Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
THE SONG OF SOLOMON
Chapter 9: The Trial
The courtroom was still, save for the rummaging of papers by the prosecutor. Despite the chill in the dungeons, his forehead was beaded with sweat.
Narcissa smirked. She straightened up in the chair, determined to conceal the murderous ache in her back after hours of leaning against hard metal. Her chin lifted and she shot a defiant glare at the Wizengamot before surveying the audience of the trial.
It was sparse, for none of their old friends in the Ministry had dared to show up. No matter to her, however, for Draco was there in the nearest row of seats, his wife accompanying him. She was leaning close, a hand patting absentmindedly on his thigh; Narcissa nodded at her and she returned the gesture, her face bright with encouragement.
The eyes of the mother then met her son's, and Narcissa's heart felt a stab of pain. Even in the dimness of the courtroom she could trace the lines of care around his eyes, the shallow creases on the forehead that had widened with the thinning hair on the temples. He had looked so much like his father, yet the years had been kind to Lucius, who had died a youthful if misguided soul. Draco, however, had aged beyond his years.
Who could blame him? Her son had lived in tumultuous times, his tarnished family name banishing him from the only world he had known. He had spent his life in exile, collecting poisons in foreign lands, negotiating with devious buyers who often had little respect for life. Should he meet his death in an excursion, she would expect more schadenfreude than sympathy.
The steel grey in Draco's eyes softened and his lips curled upward towards his mother. The expression was nevertheless sad and careworn.
Perhaps it was the smile that defined his generation.
Narcissa's thoughts returned to the day when Ministry personnel disturbed the peace at the manor. She was used to these unexpected visits; every now and then the Magical Law Enforcement squad would appear at the gates, demanding a search for Dark artifacts.
How could Narcissa refuse? She was just an old lady whose wand had been snapped decades ago. She would unlock the wards for them, and after a few hours of ruthless searching they would always declare certain items worthy of confiscation. A trial like the current one would proceed, and the page of testimony given by Lucius immediately after the war would prove time after time sufficient evidence for the squad to return the next day, vengefully tossing random pieces of what remained of the Malfoy heirlooms into their sack and carrying them away like spoils from a victorious battle.
Imagine her surprise when the party that day included the head of the Auror Division. Nearly thirty years after his first visit, Harry Potter once again graced the Malfoy Manor with his presence.
He was furious.
When the squad made their presence known at the gates, she neglected to venture out and greet them as usual. However, Narcissa soon found herself peering curiously through the upstairs window, trying to make out the heated debate drifting into the front garden. Debate was a rather inappropriate term, for even amidst the loud splattering of the rain it was quite evident that most of the shouting had originated from one person.
She saw him, a thin man almost a whole head shorter than the familiar team of squad members, as the entourage emerged from behind the yew hedges. His face turned and a pair of round spectacles came into view.
Narcissa quickly descended the stairs.
Potter said no more when he saw her at the front door. Upon entering the manor, he was immediately handed a folder by one of the team members; the green eyes then shot a stern look at each subordinate before the hand gave a dismissive wave. The usually rash and loud squad backed away, whimpering something under their breath before disappearing into the house.
Once the two of them remained in the hallway, Potter raised his eyebrows and let out a deep breath; Narcissa could almost feel him deflating before her eyes, the most commanding Auror in wizarding history shedding his camouflage of power to reveal a matured teenager who had once played dead at her feet.
Both opened their mouths, wanting to say something. Words failed them.
Instead, Potter surveyed the portraits lining the walls in quick sideward glances, as if waiting for them to burst into life and shout their paint's worth at him. Narcissa couldn't help but curled her lips in amusement. Potter returned a smile. Despite the brilliant green still sparkling in his eyes, it seemed sad and careworn on the gaunt face, framed by untamed tousles of dark hair that had turned dusty at the temples.
The man waved the folder at her in silent farewell as he turned and strode towards the front door, his figure looking even more diminutive and weary against the backdrop of the magnificent mahogany panel. He swung it open and settled on the step, his chin lifted as his vision followed the movement of storm clouds in the distant horizon. Narcissa retreated to the living room and continued to observe him through a diamond paned window.
Potter did not re-cast a drying spell on himself. His bangs were dripping with rainwater, which fell and formed tears on the coolly reflecting lenses of his spectacles. Moments later he took them off, squinting his eyes to look at the defunct fountain and the overgrown hedges as his fingers proceeded to flip through the dry folder on his lap.
The movement seemed careless as the hand rummaged through the content several times, but it was clear to Narcissa that the man was searching. The gleam in his eyes indicated that the target had been located, the later runs only to ascertain that it had not been mistaken. Indeed, a piece of parchment was soon produced between fingers. The Auror scanned the content once more, his lips ghosting a sneer that was astonishingly Slytherin before the hands below casually folded the paper in repeated segments and tore it apart along the creases.
Narcissa watched, both of her hands pressed on her jaw-slacked mouth, as Potter sculpted from each small bit of parchment an origami crane. The skill was nothing extraordinary, as the paper crafts were commonly used among young wizards for note passing. It was the way Potter carefully divided the tail into two, his eyebrows contorted as he separated the multiple layers of paper and bent each side ever so slightly to form two slender, impossibly delicate trims.
She knew of only one other person who would do that.
Potter gathered the cranes and held his lips close to his palm. Gently he blew, his eyes tightly shut as one by one the cranes took flight into the wind. For a moment Narcissa thought she saw a line of tears rolling down the cheeks, but she gathered it must be the weather playing tricks on her aged mind.
It must be rain, or, perhaps, the hot warm fluid that had melted her vision to a blur.