Draco used to believe in a very different future. He is a Malfoy, after all. It isn't something to question. The sky is blue while the grass is green, and his family is better than most. The blood running through his veins is pure. Generations of Malfoys have taken great pride in ensuring the line remained would graduate top of the class at Hogwarts. Yes, Draco would be captain of the Quidditch team. He would be Head Boy, following in his father's footsteps. These are the elementary facts upon which he constructed his life. It is a framework of belief that held true...until it didn't.
Malfoy. Bad faith.
They doomed him right from the start.
The voice of the Head Warlock is unwavering, as it lists out Draco's crimes. His eyes gleam with vindication, eager to dish out presumed justice. There is no point to this trial in Draco's mind. He has that sinister mark on his skin, a symbol of unwavering faith and loyalty to a Lord who had promised glory. A man who Draco watched fall to his knees, dying the sorry death of a peasant, painfully mortal in his last moments. Nothing regal left.
He heard whispers in his sequestered cell, hushed exchange of information among the guards. Voices bringing news of the exoneration of questionable individuals. Murmured condolences mourning the death of innocents whose only crimes were unfortunate circumstances. The Ministry is conducting trials for all who were in His service, but Draco isn't naïve enough to believe their claims of fair judgement.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
"Marked Death Eater... Draco Lucius Malfoy, heir to the Family Malfoy... guilty... attempted assassination... use of the Imperius... victim Kathrine Anne Bell..."
The voice drones on, grating on his ears. He lists out Draco's misgivings, reading them in an unfeeling monotone, making a show of the matter. Draco doesn't pay attention, he didn't need an extensive reminder. His actions, or rather, inaction, haunt him. The days blend into one blur as the cold of Azkaban seeps into his skin. His memories stuck in a never-ending loop in his head as he waited for his turn on the Wizengamot Floor. It was a long year in the desolate cell, with nothing but the sound of crashing water to keep him company.
The removal of dementors after the war is a small mercy. Even without them, the prison makes his soul ache, every shadow a reflection of his own demons. The suffocating damp cell is revolting on a good day and unbearable on most. A horrid reality, where the grime coating his skin never went away and the screaming wind made it impossible to sleep. When the sun gave way to the moon, Draco wallowed in darkness, wishing to fall asleep and not deal with the consequences of waking up.
His crimes were sufficient to grant him at least ten more years in that place. It makes his skin crawl. Then again, perhaps years in Azkaban might be the lesser evil. If the gossip between the prison guards was to be believed, then his father had been stripped of his wand. Cursed to a life no better than a common muggle at his trial a few weeks ago and the thought of Lucius Malfoy without magic... It's so bizarre, it's nearly laughable. He wonders if his father might have preferred Azkaban to such a fate, though he can't fathom it. That island is blanketed in a haze of misery and pain. Besides, Draco doesn't think his father would ever do that to his mother.
His mother.
Her trial was a quiet affair, among the first. Draco is thankful for this. The thought of her inside a cell sets his teeth on edge. The whole affair was done and over with before the Aurors had dragged him off. It had been a quick decision with Potter on Mother's side and the absence of a Dark Mark staining her skin. Potter had claimed Narcissa Malfoy was the reason he was still alive-it was hard for anyone to argue after that. At least Draco can be assured that no matter what happens, his mother is safe with the testimony of the Golden Boy.
Perhaps he ought to thank Potter for that.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Shoved into a showy cage as a lesson in humiliation, gawked at like a party trick. It makes him sick. The trials are another way for the Ministry to flaunt its new status- a harbinger of prosperity in times to come. So, the word spread and the press was bought. The war is still fresh in the minds of the people; they frothed at the mouth, determined as they demand justice. The flashes of the cameras haven't stopped since he stepped into the room.
Which is why he stands aloof in the middle of the cage, seemingly unbothered by being the object of scrutiny. He holds his head high like he isn't bound and chained like an animal; like there aren't shackles around his ankles, twisting up and folding across his torso. As if they aren't binding his arms and crawling up his neck until he feels like he can't breathe.
