Harry grit his teeth as he read the letter he'd received from the Ministry over a week before. The letter was worn where it'd first been folded because of how many times he'd read it. Many times, he'd debated whether or not he should attend the hearing, which was only four days away. By this point, Harry was aware that a lot of the things Malfoy had done were because of obligation. He probably hadn't wanted to do the things he had, but because of his father's position as a follower of Voldemort, he hadn't had much choice, unless he wanted to die along with his parents. Harry knew what it was like to be forced down a path you weren't certain about, or really wished you didn't have to follow through with, even though the paths he and Malfoy had taken were almost complete opposites. The fact that he felt that way, however, made him incredibly uneasy. There shouldn't be a part of him that sympathized with Malfoy after everything the bastard had put him through. He told himself that he should be seething with rage about Malfoy and raring to go to his hearing if only to ensure that the great twat wound up spending the rest of his miserable life behind bars. Somehow he couldn't manage to force himself to feel that way. He wasn't sure which part was worse; the fact that he could relate to Malfoy now that his head was clear of war, or that he didn't want that fate for him.
Folding the letter and putting it beneath his pillow again, he wondered what sort of questions they'd be asking him at the hearing. Harry wasn't sure he'd have the answers they'd want, but he couldn't say for sure. Even if he did, he wasn't sure he wanted to be a part of what could be Malfoy's last bout of freedom before being locked away for life.
"Harry!" Molly called for the third time in fifteen minutes. "Dinner is ready, and if you want it, you'll get a move on!" He wasn't hungry, and hadn't really been since he'd gotten the letter. Anxiety had been keeping his stomach full, and Molly had taken him aside several times since she'd noticed his lack of appetite. She first thought he was avoiding eating because of the finances, and then the breakup, but that wasn't it, and he couldn't bring himself to explain the real reason. How did one cope with the thought of being the person who locked another man up, even if he did commit crimes?
Deciding he'd better attend the meal if he didn't want another talking-to, Harry got up from the bed and made his way down the stairs and to the kitchen. He nodded hello to everyone, but Hermione and Molly were the only two who smiled at him as he took his seat between Ron and Arthur.
"So," Hermione began, looking at Harry with an innocent expression. "You're really not going back to school? Tomorrow everyone is going to Diagon Alley for school materials." Harry was genuinely surprised that it had taken Hermione this long to address his decline to go back for an eighth year of school.
"I'm really not going back to school, Hermione," he said kindly, but firmly. He began to nibble at the asparagus on the end of his fork.
"Well, you could still come with us tomorrow." Harry shrugged, but was glad she wasn't going to press the matter of his education. "Oh, come on, Harry. You need to get out of the house for a bit. Come with us. It'll be good for you."
"I don't need any school supplies," he argued mildly.
"But it would still benefit you to get out of the house for once."
"No," he stated, ending the discussion. He ate a piece of chicken and glanced at Hermione, who looked stung by his refusal. Harry could think back to all the times he'd gone to Diagon Alley with Ron and Hermione to shop for school, and how enjoyable it had been. Now, with all the letters he'd gotten begging him for interviews and public appearances, he knew it would be far from a pleasant experience to go with them. It seemed like a new letter came every day, asking him for just one short interview, just one picture, just one blah, blah, blah. He didn't want the attention. All he'd ever wanted in life was to be normal, and the end of Voldemort had seemed like the light at the end of the 'freak' tunnel. He didn't want to be special, didn't want people fawning over him, thanking him profusely for something he had no choice in to begin with. Sure, he'd saved the wizarding world, but that didn't mean he wanted the fame that went with it.
"Hogwash!" Arthur said, snapping the Daily Prophet in his hands closed and tossing it onto the floor of the kitchen. "Molly, did you know they're now accusing us of holding Harry hostage?"
"That can't be right, dear," Molly said, placing her fork gently on her plate. "Surely they know better than that. We're his family."
"That's not what they're saying," Arthur rumbled. Harry was sure the glare Arthur sent him had little to do with his being upset with him, but he still felt guilty. "Why won't you give them one single interview?" His voice was softer, but there was still plenty of anger in his eyes as he questioned Harry.
