A/N: I am very grateful for the positive feedback so far, and I'm so eager to introduce you all to where this story is heading. As mentioned, this is my first multi-chapter Harry Potter fic and it is going to get pretty long, so I'm excited to take this journey with such a fun community. Chapters will continue to be posted every Sunday.
The Chief Warlock starts to discuss how the trials will proceed as I balance my focus.
Why is she here?
Something about the order we will take…
Is she here to ensure that I'm given a sentence worthy of the Golden Trio?
My name is said last…
Is Potter sitting in the room, too? What about Weasley?
Other Death Eaters earned life in Azkaban…
Is she working for the Daily Prophet?
Our eyes meet, forcing the realization that I have been starring at her for too long- at her filthy robes and cheap shoes. Her hair is done up in the tightest bun possible, as if she spent hours trying to perfect her appearance so that she wouldn't look so young and inexperienced in a room full of powerful wizards. It didn't work. Even war couldn't make Granger look like a woman.
The last time I saw her was the Battle of Hogwarts, and the recollection blows all my guarded memories into plain sight. She had been glued to Weasley and wore a dirty face filled with tears and ash. But she was on the winning side of the battle and amongst the most well-known names. She hasn't been sitting in Azkaban for months or worrying about what comes next. Merlin, she could be the Minister of Magic if she played her cards right. There were always headlines about her and the rest of the Order on the pages of the Prophet, but I couldn't be bothered to read them. Suddenly, I wish that I had. Then I would know why she was here, watching me.
I shoot daggers as I wait for her to lose my stare. She'll drop first; I know it. She knows what I have done, who I've associated with, who I fought alongside. I'm sure she's imagined the worst of it. Would she be shocked to hear the details? Would my father's crimes petrify her? Would mine? I feel bubbles of curiosity brewing inside, wanting to be punished by the look on her face if she learns it all.
Our gaze remains mutual until Granger eventually shakes her head in disapproval, redirecting the stare to my father. I win. He is now the center of attention to everyone but me as I drift away and focus on the inside of my head, slamming all the doors shut. But the voices in the room are too powerful to ignore, and the magic suppression going on feels even stronger than it is at Azkaban. Some of the doors stay open.
"Lucius Malfoy, you are being charged with aiding Lord Voldemort and for your ties to the Death Eaters. Thanks to the testimony of other Death Eaters, including Walden Macnair and Antonin Dolohov, along with our subsequent investigations, we are also charging you with twenty-seven counts of illegal use of the Cruciatus Curse, the murder of four muggle-born witches, and for your association with all reported crimes that occurred at Malfoy Manor concerning Voldemort."
"Your honor, let it be known that all of these activities were done under the influence of the Imperius Curse," Father claims. His voice is even. Rehearsed.
I want to roll my eyes. Instead, I look at Granger's. Hers roll for the both of us.
"Yes, Lucius, we thought that you might say that… Again. However, unless you can provide accurate memories of the casting of these curses to review in the Pensieve, while your magic is subdued to prevent occlumency, then we will remain unable to accept your testimony."
Father returns to silence.
"We would be willing to discuss a decreased sentence if you can offer information that could lead to the capture of any remaining Death Eaters."
There is a pause. All those we associated with were already named in the Prophet as having been captured or sentenced. There is nobody else. Nothing else we can offer. They ask this question to make themselves look forgiving to the press.
Father opens his mouth. His voice cracks, and he closes it again. I wonder what he tried to come up with. Fake names, stories to further incriminate those already given life sentences. The Chief Warlock nods.
"As suspected. All those in favor of a full sentence for Mr. Lucius Malfoy?"
I do not have to look around the room to know that everybody has raised their hands. Everybody except Granger, who does not make a single movement. Does she expect her measly vote to make a difference when she lifts it at the next question?
"All those opposed?"
Granger's hand stays politely seated on her knee. Curious. It must have taken her a miracle to learn not to throw her hand up at every question.
A member of the Wizengamot rises and carries a thin black box to the Chief Warlock. He opens it, revealing a familiar wand sitting in a pile of purple silk. I immediately recognize it as Father's. The wizard raises it for the court to see and snaps it in half without a second thought. I turn my attention to Father, who winces at its death.
"Lucius Malfoy, you are hereby sentenced to a life in Azkaban prison under the highest security."
He nods. I expected more from him. He has been a part of it all since before I was born. Doors flutter inside of my head, and memories of his self-defence try to pry their way out.
"Do you have any more words for the court before you are escorted back to Azkaban?"
Father stands and takes a moment to look back at Mother, who I'd shamefully forgotten about.
"I would like to offer a memory for the Pensieve."
