Disclaimer: If you still think these characters are mine, there is nothing
I can do to dissuade you at this point. Please don't sue.
Dear Readers: Thanks for the reviews! Any more you choose to bestow will be greatly appreciated. I must apologize for the last two chapters. I know they are quite hurried and would have benefited from more padding (for example, more convincing of Harry to go the United States, and more detail of his work there), but I was just too impatient to get to this chapter, which is the whole reason I decided not to end this story at chapter 16.
Chapter 19: The People vs. Draco Malfoy
Draco was only held in custody for five days before he was administered Veritaserum and led, in cuffs, to the stand. He had spent the last forty hours sitting on the floor of his cell, repetitively hitting his head against the wall, not sleeping and refusing food and water, at least according to the guard who had accompanied him to the courtroom. Draco couldn't remember anything after being informed several days ago that he was going to stand trial for being a death eater. It was a blank, and it felt as though he had only been told a few hours earlier. His attorney had come by, apparently, and had talked to him, but he couldn't remember that either. Not that it mattered, he would have to answer all questions truthfully with or without preparation; the visit had been more to assure that his attorney would ask the right questions.
Trials in the magical world differed significantly from those in the muggle world. Most importantly, they tended not to take much time, as very little evidence needed to be presented and very few witnesses called forth, Veritaserum ensuring that anything said would be the truth. All that needed to be assured was that the right questions be asked so that the whole truth could come out - consequently, the prosecution/defence duality still existed, with a jury to judge.
And so Draco was sitting in the chair on the stand, waiting for the proceeds to begin. He looked absolutely unflappable, but inside he was filled with fear and self hatred and an absolute sense of horror and dread. He was so stupid, so fucking stupid, to think that he was safe to lead a 'normal' life, just because those murderous, perverted bastards that had terrorized his life for years were dead. But of course, the past was not dead. The past would never be dead.
Looking at the hostile faces that glared at him from the gallery, he was terrified and he shrunk back into his chair. Though he had never articulated the fear, even to himself, it became clear to him why he had always clung so desperately to secrecy. His wounds were too deep, his weaknesses too critical, and the hatred towards him too dangerous. This exposure would kill him, of this he was sure.
The chaos was slowly ordering and quieting. Soon now, the trial would begin in earnest. Draco's eyes flicked around nervously, taking in the presence of Darren Wellington in the prosecutor's seat (who he recognized from the Daily Prophet articles on death eater trials and who was sitting next to Percy Weasley); a tired, defeated man was sitting in what he figured was the defence seat, and twelve unfriendly looking jurors were placed near the wall. Finally, his eyes rested on two faces that he recognized in the gallery - Ron and Hermione, released from classes by McGonagall, who had some idea, through her connection to the dying Dumbledore, of young Malfoy's role in the conclusion of the war.
Hermione smiled weakly at Malfoy, trying to show support, but Malfoy was looking pasty and ill, increasingly covered with a fine sheen of sweat. In fact, he was beginning to feel like he might pass out, but then the trial began and his survival instincts kicked in, bringing everything into focus. Wellington was saying something to the jury, then he approached the stand.
"Are you Draco Malfoy?," he asked pompously, clearly revelling in the positive attention he was receiving as the man about to put another disgusting death eater behind bars. The fact that Draco was a minor was far outweighed by the fact that he was Lucius Malfoy's son.
"I am," Malfoy responded indifferently, but quickly, before the Veritaserum could pull the answer from him.
"And are you, Mr. Malfoy, the son of the infamous Lucius Malfoy?"
"In blood and name yes, but he was no father to me," Malfoy replied, grimacing as the Versatium made him answer completely: in truth, he would almost rather be convicted of being a death eater than for the truth to come out. However, the prosecution ignored his phrasing, clearly not interested in any mitigating circumstances.
"Are you a death eater, Mr. Malfoy?"
"No." Draco tried to sound smug, though it was a poor attempt, but he was definitely pleased at the surprise on the persecutor's face.
"How can you say that, Mr. Malfoy?," Barrister Wellington asked, sounding wary.
"I was never initiated, nor do I have the Dark Mark." This time his smugness was more real. Die you ungrateful shit!
"Have you ever participated in or contributed to death eater violence?"
Malfoy suddenly felt nauseous and confused enough not to be able to answer the question immediately, even with the help of the Veritaserum. Finally, he reluctantly said, "Yes."
The burly prosecutor looked like he wanted to grin, but his sense of occasion kept him from something that indecorous. "In what way?"
"Both Voldemort and my father received power boosts from me." Malfoy felt a panic attack coming on and he began to shake perceptively; and there was actually a boo from the audience.