"I just want to be left alone," Harry explained wearily.
"I understand that, Harry, but your refusal to even respond to their requests is making us look like horrible people in their eyes." Arthur's anger had subsided a bit, but he was still obviously concerned. "We know how things really are, but these news people… they like to twist things."
"Fine, I'll do a bloody interview!" Harry shouted. Molly was too shocked to correct his use of harsh language. "I'll just go along with everything everyone else wants of me until the day I die, does that make you all happy?"
"Harry James Potter!" Molly chided fiercely as he stood up from his chair. Her shock had apparently passed and now Harry was confronted by a look he'd seen her give the twins many times over the years. "Sit back down, this meal is not finished." Her voice became calmer when she explained, "We're having a discussion, that's all. There is no need for accusations or foul language." She looked back and forth between her husband and pseudo-son.
Harry sat down, still fuming, but not wanting to add anymore to the chaos. Drawing his wand, he silently summoned a piece of parchment and a quill from the sitting room table and began writing his consent for an interview the next day outside of the Apothecary. He wrote that he would allow five questions to be asked, and that he would not stay longer than ten minutes after three. Once he'd finished the letter, he folded it and set it aside, then resumed picking at his food in vexation.
"Harry, you didn't have to do that," Molly said in a voice that said she was glad he had done it.
"Yeah, I did. I'm Harry Potter, remember? I don't have choices."
"You know that's not true, dear." Molly didn't meet his eyes as she said it, and Harry knew she was lying. Everyone knew he didn't have many choices. Even now, he was forced to stay with a family that was growing more and more uncomfortable with him because Grimmauld Place, his own house, was unsafe until all Death Eaters were imprisoned. His bank account was frozen for six months as punishment for breaking into Gringotts, which he had to do in order to save everyone. Punished for helping. If that didn't sum up the entirety of Harry's life, he didn't know what did.
Dinner was over and Harry sat alone in Ron's bedroom. This was typical. Harry had been spending a lot of time alone since he and Ron had talked, which was fine with him. That's what he'd wanted, after all; some time away from everyone. What he'd actually meant was time away from the Burrow, but that wasn't possible at the moment.
Harry went to sleep before Ron returned to his room, so he'd been alone with his Ministry letter until his eyes grew too heavy to keep them open. The next day was not something he looked forward to, but when he'd been shouted awake he got dressed in some nicer clothes anyway. He figured if he could look nice enough in the interview he would be able to convince anyone that thought the Weasleys were holding him hostage that at least they were taking care of him.
Everyone was rushing around the house shortly before they were going to leave. Everyone except George, who was lounging on the couch in the sitting room, fumbling with a failed invention. Harry sat across from him in one of the worn armchairs and watched George's long fingers moving over the trinket, which Harry couldn't identify.
"What's that?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
"Something Fred and I were working on before…" George trailed off, pinching his lips together. That was the most he'd said to Harry since he and Ginny had broken up, and Harry hoped that meant George wasn't still upset with him.
"Are you going to fix it?"
"No." George looked at Harry with another odd look. "Are you in love with Ron?" Harry was completely taken aback by George's question.
"What— n— In love. . .with Ron? Are you kidding me?" Harry's eyes widened as he tripped over his words. "Why would you think that?"
"Just curious. No need to get defensive."
"Wait, you don't mean… That was a joke, George. I don't really think Ron looks dapper," said Harry as he recalled the the time in the kitchen.
"Could've fooled me." George looked back down at the trinket he held, his lips curving at one end. Harry crossed his arms and shook his head, but was glad to see George smiling anyway, even if it was at his expense.
"It was a joke," he repeated forcefully. "You didn't think I was serious, did you?" George raised his eyebrows, but said nothing as he twisted the odd object back and forth. He'd been about to pester George some more when the rest of the Weasleys and Hermione came into the sitting room and gathered around the fireplace.
"Alright, we're off," Molly said, looking to Harry expectantly. "You're sure you want to come?" Harry stood up and brushed the wrinkles from his white button down shirt.
