A/N: I had the intent to do well for this one, but I am disappointed in it. Nevertheless, it was inspired by a piece or two by Archica, so if you like it, I owe it to whomever Archica may be. If not, it's all mine, and I'm sorry I couldn't do justice to the ideas. But please do me a favor and read Hermione Granger is a Whore. I'm interested to see what people think of it.
Disclaimer: I own Harry Potter.
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The measure of a man.
Who knew what it was, anyway? Especially these days.
Especially staring at this one. Blood caked above his upper lip, which had lost its sneer. Finally. Blond hair plastered to the sides of his face. Dirt under his fingernails, dirt over his fingernails, dirt everywhere. Tattered prisoners' robes. It was a big change for him; he was so accustomed to the highest fashions and newest trends, the best treatment in all of Europe. Chains and shackles probably weren't all the rage in Venice, either. But that was just a shot in the dark.
A few people spat on him as he walked to take his stand. It was pitiful. He didn't even flinch. Didn't even look up from that solemn stare into the ground. Didn't even wipe it off his face.
It was as though he weren't a man, but some rabid dog ready to be euthanised. A tired, rabid dog, at that–one that had lost its stamina, and no longer desired human blood and suffering. A mere animal who was ready to end its own suffering.
These were the hardest trials for Hermione. She'd asked to be relieved from her prosecution duties on account of the fact that she'd be testifying herself. Against him. Against the man she'd known since he was a boy, since they were children. He was barely a man even now, and she barely a woman, but their childish battle games had escalated far beyond such. It was almost morbid how she juxtaposed the way they used to taunt each other to the killing they'd done. The torturing. The pain.
She'd killed men, too. The only reason she wasn't standing trial in his place, hair matted and wounds unclean, was because she'd killed for the winning side. Not the right side. The winning side. She wasn't so sure who was right anymore.
She scanned the courtroom. Theodore Nott was sitting shackled in a pew directly across from a sobbing Narcissa Malfoy. He'd buried his head in his hands, ashamed, for in exchange for a shortened sentence, he'd revealed the whereabouts of his dearest friend. He justified this to himself with the assumption that they would have found Draco eventually, and at least this way he'd benefit slightly from it. Draco would want that.
Who was he kidding? Draco would never exhibit such altruism. It's why they got along so well; Theodore was the calm, clever one who balanced out Draco's selfishness. And now Draco hated him. He could tell by the way pale silver eyes bore into his skull, his undeserving, betraying skull. He was some sick, twisted Judas in a bible gone wrong. Completely and utterly wrong. He'd kill himself when this was through.
The substitute prosecutor rattled off unthinkable crimes, at which the blond man nodded sullenly. "Thirteen counts murder in the first degree with an unforgivable curse, three counts attempt at murder, four counts distribution of a deadly item with the intent to kill, seventy-two counts abuse of the Cruciatus curse–"
Hermione cringed. Seventy-two? In truth, she'd considered the number would be much higher, but it was a shocking count nonetheless. Seventy-two?
It meant that Draco Malfoy had inflicted excruciating, unabated, merciless pain at least seventy-two times. At least. The same Draco Malfoy who had played practical jokes on Gryffindors and cried when he lost quidditch games to Harry Potter. Seventy-two times.
He pled guilty to everything but theft of magical weapons. Draco Malfoy could be called many things, but "thief" was not one of them.
She couldn't get the number out of her head. She nearly burst into tears.
And then she was called to the stand. She walked right past him. She could have sworn she saw a silent plea in his eyes–a desperate, calling plea–but that could not have been the case. They displayed no emotion, not even the hatred she'd anticipated. Just grey pools of emptiness puncturing his face, staring blankly ahead.
Percy Weasley came between them. "Mrs. Weasley, when was the first time you directly witnessed Draco Malfoy using," he paused with a false pretense of sympathy, "dark magic? In your own words, if you will."
She sighed and looked down, ashamed. "It was in the autumn of 1998, at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
"And can you, Mrs. Weasley, describe to me the dark magic afoot?"
She nodded and complied. She could barely hear herself talking over the screaming in her brain. Over the way it felt to see Malfoy in such a state. So lonely. So solemn.
He'd be hanged by morning; she knew it. She could see he knew it, too.
And even as she was sealing his death warrant with her words, she pitied him. In her Hogwarts days, she'd hated him to no end. Despised him. Wished every night that he'd meet his demise the next morrow. Five hours before, she'd hated him to no end. Despised him. Every bone in his body disgusted her. But now, now in her final act of revenge for anything he'd ever done to her, she questioned this innate hatred. How could she hate something so much, something so small and powerless as a marked man? Something so pitiful as the one standing before her right now, aching muscles slouched over under the weight of his shackles?
Was he even a man anymore? Was he ever a man in the first place?
Narcissa Malfoy was wailing now. "She's a mudblood whore! She's lying! She's a mudblood whore!" They were words the woman surely did not mean, but all things in consideration–she'd lost every person she'd ever loved: her husband, her sisters, and now her only son. With a hand to her lower abdomen, Hermione understood. Regardless, guards escorted her roughly away, but not before she stroked her son's face as he told her, "Mother, stop, I beg you." The tear stains on Narcissa's fingers exposed a patch of pale skin on Draco's face through the dirt. Hermione had only witnessed one emotional exchange like it in her life.
"A mudblood whore!"
"Mrs. Weasley, are you certain you are in a state enough to continue?"
She then realized she'd been sobbing herself. When had she stopped talking? "Mercy," she whispered.
"Have mercy," she affirmed, and was escorted away as well. A tear trickled down her face and Draco's face simultaneously.
Witnesses came and went after that, but none who knew Draco as well as she. Harry Potter was nowhere to be found. Nor was Ron, nor Ginny. Barely any of Draco's old friends were there. Not even his father's friends showed up. Considerably, as most were dead or otherwise imprisoned. He hadn't had a lover.
Draco Malfoy was sentenced to death by hanging the next morning. He issued a final statement: "Though my admission changes nothing, I am sorry, I was wrong, and I am ready to die. There is no other way for me to pay for my sins but with my life. I do not want, nor do I expect your pity."
Theodore Nott began to weep. Hermione felt the onrush of tears. Mrs. Malfoy's sobs could still be heard from outside. It was the bitterest of moments.
Draco Malfoy's last words were "long live Harry Potter."
Hermione often reflected on this choice of words. She could never shake the image of him up on the wooden support, spirit broken, noose around his neck. Was he a changed man? Was he even a man? What was the measure of a man? Nobody really knew these days.
She was curled up with a book by the fire when she burst into tears randomly. Ron came running with the assumption she was going into labor. In the few moments before he reached her, she was able to read the Shakespearean lines over twice: "Nothing became him in his life like the leaving of it."