Wellington's eyes narrowed suspiciously, not sure where this was leading. "Through what means, Mr. Malfoy?"
Malfoy felt horribly cold, as icy fear streaked through him, willing himself desperately not to speak. With a hung head, he mumbled, "Through the power transfer spell."
"What, Mr. Malfoy? I couldn't hear you."
The condescending tone provoked such hostility in him that he actually yelled his reply, "THROUGH THE POWER TRANSFER SPELL, you poncy, deaf mother fucker!"
There was a hush of silence and some confused whispers, and Malfoy gave an unpleasant smirk. He liked shocking people, and everyone looked either shocked or confused. Many didn't know what the power transfer spell was, and those who did didn't know very much about it. Wellington, however, did know something on the subject, and when he finally regained his composure, he asked, rather sceptically, "Are you claiming to be a Giver, Mr. Malfoy?"
There was collective gasp from the gallery, where Hermione was watching stoically and Ron was thumbing his forehead with the heal of his palm. Malfoy's face contorted into a dangerous expression of intense, murderous hatred. "Yes," he hissed.
"You mean to say," Wellington said, definitely finding his footing again. "That you, a mythical Giver, a supposedly wondrous and mystical creature of fairytales, gave your power to Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy?"
Malfoy was torn between humiliation, self hatred, and rage. He wanted to yell, that it wasn't his fault, that he'd been forced, tortured, raped; but the Veritaserum wouldn't let him, for those were not his true feelings. Whatever the truth may actually be, Veritaserum only allows for the truth according to individual under its power. So Malfoy fought back tears, and he said, "Yes. I let them do it."
"THAT'S NOT TRUE!," Hermione suddenly yelled from the gallery where she was standing angrily. There was some commotion, then she was led from the courtroom by two guards. Ron tried to follow but she loudly told him to stay. When everything had settled down again, Wellington again turned to Malfoy with a predatory look on his face.
"Have you ever killed anyone, Mr. Malfoy?"
Malfoy gritted his teeth then forced out a yes.
This time the burly attorney did allow himself a malicious smile. "How many people have you killed?"
Malfoy's face flushed an angry pink. "I couldn't say for certain."
"Can you give a guess?"
"Somewhere around a thousand." The announcement was, of course, followed by sounds of shock and disgust throughout the courtroom. Malfoy's eyes narrowed with hate and he just wanted to yell at them to sentence him to death already.
"Do you feel any guilt, Mr. Malfoy?"
"None at all," came the deadpan reply. You prick.
"Can you give us any names to go with that astonishing number, Mr. Malfoy?," Wellington asked, knowing that a few names and faces would make the unbelievable figure that much more real to the jury.
"I don't know the names of most of them," Malfoy said and he actually would have left it at that, had the Veritaserum forced out more. "I know my father and Goyle, Sr. were two of them. And anyone else in the Ministry the day it blew."
The silence that followed was deafening and deadly, and almost a miracle considering the number of people in the room. Finally, the prosecution asked in an incredulous voice, "Are you taking responsibility for destroying the Ministry?"
"Yes," Malfoy responded viciously. If he had to reveal the truth, he would get as much satisfaction out of it as possible.
"How?," Wellington asked, still too surprised to come up with a better question and also hoping that Malfoy's explanation would prove unreasonable.
"Through ancient hate magic. I forfeited my life and that of my worst enemy. That someone was able to save me from dying was probably my first lucky break ever," Malfoy said angrily and sarcastically.
"That feat is attributed to Harry Potter," Wellington responded.
It wasn't a question, so the Veritaserum couldn't make him reply, but he wanted to - his anger at Harry was reason enough. "Then dose him up on truth serum, put him on the stand, and I'll guarantee that he won't be able to claim it was him."
Wellington was stumped. This was his ninth high profile death eater case, and it was turning into the only one that had encountered such bizarre circumstances. Still, he was determined to win this one, just as he had won the previous eight. "Have you ever killed any innocent people?"
"No one is innocent," Malfoy replied smugly, as the Veritaserum accepted his reply.
"Then let me rephrase, Mr. Malfoy," Wellington said sarcastically. "Have you ever killed anyone who wasn't a death eater?"
"Yes. The Muggles above the Ministry died when the buildings collapsed."
The prosecution was obviously displeased with this answer (though the jury and audience was enraptured), and he decided it was time to retreat and regroup, yielding the floor to the defence.
