectedly enough, Percy had been given the chance to go abroad with him to dabble with international politics. Even more unexpectedly, Percy had declined the offer extremely politely to stay in England near his family, and Kingsley had given him a desk job with flexible hours at the International Magical Office of Law instead.

Harry watched from underneath the cloak as the Malfoys were led forward. They seemed haggard. Their robes were dirty, their faces pale, their hair unkempt. They looked as though they hadn't slept in days, and there were already shackles around their wrists and ankles.

"Why are they dressed like that?" he asked Hermione as the guards roughly pushed the Malfoys into the chairs.

The chains clinked and clanged as they came to life, rising slowly to clap their shackles around the three's wrists and ankles.

"I don't know," she whispered back. "But you can be sure they didn't have a choice in the matter."

"Trial number three-zero-one-six-four-four-one," Barrelton said in a loud voice. His tone was cultured, but not quite as deep as Kingsley's. "Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, and Narcissa Malfoy, residents at Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire. Due to the extremely severe nature of the accusations, the accused were held in a high-security cell in the prison of Azkaban while awaiting their trial..."

"Azkaban!" Hermione repeated in a hoarse whisper. "For over two months! Harry, did you know about this?"

"No one told me," he replied, feeling as horrified as she sounded. "McReady didn't even mention it when I met him last week! I – Godric."

"Interrogators: Jonas Anthony Barrelton, Senior Undersecretary to the Interim Minister and Athena Marie Wilkins, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Court Scribe: Hailey Minora Perkins. Witness for the defence: Ethan Matthew McReady. The charges against the accused are as follows: that they all three did knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness of the illegality of their actions, serve He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as Death Eaters, and that they did commit the offences of murder, theft, and violation of property. How do the accused respond to these charges?"

"Not guilty, due to extremely mitigating circumstances," the witness for the defendant, whom Harry had met the previous week, responded.

His first intuition had been, as he had told Harry, that there was no way out for the Malfoys but Azkaban. He had planned to plead guilty and see his clients imprisoned for life without a second thought, because that was the only reasonable thing to do. Then Harry had contacted him, and he had found himself a reason to fight. At first he had wanted to have Narcissa, alone, be acquitted as her husband and son were convicted; after all, she didn't wear the Dark Mark, and she was the one who had saved Harry's life. But Harry wouldn't hear any of that, either.

"My clients," McReady began now, "were forced into serving..."

Even Malfoy rolled his eyes at that, and Harry winced internally. McReady hadn't struck him as a terribly bright person, but he hadn't been expecting this faux pas. Everyone knew the Malfoys had, at least at first, joined Voldemort of their own free will. Their change of heart had been very last-minute.

"We have witnesses," Barrelton said, "who can assert that the Malfoys were zealous and willing followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"Witnesses!" McReady repeated. "Death Eaters, most likely. Who else could be that well informed? I am not denying that my clients were efficient in serving He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But I will say that they only did so out of fear for their lives. As for your witnesses, how much can you trust their word?"

"The testimonies were deemed valid enough to appear in court," Barrelton said stiffly. "We also have testimonies from fighters who saw them with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the Battle of Hogwarts. Can your clients deny these accusations?"

"As I said, they were not willing and so cannot be accused of murder. Murder, I should like to remind the Wizengamot, is defined by Henry Bernstuckle as the unlawful killing of a human being carried out voluntarily and without justification or excuse. And this definition cannot apply to my clients."

"Harry," Hermione suddenly hissed, and he turned his head to look at her. "I've just realised something. They only released the Dementors in June. The Malfoys spent a whole month in their presence. That's why they look like – like that."

Remembering the effect the Dementors had had on him in his third year, before he learnt to cast a Patronus, Harry felt sick.

"Excuse me," said a witch with a very crooked black hat, raising her hand. When Barrelton nodded at her, she said, to McReady, "If I am understanding this correctly, your 'extremely mitigating circumstances' are the fact that the Malfoys' lives were threatened?"

"That is correct."

"And how can this be verified?" the witch challenged. "And why would the Malfoys escape retribution when so many Death Eaters, undoubtedly under the same 'pressure,' if you can call it that, were found guilty? Unless you are insinuating that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named found it amusing to threaten the Malfoys, and only the Malfoys?"

"Verified?" McReady repeated. "Verified, Miss Hodges? Why, the very presence of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is a threat of death. And the guilt of the criminals you speak of is not to be questioned. My clients have more –"

"More 'mitigating circumstances,' most surely," Hodges said with a sarcastic smile. "Can your clients deny that they joined the forces of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named willingly?"

Harry sucked in a breath at that. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. How could they drag the title out every time they opened their mouths to say something? He clenched his right fist, looking at the white scar on the back of his hand. I must not tell lies.

He silently slipped out from under the cloak, making sure that Hermione remained concealed, and sank back into the shadows that lined the walls of the badly-lit room.

McReady looked uneasy. "No, ma'am."

"Can they deny that they carried out his orders?"

"No, ma'am, but –"

"Can they deny," Hodges said, her voice hard, "truthfully, that they have ever killed innocents, destroyed houses and ruined lives on the orders of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"No, ma'am, but –" McReady tried again, but Hodges ignored him and turned to Barrelton.

