5. The Trial
On the last Tuesday of May, the Aurors came to fetch him.
It was a sunny, beautiful morning. It was early, and he wasn't yet dressed.
While they waited outside his room he seized the opportunity to have one last look out of the window. He took in the sight – the sky of spotless blue, the old oaks, the peacocks, the fountain surrounded by ferns and tall irises. This way, he thought with a pathetic attempt at sarcasm, the Dementors would find at least one happy memory to rob him of.
...
When he was marched into the large dungeon, he felt like fainting. The torches seemed to slither along the walls, the murmur of the many shadowy figures in the high benches rose to a cacophony as he was steered to a chair. No sooner had he sat down than iron chains closed around his wrists and ankles.
They asked him questions – name, date of birth, place of residence.
He answered; the words came out as hoarse croaks.
Only once and only for a second, he glanced up. He instantly regretted it.
Weasley – the one who had once been Head Boy – Potter, and Granger sat in the nearest benches. Even though they weren't wearing the plum-coloured robes of the Wizengamot, their mere being there triggered an urge to run that was beyond control. Their presence made him realise with terrifying clarity that no assembly of anonymous strangers was going to pronounce a sentence upon him. The people here knew him. They hated him. The people in this courtroom wished to see him undone.
His heart beat against the ribcage as if it was trying to get out. Dark spots danced before his eyes.
He had to summon every shred of willpower to struggle against the recurring waves of nausea. He fixed his eyes on an irregular crack in the flagstone before his feet and concentrated on breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
He fought to steady his heartbeat. He fought to tune out the voices around him.
In.
Out.
He calmed down ever so slightly, telling himself that he would be taken away soon. He would not have to talk to any of these people, he would not have to answer their questions, he would not have to meet their eyes.
In.
Out.
He owed Potter.
He owed him his life.
Twice.
Thrice, to be correct.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
None of them would have stood a chance.
Once Potter would have been out of the way, the monster would have started to weed out the ranks of its followers – it would have got rid of anybody who was, in its opinion, too weak, too untrustworthy, or of too noble descent. It had only ever needed them to chase Potter.
Draco and his father would have been among the first to go. Not that the monster would have bothered itself with killing them – it would simply have given Bellatrix Lestrange leave to deal with her brother-in-law; Draco's executioner would have been Greyback.
The mere memory of the werewolf chilled him to the bone. Throughout the past two years, Greyback had kept seeking opportunity to come across Draco as if by chance. He had never said anything, but the way his gaze had slowly travelled from Draco's chin to the collarbone and back had been suggestive enough.
The day after Potter's escape from the manor – every muscle in Draco's body had still ached from the Cruciatuses, he had had no wand, and the hallway had been completely deserted except for him and the werewolf – Greyback had pinned him to the wall and breathed that sickening stench of rotten meat into his face. And this time, he had spoken. The rasping voice had had a shockingly lascivious quality. I WILL have you, beautiful... I will taste your blood, rip out your delicious throat...
Anything, anything would be better than being eaten alive by a brute like Fenrir Greyback. Even Azkaban.
Azkaban.
He had backed off too late, far too late, to make his move a convincing plea for the court. When he finally had found one of Potter's immediate friends, his warning had come too late. Plus, he had had no evidence whatsoever, no proof for his words, nothing substantial. It was a miracle Thomas had listened to him at all.
Since when do you care about Harry's well-being, Malfoy?
What exactly had he said in response to Thomas's question? Potter had just been the last thing standing between him and ultimate doom. Had he said that?
"And you did believe him, Mr Thomas?" an unfamiliar male voice boomed, resounding of the stony walls of the courtroom and shaking Draco out of his thoughts. "Why?"
"What he said made sense to me. He had been around Voldemort" – Draco shuddered – "long enough to make an educated guess. At any rate, I was sure his panic was genuine. So, I decided telling Harry about a possible trap wouldn't hurt. The only problem was that I couldn't find him. Harry had already left the castle."
"So Potter never heard Malfoy's so-called warning?" the loud, male voice demanded.
"I cannot answer that," Thomas said with considerable calm. "He didn't hear it from me since I couldn't find him in time."
There was a derisive snort.
"First, we hear a written testimony read to the court by a clerk," the man complained, "because the witness is underage. Now, we are required to listen to a so-called witness who has nothing on offer but gut feeling. Honestly, how much more of this bullshit does the defence propose to present here?"
"The prosecution will mind his language," another male voice, a rather stern one, said. "Besides, you cannot blame the defence for your own lack in thoroughness. Both sides have the same right to present witnesses. You failed to summon any, and this will be considered nobody's fault but yours."