"I'm sure," he said as he walked to join the group, not looking back at George as he went. Molly smiled to him and then scooped up a handful of Floo powder from the jar on the mantle. Ginny went first, then Ron, Hermione, and finally Arthur. Molly looked at Harry before she tossed in another bit of powder, as though she was giving him the chance to back out.
"I'm going," he said firmly. She nodded once and tossed the powder in. Harry stepped into the green flames and spoke his destination, dreading the feeling of being condensed as he traveled through the Floo network. He braced himself as he landed in Diagon Alley and stepped out into the busy street. Immediately people stopped to gawk at him as they realised he was there.
"Is that Harry Potter?" a little girl asked her mother with wide eyes.
"Yes dear, why don't you go and ask him for his signature?" The little girl did just that, and Harry tried to smile as he told her he hadn't brought a quill with him. Her face fell before she trudged back to her mother's side and Harry tried hard not to grimace. He checked the time on his wrist watch. Six minutes until three, which meant he'd better get to the Apothecary before anyone suspected he wasn't showing up. He walked along the cobblestone road, avoiding the eyes of excited passers by. Every person he passed looked at him as though he were the sun and moon combined, and it made his stomach roil.
There was already a large group of people and reporters surrounding the door to the Apothecary, which Harry thought was funny. They'd probably thought he'd be exiting the building any moment, and their quills were poised and ready to jot down every breath he took, every twitch of his fingers as they waited. Several of them had cameras to capture his interview, something Harry did not approve of. He'd said they could ask questions, not take pictures. Why he'd expected these leeches to respect his privacy he couldn't say.
"Hello," he said as he approached the backs of the people waiting for him. Nobody turned around. "It's me, Harry Potter." He tried to keep the anger he felt out of his voice. Every person in the group turned towards him. In less than a second, they were swarmed around him, pictures being snapped and questions being shouted, along with "Harry! Harry Potter! Over here!"
"Everyone stop!" he shouted. Much to his disbelief, they all got quiet. "Five questions. Raise your hands, and I'll call on you as I see fit." Every single person raised their hands, and Harry couldn't help but picture a group of Hermiones, desperate to answer the teacher's question. He spotted Rita Skeeter among the reporters and knew he wouldn't be answering anything from her. "You," he said. "The one in the bowler hat." The man shoved his way through the mob and when he'd got to the front, he smiled, revealing too much gums for his short teeth.
"Are the Weasleys holding you hostage? Are they letting you eat? Have you and Ginevra Weasley conceived a child yet?"
"One question," Harry grunted between clenched teeth.
"The first one, then," the man said, obviously disappointed, even though Harry's instructions had been clear. "Are the Weasleys holding you hostage? There are reports━"
"No," Harry cut him off. "They are not holding me hostage. The Weasleys are the closest thing I have to family, and I'm staying with them until it's safe for me to…" What was he doing? Why would he provide personal information like that? "To leave," he finished. The man in the bowler hat wrote furiously on his notepad, using so much force that Harry thought he might snap his quill.
All of the reporters raised their hands once more as they gathered that the first question had been answered. Harry called upon a woman whose plum lipstick was much too dark for her complexion, but it had made her stand out. She stepped forward and snapped a quick picture, which Harry let go. They'd already gotten so many, what was one more?
"Are you going to attend the Draco Malfoy trial in three days time?" she asked kindly. Harry thought for a moment. He hadn't really made that decision for himself yet, so he didn't know what to tell her. He thought saying maybe would be sufficient, but then something in his gut told him he should make his mind up already.
"Yes. Next question." Two down, three to go. The rest of the questions were related to him and Ginny, and he considered turning away from the interview and leaving. No, he had not asked her to marry him. No, they were not having a baby. No, Ron had not tried to kill him for dating his sister. But finally, the interview ended, much to the reporters' chagrin. A few of them even tried to follow him as he went back to the Floo he'd exited from. One of them had snapped a picture of him as he told them to bugger off, which had almost been enough to make him smash the camera. Instead he'd gone back to the Burrow without his friends and hid away in Ron's room. At least that was done and over.