"Thank you. I have no more questions."

"The witness for the defendant is now called upon to present proof of his extremely mitigating circumstances," Barrelton said, peering at McReady over his glasses. "Unless, of course, such proof were to not exist..."

"How could there be proof?" someone asked. "It has been established that the Malfoy family were servants of He-Who-Must –"

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead," Harry said in as loud a voice as he could manage, and strode forward to the middle of the room, so he was – symbolically – standing between the shackled Malfoys and the Senior Undersecretary. He ignored the murmurs of recognition and went on: "He's dead, and he's not coming back, ever. And his name was no more unmentionable than yours or mine. He was born Tom Riddle and he styled himself Lord Voldemort. Pick whichever name you want, but don't be afraid of them anymore."

He looked at the Wizengamot, who were suddenly all staring avidly, eyes focused on his scar, his face, his expression.

"Full name?" Barrelton asked senselessly.

"Harry James Potter. I will be a witness during this trial. I'm the one who's going to show you the mitigating circumstances Mr McReady was talking about."

The murmurs became ones of surprise, but again he ignored them.

"Recall the moments leading up to Voldemort's defeat," he began. "You've all heard the story . Rubeus Hagrid holding my dead body. Neville Longbottom killing the snake Nagini. And suddenly, my appearance, alive and whole. The final duel..." His eyes lost focus and the world blurred before him. He forgot his carefully rehearsed speech, and it didn't even matter anymore. "Everyone wondered how I made it through, how Voldemort could have been so convinced of my death that he bragged about it not only to his followers, but to my – to the people who believed in me. How even one of my friends, Hagrid, who held me in his arms, was persuaded he had just watched me die." The world was sharper now, detailed enough for him to meet Miss Hodges' gaze frankly. "Do you want to know how?"

Almost unconsciously, every member of the Wizengamot either nodded slightly, or leaned forward.

"The answer," Harry said, stepping to the side so he was no longer shielding the Malfoys, "Is Narcissa Malfoy.

"For her son," he went on, looking straight at Barrelton now, "She lied to Voldemort himself. How many of you here would have been able to do the same? If Voldemort had chosen to sift through her mind using Legilimency, he would have seen the lie and punished her. She chose to take that risk, but why? Not for me," he said. "For her son.

"Do you want to know the words she said to me before announcing to the Death Eaters and Voldemort that I was dead?" He lowered his voice. "'Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?'"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy jump and turn his head to look at his mother. But Narcissa was staring straight ahead, her fingers tightly clenched around the arms of the chair, her face pale.

"Narcissa Malfoy knew I had survived Voldemort's attack," he said loudly. "She could feel my pulse and hear my breath as surely as you are hearing my voice right now. If Voldemort had known I was alive, he would have cast a – a more effective curse –" He stumbled over the lie, because no-one had to know that he had, in a way, come back from the dead – "and killed me. Narcissa's act saved my life, and in turn, saved yours and that of thousands of wizards across England and around the world. She contributed to the defeat of Voldemort when she knowingly and willingly joined my side to protect her family. And for that, I believe she deserves to keep that family outside of Azkaban."

There was a long silence after he stopped. The Wizengamot seemed to be expecting more.

He felt the unreasonable anger rise in him once more, and had to fight to keep his tone even. His next words were as much a gamble as a challenge.

"If anyone doubts my word, I could willingly submit my memory of that night to you. And that's all I had to say."

Some members of the Wizengamot nodded at that, but most, as Harry had been hoping, seemed uneasy about admitting they didn't trust him. He was the Saviour, after all.

The silence stretched on, and the moment passed. He wasn't going to be required to give over his memory.

McReady seemed to decide to be useful for once. "If perhaps the Wizengamot has any questions..."

"I have one," a wizard with a face like a prune said, raising his hand. "What about Lucius Malfoy? The kid is young and his mother has some maternal instinct left, but the father was a Death Eater for many years."

"Lucius Malfoy," Harry said calmly, "was a respected member of the Ministry for just as many years. Why do you select only the portions of his past that further your goal?"

"He tried to depose Dumbledore as Headmaster of Hogwarts a few years ago!" someone called.

"He was accused of theft and fiscal fraud!"

"There was a complaint against him concerning corruption!"

"And he was cleared of all charges on both cases," Harry said, overriding the voices. "As for the incident in 1993, the school was in great danger and the Minister at the time, Cornelius Fudge, approved the decision, which would not have been carried out if it had been any different."

"Well, Cornelius was a fool," someone said, and Harry almost smiled.

"Any other questions?" Barrelton said.

"Yes," the witch named Hodges said, and Harry winced. "How can you believe that a last-minute change of heart should wipe the slate clean, Mr Potter? The Malfoys doubtless have the blood of dozens on their hands. Narcissa Malfoy wanted to save her son's life. Any mother would have done the same. How can it excuse the crimes?"

Harry saw something flicker in the eyes of the Wizengamot members and knew Hodges had stirred something in them. The element of surprise was lost, and they were slowly coming away from their awe of him. He had to pull them back to him, quickly, or the Malfoys would be lost.

