Chapter Twenty Eight- Black and White

May

If Hermione never stepped foot in the Ministry courtrooms ever again in her life, it would still be too soon.

Her heart clenched painfully in her chest, throat going dry. The high atrium ceiling was still suffocating and claustrophobic, and the Wizengamot sat, facing outwards, a sea of withdrawn and sombre faces, their crimson robes and square hats reminding her of the last trial she'd attended, making her heart race even faster. As if on cue, Hermione's eyes drifted past them to the chair in the centre of the room.

Narcissa Malfoy looked worse than when they'd visited her at St Mungo's, her hair was limp and pale yellow, frail hands resting on the armrests, though she sat tall in the chair, and her long and slender fingers were still adorned with rings, and though Hermione couldn't see her face from where she was sitting, she spotted the Healers at the side of the room and thanked every God listening for Harry. He'd sent her a second Owl only a day after his first reply, telling her that Narcissa Malfoy's sentence was to be re-examined in light of her health and new evidence.

Hermione had never seen Draco look so hopeful, a glint in his grey eyes, but he'd just nodded, swallowing thickly, lip trembling as it curled, "Always Saint Potter," he'd said. He wasn't at the trial. He wasn't allowed to leave Hogwarts. Hermione had left him in the Room of Requirement, where he'd been pretending to read, flicking the page periodically even though she could see his eyes remained fixed to a single point. She'd wanted to hold his hand and tell him things would work out, that he could trust Harry, but every word fell to ash on her tongue and so she'd kept quiet, leaving him there, forcing herself to look forward when all she wanted was to look back. Draco's eyes had followed her until she'd disappeared. She had felt them.

Hermione shifted in her seat, chewing on her fingernail. She was alone today. Ron couldn't get the time off but she wished desperately that he was there to whisper badly timed jokes in her ear so it didn't all feel so terribly pessimistic.

There had been more charges against Draco, but Draco was a child. He hadn't already spent six months in Azkaban.

Suddenly, the Chief Warlock stood. Hermione's heart leapt to her throat. She sat a little straighter.

"Narcissa Malfoy," her magnified voice echoed around the room. "Your sentence is being reviewed as a result of new evidence brought to the attention of the Wizengamot. You had been carrying out the sentence decreed by your first trial in Azkaban, but a recent health problem had you transferred to St Mungos to be treated. Is this information correct?"

The Malfoy matriarch's head dipped in a slight nod. Her voice was throaty, low and quiet. It did not shake, nor did it crack. It wavered with the gentle warble of an aristocrat. "Yes, that is correct."

"There is only one witness for today's proceedings," the Chief Warlock continued, reviewing her papers. "I can't see this taking much time but said witness has a tendency to keep us occupied so we should begin as quickly as possible."

Hermione swore she saw the corner of Ottaline Warbeck's lips twitch before the woman cleared her throat, raising her head and said, "Bring in the witness."

The doors swung open and Harry was led into the witness box. He didn't appear nervous, expression carefully blank, but Hermione knew her friend too well to not spot the almost obsessive way he kept pushing on the bridge of his glasses, even when they hadn't slid an inch.

The woman on Ottaline Warbeck's left cleared her throat. "Mr Potter, you claim to have new evidence pertaining to Mrs Malfoy's involvement in the war. Pray tell, why are you only coming forward with this now? Why not at Mrs Malfoy's first trial?"

Harry shifted in his seat, and Hermione saw the way his throat bobbed, the chords of his neck tightening. His forehead shone with a slight sheen of sweat.

"I wasn't right for a long time after the war," he began hesitantly, shuffling forward. "To be honest, sometimes I still think I have some way to go before-" He broke off, eyes growing dull and distant. "If I'm ever going to be right again. I saw things that changed me, things that I can never unsee. Things I still see when I close my eyes. I- was very badly messed up. I ca-" He winced. "I couldn't cope. I missed Mrs Malfoy's trial just like I missed everything. There's no other reason for not coming forward until now. I was selfish, I was focusing on my next breath and nothing else, and I'm trying to make up for that."

Hermione felt her chest break, her heart shatter. She closed her eyes, the tears falling down her cheeks. There was a hollowness in Harry's voice that tore at her. She knew it had been hard for him. She never knew how hard.

"Thank you, Mr Potter. The Wizengamot appreciates your commitment to justice." Harry's lips twisted in a sardonic smirk. Just a hint of one. "Can you tell me how Mrs Malfoy comes into this?"