Draco awoke slowly, not knowing when, or how, he'd fallen asleep in the first place. There was an Auror talking to him from the other side of the bars of the cell. It took Draco a moment to understand what the Auror was saying. His ears felt frozen and his body was rigid.
"Get up!" the Auror shouted. "It's almost time for your last hearing." Draco jumped up at that, not only because of that bit of information, but because it was the Auror who had continuously beaten him. He hadn't known what day it was, and the anticipation that ran through him at the thought of being in a warm building gave him the strength to limp over to the bars of his cell. "Don't get too excited. You'll be back here by the end of the day, I'm sure."
The Auror was probably correct, but a break from his cell was something he desperately needed. A binding spell was put on his wrists before his cell opened, and Draco already felt better just being outside of it. The Auror, whose name Draco still didn't know, shoved him along beside the jagged edge of the path towards a boat that awaited them several hundred yards away. As they walked past cells belonging to other prisoners Draco kept his eyes down. He didn't care to see the accusatory stares they aimed at him as he went, their jealousy bringing forth hatred towards him. His legs felt as though they'd give out; his broken ankle had not healed fully and neither had his ribs, but he pushed on through the pain anyway.
It was a very long boat ride, and Draco had not been allowed to sit inside the warm interior of the boat, but was forced to sit in the whipping wind and cold, repeatedly being splashed by the water that rose around them. Several hours later they reached a shore and side-along Apparated to the Ministry. Once there, the Auror who escorted him cast several shoddy healing spells here and there. Draco sighed in relief as his ankle swelling went down and he felt he could stand on it properly again. The Auror said nothing during or after this gesture, but Draco had a feeling it was less for his own comfort than it was a cover for the Auror.
The Auror practically dragged him along as they went through the long halls toward the stairs. After walking up ten flights of stairs Draco was severely winded, aching tremendously, and was thankful when they reached courtroom ten where he was able to sit down. The entire Wizengamot was already sitting, waiting for him. Their black robes reminded him too much of the ones he'd been forced to wear as a Death Eater, and he averted his gaze to the floor. His own appearance was deplorable, to say the least. He hadn't had a shower in months, and he'd been wearing the same prisoner uniform, grey on grey, for more than two weeks. His face was bruised and cut, his uniform bloodied, and his spirit had been stolen with every bit of abuse that had been forced upon him. He hoped he didn't look grotesque as the cameras snapped pictured from every angle, but he knew that this was not the case.
This was it. This was his final hearing before they sentenced him to life in Azkaban. There was a point during his second hearing that he'd thought they might consider letting him go. His father and mother had both listed scores of names belonging to Death Eaters who had followed Voldemort, and even that hadn't been enough for them to let the family go. His father was sentenced to ten years, but at least his mother had been freed. Remembering her promise of being at all of his hearings, Draco looked up and scoured the benches that surrounded him until he saw her pale hair and then her teary eyes. He stared at her, willing her presence to give him hope for his sentence.
The members of the Wizengamot rose to stand as Kingsley Shacklebolt entered the room, and sat back down once he had himself taken a seat. The hearing had started.
"Draco Lucius Malfoy, admitted Death Eater, stands trial on this, the first of August, nineteen ninety eight." Shacklebolt spoke loudly enough that everyone in the room could hear him, and Draco saw that he did not look toward the centre of the room, where he sat chained and cuffed. "This will be his final hearing, and at the end of it we shall make the decision in regards to his sentence. At this time, I would like to call a witness to the stand. Harry James Potter, please be seated in the witness' booth."
Draco's eyes widened in fear as he heard the name of his arch enemy called. Panic-stricken, he searched the room for the boy he'd been at the throat of since his first year at Hogwarts. There, walking down the same aisle his mother was seated in, was the messy haired wizard, looking none too pleased to be there himself. As Potter reached the witness' booth, Draco felt the sliver of hope he hadn't known was there slip from his mind. He would not be freed. He would not get his wand back. He would die behind the bars of his prison cell, even if his sentence was lighter than his father's. The guards would see to that. He doubted that his father would make it out alive, either. Draco knew there was nothing Potter could, or would, say to help him; the boy hated him. It was too late, and the hearing had barely begun.
