A/N: This one was a real struggle for me. I have no idea how trials actually work, and it probably isn't even the right word to describe what's happening here. If there are any egregious errors, please let me know and I'll do my best to correct them. I based this chapter on the trials we have observed throughout the series. Regardless, I hope you enjoy the chapter! :)
Chapter Nine: Punishment
Friday, May 8, 1998: Late Morning
They escort me inside like cattle, leading me over to one of two identical chairs in the middle of the room. The torchlight is reflected on their pristine metallic faces, countless yellow eyes focusing in on my every move. I glance up to find the prosecutor staring down at me. He isn't anyone I recognise. Broad-shouldered, bearded, and wearing an eye patch. The one dark eye gazing at me is penetrating but not unkind. The lines on his face soften as he takes me in. Perhaps I will leave this place a free man after all. The look he gives my father is far less understanding, and I cannot force myself to feel bad for the former Death Eater.
I sit without being asked and immediately regret it. Chains snake up from the arms of the chair. They glow a hideous, blinding gold and hasten to gleefully ensnare my arms and legs, so tight that I cannot move anything but my head. Breathing is somewhat difficult, but the level of discomfort is manageable. If this doesn't take too long, I will not suffer anything more than a bout of light-headedness.
"Release him," says the prosecutor, and my captors grudgingly recede back into the armrests, awaiting the next hapless individual to enter their domain. My relief is immense, and I know then that he will treat me fairly. He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like 'worthless scraps'. I am unsure if it is due to the tension swarming around me like flies around a corpse, but I feel the corner of my mouth twitch in a genuine smile at his display of humanity. I clamp down on it, hoping no one sees.
Hundreds of people sit upon rows of benches piled up to the ceiling, expansion charms no doubt granting more space than logic would have allowed. Murmuring in low tones as they glance in my direction, it is all too clear what their conversations must be about. It is difficult to identify anyone in the crowd; shadows cast by torches in the walls dance and flicker around their forms, drowning out any defining features. The Wizengamot to my left look fewer in number than the fifty or so father told me of when I was a small child, most likely due to there not being enough time to replace those who lost their lives during the war. I don't know if this works in or out of my favour, or if it matters at all.
This place feels like a dungeon more than anything else. It is dimly-lit and damp, draining what meagre reserves of energy I have left. It reminds me of Severus' classroom and the seldom-wandered halls we Slytherins claimed as our own. Though it is familiar and welcome in a way, my dire situation colours the space in an entirely unpleasant pallet of nausea and despair. I wonder if they are here to witness my father's fall from the aristocratic elite, or to find out how severe my own punishment will be. I'm still not completely sure of my crimes, but they will be listed for my benefit by the prosecutor soon enough.
There is movement to my left. Father must be taking his seat. I do not look over at him. "Son." The word is a croaky whisper, but still I keep my eyes fixed on the prosecutor's face. He continues to plead with me, even as the chains nearly strangle him. Nobody orders him to be freed, and I don't ask.
The people who came to watch are beginning to settle. Silence gradually fills the room. I fidget in the chair, unable to keep still. I have given up wiping the cold sweat from my brow and hands. All there is left to do is wait. I wonder if mother is here, watching from a dark corner as her family is ripped apart. Deep down though, I am sure she is far from this place. She knows better than to show her face where people will judge. She has not done anything wrong, yet must carry the burden of her husband and child's misguided actions.
"Malfoy and Malfoy, you have been brought here before the Wizengamot to face the consequences of your actions during the second wizarding war." His voice is pleasantly deep, almost calming. I let the words wash over me without paying too much attention to their meaning. This is all my nerves can take right now. "I, and the congregated magical folk to my right, will pass judgement on you both to determine the weight of your crimes, and the punishments you both deserve."