He froze in his seat, colour draining from his face. Silence fell over the courtroom. The seconds ticked by, and Hermione frowned. Harry didn't move, just stared at the woman for a very long time, chest still, breathing stagnant. She watched him, watched the twitch of his eye, the way his glasses slipped down his nose and he neglected to push them back up, whispered his name under her breath, willing him to talk, willing him to somehow find the words.

Harry didn't talk about the war.

Hermione only knew bits of what happened at The Battle of Hogwarts; she knew what she'd seen and what she'd done, the scenes she'd strayed across that still haunted her- Lavender's waxy and ravaged neck, that same neck that Ron had kissed when it pulsed with vitality, now ripped open and oozing; Colin Creevy's tiny body dwarfed on the stretcher as he was carried to the Main Hall, the moonlight making his veins shine blue and cold; Ginny's scream, her throat-tearing, heart-breaking scream, as Hermione held her shoulders and told her about Fred; Fred-

She only heard snippets of everything else. Harry's role was little more than legend, the rumours and stories of his heroism still circulating the papers and school hallways nearly a year on. The war was still so fresh, like untracked snow, and though various people had asked him a couple times what actually happened in the forest, he had either smiled close-lipped, a secretive smile that was really nothing more than the taut stretching of his lips, or, if the question was more personal, suspended in an air that was fragile and intimate, he would explode.

Hermione had asked him once, the night of his birthday party. She'd found him alone in the Burrow kitchen, clutching the sink, chest heaving, eyes closed, glasses sweating with the steam from his breath. The summer air had been humid, heavy and unrelenting, pushing down on them, making her hair frizz and spark, and the din of the celebrations outside fell deaf on their ears as soon as the door had swung shut. Hermione had spotted him, asking him if he was alright before she could see the tension in his shoulders and the pain wrinkling his face, the question trailing off, lost in the humidity.

"Harry?"

He had inhaled sharply, falling forward. Hermione pressed a hand to his back, stopping at his side, recoiling when he flinched.

"Harry," she whispered. "Harry, what's wrong?"

But Harry hadn't replied, knuckles tightening on the sink, nails pressed into his palms. Her eyes flitted over every inch of him.

"It's just so-" he began after a long enduring stretch of silence, breaking off. Without warning, he punched the countertop so hard it splintered. "Hard! It's so hard, Hermione. I- I don't know how I'm meant to go on living when I-"

Hermione swallowed. She moved closer, resting her hand on his arm. "What, Harry?"

But Harry shook his head. His entire face screwed up, every line of it soaked with agony, anguish ripping through him, and he broke. She caught him against her body when his hands slipped, holding him up. "Harry," she murmured tentatively. "Harry, what happened in the forest?"

He went still, leaning into her. Hermione could hear every one of his breaths shake against her skin, his pulse racing so quickly she swore she could hear that too. "I can't, Hermione. I- I can't- I can't-"

Harry started to breathe heavily again, hyperventilating, fingers digging into her side. He pressed his forehead hard against her shoulder. Hermione rubbed his back, making soothing noises, keeping her voice level even as the tears fell from her eyes. "It's okay," she had said. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me."

And he didn't. Not that night. Not ever.

Now, Harry swallowed. His eyes darted behind his glasses, before falling on Narcissa, from whom he did not look elsewhere. His chest heaved.

"She saved my life."

Murmurs broke out, among the Wizengamot and the sparsely arranged audience in attendance. Ottaline Warbeck regarded him for a moment, her face giving nothing away. The woman on her left called for quiet.

"I went to confront Voldemort alone," continued Harry. "He tried to kill me but I survived. Narcissa was the one he sent to check… and she told him I was dead. She lied to him. She defied him. She asked me if Draco was alive and in return, she lied to Voldemort. That's the only reason I'm alive. It's the only reason Voldemort's dead and we're sitting here now. That's gotta stand for something, right?"

The Chief Warlock dipped her head in a solemn nod. "Indeed." She pressed her lips into a line, looking down at her papers and then across at Harry. "What do you suggest we do, Mr Potter?"

Harry regained a little bit of himself, lips curling in a slight smirk, pale colour entering his cheeks. "Honestly? I'd overrule your first sentence. She doesn't deserve Azkaban and you know it. I don't blame you. You had a lot of actual Death Eaters to deal with and Narcissa Malfoy was just an inconvenience to you."

"So you'd let her walk free?"

Hermione's eyes shot to the member of the Wizengamot who had spoken. She recognised him as the man from Draco's trial. Hawkworth sneered.