These thoughts flitted through his mind as Potter looked down at Draco and did a double-take. First shock painted Potter's face, then concern, then pity. The last expression stuck, and his attention was only removed from Draco's appearance when the Minister called his name. Draco felt indignant. That Potter should feel pity for him meant he had truly reached the lowest point of his existence.
"Mister Potter," Shacklebolt addressed him. "Do you agree to answer the questions the Wizengamot have written out for me to ask, and all other questions I ask, in all truth, to the best of your ability?"
"Yeah━I mean, I do." Potter's head snapped around to look at the Minister and Draco gazed with wide silver eyes at his enemy as he answered the first question.
"During the Battle of Hogwarts, did Mister Malfoy not beg Mister Dolohov, who is also a known and convicted Death Eater, for his life, stating, 'I'm Draco Malfoy, I'm Draco, I'm on your side?'" Draco flinched as his own quote echoed through the courtroom. He'd completely forgotten about that.
"That's true, sir, but he was about to be killed," Harry said. Draco really could've fallen over dead; Potter had defended him. "People say all kinds of awful things when their life is about to be taken from them."
Shacklebolt ignored the defence mechanisms from Potter, sticking strictly to business. "In school did Mister Malfoy ever refer to Muggle-born or half-blood students in derogatory terms?" Potter paused, a grimace on his face.
"Well… yes."
"And what terms did you hear him using?"
"Mudblood, mostly. Sometimes blood traitor." Potter glanced at Draco and seemed surprised to find Draco already staring at him. A second later Potter looked away.
"Would you describe Mister Malfoy's behavior during school as the bullying sort?"
"Kind of, yeah."
"What do you mean when you say 'kind of?' The answer is either yes, no, sometimes, or most of the time."
"Most of the time," Potter modified, looking down at his entwined fingers.
"Did Mister Malfoy ever show any remorse for choosing to become a Death Eater?"
"Yes," Potter stated firmly. "He has." Draco could not for the life of him understand why Potter seemed so adamant to protect Draco, if that's what he was doing. He'd been so mean to Potter over the years, done so many horrible things to him and his closest friends. Now he felt guilty, and for quite a while he had, but back then he had meant everything he'd done. Every unkind word, every insult, every fight he'd either started or participated in. Draco had meant to do and say every single thing. His reasons behind his actions were unknown to everyone but him, and perhaps his father, but that was beside the point. Why Potter would take the time to, as it seemed, gain Draco some positive points, made no sense to him.
"Please describe the events in which he did this."
"Alright. First was when he didn't kill Dumbledore. He was told to, but I was there, and I saw him struggle. I saw him cry as he pointed his wand at the headmaster, and I saw him lower it."
"Yet he partook in the murder of Albus Dumbledore, in the end."
"No, he didn't. He was there, but he didn't kill Dumbledore," Potter argued.
"By allowing Death Eaters into the school━which he has admitted to doing━he aided in the murder of Albus Dumbledore. There is no debating this fact. Please continue." Potter looked perturbed by the order from the Minister, but continued regardless.
"He hesitated to name myself, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger when we were captured by Snatchers around Easter of last year. His aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange, and his dad were trying to get him to name us, but he didn't tell them it was me. He was trying to help us."
For a moment, Shacklebolt actually looked surprised. "And what would have happened if Mister Malfoy had exposed you?"
"Then Voldemort would've been called and… well, I probably wouldn't be here as a witness." Draco saw, from the corners of his vision, a collective twitch in the courtroom at the use of the Dark Lord's first name. He was too distracted to find any joy in it, though, as he listened to Potter's responses to the Minister's questions.
"Are there any other examples?"
"He told his friends not to kill me in the Room of Hidden Things, during the Battle of Hogwarts. That's all I can think of."
"Those are all rather good examples," Shacklebolt considered. "Did Mister Malfoy ever perform Unforgivable Curses on you or in your presence?"