The Death Eater Trials are being sensationalised, and he would be damned if they see him break.
He is a Malfoy, after all. Appearances must be kept, reputations must be upheld at all costs.
Even when most of these people want to see him dead.
It's hard to recall why he used to be proud of his name. It hasn't brought him anything other than misery. All that pride, and for what? Reducing Draco to nothing more than a name on a long list of people fighting for the wrong side. He knew it was the wrong side even before he was Marked; too much of a coward to do anything but bow his head in compliance even as he burned.
Breathe in.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and focuses on the Warlock.
Breathe out.
Draco builds his walls. He tidies up his thoughts and starts aligning his memories. It's second nature by now, an essential skill he has picked up. He shudders to think what he would do without it. Just like he was taught, Draco closes his eyes and thinks of that room. He sees the intimidating double doors, locked and impenetrable in his mind's eye. With the lightest touch, the gates recognize him, granting him access to the looming space. The heavyset gate swings open slowly and he takes comfort in its familiarity. The space is lined with towering shelves, tall enough so Draco couldn't see where they ended. Shelves tall enough to kiss the skies.
He walks through the room, considering the shelves, dusty and heavily locked. Each box is unique and neatly labelled. A sharp turn left, and he is standing next to a drooping shelf, masked within the shadows. This shelf is familiar to him. He uses it more often than he would like.
Breathe in.
Draco takes the storm raging in his mind and carefully organizes it, boxing everything up. Storing it in its spot under lock and key. Tomorrow's prophet will have enough to publish without a picture of him looking as unbalanced as he feels. He doesn't need to add fuel to the fire.
Breathe out.
"... near-death of Ronald Weasley... poison... suspected foul... duel with intent to harm Harry James... threats and... various eyewitnesses... Misconduct..."
Potter and Weasley. He can never seem to get rid of them. Here they are again, mocking him at his own trial. The Wonder Twins who can do no harm. They make it sound as if it was all one-sided. He wonders if they know Potter ripped him into shreds that year. Even if they do, they probably don't care.
No one ever seems to care.
He picks up the lingering pain of the Sectumsempra and shoves it into a box. He fills this box with Myrtle and flashes of dark swirling smoke. He fills it up with helplessness and the way his heart races. He fills it up with the tears he swore he wouldn't shed. He fills it up with petrifying terror and shoves it off to the side.
The room is a bit of a mess today, which is unsurprising considering the stakes. Draco walks around until he finds the mess of strings with the echo of his aunt's cackle. He untangles the cruel threats whispered during the high of a Revel. He unravels the papery sound of Him as he addresses his followers. Draco tucks all the odds and ends into their place. It's a painstaking process, but he needs to do it.
He doesn't want to deal with what might happen if he doesn't.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
"...vanishing cabinet... welcomed werewolves and inner circle death eaters into...death of Albus Dumbledore... extensive and multiple uses of the Cruciatus..."
He's never been more grateful for the Occlumency that runs in his blood, allowing him to hold on to some semblance of control- of his sanity. He thinks without it, he may fall into a heap and let the grief consume him. The grief that he has no right to feel.
Draco glances around the room, surprised to see so many familiar faces among the crowd. Some women he has danced with at galas along with men he has shaken hands with sit and watch. People he has stood next to as his father makes polite inquiries swim across his vision. The sight of his Father's acquaintances raises a sliver of hope. It is foolish to be optimistic, and yet the feeling blooms like a new bud.
Their family has always been well connected and some things don't change, greed being one of them. Over the years, he has learned there is very little that money can not get you. Many of these people have known him since he was a child. Would they truly condemn him?
Maybe he deserves it.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
"...Battle of Hogwarts... multiple witness accounts...join his father... Acceptance..."
He can still feel the whispers of flame licking his skin as Potter hauled him up on his broom. He can still hear the screams; can still smell the burning. His nightmares comprise smoke filling up his lungs and melting his body. Draco lost friends and family too, but their lives don't seem to matter as much. All branded by the same damned mark- engraved into their skin. The circumstances don't matter in front of the public, they all deserve to burn.