Father is silent in his jangling, clinking prison. I glance over at him, knowing that his full attention is on the prosecutor and crowd watching us. His face is wiped blank of all expression, an empty canvass he can manufacture into anything he likes. Contempt, scorn, pain, sorrow, even regret, though I know his true emotions are fear and humiliation. Even if he is sentenced to life in prison, something I am sure wizarding society is secretly hoping for, he is confident that mother will break him out. But his money, possessions, and political influence will all be compromised as a result of this verdict. He may have lost his mind already, he may think himself untouchable. My interpretation of his face is mine alone. I hope he has sense enough to comprehend that he has lost everything.
"We have heard the evidence against you," the prosecutor continues, "and your crimes will be enumerated as follows. Draco Lucius Malfoy…" He speaks the words slowly, contempt colouring his professional tone as my surname passes his lips. My sentencing will be first, while father is forced to bear witness. My head swims with all the possible reasons why they haven't gotten his out of the way already, but I am so terrified that the theories are jumbled and disconnected. This is the moment I have been dreading since I arrived here. I will finally discover what they think I have done.
"You stand accused of the attempted murders of Ronald Billius Weasley and Katie Bell through the respective use of poisoned oak-matured mead and a necklace cursed with dark magic. These events took place during your sixth year of attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Have you anything to say in defence of these vile acts?"
I gulp, trying to ignore my heart thundering in my chest. "I—" I clear my throat, choking back the unpleasant lump that has lodged itself there. "I did not intend to harm those individuals. The mead and necklace were meant for someone else. I was acting on Voldemort's orders."
Some of the on-lookers begin whispering to their neighbours amidst shocked gasps and cries of fear from others. Father hisses my name in rage but I continue to face the prosecutor. His eye patch intrigues me, I wonder why he wears it. Has he lost an eye and cannot regain it? An eccentric quirk or intimidation tactic? Clearly my use of the dark lord's name has caused quite the reaction, though I am not entirely sure why. He is dead after all, no longer able to lash out at those who disrespect him by ignoring his childish titles. But perhaps they still fear him in some way, unable to let go of the firm grasp he had on our secret little world for two long years. They had renounced his rule less than a week ago, whereas I was lucky enough to have given myself a rather substantial head start, sitting in the Room of Requirement and trying not to throw up.
"What orders did he give you?" He asks, looking nothing more than curious. There is a safety in his eyes, a warmness that assures me of his intentions, pure and just. I have done so many bad things, I know, but I am far too tired, sick of this whole fucking world, to find the energy within myself for any more hate.
"To kill Albus Dumbledore," I reply with no inflection. I need to sound sincere, not proud. Remorseful, not bitter. Besides, I see no point in withholding the information as he surely knows already.
"He tasked a sixteen-year-old boy with murdering the greatest living wizard at the time?" His eyebrows raise in genuine surprise, but this must not be new information for him. Several members of the audience cry out in protest and rage, but the prosecutor silences them with a shower of red sparks from his wand tip. "I know that details of Albus Dumbledore's death were not numerous last year. That is going to change today, and I ask for patience and cooperation from you all." The members of the Wizengamot whisper amongst each other in hushed tones, occasionally glancing at me. I can see them out of the corner of my eye. I hope they see the pathos in my predicament, that I had no choice, that there was absolutely no way I could succeed in my mission.
"Yes, sir," I say, finally remembering my Malfoy manners. That is what mother used to call being polite when I was small.
"And were you successful?" he asks, giving the crowd a stern look.
"No, sir. I did not kill him." My head droops. I am staring at the stone floor, remembering my failure from that accursed night. It should have been easy, just one spell. I was so determined, so sure that I could do it. But even back then my loyalty was not absolute. My heart had been filled with desperate courage that night, not hatred or power. None of the necessary emotions to perform the curse that the lives of me and my father depended on.
"And yet he died. On the Astronomy Tower if I am not mistaken." I can't believe he knows this, any of this. Truthfully, I have no idea who this man is, and he has somehow procured all of this information about me and presumably my father in a matter of days. Whatever the reason, the only important thing is that he managed to do it. Perhaps the Ministry will actually see some reform in the coming years.
"Yes, sir." I am quickly growing sick of repeating myself, but I cannot think of anything else to say. Better this than to say something wrong.