The defence attorney, who introduced himself as Barrister Summers, was a withered, defeated man, prematurely aged by having lost handfuls of what he considered children to death eater charges. There was simply no sympathy for death eaters, even the minors; but he had hopes for this trial, and it could be seen in the twitching of lips, and in the excitement in his eyes.
"Draco," Summers started kindly. "You said that you let the Dark Lord and your father take your energy. What exactly does the energy transfer spell entail?"
Draco actually snarled at him, and there were a few surprised grunts from the gallery. He knew his attorney was trying to save him from a death sentence, but would rather have taken his chances than let this knowledge come out. His voice dripped hatred as the Veritaserum forced out his answer. "You must have sex with the receiver, who chants the words when your mind is blank enough to allow the transfer. And, of course, there are stupid smelly candles."
A number of the faces in the jury and gallery went pale, as the full implications of what he was saying sunk in. Ron looked about to throw up, only now understanding why Harry and Hermione had stood up so resolutely for the Slytherin.
Summers, however, was indifferent to Draco's hatred; indeed, he had encountered it before in Draco's cell, but he was going to get the boy off no matter what and he knew exactly what he was doing. "So your father and Voldemort both had sex with you?"
"Yes," Draco gritted out, face aflame with humiliation and loathing (both for himself and for the world).
"Starting at what age?"
Draco's rage was beginning to cause him to hyperventilate, but the truth serum continued to force out answers. "Six, I think, (breathe) for my father. (Breathe) Fifteen for Voldemort."
"And how, precisely, did your father and the Dark Lord make your mind blank?"
Draco was breathing deeply now, his eyes closed, trying to the ease the panic attack that was threatening to engulf him. "Through pain. If there's enough pain, the mental barriers go down and the energy can flow out."
Summers was still cool and collected, certainly the only person in that room who was. "So, were you tortured as part of this transfer?"
Draco nodded weakly, but Summers needed words for the record. "Out loud please, Draco."
"Yes," the ghostly boy croaked.
"Draco, did you really let this happen to you? Or were you forced?. . . Were you raped, Draco?"
The thin frame began to tremble violently, and he hunched over, covering his face with his hands, before finally moaning, "I don't know. I don't know. I dunno. I dunno."
"The defence rests its case."
*
There were more gruelling questions the next day, but not really any more surprises, except that Cornelius Fudge had shown up for the verdict. He was decidedly unpleased with it too, despite the fact that the unique outcome had been obvious even the day before - Draco Malfoy was found not guilty, though he walked out of the courtroom looking like he had been sentenced to death. In his mind, he had. The Daily Prophet had guaranteed that his name, face, and story were known throughout the British Isles. As if the humiliation of having the world know he had been raped by the two worst villains in recent history wasn't enough, the world also knew he was a Giver and this not only put his own life at great jeopardy, but also the lives of any other Givers. For centuries now, they had been safe because the world thought them myths, and now this safety had been torn away, making Draco feel as Judas must have.
However, despite being judged not guilty, Acting Minister Fudge had ordered him held in custody in the Ministry, both for his own protection (supposedly) and for the protection of the people against anyone who may want to use the young Giver. So Draco traded one cell for another, so that now he was in a white, sparsely furnished room that reminded him horribly of the first six years of his life, spent locked away in a white room such as this. His lawyer was throwing a legal fit, but there was little he could do, as Fudge's actions were supported by general public opinion: Draco was pitied, but as a potential weapon of evil, he was feared more.
He was, however, allowed the occasional guest - not that there was anyone who would really visit. Severus Snape and Narcissa visited two days after his verdict had been pronounced, and Hermione and Ron came two days later, on the first Saturday.
"Merlin, Malfoy, you look like shit," Ron said immediately upon entering the room, but his was tone was sympathetic. Hermione elbowed him, though even she had to admit that it was true: Draco had looked bad at the trial, but he had certainly deteriorated. His hair was dirty and unkept, his skin sallow, and his normally thin frame emaciated. And the white room had inspired nightmares the force of which he had not experienced in many years, and as a consequence he almost never slept.
Hermione walked to him and bent down to where he was huddled on his mattress on the floor, barely noticing his guests. "Draco, are you okay?"
After a pause, Draco struggled weakly to sit up, his voice as lifeless as his eyes. "As well as can be expected."
Hermoine's face was etched with worry, and she slowly and deliberately reached a hand out for Draco, who, for once, did not flinch away, but rather looked curiously at their entwined hands. "I'm so sorry," Hermione comforted, before continuing on forcefully. "What they're doing to you is so wrong! I can't believe it! It's disgusting and outrageous! I've been writing to Fudge and the Daily Prophet and loads of other people about this!"
Ron nodded awkwardly. "And to Harry."