Draco remembers rushing to find Pansy through the haze of the Battle. The sounds of curses and screams ringing as he rakes the grounds, searching for her. Pansy, always so bold and so proud, her nose tilted up in the air- secure in her standing and reputation. He remembers seeing her crouched and hunched over. He almost didn't recognize her; worn and exhausted as she was. He remembers the way she grabbed onto him so tightly, as if he'd vanish if she'd let go. She grabbed his wrists tight enough to leave bruises and as he helped her to the floo.
He remembers seeing Blaise's dark figure lurking around corners. Blaise was dragging a stunned Daphne, with blood dripping down her face. It must have been a stray hex or jinx, as they tried to find a way out. Daphne looks relieved as Draco brings Astoria to them. He hands Blaise an emergency portkey and pats him on the back. His gaze is questioning as he looks at Draco who just shakes his head and watches them disappear.
He remembers the panic in Tracey's eyes as she grabbed his robes. 'Please help me, Draco.' Blood gushes out from a gash on her head and he quickly pulls her into an alcove in an effort to heal it. It's hard to reconcile that trembling girl with the haughty queen he had known. This girl was a shadow of the person who held court with him in the common room.
Those days felt so long ago.
Draco remembers casting shields with Crabbe and Goyle at his flanks. They tried to help the younger children escape. His most loyal friends, willing to stay with him till the very end, no matter how many times he begged them to just leave. They were not marked; they had no reason to stay.
Yet, they did.
And Vincent Crabbe is now dead. Vincent Crabbe is dead because of him.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
"... in defence of the accused, Harry James Potter..."
He takes a second to register the words. What?
Potter waltzes into the court and glances at him. Draco can't place his expression, he hopes it isn't pity. Perfect Potter, can't even let a bloke fuck off in peace. This is not part of his plan. It was one thing to testify for his mother, but Draco can't understand what brought him out today. Stupid damned hero complex. He already owes Potter too much, he doesn't need to add more to the list. He watches as Potter makes his way up to the podium, right across from him. Draco stares at him, head tilted up in challenge. What could he possibly have to say? There isn't any love lost between them, anyone could account for that. Potter clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair.
"My name is Harry Potter. I'm here today as a character witness for Draco Malfoy."
"Very well Mr Potter, please proceed."
"I know that Draco Malfoy would not have killed Dumbledore that day- I was there, "
Draco blinks, taking in this additional information. Filing it away to analyze later. Potter was there that night in the tower.
Of course he was.
That night is hazy in his memory. He remembers the vague sequence of events- can recall the acceptance in the eyes of the Old Professor. Draco remembers his soothing cadence as he whispered words of protection. The offer of protection, a chance to turncoat. He lies awake into the early morning hours wondering if he could go back to that moment. If the Order could save his family- could save him.
"Malfoy wouldn't have done it. I saw him lowering his wand. He-"
"Mr Potter the Wizengamot has already been informed of this series of events. Your memories of that night have already been reviewed. Are there any new statements you would like to issue?"
Potter looks sheepish and looks around- fidgeting with his hands. Leave it to him to come to a court hearing unprepared. He might not be Potter's biggest fan, but every single one of these old hags should be on the ground kissing his feet. He had won a war for them. All of them.
A war they shouldn't have had to fight, anyway. They were all foot soldiers in the wars of another generation. Penance for their Father's sins- it hardly seemed fair. Potter is bumbling his way through something else. Something about his Mother and the importance of family, Draco can hardly make sense of it.
"Malfoy didn't identify us the day we were captured. There is no way he didn't know that it was us, and he didn't confirm it. If not for him, the war could have had a vastly different outcome"
"Indeed, I agree with you Mr Potter, perhaps Dumbledore would have still been here with us"
Draco stiffens as the slight hope that welled in his chest ebbs away. He should have known better than to hope. It's time to make peace with his fate. If he is lucky, they might let his Mother visit his cell sometimes.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
"... Next witness to stand; Hermione Jean Granger in defense of Draco Lucius Malfoy..."
Draco freezes. His thoughts come to a screeching halt. Salazar, why is it always her?