"Fiddlesticks," the first man grumbled. "Why waste time? This case is as clear as crystal – he does have the bloody Mark. He did cast Unforgivables. And that's it. It doesn't matter whether they were Cruciatuses or Imperiuses. I don't see much of a difference there."
"Oh, you would if you 'ad ever been placed under them," a woman said.
Draco didn't look up although her voice sounded vaguely familiar. Knowing who was talking about him would only make it worse.
"Apart from the question of witnesses, the case is anything but clear, Mr Blancmange," the woman went on. Parchments rustled. "The defence will now bring two relevant legal technicalities to the attention of the court. Firstly, the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery of 1875, paragraph B, clause 1 and paragraph D, clauses 5 and 6 apply to several offences of which Mr Malfoy is accused. Said offences include the use of an Imperius Curse on Caitlin Rosmerta and the attack on the late Albus Dumbledore. Secondly, the use of all three Unforgivable Curses was formally legalised by Pius Thicknesse while 'e was Minister for Magic. During that time, even the unforced use of an Unforgivable Curse does not create a punishable crime per se."
Her words caused uproar.
The man with the stern voice tried to put a stop to the loud and passionate debates that went on all around. It took what felt like an hour before he succeeded.
"This unfortunate interruption is, without doubt, due the haste that was made in bringing the first suspects to court before the end of the month in order to meet the expectations of the public," he said when the noise had declined to a low-level murmur. "However, not discussing the consequences of Thicknesse's actions beforehand seems to have been unwise and-"
He was interrupted by a series of objections that ran along the lines of if we accept that as an excuse not only Malfoy here but nine out off ten Death Eaters will go unpunished and Thicknesse's actions were not valid because he was under an Imperius himself.
"The accused 'ad neither the obligation nor the means to determine a minister's mental state," someone shouted louder than the rest of the crowd whereupon a woman shrieked, "Don't let them off – they killed my whole family!"
Her cry stung Draco in a place where he hadn't expected it. The monster had revelled in people's frantic worry for the safety of their relatives. It hadn't cared whether those people were enemies or devotees.
The tumult ended abruptly as someone slammed a heavy tome with full force down on a table.
"That's enough!" a young, female voice said.
Draco froze.
"According to the Statute on Adequate Legal Action of 1912, no witch or wizard may be prosecuted by a law that was not valid at the time she or he committed the deed in question. This applies to laws that had been cancelled before the alleged offence was committed as well as to laws established afterwards." Granger's voice was thick with an emotion difficult to identify. "Like it or not – if this court chooses not to abide by standing law, it will be no court at all but an angry mob hunting defenceless victims. And that is not what Harry fought for."
An ominous silence fell that rang louder than the shouts before.
Draco was quite sure he didn't understand what was going on.
...
6. Trepidation
The man with the stern voice announced that the Wizengamot would need some time to sort out the technicalities before a decision could be made. He ordered the guards to lead the suspect outside for the interim.
Two heavily built men dragged Draco out into the hallway, shoved him against the nearest pillar, and conjured up a set of binding ropes. Once he was firmly tied to the marble post, they moved away.
In the silence of the empty hallway, the woman's cry still seemed to reverberate of the walls: Don't let them off; they killed my whole family.
He hadn't.
He hadn't killed anybody.
He doubted that the people assembled in the courtroom would bother with such details. More often than not, the Wizengamot had followed the simple cling-together-swing-together rule in the past.
He hadn't killed.
He had hurt people, though. It had felt good to take his pent-up frustration out on someone. The feeling had never lasted long, but the moment of discharge had usually felt great – like pushing off a weight and rising into the air by the mere loss of it. For most of the time, he had stuck to using words – snide remarks, subtle insults, or not so subtle ones... He had taken physic action only very rarely and only with people who weren't too likely to fight back. Of course, he was a coward. He had always been one. There was no point in pretending any longer.
Once, he had trodden on Potter's face. Hard. It had been a mistake. Oh, not that he hadn't wanted to. Quite to the contrary, Potter immobilised on the floor and for once defenceless despite his higher proficiency had been a temptation he hadn't been able to resist. Oh yes, it had felt good to swing his foot, to get some small revenge for all the times he had lost to the Golden Boy of Gryffindor. It had felt good to pay back for his father being in prison.
It had felt good until his boot had connected with Potter's face and he had heard the sickening noise of a bone breaking. There had been blood, too. He had wrenched the blasted Invisibility Coat out from under Potter's back and had thrown it over the nauseating sight. If he had thought, initially, he was going to kick Potter – righteous, unblemished, well-liked Potter – until he had exhausted himself and his irritation, he had been mistaken. Treading on Potter's hand before leaving the compartment had cost him a real effort. He had done it to prove – first and foremost to himself – that he could do it, that he wasn't the milksop his aunt made him out to be.