"It is too late to try to plead your way out of this one, Lucius." This time the comment comes from somebody else. An older gentleman in red. His eyes are tight, his face filled with regret. He must have been around after Voldemort's first time in power when Father got off easily.
"No, no. I would like to provide memories in support of my wife, Narcissa Malfoy." Not me. His son. His heir. Why did I bother fighting in this forsaken war if nobody was worth fighting for? But Mother… She is somebody worth it, though. At least Father and I agree on one thing.
Papers start shuffling around the room. More buzzing. Words spoken that I am not tuned in for. We are ushered out of the room, leaving Father behind. A Pensieve passes us on the way out as a short and bald wizard drags it inside. The git should have used magic.
Mother and I are left outside of the chambers. We are alone except for a single witch standing outside the door, guarding the entrance. We are an afterthought. But it could be our last chance to talk.
"Draco," she coos.
Nobody has said my name in so long. I almost collapse at the sound, and my mind opens itself again.
"It'll be alright."
The urge to tell her everything that I should have while at the cottage explodes inside of me.
"I'm sorry, Mother, that you were ever involved. That we didn't get you out, and that I brought us here."
"I got myself involved the day I married your father, Draco. Plus, I figured we would find our way here eventually. Do you really think that I fell for that whole 'wanting to surf' thing?"
I shake my head, and she laughs. Of course she didn't fall for it.
Her face has gotten softer. The cold, hard lines built from years of hiding her emotions have started to fade. Her hair is back to its natural state, and it reminds me of Sunday afternoons during summer breaks where we would lay in bed and drink hot chocolate. The darkness of Azkaban has almost been kind to her.
Her eyes reflect the weakness that Azkaban has given me. The weight loss. The raggedy hair, permanently darkened by the grime. The sunken skin around my eyes jumps out at me, even with an imperfect reflection.
"I never would have left without you, darling."
She reaches out her hand. The guard turns to the door, pretending not to notice.
"I know." I reach back, taking it into mine and wrapping my fingers around hers so tightly that I expect her to recoil. She presses her palm tighter instead as if welcoming the force. We hold onto each other as if the other were falling off a cliff. Might as well be.
We stand in silence, hands mingling sweat, for what seems like hours. Finally, the door inches open, and out steps the mudblood.
"We're – um, we're ready for you to come back in." Pathetic. Lead us to our death with pride.
Mother and I turn to enter. Neither of us moves to release our hands.
"Oh, sorry. Just Narcissa Malfoy," Granger corrects. My chest booms with anger.
With a gentle tug of her wrist, Mother tumbles into my arms for a hug. Her head touches my shoulders, and my knees are weak with familiarity.
"Oh, sorry. Um, there's not meant to be any touching."
"Bugger off, Granger," I spit. Let me have this.
I watch as the cogs inside of her head turn, wondering if it's worth the fight. Granger isn't scared, which is even more frustrating. She must have spent too much time watching Death Eaters get sent off to a lifetime of torture to care about the Malfoys. Has any of it been therapeutic for her? Has it brought back any of her friends? The anger keeps rising, risking its way out of my mouth. I slam another door shut within and remind myself why we're here. She lost people. We all did. And I am a part of the reason why. Why would I deserve any more time with my mother than I've already stolen?
Ultimately, Granger decides to do nothing. She looks down, giving us a moment alone. Could her kindness be because she knows it is our last? Does she know that our fate has been determined?
Mother reluctantly pulls away and brings her palm up to my jaw, resting it gently.
"Be good, Draco."
"I will."
We nod, and she turns to Granger to be taken back inside.
"I'll come back for you, Malfoy," Granger promises.
"I wish you wouldn't."
Her mouth scrunches to the side, deciding to stay quiet. She whisks my mother away, and the air grows cold with her absence.
Mother is waiting in the foyer when I walk through the front doors.
"Not now, Mother," I hiss.
She doesn't say a word. Instead, she lifts out her arms and waits for me to give her my damp cloak. She hands me a dry one in return and motions me to follow her up the stairwell. My chest aches with anxiety over how she would react if she knew where I was coming from. Her only son casting forbidden curses on wandless mudbloods. Would it be easier if she was proud of me, like Father?
She conjures a stool next to my bed and sits, nodding at my bathroom to say that she has the time to wait. I go inside, closing the door behind me. I feel her presence on the other side of the door, and my insides start to loosen.
My wand slips from my pocket, casting a darkening spell on the room so that I can't see my reflection starring back at me as I splash my face with cold water. I scrub my hands with citrus-scented soap and flick away my dirty clothes with magic. There is a pile of clean pyjamas by the bath, and I slip them on myself. My skin almost rejects such softness, and I fight the urge to throw myself under a cold shower.