Hermione had purposely left that name out, but it got an unexpected reaction. Draco started chuckling, then laughing outright, then laughing hysterically. Ron and Hermione looked at him like he was insane (something that he was from time to time). When his laughter subsided, he asked, "Make me laugh some more. It's been ages. What did he say?"
Now Ron was confronted with exactly why Hermione had not wanted to mention Harry - Harry had not responded to their letter about the trial at all, and their letter about Draco's confinement had received only a short reply that failed to mention anything about Draco at all, except for the standard ending, "How's Draco?" Indeed, Harry's letters had been getting shorter and further between, despite the fact that Ron and Hermione continued to write at least twice a week. It seemed excessively callus, especially for Harry, and it was highly irregular. There was no obvious explanation for the scant letters, but Ron agreed with Hermione's suspicions that it probably related to Harry's own suspicions regarding the American government. The more Hermione told Ron about the intricacies and history of that government, and of the Department of Magical Affairs in particular, the more Ron worried for his absent friend.
"We're not even sure that he's receiving our letters," Hermione finally said, to which Draco released a giggle that luckily did not progress into another full fledged laughing fit. Then he stilled, and rubbed his eyes and temples for a moment. "I have to get of here," he said, sounding suddenly lucid. "This place is driving me batty."
"This place is killing you!," Ron said, surprised by the emotion in his own voice. He honestly didn't know how to feel about Draco - he still harbored anger and dislike for the Slytherin - but he cared anyway. He supposed he could only watch someone be on the receiving end of a raft of shift for so long before he began to empathize. He had seen Draco try to please Harry, try to integrate into Harry's friendship circle, try to live unobtrusively, and somehow the punishment kept coming. He agreed now with Hermione: Draco didn't deserve all that he had been through, and it made him want to make it up to him for the fact that the world had been such a bitch to him.
Draco gazed up into Ron's eyes, and the look they shared was the most real that had ever passed between the two boys. "I know," he said, then he turned to Hermione. "What about Dumbledore?"
Hermione shook her head. "He's not expected to last through the week. He's not even conscious, let alone coherent most of the time."
"I don't suppose I'd last long enough for a hunger strike to do anything but kill me," Draco joked humourlessly. Hermione tried to smile, but Ron just looked disturbed.
Draco sighed tiredly, then leaned against the wall. Hermione crawled onto the bed and leaned on the wall next to him, so that their shoulders touched. She looked at his exhausted face and hooded eyes. "Are you sleeping at all, Draco?"
Draco shook his head, then closed his eyes all the way. "This place gives me nightmares like nothing else."
"It does kinda creep me out," Ron replied, looking around.
"It reminds me of my childhood room," Draco mumbled, resting on Hermione's shoulder - the presence of Hermione and Ron was giving him an unexpected respite from the fear of falling asleep, and his body could not help but take advantage of it. Seeing Draco nod off, Hermione motioned Ron to take Draco's other side. Ron moved to sit on his other side, and together they propped up the slouched figure. They stayed with him for four hours, sometimes whispering softly to each other, but mostly just thinking morosely. When they finally had to leave, it was the longest period of uninterrupted sleep he had had in eleven days.
*
Harry and Brennen got dressed, and Harry spent the rest of the night coaching Brennan to be 'Draco', knowing that Brennan's previous poor performance would make his acceptance of that performance all that more incredible. Brennan morphed back into 'Draco', and perfected his upper class English accent, and imitated Draco's mannerisms. By the time morning came, Brennan was a pretty good copy of the real Draco, and even Harry was impressed.
He tried not to think of how awful what he was doing was. It didn't matter that Draco had told him to fuck off and never come back, he was still betraying him. Harry didn't know what he felt worse about - the fact that he had slept with someone else or the fact that he was replacing Draco with a copy. He repressed and ignored his guilt, telling himself that nothing was happening between him and Brennan.
And nothing was, not really. 'Draco' travelled everywhere with Harry, except on raids and to restricted government meetings; and, of course, they slept in the same bed, but Harry never tried anything. 'Draco' was clingy and adoring, much more so than the real Draco, and as a week passed, then two, it became increasingly apparent that it was, in fact, Brennan who was clingy and adoring. To make the separation of the truth and the acting easier, Harry made Brennan morph back into himself every night, though it was obvious that the American did so reluctantly, desperately liking his new life as 'Draco'. Nor did it escape Harry's attention that Brennan snuggled close to him every night.
The situation was unsustainable. Harry was having difficulties recognizing what which lines were being blurred and which decisions were the right ones. He wanted to go home.