Half an hour later, he had sat at the Slytherin table, scowling at his food. Instead of eating, he had entertained his classmates with an elaborate description of his brawl with Potter, multiplying the number of dealt kicks by the factor of ten and lying about Potter whimpering and begging for mercy.
His audience had applauded.
They had thought Potter's humiliation to be a good laugh and had considered Draco's deed quite an accomplishment. None of them had spotted the flaw. Nobody had pointed out that a person placed under a Petrificus Totalus couldn't whimper.
In his heart of hearts, Draco had probably known all along that he wouldn't stand a chance in any moderately fair fight one on one. The incident in the compartment had brought the hitherto diligently ignored piece of knowledge to a level of consciousness where he couldn't overlook it any longer. And being aware of such a deficiency wasn't exactly helpful when your task was to murder one of the most accomplished wizards of all times.
Kill, or be killed. So simple.
So hopeless.
The promised reward for failing to kill Dumbledore had been death, the death of his whole family.
In the end, Snape had spoken up for him – only for him, not for his parents. He had said that Draco hadn't had enough time to complete the mission himself but that his contribution to assassinating Dumbledore had been nevertheless essential.
Draco wasn't sure why the monster had relented. It had had no regard for Draco's father; it had downright despised Draco.
Maybe their death sentence had only been suspended until the need for another suicide mission arose.
Maybe the reason had been to deprive Snape of the opportunity to ask another favour for killing Dumbledore.
Maybe keeping Narcissa Malfoy alive had had practical reasons. Threats against her sister were the only means to keep Bellatrix Lestrange in line. Up to a point.
A noice brought him back to the present. Somebody was shuffling their feet nearby. For a fleeting moment, one of the guards came into sight.
Why did they make him wait?
Two years or ten or a lifetime – did it matter? Did it really matter? He might lose his mind within a fortnight...
The marble felt cold against his back. The ropes were tight; they hardly let him breathe.
"Do you reckon they'll let him off?" one of the guards suddenly muttered.
"Dunno," his comrade replied in a low voice. "Blancmange botched it right up. What a shame..."
"Having no witnesses, honestly... that wasn't clever. He should have called Madam Rosmerta. She'd have told them some interesting stories about poisoned mead and cursed necklaces."
"Wouldn't have helped much, though," the second guard grumbled. "You heard the learned lady from Switzerland: Buying a cursed necklace of Borgin and Burkes doesn't constitute a crime. I ask you! The bloody git is a chip of the old Malfoy block, arrogant and rotten to the core. Everybody knows that. No wonder he had to hire a barrister from abroad."
Draco shook his head. Or tried to, anyway, since the ropes wouldn't let him.
He hadn't hired anybody. Least of all he would have hired the very woman who had drowned the last wisps of his self-esteem in Veritaserum.
His mother had asked the Ministry clerks to contact the long-standing family lawyers for her – to no avail. Guntram Rosier and Harper were dead. And unless the clerks had lied to his mother about the matter, Candida Marchbanks had refused to come and see her.
"Funny, how all the riches of his family won't help him now. To think they couldn't even get a barrister in Britain..." the first guard went on. "It's funny, really. Nobody wants to speak up for a Malfoy now."
"Except for Dumbledore's crowd, of course. That idiot girl – she was tortured at Malfoy Manor, wasn't she? What's she babbling away about standing law and stuff?"
"That's Gryffindors for you – brave, but gullible. Look at Potter. Poor bloke, Shacklebolt has him right under his thumb."
Draco swallowed. The two men parroting somebody else's opinions sounded very much like Goyle and Crabbe once had.
Then again, he hadn't been any better. Not at all. He had devotedly believed in every single one of his father's concepts.
He had believed in his father.
He had.
...
7. Expelliarmus
He couldn't tell how many hours had elapsed when he was finally led back into the courtroom. His legs felt numb from the binding, and he staggered more than he walked. That was one reason, but not the only one, why he kept his eyes firmly trained on the floor just before his feet.
This time they didn't chain him to the seat but made him stand.
Someone called loudly for the verdict to be read, and the thought struck him that he had completely missed the arraignment.
The man with the stern voice started speaking. In a strange monoton, he recited facts of Draco's life so far – names, dates, places.
Draco, his eyes still cast down, felt increasingly dizzy. His heart raced at a terrifying speed, the blood pounding through his veins made a rushing sound in his ears, his legs threatened to give way at any moment. He wanted this absurd recital to be over, he wanted to be out of here, he wanted to lie down, sit down at least, even on the cold stone floor of a prison cell. The time to come would hold no greater comfort.
