Author's note: This is absolutely not the end of the story.
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Harry pulled a fresh set of robes from the moldy-smelling drawer and threw them on, stretching out his stiff back as he stared into the mirror. The face looking back at him was pale and tired looking. How he'd survived so long sleeping in that dusty, sagging bed was a mystery. His skin itched terribly everywhere it had come into contact with the grimy old sheets and his clothes stank of mothballs.
He sighed. As bad as the morning had been so far, he knew it was only going to get worse.
Walking out of the silent office space, he glanced back at the dark, empty room up the small set of stairs behind him. He wondered at the bizarre sense of loss twisting in his stomach, and supposed that it had been lonely here on his own for all this time. It probably would have been nice to have a roommate.
He joined Ginny, Ron and Hermione in the corridor and made his way out of the castle.
"It's so weird that this is actually happening," Hermione said as they passed through the gates. It was snowing again and their feet crunched softly with each step.
Ron nodded enthusiastically "I always knew he'd wind up in Azkaban. It's like an early Christmas present. I can't wait to see his face when they say he's guilty. It's going to be brilliant!"
"What I don't understand is why the rest of us don't get to testify," she complained. "There are plenty of people out there who might argue that he's innocent, even I had my doubts, and Harry isn't the only one of us who has something to say. I should have spoken to the prosecutor myself."
Ron laughed. "I'd rather just sit back and watch, it'll all turn out the same anyway. Guilty."
"I'm not so sure," Hermione pressed. "Gunda Humbert is the prosecution, and she's brilliant, but Imogene Wiley is defending him. I've heard she can get just about anyone acquitted."
"Stop worrying so much, Herm," Ron told her pleasantly. He threw his arm around her shoulder and kissed her forehead.
Ginny was gripping Harry's hand and watching him intently as they walked. "Are you ok?" she asked quietly. "How do you feel?"
"Fine," he lied. Why was everyone always asking him that?
"Ginny," Hermione hissed. "Don't."
"Don't what?" Harry asked, squeezing the hand wrapped around his. It was a bit damp and warm, but it was also comforting and he didn't want it to drop away.
"Never mind, mate," Ron reassured him. "You just look, erm, tired."
When they arrived at the courtroom, they found it packed to capacity. They claimed the small row of seats that had been reserved for them and waited for everything to begin.
Harry was vaguely aware that the others were still discussing the trial, but he'd stopped listening long ago.
He scanned the crowd for familiar faces, finding Neville, Seamus, Dean and Luna seated in the second row. Their heads were bowed in toward each other as they spoke, obviously straining to hear one another over the incredible racket of the courtroom. In front of them sat Narcissa looking small and nervous. She leaned forward in her chair with a reassuring hand resting on the back of her son's shoulder as she spoke to him. Malfoy didn't seem to be listening to her, and Harry was surprised to find that his pale eyes were locked onto him as he nodded absently along to whatever she was saying. He looked exhausted and miserable with disheveled hair and ashen skin. As Harry stared back, an image of that pallid face glowing a healthy pink and transformed into a warm, genuine smile danced behind his eyes in a flash, too fast to focus on. Harry couldn't place the memory.
When Malfoy raised his shacked hands in a brief, awkward wave, Harry knew they would be cold. Always cold, even in a warm room. His stomach twisted again and he looked away.
As the morning wore on, things didn't appear to be going well for the defendant. Several eyewitnesses testified to seeing the Dark Mark branded on his arm, and even more spoke candidly about his involvement in Dumbledore's death. Luna spoke at length about her own incarceration in Malfoy Manner, and Neville condemned Draco's cooperation with the Carrow siblings at the beginning of their Seventh Year. Malfoy himself sat unmoving, slumped in his seat as if too bored, or too unwilling, to pay attention to his own criminal proceedings.
Harry was the last person called to the stand, and after hours of damning evidence he felt as if his statement would amount to nothing more than a drop in the ocean. He hoped this would go quickly.
Humbert questioned him first. She was a tiny woman with glowing blonde hair and large, innocent-looking brown eyes that made Harry feel almost as if a small child was addressing him.
"Mr. Potter," she began in a soft, albeit rather high-pitched voice. "It goes without saying that the entire wizarding world owes you an enormous debt of gratitude. Thank you for taking the time to help us all finish what you began."
Soft applause broke out in the room and Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Let's not beat about the bush today. Tell me, when did you first begin to suspect that Draco Malfoy was a fully initiated Death Eater?"
"In my sixth year at Hogwarts," he responded. His much deeper voice echoed strangely back to him.
"And this was the year that Mr. Malfoy attempted on a number of occasions to murder Albus Dumbledore? Rest his soul."
"Yes, that's correct."
Humbert clasped her hands solemnly. "Is it likely that Voldemort would have trusted any young student with such a monumental task, or is it more likely that he asked one of his own? Someone sworn to obey him?"
"That was all very complicated," Harry responded. He scratched uneasily at the dry skin on his chest. "But, yeah, that's what it all boils down, to I suppose."
Humbert smiled broadly, revealing a row of tiny, gleaming teeth and took her seat. "I don't want to keep you any longer than is necessary. We've heard more than enough today, and I believe that just about sums it up. It is clear beyond a doubt, I'm sure everyone would agree, that Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater. Thank you Mr. Potter."
Opposite the prosecution's bench, Wiley was whispering something to Malfoy. He glowered up at Harry, his mouth contorted into a weak sneer.