XXXXX
Please, please, please review! You will be rewarded with my undying gratitude and devotion, and it may speed up the rate at which I churn out the next chapter.
Dear Readers: Thanks for the reviews! Any more you choose to bestow will be greatly appreciated. I must apologize for the last two chapters. I know they are quite hurried and would have benefited from more padding (for example, more convincing of Harry to go the United States, and more detail of his work there), but I was just too impatient to get to this chapter, which is the whole reason I decided not to end this story at chapter 16.
Chapter 19: The People vs. Draco Malfoy
Draco was only held in custody for five days before he was administered Veritaserum and led, in cuffs, to the stand. He had spent the last forty hours sitting on the floor of his cell, repetitively hitting his head against the wall, not sleeping and refusing food and water, at least according to the guard who had accompanied him to the courtroom. Draco couldn't remember anything after being informed several days ago that he was going to stand trial for being a death eater. It was a blank, and it felt as though he had only been told a few hours earlier. His attorney had come by, apparently, and had talked to him, but he couldn't remember that either. Not that it mattered, he would have to answer all questions truthfully with or without preparation; the visit had been more to assure that his attorney would ask the right questions.
Trials in the magical world differed significantly from those in the muggle world. Most importantly, they tended not to take much time, as very little evidence needed to be presented and very few witnesses called forth, Veritaserum ensuring that anything said would be the truth. All that needed to be assured was that the right questions be asked so that the whole truth could come out - consequently, the prosecution/defence duality still existed, with a jury to judge.
And so Draco was sitting in the chair on the stand, waiting for the proceeds to begin. He looked absolutely unflappable, but inside he was filled with fear and self hatred and an absolute sense of horror and dread. He was so stupid, so fucking stupid, to think that he was safe to lead a 'normal' life, just because those murderous, perverted bastards that had terrorized his life for years were dead. But of course, the past was not dead. The past would never be dead.
Looking at the hostile faces that glared at him from the gallery, he was terrified and he shrunk back into his chair. Though he had never articulated the fear, even to himself, it became clear to him why he had always clung so desperately to secrecy. His wounds were too deep, his weaknesses too critical, and the hatred towards him too dangerous. This exposure would kill him, of this he was sure.
The chaos was slowly ordering and quieting. Soon now, the trial would begin in earnest. Draco's eyes flicked around nervously, taking in the presence of Darren Wellington in the prosecutor's seat (who he recognized from the Daily Prophet articles on death eater trials and who was sitting next to Percy Weasley); a tired, defeated man was sitting in what he figured was the defence seat, and twelve unfriendly looking jurors were placed near the wall. Finally, his eyes rested on two faces that he recognized in the gallery - Ron and Hermione, released from classes by McGonagall, who had some idea, through her connection to the dying Dumbledore, of young Malfoy's role in the conclusion of the war.
Hermione smiled weakly at Malfoy, trying to show support, but Malfoy was looking pasty and ill, increasingly covered with a fine sheen of sweat. In fact, he was beginning to feel like he might pass out, but then the trial began and his survival instincts kicked in, bringing everything into focus. Wellington was saying something to the jury, then he approached the stand.
"Are you Draco Malfoy?," he asked pompously, clearly revelling in the positive attention he was receiving as the man about to put another disgusting death eater behind bars. The fact that Draco was a minor was far outweighed by the fact that he was Lucius Malfoy's son.
"I am," Malfoy responded indifferently, but quickly, before the Veritaserum could pull the answer from him.
"And are you, Mr. Malfoy, the son of the infamous Lucius Malfoy?"
"In blood and name yes, but he was no father to me," Malfoy replied, grimacing as the Versatium made him answer completely: in truth, he would almost rather be convicted of being a death eater than for the truth to come out. However, the prosecution ignored his phrasing, clearly not interested in any mitigating circumstances.
"Are you a death eater, Mr. Malfoy?"
"No." Draco tried to sound smug, though it was a poor attempt, but he was definitely pleased at the surprise on the persecutor's face.
"How can you say that, Mr. Malfoy?," Barrister Wellington asked, sounding wary.
"I was never initiated, nor do I have the Dark Mark." This time his smugness was more real. Die you ungrateful shit!
"Have you ever participated in or contributed to death eater violence?"
Malfoy suddenly felt nauseous and confused enough not to be able to answer the question immediately, even with the help of the Veritaserum. Finally, he reluctantly said, "Yes."
The burly prosecutor looked like he wanted to grin, but his sense of occasion kept him from something that indecorous. "In what way?"
"Both Voldemort and my father received power boosts from me." Malfoy felt a panic attack coming on and he began to shake perceptively; and there was actually a boo from the audience.