"In my investigation of this case, sources have informed me that several Death Eaters had gained access to the castle that night as well, including Bellatrix Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback. Have you any idea how they might have breached the strict security measures placed on Hogwarts by the Ministry?"
My head begins to spin, unable to absorb everything he is telling me. I don't know what to say except the truth. "I let them in using a vanishing cabinet I had repaired over the course of several months during that year."
"So you facilitated the invasion?" He is seeking confirmation and I readily give it. In for a Knut, as they say. There is no harm in enlightening the world to the old man's assailant, especially if they are already dead.
"Yes, sir, I did, but Severus Snape did the actual murdering." Again, about a dozen people voice their displeasure at this news, and it takes the prosecutor a moment to restore order. These people are getting on my last nerve. Here I am spilling my guts and trying not to throw up, and they care more about a dead man. Who cares what they did or didn't know? The old fool is dead regardless. I don't even think I know the full story.
"You had no part to play in the murder, only your unsuccessful attempts throughout the year?" He places his hands on the podium he sits behind. It appears to be of polished oak, and I distract myself by looking into the patterns etched in the wood.
"Yes," I say, looking up at him again.
"And the Imperius Curse on Madam Rosmerta, that was you as well?" His tone is grave, as if he does not want to bring it up. But he does, and it is damning. Until this point, I had been entertaining the possibility of receiving a light sentence, but my hopes are swiftly dashed at this question. Did he speak to her? How would he even have known to seek her out? I attempt to control my breathing as the panic sets in. That's it then. Use of an Unforgivable Curse is an automatic lifelong stay in Azkaban. I had better get used to that bed. Or is he just being thorough? I am a complete wreck in this moment, unable to even think straight.
I do not speak immediately, completely at a loss. People converse with each other in furious whispers, and the Wizengamot suddenly look far less friendly and understanding. "Yes, sir." I am beginning to sound like one of mother's broken records. My hands twist in contorted shapes that hurt my fingers but I don't stop. The angry sounds bubble up around me, and my vision tunnels so that all I can see are my trembling hands.
I realise only now that I could have denied this accusation, could have denied everything. How could he possibly prove all of this? I don't think people would have believed my innocence though, and every accusation has been completely factual anyway. What if I had gotten away with everything, released back into wizarding society? I would be anything but free, living in constant fear of someone trying to do me in as a statement to all other Death Eaters and their children.
I think that honesty has been the correct approach, on the whole. With every utterance of 'yes, sir', my guilt burned away, the knots in my stomach loosening a very little bit. By now, after several admissions, I feel measurably better. Though I did all of these things and cannot take them back, at least I don't have to pretend I'm perfect anymore. I am not above anyone else; if anything, I am lesser. Tainted and broken, my past actions are signs of weakness and cowardice. I see that now so clearly. The boy I had once been is no more, I hope. In his place sits someone who might one day be an honourable man. All I want to do is move forward and have a normal life, far removed from the trauma and darkness.
"Well, I think that is everything I needed to hear," says the prosecutor. "For the attempted murders of Ron Billius Weasley and Katie Bell, the breaching of Hogwarts' Ministry-sanctioned security to allow Death Eaters entrance to the castle, and the use of an Unforgivable Curse on an innocent member of wizarding society, your proposed sentence is seven years in Azkaban, followed by three years in the rehabilitation program we are developing, and three years of house arrest upon your release."
A silence settles over the courtroom, complete and dead. The audience is not happy with this proposed punishment, not in the slightest. They stare down at me, cold and uncaring. This sentence is nowhere near what it should be, I know that. But the relief that surges through me dulls their disdain, feeds me with a warmth that fills my insides with something I can't place. It is nice, soothing and sweet like honey. The real stuff, not the over-sugared imitation most people think is honey. I crave more of it, need this heat to stay with me forever. Love? Tenderness? I do not know, but it is pure bliss. At my jubilation and shining eyes, the expressions around the room thaw somewhat. Not entirely, but it is a start. I hope the wizarding world may still accept the Ministry's leniency, accept me, in time.