Why did he care?

"I'm not saying that my life is worth more than the lives of those who died," he began, then paused. "I mean – I know these aren't innocent people. I've hated them ever since I first met them. So don't think I'm biased or anything. But I've seen cruel people. I've seen insane people. I do think that some people deserve Azkaban – I just don't think the Malfoys are among them. Most people can be good, if you just give them a chance. And I've seen, first hand, that the Malfoys can, too. If they choose to."

"Any other questions?" Barrelton asked again.

The members of the Wizengamot looked at each other, but no-one stepped forward.

"Then I believe it is time to deliberate." He tapped on his desk with his fist as though calling for order, and it occurred to Harry that this might be the first time a witness for the defendant had appeared at a trial before him. "Those in favour of clearing all charges?"

A couple of hands were immediately raised, and Harry smiled tightly at the wizards they belonged to, then scanned the faces of the rest. They seemed hesitant, as though unwilling to let their prey go. More hands rose, but slowly. And not nearly enough. He cursed internally.

"Those in favour of conviction," Barrelton said, and raised his hand.

Harry knew when a case was lost. His heart sank, and he refused to look at the Malfoys as hands shot up, one after the other. Instead he stared straight at Barrelton, wondering at the sick feeling in his stomach. What was it to him, after all, if the Malfoys were judged guilty? They were guilty.

"The sentence has been previously discussed by the present members of the Wizengamot. As the Malfoy family has been convicted, they are sentenced to –"

There was a very soft cough that nevertheless seemed to resonate in the air of the closed courtroom. Barrelton looked up from the parchment he was going to read and shot an annoyed glance at the witch in the crooked hat.

"Yes, Miss Hodges? Do you have an objection to make?"

"I do," the witch replied, standing up.

All eyes swivelled to her.

"In light of the information which has been brought forward during the trial, I believe the previously agreed punishment may not be suited to the case anymore. I would suggest another sentence and would have it submitted to a vote."

There was a heavy silence, and Harry felt Hodges had either just done something very brave, or very stupid.

"Very well," Barrelton said finally. "What would that suggestion be, then?"

"10,000 Galleons to be paid to the Ministry, which will all go to the division responsible of war affairs. 10,000 more to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in reparation. And an additional 5,000 to St Mungo's Hospital, to the wards responsible of war-related injuries and conditions and dark magic. " She paused, letting the information sink in. "The Malfoys would walk free."

Harry started; around him, every Wizengamot member sat up straighter. The proposition was absurd, the sums astronomical. 25,000 Galleons! She couldn't be serious. It represented enough money to completely clean out his Gringotts vault. The Malfoys were rich, obviously – of course they were –, but could their finances bear this?

Still, he could not stop his heart from leaping with terrible, insane hope.

"Has everyone heard the suggestion?" Barrelton asked the Wizengamot. "Perkins, have you written it down?"

"Yes, sir," came the Court Scribe's voice. "10,000 Galleons to the Ministry, 10,000 to Hogwarts, 5,000 to St Mungo's."

"Then let us proceed," Barrelton said. "Those in favour of the suggestion?"

There was a silence, and it seemed to Harry that no-one would step forward. A few tentative hands eventually rose, the same that had wanted to declare the Malfoys innocent. Then more and more. Hodges' was not among them; what was the witch playing at? This wasn't enough yet... not yet... not yet...

Then Hodges raised her hand, and after a few seconds half-a-dozen wizards followed. She seemed to exert a certain amount of influence on her colleagues. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Malfoy's face light up, but his parents remained impassive.

"Those in favour of the previously decided on sentence, life imprisonment in Azkaban?" Barrelton said, and raised his hand.

The hands were much fewer, and Harry let out a tiny sigh of relief – or maybe it was victory. He turned, naturally, to grin at the Malfoys, but caught himself before he did. Instead, as the Senior Undersecretary declared the Malfoys free to go home, with an escort that would accompany them to Gringotts the following morning, he shook McReady's hand. Then he nodded at the Malfoys and left the room, ignoring the Wizengamot member who was calling his name, obviously wanting to ask him a question.

"That went well," Hermione said, throwing the cloak back suddenly. "Even though you spent days rehearsing a speech you didn't even use in the end."

"I completely forgot it," he admitted, and was pleased to hear her laugh. "But I got what I came for, anyway."

"Their faces," Hermione said, smiling widely. "The Wizengamot members when they saw you come in! I don't think they could have been more surprised. I'm surprised no-one asked you for an autograph." She laughed again. "In five or ten years, they'll be telling their children and grandchildren that they were once in the same room as the famous Harry Potter, and they didn't even get his autograph!"

"Cut it out," he said, "I don't want to go around signing everyone's favourite poster of me."

"Of course you don't, your handwriting is terrible. If you would just apply yourself –"

"– then my autographs would look cooler?" he suggested.

She laughed.

Lookie, there's laughter in this chapter! It isn't all depressing!

I thought this scene was important, but that may have something to do with my newfound Draco-mania. I do like this chapter, though. I think it's one of my favourites, just because I really wanted to write it. You can tell because it's one of those on the longer side.

Don't forget to review.