Wellington's eyes narrowed suspiciously, not sure where this was leading. "Through what means, Mr. Malfoy?"
Malfoy felt horribly cold, as icy fear streaked through him, willing himself desperately not to speak. With a hung head, he mumbled, "Through the power transfer spell."
"What, Mr. Malfoy? I couldn't hear you."
The condescending tone provoked such hostility in him that he actually yelled his reply, "THROUGH THE POWER TRANSFER SPELL, you poncy, deaf mother fucker!"
There was a hush of silence and some confused whispers, and Malfoy gave an unpleasant smirk. He liked shocking people, and everyone looked either shocked or confused. Many didn't know what the power transfer spell was, and those who did didn't know very much about it. Wellington, however, did know something on the subject, and when he finally regained his composure, he asked, rather sceptically, "Are you claiming to be a Giver, Mr. Malfoy?"
There was collective gasp from the gallery, where Hermione was watching stoically and Ron was thumbing his forehead with the heal of his palm. Malfoy's face contorted into a dangerous expression of intense, murderous hatred. "Yes," he hissed.
"You mean to say," Wellington said, definitely finding his footing again. "That you, a mythical Giver, a supposedly wondrous and mystical creature of fairytales, gave your power to Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy?"
Malfoy was torn between humiliation, self hatred, and rage. He wanted to yell, that it wasn't his fault, that he'd been forced, tortured, raped; but the Veritaserum wouldn't let him, for those were not his true feelings. Whatever the truth may actually be, Veritaserum only allows for the truth according to individual under its power. So Malfoy fought back tears, and he said, "Yes. I let them do it."
"THAT'S NOT TRUE!," Hermione suddenly yelled from the gallery where she was standing angrily. There was some commotion, then she was led from the courtroom by two guards. Ron tried to follow but she loudly told him to stay. When everything had settled down again, Wellington again turned to Malfoy with a predatory look on his face.
"Have you ever killed anyone, Mr. Malfoy?"
Malfoy gritted his teeth then forced out a yes.
This time the burly attorney did allow himself a malicious smile. "How many people have you killed?"
Malfoy's face flushed an angry pink. "I couldn't say for certain."
"Can you give a guess?"
"Somewhere around a thousand." The announcement was, of course, followed by sounds of shock and disgust throughout the courtroom. Malfoy's eyes narrowed with hate and he just wanted to yell at them to sentence him to death already.
"Do you feel any guilt, Mr. Malfoy?"
"None at all," came the deadpan reply. You prick.
"Can you give us any names to go with that astonishing number, Mr. Malfoy?," Wellington asked, knowing that a few names and faces would make the unbelievable figure that much more real to the jury.
"I don't know the names of most of them," Malfoy said and he actually would have left it at that, had the Veritaserum forced out more. "I know my father and Goyle, Sr. were two of them. And anyone else in the Ministry the day it blew."
The silence that followed was deafening and deadly, and almost a miracle considering the number of people in the room. Finally, the prosecution asked in an incredulous voice, "Are you taking responsibility for destroying the Ministry?"
"Yes," Malfoy responded viciously. If he had to reveal the truth, he would get as much satisfaction out of it as possible.
"How?," Wellington asked, still too surprised to come up with a better question and also hoping that Malfoy's explanation would prove unreasonable.
"Through ancient hate magic. I forfeited my life and that of my worst enemy. That someone was able to save me from dying was probably my first lucky break ever," Malfoy said angrily and sarcastically.
"That feat is attributed to Harry Potter," Wellington responded.
It wasn't a question, so the Veritaserum couldn't make him reply, but he wanted to - his anger at Harry was reason enough. "Then dose him up on truth serum, put him on the stand, and I'll guarantee that he won't be able to claim it was him."
Wellington was stumped. This was his ninth high profile death eater case, and it was turning into the only one that had encountered such bizarre circumstances. Still, he was determined to win this one, just as he had won the previous eight. "Have you ever killed any innocent people?"
"No one is innocent," Malfoy replied smugly, as the Veritaserum accepted his reply.
"Then let me rephrase, Mr. Malfoy," Wellington said sarcastically. "Have you ever killed anyone who wasn't a death eater?"
"Yes. The Muggles above the Ministry died when the buildings collapsed."
The prosecution was obviously displeased with this answer (though the jury and audience was enraptured), and he decided it was time to retreat and regroup, yielding the floor to the defence.