"No." That wasn't true, though. Draco had tried to perform Cruciatus on Potter when he'd found him in the bathroom, confiding to Myrtle that he was struggling with the choices he'd made and had been forced to make. He supposed that, since he hadn't been able to finish casting the curse, he hadn't actually performed it, but that didn't mean he hadn't tried.
"Are you absolutely certain? You are under oath," Shacklebolt reminded him.
"I am certain. He has never performed any Unforgivable Curses on me, or in my presence." Shacklebolt seemed as though he wasn't confident with Potter's answer, but kept on asking questions. The clock near the back of the courtroom ticked on as Potter continued to defend him at every chance he got. Draco was so very confused. After all he'd done Potter was trying to make him out to be a better person than he had been. Looking up to his mother, Draco could see that she was just as perplexed as her son. She stared at Potter with a mix of incertitude and appreciation. No longer crying, she looked almost hopeful. If Potter's words meant so much to the Wizengamot, and surely they did, then perhaps there was a chance that they'd at least shorten the length of his imprisonment. Draco tried not to get his hopes up, however; the hearing was not finished and his sentence had not been spoken.
"I, and the Wizengamot, have no further questions in regards to Mister Malfoy's actions," Shacklebolt said firmly. "Is there anything else you'd like to add before we settle the matter of Mister Malfoy's sentence?"
"Yes, there is." Potter took a deep breath and looked at Draco with sad eyes. "Malfoy━Draco, that is━has always been a prat." The occupants of courtroom ten gasped as his phrasing. "Sorry, but that's true. He's rarely been kind to me, or anyone else, really. But that doesn't make him a horrible person. His parents' mistakes have made it so that he's lived a life decided by everyone around him, and no, that doesn't excuse some of, or most of, the things he's done, but when you look at the circumstances around his childhood… it's hard to say that he is a criminal. You've done a lot of awful things, Malfoy━"
"Please do not speak to Mister Malfoy. Address either myself or the Wizengamot when you refer to him," Shacklebolt interrupted, not sounding upset.
"Sorry," Potter said, unlocking his gaze from Draco's. "He's done a lot of awful things, but he was also forced to do many of the things he's on trial for. I think, at first, he really wanted to follow in his father's footsteps. I think that once he figured out what that meant, he regretted what he did, but it was already too late to take it back. The Dark Mark, I mean." Draco instinctively felt the need to rub his Dark Mark, but couldn't with the chains securing him to the chair. "I think that he wanted to get out soon after he'd been initiated as a Death Eater━or maybe even before then━and I think the reason that he became one in the first place was to protect his family and himself from Voldemort's wrath. I think that the only reason Voldemort had ordered Draco to kill Dumbledore was to set him up to fail so he could punish him for his father's mess up the Department of Mysteries the year before." There was another rustling of robes as the entire room flinched away from the name they were probably all still afraid to utter. Potter kept on talking, paying them no mind. "There's nothing I can do to decide his sentence. I can't convince you to let him go, and I'm not really trying to. But before you sentence him to years in Azkaban, think about all the other Death Eaters, and how severe their crimes were compared to Malfoy's. He was still a kid, and if there's anyone who knows what it's like to be forced down a path you know very little about, it's me. I can't say whether or not Malfoy was scared, but I was. I guess… what I'm trying to say is…" Potter stuttered for a moment, as if he wasn't sure what he was trying to say. Then, after a moment of stretching silence, he spoke again. "Can you really blame someone for making the choices they made, when the only other option was the death of their entire family, and themselves?" The Wizengamot began to whisper amongst themselves. Shacklebolt turned around and motioned for them to be quiet, and the wave of mumbles ceased.
"Thank you very much, Mister Potter," the Minister said. "That concludes the hearing. Now, if the Wizengamot will follow me…" There was a rush of movement, and pictures flashed from everywhere once more, as the group of black clad witches and wizards, along with the Minister, went through a door to the side of the courtroom. Potter stood near the exit, staring at Draco, and he couldn't tell what the expression on his enemy's face meant. Potter raised his hand and waved once, then turned and left.