I take my time to slink out of the room, half expecting Mother to be gone. She is still there, waiting with her ankles crossed and arms positioned delicately on her side.
She raises her hand and snaps her fingers upon my approach. A crack comes next, and one of the kitchen elves arrives with a silver tea tray holding two cups. Milk and sugar have already been added. Mother grabs hers, and I follow suit. The elf pops away without a word.
"Today was-," I start.
"Shh. I know, darling. You don't need to re-live your day for me."
And then I am crawling into bed, tea in hand, pouring concrete over everything but this. We drink quietly, understanding the comfort of shared silence. I notice the protruding taste of lavender in my tea and accept the effects of Mother's sneaky sleeping draught that permits me to rest.
"Thank you," I whisper. The added magic of a newly placed ward covers me along with my blankets.
As promised, Hermione Granger eventually pops her head back out and summons me inside.
We pass the departing Pensieve on my way back in. Could I simply throw my head inside to see what he showed them? But the memories are already gone, diluted into the void, as with my father's presence within the chambers. His front-and-centre seat is empty, and so is the corner seat that my mother had been sitting in before.
"We now move on to the trial of Mister Draco Malfoy," the Chief Warlock announces as I am ushered into the empty chair.
"Where is my mother?" I dare to ask.
"We have completed the proceedings for Narcissa Malfoy."
"And what was the decision you made?" I beg.
"Please wait until after your trial has been completed, Mr. Malfoy. You're on your own time, now."
I hear a shuffling of wands and feet. Defeated, I plant my feet into the ground, focusing on the hallways inside of my head. I'll find out Mother's sentencing soon enough. He's right. It is my time…
This is it. Please let it feel like enough…
"Shall we proceed?"
I nod.
"Draco Malfoy, you are being charged for your ties with the illegal Death Eater organization and for aiding Voldemort's mission toward blood purity in the Wizarding World. Additionally, we have evidence to suggest that you have performed the Cruciatus Curse on at least four members of the magical community." Is that all? "Do you have anything to say before we move forward with your verdict?"
Am I supposed to fill in the gaps? Tell them the things that only dead wizards were around to see? Dead Dark Lords?
I can't help myself.
"Who are the four wizards that you have on record?"
"Terry Boot, Colin Creevey, Angelina Johnson, and Arabella Figg." I suppress a chuckle. The last ones that I assumed would have been reported.
Before I can respond, making a mental list of the names that they're missing, I hear the door behind me open with a thunderous creak. The sound of thick heels interrupts my counting.
"Who dares to interrupt these court proceedings?" The Chief Warlock demands. As his eyes meet a dark-haired woman dressed in deep burgundy robes, I turn my head. She passes me and places herself in the middle of my view of the Wizengamot.
"Valencia Collins, your honor. I understand that you are moving forward with the trial of the Ministry versus Draco Malfoy."
"Yes, Miss Collins. This does not answer my initial question as to why you are interrupting."
"I am here to provide legal counsel for the accused."
Confusion sets in throughout the room, and I wrack my brain for memories of the name Valencia Collins. Nothing comes to me as I push further through the corridors of houses and wonder if my time in Azkaban has caused me to occlude too deeply.
Lawyers had become a rarity amongst legal proceedings in the wizarding world long before Voldemort's last reign. Why bother with them when the Wizengamot could easily prove what forbidden spells we had cast? Plus, it's not like Azkaban had much wiggle room in terms of sentence severity.
It must be a mistake. Perhaps father had paid her handsomely to defend him, and she's arrived for the wrong Mr. Malfoy. The volume in the room increases as I manage my expectations.
Valencia seems the least concerned with the confusion within the chambers, and her head sits as tall as it had when she first walked in. She purses her lips and taps her heel, waiting for somebody to finally get on with things as if this is in the middle of her to-do list for today.
"And why is it that we are just now being graced with your presence, Miss Collins?"
"As I'm sure you're aware, tracking down the Malfoy family has not been easy. I only just discovered that they had been found this morning."
Father wouldn't have kept our location secret if he had planned his escape via legal assistance. Maybe she wasn't here for him after all.
"You must not be very good at your job if you can't track down the person that hired you," a woman near the back scoffs.
Chuckles and gasps ripple their way through the room. Granger's eyes widen, too. But Valencia's face remains the same.
"The person that hired me is dead, Your Honour," she directs her words to the Chief Warlock alone.
"And might I ask who that is?"
"Severus Snape."
Granger's eyes couldn't be wider, and as she casts a glance my way, I wonder if she's thinking the same about mine.