She stood suddenly and paced with a great deal of drama before Harry, her robes flicking noisily at each turn. Stopping suddenly to face the crowd, she spoke. "Others today have stated definitively that Draco Malfoy was branded with the Dark Mark during his sixth year at Hogwarts. Mr. Potter, can you confirm this?"
Harry shook his head. "Like I said, I suspected it. I heard the rumours."
Still addressing the crowd, she pressed on. "Did you believe these rumours at the time you heard them?"
"Yes, I did."
She seemed oddly encouraged and began her pacing anew. "Do you still believe this?"
"Yes, I do."
"And he's done nothing in all of the years you've known him to persuade you otherwise?"
Harry tried to ignore Malfoy's slate glare as he watched her flit past him. "I don't know... I do believe that he lied to Death Eaters at one point to save my life and the lives of my friends... But, no. Not really."
There was an unhappy rumbling in the crowd, but Wiley seemed to have been expecting this. "I see. Is it possible that he'd been a reluctant member, then?"
"Yes, that's possible."
"The event that you are referring to, would this be the evening that you were kidnapped by so-called Snatchers and taken to the childhood home of Mr. Malfoy?"
Harry cleared his throat, his stomach twisting painfully again. "Yes."
The pacing continued. "And it was at this point that he refused to cooperate with them, or lied to them as you put it?"
"Yes. Well, not lied. I shouldn't have said lied, but… He was asked to identify us. I'd been hit in the face with a Stinging Jinx, so I didn't look like myself. My friends did, though."
"Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley?"
"Yes."
"People he should have easily been able to identify?"
"Yes."
"And what did Mr. Malfoy say when he was asked to do this?"
"I don't really remember. It was something like, 'Yeah, it might be them,' or something like that. He wasn't sure."
"But you believe that he was sure."
"Yes, I'm certain he recognized us." Harry felt suddenly lightheaded as he glanced down at Malfoy. He watched him moodily chewing at his lip, and the knowledge of the taste of that raw, broken flesh crystallized as clearly for Harry as the knowledge of the terrible itching of his own skin.
Paying no heed to Harry's distraction, Wiley continued. "That almost sounds like heroic deception to me."
Harry tried to focus. "No. Not... His life was in danger as well. He had to be careful. If he was wrong either way, he was risking death."
"Have you ever asked him about his motives?"
"No." He ignored the nagging sense that this was not true.
"Really? I would have been very curious. Why is it you've never asked?"
"We've never been close. We don't talk much."
"So it isn't likely that he was merely protecting his friends that day?"
Harry forced out a bizarre bark of laughter. "Absolutely not."
"I see. Why do you believe that someone such as Draco Malfoy, someone widely regarded by the majority of people here today as a known Death Eater, would betray his cause to protect the one person he was supposed to be delivering to Voldemort?"
Harry paused. He had to choose his next words very carefully. It was obvious that the right thing to do now would be to condemn Malfoy for every crime he'd committed, regardless of motive. The sea of faces around him stared down expectantly, like vultures circling an injured animal. Harry glanced over at the defendant, the slim blonde boy who had tormented and bullied him for years. The person he had hated since childhood. The man who, Harry was somehow certain, smelled of oak and mint and kissed too hard.
Quietly, he responded before he lost his nerve. "If he was a Death Eater, I don't think it was likely he joined willingly. He may have been forced into doing everything he did under threat of death… I believe, when he refused to give me up, he was doing what he thought was right. He risked everything." The words tasted like bile in Harry's mouth and he felt close to vomiting.
Wiley smiled darkly. "Thank you, Mr. Potter."
His ears rang and his head swam as he was escorted from the courtroom by the two guards that had been with him every day for the past several weeks. He stared at his own feet as he retreated, fearing the looks of anger and shock on the faces of his friends. Ducking hollering reporters and flashing cameras, he all but ran out of the Ministry building. He didn't want to hear the verdict.
His own reluctance to condemn someone he knew to be guilty left him feeling ashamed and confused, and the journey back to Hogwarts was a blur of disjointed recollections and terrible nausea. He headed directly to the office space once he'd reached the castle, not wanting to face anyone and what would have likely been a long evening of angry questioning.
As he closed the heavy door, he was relieved to finally be alone. The room was dim and quiet, lit only by the fire crackling lonesomely nearby. He wondered at the memory of a tall figure standing a few feet from where he was now, taking something away from him. He remembered the figure hitting him with a spell that he'd tried desperately to block, and he remembered the confusion he'd felt afterward. What kind of spell had it been? It must have been a memory charm, but it couldn't have been an especially powerful one. He understood that he'd tried to protect himself from it, but he couldn't remember drawing his own wand. Somehow, he must have managed to dampen its effects. And still, visions of days past continued to play out vaguely behind his eyes like blurred photographs of a stranger's life.
A small dinner was waiting for him and he picked at it carefully as his stomach churned, sorting through the deluge of images. Harry knew now that he'd never been alone here. He knew that the blackened room up the small flight of stairs had recently been bright, and that he'd spent weeks sleeping there.
Giving up on his food, he climbed the dark stairs slowly and pushed the door back. He took a few steps forward and surveyed the very familiar space. On the floor by the bed was a set of his own robes lying wrinkled and abandoned. He took a deep breath and clearly recalled leaving them there. He knew that he had slept closest to the window because of a cold draft that only he could stand in the night. He knew that he'd liked it here. He'd been happy here.
He knew that it had to stop.