Harry stayed up all night after the hearing. He thought about the things he'd said and wondered why he'd said them. There was only a small part of him remaining that still resented Malfoy for the things he'd done over the last seven years, but wasn't that strange? Again he wondered why he didn't seem to harbor hatred for Malfoy, the boy who'd always been there to heckle him and his friends, who'd gotten him countless detentions, who'd stomped on his face and left him paralyzed in an empty train. Who'd been on the wrong side of the war. Shouldn't he feel glad to see how beaten down and broken Malfoy was? Harry felt like he should, but he couldn't. He'd felt as though he'd be ill upon seeing Malfoy's bedraggled, bruised and bloodied appearance. It struck him in a way that he couldn't peg, but he was pretty sure what he felt was compassion.
A rustle of blankets on the other side of the bedroom drew Harry's eyes. In the dark, he couldn't tell if Ron was awake or sleeping, but the atmosphere of the room changed, and Harry sensed eyes on him.
"You awake?" he whispered to the lump across the room that was Ron.
"Yeah. You?"
"Obviously," he chuckled. "Can't sleep?"
"No." Ron sounded as though he wasn't going to say anything, but then Harry saw him sit up and turn his bedside oil lamp on. "I heard about what you said at Malfoy's trial today." Harry sat up as well, expecting this to be a weighted conversation. He wrapped his thick blanket around his shoulders as he adjusted his eyes to the dim lighting that flooded the compact room.
"I've been thinking about that. S'why I can't sleep."
"Why did you say those things? Like he's your friend, or something? We hate Malfoy, remember? Hermione still has that… that bloody scar on her neck because of him." Harry wanted to say that he didn't hate Malfoy, but that was the wrong thing to say, so he didn't.
"I didn't treat him like a friend. I would have lied for you, mate, you know that. And I don't think Hermione's scar was really his fault, seeing as Bellatrix was the one who put that scar there."
"Honestly, even now you're defending him." Ron's whisper was full of incredulity. "How can you say he doesn't deserve a real sentence for what he did? We saved his life, twice, during the final battle and he didn't so much as thank us."
"I know we did. I don't think he deserves anything, Ron, but…"
"You feel like you can relate to him somehow, don't you? Always the bloody hero. It's not your job to save anyone anymore, mate." Ron shook his head and furrowed his eyebrows. "The war's over."
"I wasn't trying to save him," Harry whispered defensively. "I just didn't want to be the deciding factor in his sentence. So many people have been locked up, and for good reasons, and I feel like his crimes aren't as bad as the other Death Eaters."
"That doesn't mean he didn't commit crimes. Harry, he's a war criminal. He should be locked up."
"Maybe he should, but I wasn't going to be the one who put him behind bars."
"Why not? After all the shite he pulled… I just don't get it."
"I'm not sure I do, either. What you said, about feeling like I can relate. I think that's part of it. I know why you hate him, I get it, but when you compare my life to his... they're pretty similar."
"Except he's a Death Eater and you're the one who saved everyone. That's a huge difference." Ron wasn't going to budge, Harry could tell. Instead of trying to explain, he lay back down on the lumpy mattress and spread his blanket back over himself.
"Can we just try to sleep?" Harry asked, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and more isolated than he already had.
"Whatever." Ron was not satisfied, that much was clear, but Harry didn't feel like discussing the topic of Malfoy any longer. He couldn't understand why he'd defended Malfoy either, so there was no point trying to explain himself to someone who refused to listen.
Ron turned the oil lamp off manually and Harry heard him tossing around in his bed for a while. Then, after several long minutes, he heard his friend begin to snore loudly and knew that he was asleep. Harry wasn't sure if he'd be able to sleep, even though he was tired. He was anxious to hear the verdict on Malfoy's final hearing, whether or not he'd be put away for years to come. It didn't make sense why part of him hoped that Malfoy wouldn't be. In fact, there wasn't a single bit of Harry that wished Malfoy would be imprisoned, and that was the strangest thing of all.