The defence attorney, who introduced himself as Barrister Summers, was a withered, defeated man, prematurely aged by having lost handfuls of what he considered children to death eater charges. There was simply no sympathy for death eaters, even the minors; but he had hopes for this trial, and it could be seen in the twitching of lips, and in the excitement in his eyes.
"Draco," Summers started kindly. "You said that you let the Dark Lord and your father take your energy. What exactly does the energy transfer spell entail?"
Draco actually snarled at him, and there were a few surprised grunts from the gallery. He knew his attorney was trying to save him from a death sentence, but would rather have taken his chances than let this knowledge come out. His voice dripped hatred as the Veritaserum forced out his answer. "You must have sex with the receiver, who chants the words when your mind is blank enough to allow the transfer. And, of course, there are stupid smelly candles."
A number of the faces in the jury and gallery went pale, as the full implications of what he was saying sunk in. Ron looked about to throw up, only now understanding why Harry and Hermione had stood up so resolutely for the Slytherin.
Summers, however, was indifferent to Draco's hatred; indeed, he had encountered it before in Draco's cell, but he was going to get the boy off no matter what and he knew exactly what he was doing. "So your father and Voldemort both had sex with you?"
"Yes," Draco gritted out, face aflame with humiliation and loathing (both for himself and for the world).
"Starting at what age?"
Draco's rage was beginning to cause him to hyperventilate, but the truth serum continued to force out answers. "Six, I think, (breathe) for my father. (Breathe) Fifteen for Voldemort."
"And how, precisely, did your father and the Dark Lord make your mind blank?"
Draco was breathing deeply now, his eyes closed, trying to the ease the panic attack that was threatening to engulf him. "Through pain. If there's enough pain, the mental barriers go down and the energy can flow out."
Summers was still cool and collected, certainly the only person in that room who was. "So, were you tortured as part of this transfer?"
Draco nodded weakly, but Summers needed words for the record. "Out loud please, Draco."
"Yes," the ghostly boy croaked.
"Draco, did you really let this happen to you? Or were you forced?. . . Were you raped, Draco?"
The thin frame began to tremble violently, and he hunched over, covering his face with his hands, before finally moaning, "I don't know. I don't know. I dunno. I dunno."
"The defence rests its case."
*
There were more gruelling questions the next day, but not really any more surprises, except that Cornelius Fudge had shown up for the verdict. He was decidedly unpleased with it too, despite the fact that the unique outcome had been obvious even the day before - Draco Malfoy was found not guilty, though he walked out of the courtroom looking like he had been sentenced to death. In his mind, he had. The Daily Prophet had guaranteed that his name, face, and story were known throughout the British Isles. As if the humiliation of having the world know he had been raped by the two worst villains in recent history wasn't enough, the world also knew he was a Giver and this not only put his own life at great jeopardy, but also the lives of any other Givers. For centuries now, they had been safe because the world thought them myths, and now this safety had been torn away, making Draco feel as Judas must have.
However, despite being judged not guilty, Acting Minister Fudge had ordered him held in custody in the Ministry, both for his own protection (supposedly) and for the protection of the people against anyone who may want to use the young Giver. So Draco traded one cell for another, so that now he was in a white, sparsely furnished room that reminded him horribly of the first six years of his life, spent locked away in a white room such as this. His lawyer was throwing a legal fit, but there was little he could do, as Fudge's actions were supported by general public opinion: Draco was pitied, but as a potential weapon of evil, he was feared more.
He was, however, allowed the occasional guest - not that there was anyone who would really visit. Severus Snape and Narcissa visited two days after his verdict had been pronounced, and Hermione and Ron came two days later, on the first Saturday.
"Merlin, Malfoy, you look like shit," Ron said immediately upon entering the room, but his was tone was sympathetic. Hermione elbowed him, though even she had to admit that it was true: Draco had looked bad at the trial, but he had certainly deteriorated. His hair was dirty and unkept, his skin sallow, and his normally thin frame emaciated. And the white room had inspired nightmares the force of which he had not experienced in many years, and as a consequence he almost never slept.
Hermione walked to him and bent down to where he was huddled on his mattress on the floor, barely noticing his guests. "Draco, are you okay?"
After a pause, Draco struggled weakly to sit up, his voice as lifeless as his eyes. "As well as can be expected."
Hermoine's face was etched with worry, and she slowly and deliberately reached a hand out for Draco, who, for once, did not flinch away, but rather looked curiously at their entwined hands. "I'm so sorry," Hermione comforted, before continuing on forcefully. "What they're doing to you is so wrong! I can't believe it! It's disgusting and outrageous! I've been writing to Fudge and the Daily Prophet and loads of other people about this!"
Ron nodded awkwardly. "And to Harry."