"In normal circumstances," he continues, "using an Unforgivable Curse would have resulted in a life sentence, but your situation is… unique. You were only sixteen at the time, a minor, and acted out of self-preservation, fearing what Voldemort would do to you if you disobeyed. I believe that you have shown remorse for these actions, and your honesty is appreciated. All in favour?"
The Wizengamot, clad in robes of a deep plum, bring their heads together and engage in a whispered discussion. The crowd waits, maintaining their wordless anticipation. My sentence is not final yet. I begin to feel nervous, wondering if they will request something more brutal. After only a moment however, the three dozen witches and wizards raise their hands as one and nod in my direction. A loud bang emits from the end of the prosecutor's wand to finalise the verdict. The bearded man turns to face the other accused Death Eater, paying me no more attention. It is clear that the full extent of his wrath is for my father, not me.
I don't know how to feel. This sentence is more than fair, too lenient if anything. He must have an agenda, but I am grateful regardless. Thirteen years before I can become a free man. That is a very long time, and I suspect each second will pass with agonising slowness. Mother plans on breaking me out as soon as she is able, but perhaps it will be better if I stay? Once I repay my debt to society, I can be a normal person like everyone else. But if her attempt is successful, I will be a fugitive, forced to stay at home, or risk being captured and put away for the rest of my life. Being hated is not an enjoyable experience. I will be an afterthought, the son of the real villain, a shadow of the dark lord's most loyal living servant. Everyone wants to be respected, appreciated for who we are. Isn't that how we work?
Moreover, rehabilitation is something I may well need. Unlearning everything my father taught me will surely be easier with help from good people. I want to stop hating, stop being the person that most of the world refuses to tolerate. This sentence is an opportunity to mend the bridges I burned long ago. It will not be easy, but it feels like the only option worth choosing.
"Lucius Abraxis Malfoy, you stand accused of committing repeated heinous acts against innocent Muggles under the guise of dark robes and a garish mask." The crowd perks up at his opening line, looking far more agreeable to this turn of events. The destruction of a notorious Death Eater is the show they have been waiting to see, and the prosecutor appears determined not to disappoint. I still do not know his name, nor do I recognise his face, but there must be history between my father and him. The prosecutor has a gleam in his eye that is filled with loathing, and his expression has gained a manic quality. The feeling is apparently mutual. Not even my father, a master of deception, can stop a scowl from creeping onto his face.
"You participated in the Battle of Hogwarts, fighting alongside Lord Voldemort with a stolen wand. Multiple eye-witnesses to the battle claim that once your mask was removed, you fought without abandon, harming several individuals battling the Death Eaters. You allowed Voldemort to take residence in your home, along with his supporters, and engaged in several acts of bribery and extortion with high-ranking Ministry officials. Finally, you attacked me with wandless magic during our meeting two days before this trial." He does not pause long enough for my father to get a word in, barely able to keep himself from raising his voice in anger. "For all of these crimes, in addition to your incomplete sentence partially served two years prior, I propose that the only fair and just punishment can be a life sentence in Azkaban. You are a danger to wizarding society, and should no longer have the privilege of existing within it."
The members of the Wizengamot raise their hands as one, expressions dripping with unveiled disgust as they stare down at the man who had terrorised wizarding Britain for so long. My father shakes with rage but somehow manages to keep himself quiet and composed. He at least has enough sense to not make any more poor decisions. The same Aurors from earlier are at my side in a moment, offering small nods as they lead me out the dungeon door. Though unsmiling, they no longer appear to be masking hostility behind vacant stares. Perhaps the parental tone the prosecutor used during my sentencing, coupled with their elation at my father's downfall, has made them consider that I may not be so bad.
"We'll bring you something to eat soon," one of them says to me as the wards are put back up around my cell. I only have time to register that his tone is kind before I am alone again.
I sit on the bed and stare at the empty cell opposite mine. Seven years. Seven long years. I wonder what mother is getting up to?