She walks into the courtroom, head held high like the whole damn world owes her something.
Hermione Granger.
The Golden fucking Girl of the Wizarding World.
She steps up to the podium, taking Potter's place. She's right in front of him now; so different, yet still the same.
Granger still takes his breath away.
The last time he saw her was months ago, after the Battle. He was standing next to his Mother and Father, both relatively unharmed. He remembers her standing there, in the middle of the Great Hall. She is walking through the scene of destruction with her hair flying and wand at the ready. Her clothes torn up and dirty, but her head still held high.
She is terrifying. She is beautiful.
Untouchable. Forbidden. Radiant.
He scowls.
She's talking now, presenting to the Wizengamot. The very picture of poise and elegance; level-headed and calm. Unlike Potter, it seems like she had planned and practised beforehand what she wanted to say. Draco takes her in, watching her intently for any sign of hesitation. Has someone coerced her into this? Is his father already pulling strings?
There is hardly another explanation. There is no reason for her to support him when Draco had only ever given reason to rebuke.
Why is she here?
"Towards the end of the Battle, the Malfoy Family were wandless. They weren't exactly devoted followers at that point. It's unfair for you to place the weight of the war on the shoulders of a wizard who was underage at the time"
She won't look at him.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
"I believe Draco Malfoy was just caught in a rather unfortunate set of circumstances. He had to make an impossible choice. I know the lengths one would go to protect their own family. I know Malfoy's actions were a consequence of the desire to protect those dearest to him"
She never looks at him.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
"Were you so well acquainted with Mr Malfoy that you would be fit to know his true motives?"
Caught you, Granger.
Their history is nothing but cruel and vindictive taunts. Harsh truths cutting him right to the core, dripping like honey from her lips.
Why is she here?
Why won't she look at him?
"It is no secret that Draco Malfoy and I had our fair share of petty childhood disagreements. I urge everyone to remember that childhood bully is a far cry from bloodthirsty Death Eater. Draco Malfoy is not a murderer. "
Just because he didn't hold the wand casting the Avada didn't make him less of a monster. The sounds of her screeching and withering on the floor of his home are still fresh in his memory. They make their way into the forefront of his brain- drowning out his surroundings. Both of them are branded-Granger for her courage and Draco for his cowardice.
He closes his eyes and he can see his aunt bending over her slight frame, etching the letters into her arm. He stands there powerless, watching her quiver with agony.
Too scared to save her; too terrified to save himself.
He stands there and watches her blood streaming down and onto the floor. A deep crimson red. Agonizing screeches escaped her, begging for mercy. Draco keeps his eyes focused on the trail of blood. The scarlet was a harsh contrast to the spotless white marble.
Which one is it, Aunt Bella? Either her blood isn't as dirty as you claim, or his blood is as dirty as hers.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
He has pushed this particular memory in the darkest corner he can find. He had to spend hours clearing his head and meditating, but her muffled screams never quite leave. They're still clear as a bell, echoing faintly on dreadful nights.
"When I was captured alongside Harry and Ron, Malfoy refused to identify us. This has been previously discussed, but certainly worth mentioning. There was no way Draco Malfoy did not recognize us; he saved us that day."
Is that how she sees him? As some kind of hero? The only person Draco has ever tried to rescue is himself- and he couldn't even do that. Pathetic.
The sound of the gavel rings. He slowly opens his eyes.
"...in light of the new testimonies provided willingly. We will consider Miss Granger and Mr Potter. The Wizengamot will adjourn for discussion..."
Granger glances at him as she hurriedly shuffles out of the room. Her hair is as wild as always, almost as wild as the look in her eyes.
Their eyes meet for a fraction of a moment, and that's all it takes. All his boxes and walls come crashing down. He's always been weak in the face of her reality- no matter how furiously he would deny it.
Breathe in.
Draco Malfoy unravels.
Breathe out.
o.o.o
A/N: Hello everyone! Most of the story has been written at this point and unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) it is coming in with about 130k word count. It might fall over to 150k by the time I wrap it all up, so buckle in folks. It's going to be a long ride.
Next update: 28 March