Hermione had purposely left that name out, but it got an unexpected reaction. Draco started chuckling, then laughing outright, then laughing hysterically. Ron and Hermione looked at him like he was insane (something that he was from time to time). When his laughter subsided, he asked, "Make me laugh some more. It's been ages. What did he say?"
Now Ron was confronted with exactly why Hermione had not wanted to mention Harry - Harry had not responded to their letter about the trial at all, and their letter about Draco's confinement had received only a short reply that failed to mention anything about Draco at all, except for the standard ending, "How's Draco?" Indeed, Harry's letters had been getting shorter and further between, despite the fact that Ron and Hermione continued to write at least twice a week. It seemed excessively callus, especially for Harry, and it was highly irregular. There was no obvious explanation for the scant letters, but Ron agreed with Hermione's suspicions that it probably related to Harry's own suspicions regarding the American government. The more Hermione told Ron about the intricacies and history of that government, and of the Department of Magical Affairs in particular, the more Ron worried for his absent friend.
"We're not even sure that he's receiving our letters," Hermione finally said, to which Draco released a giggle that luckily did not progress into another full fledged laughing fit. Then he stilled, and rubbed his eyes and temples for a moment. "I have to get of here," he said, sounding suddenly lucid. "This place is driving me batty."
"This place is killing you!," Ron said, surprised by the emotion in his own voice. He honestly didn't know how to feel about Draco - he still harbored anger and dislike for the Slytherin - but he cared anyway. He supposed he could only watch someone be on the receiving end of a raft of shift for so long before he began to empathize. He had seen Draco try to please Harry, try to integrate into Harry's friendship circle, try to live unobtrusively, and somehow the punishment kept coming. He agreed now with Hermione: Draco didn't deserve all that he had been through, and it made him want to make it up to him for the fact that the world had been such a bitch to him.
Draco gazed up into Ron's eyes, and the look they shared was the most real that had ever passed between the two boys. "I know," he said, then he turned to Hermione. "What about Dumbledore?"
Hermione shook her head. "He's not expected to last through the week. He's not even conscious, let alone coherent most of the time."
"I don't suppose I'd last long enough for a hunger strike to do anything but kill me," Draco joked humourlessly. Hermione tried to smile, but Ron just looked disturbed.
Draco sighed tiredly, then leaned against the wall. Hermione crawled onto the bed and leaned on the wall next to him, so that their shoulders touched. She looked at his exhausted face and hooded eyes. "Are you sleeping at all, Draco?"
Draco shook his head, then closed his eyes all the way. "This place gives me nightmares like nothing else."
"It does kinda creep me out," Ron replied, looking around.
"It reminds me of my childhood room," Draco mumbled, resting on Hermione's shoulder - the presence of Hermione and Ron was giving him an unexpected respite from the fear of falling asleep, and his body could not help but take advantage of it. Seeing Draco nod off, Hermione motioned Ron to take Draco's other side. Ron moved to sit on his other side, and together they propped up the slouched figure. They stayed with him for four hours, sometimes whispering softly to each other, but mostly just thinking morosely. When they finally had to leave, it was the longest period of uninterrupted sleep he had had in eleven days.
*
Harry and Brennen got dressed, and Harry spent the rest of the night coaching Brennan to be 'Draco', knowing that Brennan's previous poor performance would make his acceptance of that performance all that more incredible. Brennan morphed back into 'Draco', and perfected his upper class English accent, and imitated Draco's mannerisms. By the time morning came, Brennan was a pretty good copy of the real Draco, and even Harry was impressed.
He tried not to think of how awful what he was doing was. It didn't matter that Draco had told him to fuck off and never come back, he was still betraying him. Harry didn't know what he felt worse about - the fact that he had slept with someone else or the fact that he was replacing Draco with a copy. He repressed and ignored his guilt, telling himself that nothing was happening between him and Brennan.
And nothing was, not really. 'Draco' travelled everywhere with Harry, except on raids and to restricted government meetings; and, of course, they slept in the same bed, but Harry never tried anything. 'Draco' was clingy and adoring, much more so than the real Draco, and as a week passed, then two, it became increasingly apparent that it was, in fact, Brennan who was clingy and adoring. To make the separation of the truth and the acting easier, Harry made Brennan morph back into himself every night, though it was obvious that the American did so reluctantly, desperately liking his new life as 'Draco'. Nor did it escape Harry's attention that Brennan snuggled close to him every night.
The situation was unsustainable. Harry was having difficulties recognizing what which lines were being blurred and which decisions were the right ones. He wanted to go home.
XXXXX
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