Someone grabbed him and held him steady. He found that he could breathe. His heart rate gradually slowed down.
He tried to listen to the man with the stern voice. There was a string of unfamiliar expressions, intersperesed with references to laws and regulations: Suspended sentence... considering the delinquents comparative young age and lack of experience... Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery of 1875... on probation for five years from this day forward... Decree for Encouraging Repentance and Moral Betterment in Redemption Worthy Offenders of 1717... required to abstain from any use of magic... potions... charms... collecting, growing, harvesting, selling, or purchasing magical plants...
The words jumbled together in his brain and refused to make sense. What had magical plants to do with anything?
"You will also be required to abstain from all political activity," the man with the stern voice continued. "A written Code of Conduct will be handed to you within the next twenty four hours. Keep in mind that the first proven breach of rules will result in a stay of two years and seven months in Azkaban."
Draco jerked his head up. Equally startled and bewildered, he stared at the speaker.
The man nodded towards him and said in a lower, infinitisimally softer tone, "You got a second chance, Mr Malfoy. Try not to waste it."
...
He was out of the courtroom before he really knew it. Two stout Aurors escorted him at top speed down the hallway, up a flight of stairs, down another corridor – one without doors – until they reached the lift. They shoved him – not too gently – in and, after a short ride, back out. They marched him briskly across the spacious Atrium and into a strange cubicle that rose up to the earth's surface. They walked him behind a stack of decrepit and reeking containers, and from there, they Apparated him to the manor.
They quite literally dropped him in the drawing room and left without either of them having spoken a single word.
Draco still felt completely befuddled when his mother rushed into the room and swept him into an actual hug. Her forehead resting against his shoulder, she murmured incoherent words of satisfaction.
Sadly, he was too dazed to enjoy this most uncharacteristic display of emotion while it lasted. She soon remembered her manners, let go of him, and stepped away.
Her usual, composed self again, she started enquiring about the trial. The answers he could give were far from being satisfactory. The only thing he understood – and understood was most likely an overstatement, too – was that he had been pardoned. Why and how he couldn't explain. There were conditions, and he couldn't explain them either.
He sank down on one of the chairs and rested his head against the straight back. He contemplated going to his room and lying down on his bed, but climbing the stairs seemed to great an effort.
He refused dinner – despite not having eaten for the whole day, his stomach revolted at the mere tought of food – but agreed to a large cup of camomile tea since his mother insisted und wouldn't budge.
Drinking made him indeed feel a little better. Hesitantly, he gave in to the sense of relief that crept over him.
...
A while later a Ministry owl came, delivering the so-called Code of Conduct. It was a long list of things he was either forbidden to do or forbidden to be in possession of.
He skimmed through it – no wands, no brooms, no Sneakoscopes or Foe-Glasses, no this, no that... He was too exausted to memorise only half of it.
His mother perused the text, confidently searching for loopholes.
"I wonder how they compiled this catalogue," she said at long last. "From what it seems, some people are fearing for their respective businesses. Understandable to some extent, but honestly, as if a Black or Malfoy would ever stoop to weeding herb beds with bare hands!"
The last remark, especially the pointed way in which it was delivered, stirred up an old sadness that had been buried by the continual fears and worries of the last months sufficiently enough to be almost completely forgotten. There was this dream he had once harboured, another dream that – like so many others – had not come true and, in all probability, never would. This dream was different, however. It hadn't been induced by the expectations of others. It had slowly and, at first, unnoticed and therefore unchecked grown within him.
"Not being allowed to wield a wand for several years is a severe blow, Draco, but you will at least live in your own home. Using owls is not forbidden, so you will be able to correspond with a number of influential witches and wizards who may be in a position to help you once this penalty is over. You should devote this stretch of time to something useful – learning Greek, for instance, or, even more beneficial, working as a free lance for Witch's Weekly. It would certainly be a benefit if your name were recognised by a broad audience in a favourable way five years hence. We'll discuss that tomorrow. Right now, you should go to bed. You must be fatigued."
Fatigue was too weak a word he thought dully. He was tired to no end.
...
When he finally lay in his bed and his gaze fell on the unlit candle on his bedside-table, he suddenly realised with full clarity that he wouldn't touch a wand for five long years to come.
Perhaps he should stop to wonder. Almost right from the beginning, there had been talk among the Death Eaters that Expelliarmus was Potter's signature move.
- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -
Author's note:
Throughout the books, Madam as a form of address is combined with a witch's family name (Hooch, Pince, Pomfrey, Puddifoot). Rosmerta should therefore be a family name, too. I couldn't find a first name for her in the books though, so I made one up.