"You asked me honestly," said Harry, shrugging, but his face remained stoic.

The man leaned forward, hat slipping down his head, crimson robe swaying. "Is the Wizengamot some kind of joke to you, Mr Potter-?"

"Hawkworth, if you cannot control your outbursts, leave."

Hawkworth spluttered, rearing back and folding his arms firmly across his chest. He looked like he wanted to protest, but kept blissfully quiet. The Chief Warlock did not blink, merely continued to watch Harry.

"It would seem that the new evidence is overwhelming," she announced. "I see no reason for the jury to discuss. Mrs Malfoy will be promptly freed from Azkaban Prison. She will serve house arrest with specialised visits supervised by a Ministry-approved Auror. Mrs Malfoy, on behalf of the Wizengamot, we apologise for the injustice served to you. We are not a vindictive body. We strive for justice but the path to fairness is too often paved with unfair mistakes. Thank you, Mr Potter, for bringing your testimony forward to help us serve that justice. If that will be all. Trial adjourned."

Ottaline Warbeck stood, gathering her papers to her chest, and turned before the sentence could even be properly digested. The Wizengamot shuffled in their seats, buzzing with anxiety, a murmuring mass of confusion.

Hermione sat for a moment, sharing their shock. Harry blinked, then looked about the room, eyes scanning the audience. They caught hers. She nodded, dazed, and started her way down the bleacher, meeting him at the bottom of the steps.

"Miss Granger."

Hermione turned. Narcissa Malfoy stopped before her, still regal in her grey robes. She took her hands and clasped them within her own. "Thank you."

Hermione started to speak, small, incoherent excuses that she really had nothing to thank her for but Narcissa squeezed her hands, shaking her head, a small smile lighting her face. She looked younger when she smiled, though perhaps the weight of Azkaban had already been lifted from her slight shoulders.

"Hermione. Thank you. For my son and myself. My family is indebted to you. Irrevocably."

Suddenly hot, Hermione shook her head. "Oh- oh no, Mrs- Narcissa, please, you're not- I only did what anyone would do-"

"A lie," countered Narcissa, a touch amused. "But no matter. You're not just anyone. Neither are you, Mr Potter."

Still holding Hermione's hands, the Malfoy matriarch looked at Harry. She sobered, but the warmth remained in her eyes and face and the expression softened her. "You must know, Mr Potter, that I didn't lie to save you. I lied to save my son."

"I know," said Harry.

"I know you're not close with Draco," she continued. Her smile grew shrewd, eyes narrowing as though she was observing a particularly tricky puzzle. "Though I don't presume that this was in any way for me either."

Harry's lips quirked in a small, half-smile. "You didn't deserve Azkaban, Mrs Malfoy. Sometimes it really is that black and white."

Narcissa regarded him for a few moments longer, eyes flitting across his face. She blinked, then smiled, almost sadly.

A Healer approached from behind, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Narcissa nodded once. She squeezed Hermione's hands again, smiling at the two. "I hope to see you soon," she said, before turning on her heel and walking away, the Healer following behind her.

Hermione looked at Harry. He raised his eyebrows. "Well, that was odd."

She couldn't help herself. She laughed, wrapping an arm around his waist, falling into him as they left, muffling her laughter against his shirt. Her body thrummed with relief. She felt dizzy. She couldn't wait to tell Draco.

Hawkworth stopped them before they could escape the courtroom, hand snagging Harry's upper arm and drawing him back. Hermione stumbled away. He tugged Harry closer and snarled in his ear, "Are you trying to save all the Death Eaters, Mr Potter?"

Harry's gaze never even wavered. "Not at all. In fact, I believe we have the same intentions, sir."

"And what's that?"

Harry smiled. "Serving justice."

He pulled his arm free and touched Hermione's back, leading her from the room. Hawkworth didn't follow. As soon as they were out, Harry stepped away and said, "I need to get back to work. Said I'd drop in on Ron to let him know how it went."

"Oh."

Hermione stared at him. He flashed her a quick smile before setting off down the hallway.

"Harry," she called. His name was wrenched from her lips before she could stop it.

He turned to face her.

The corridor was deserted, the white walls so bright her eyes hurt, his name ricocheting off the equally white ceiling. Hermione felt like it was just the two of them left in the world, like she could feel his erratic and fragile heart beating on her skin, the same way it had done in the Burrow's kitchen that evening all those months ago. His lips quirked slightly, sadly. His head dropped.

"Ask me."

She swallowed, unable to move. "What happened in the forest?"

Harry's face twitched, crumbling then relaxing as he took a deep breath and said simply, "I died."

Hermione's breath left her. Something dropped in her stomach. She shook her head and whispered, "Harry, how-?"

"I was his last Horcrux, his mistake, the unintentional eighth. I was just like the others. I had to be destroyed... to destroy him. It was the only way to kill him. I knew that when I didn't come out of the forest, either you or Ron would finish it for me. So I let him kill me."

He spoke so simply but Hermione saw the agony etched deep into every line of his face. He looked suddenly older, not the eighteen year old he was, but tired and old, as though his very spirit was exhausted with living.

"I died Hermione and yet, here I am. I'm breathing. I'm here. Sometimes I have to check my pulse to make sure it's not my imagination. I sometimes wonder if some parts of me are still dead. If they never came back, I- I dunno. It's still hard for me to process."

His voice was a murmur, cracking with honesty, breaking from a truth that had weighed him down all these months. This was not an explosion. Harry did not pop; he deflated, finally worn down.

"Dumbledore raised you like a pig for slaughter," she said. Her voice was calm and tempered to her own ears, which surprised her. Inside, Hermione could feel her fury coiling, her blood boiling, the need to scream at the old man who had left the weight of the world on the shoulders of a child, and all the while known that he must die in the end.

"Yeah," said Harry. "He did." His eyes fell to the floor. His voice shook. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you-"

She finally moved towards him, cutting him off, holding him to her. He was warm and soft and home and the mere thought that she had been on a planet, even if only for a few short seconds, without Harry Potter, made Hermione tighten her grip on him. She hugged him closer to her, fingers clutching his shirt, head pressed deep into his shoulder.

"Don't," she said fiercely. "Don't you dare apologise. This wasn't your fault. He- Dumbledore should have never have put that on you."

"It's not just that-" Harry's voice was mumbled. She felt it reverberate against her skin. "I just- I don't know why- Why me, Hermione? Why not Fred? Why not Lupin and Tonks? Why did I get to survive when they all-?"

He cut off sharply.

"It's not your fault, Harry," was all Hermione whispered.

Harry's breath escaped him as a rush, almost as if he was breathing for the first time since that fateful night. "I've never told anyone that," he murmured into her hair. "I'm sorry."

oOo

The sun was low in the sky when Hermione returned to the castle, stepping out of the Headmistress' fireplace and patting herself down. McGonagall was sitting at her desk, marking essays. She glanced up, peering at her over her half-rimmed spectacles.

Hermione opened her mouth to speak-

"I'll not keep you, Miss Granger," said McGonagall, eyes returning to her work. "I'm sure you have somewhere to be."

Hermione closed her mouth and smiled, taking off from the Headmistress' office and trying very hard not to break into a run until she'd descended the spiral staircase and stepped out onto the school corridor.

She knew where he'd be. She knew he wouldn't have moved an inch since she left him at lunchtime.

Her heart raced, thrumming in exultation, desperate to find him and tell him, if only to grant him some reprieve, if only to help him sleep a few more hours at night-

She only stopped running when she got to the Room of Requirement. Draco stood up as soon as he saw her. They stared at one another, her chest heaving, his deceptively still.

"She's free," said Hermione, nodding, curls sticking to her cheeks.

She didn't have to say anything else. He was across the room in a heartbeat, throwing his arms around her and lifting her up, holding her to his body, burying his head in her hair. Hermione's arms wrapped around his neck in instinct. Draco was firm and unrelenting, pressed hard against her. He was crying, squeezing her tighter, his mouth was moving against the skin of her neck-

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," and he kept repeating it, each sob like a breath of clear air, each thanks like a whisper of a kiss.

AN: I know the film implies that Hermione realises that Harry has to die in order for Voldemort to be defeated when they say goodbye in the Battle of Hogwarts but I wasn't sure whether the books ever mentioned it, or even if Harry ever told anyone. My characterisation of Harry is as follows: I think he would have kept it to himself; I think dying would have really impacted him and shifted something inside of him, and that he can't now deal with the idea of his mortality and why he came back when so many others didn't. Harry is the literal embodiment of survivor's guilt and that's what I really wanted to convey when writing this chapter. Hence, his painful admission to Hermione. As well though, I think it must have been harrowing for Harry to realise that Dumbledore, whom he idolised and thought was his mentor and friend, simply used him as another pawn to be moved around. This is only my interpretation, none of this fic is even remotely canon, just loosely inspired by book/film events. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter despite the lack of Dramione.