"I don't entirely approve of some of the things I have done, or am, or have been. But I'm me. God knows, I'm me." ~ Elizabeth Taylor
Chapter Forty-five: One Equals One Equals One
Today was the day.
As he sat in the questioning room, Draco couldn't help but shake with fear. He'd been dreading this day for weeks, months, and because he had been getting used to the routine of the trial - analysts scraping his brain for information, Gerard teasing out his intentions, sitting in the uncomfortable courtroom chair as his actions were discussed as though he wasn't sitting right there - he hadn't been preparing for the sentencing, for the inescapable darkness at the end of it all.
He thought briefly, wildly, back to when he had first been marked; the pain of the tattoo had burned in his skin, and he had felt the needle all the way down to his bones. He'd been so afraid, heavy with the weight of his task, heavy from the expectation of failure, the pressure of success from his parents. They had watched him with barely contained despair, judging him but simultaneously burning with their own shame.
The inevitability of this day pressed down on his heart; in retrospect, he should have seen this coming.
After today, his life would officially be over - he would finally be turned over to the innards of Azkaban, finally be at the mercy of the other prisoners. Finally have to deal with the former Death Eaters, the murderers, the necromancers, the psychopaths and violent offenders...
He barely masked a gasp as he quaked.
Harry Potter glanced up at the sudden noise, then went back to reading the newspaper article he had been focusing on. His presence did very little for Draco's nerves; the other boy simply reminded him of how he could have been, what could have been his future.
He tried desperately to imagine what it would have been like if he and Potter had actually become friends. He seemed to remember the first time he had met the wizard, where he had basically offered a pact of friendship and been blatantly (and publicly) refused. He didn't know it then, but he would have discovered later that in personality and beliefs, he and Harry would have clashed horribly. But in that moment his heart had sank, and he had held a personal grudge against Harry Potter since then, his jealousy of the other boy's accomplishments only fueling his dislike.
If they had been friends, however, he would have gotten to know Hermione earlier... he wouldn't have brushed her off, ignored her, simply because of her parentage (which he hadn't learned until second year.) They could have grown together, learned from each other.
His induction into the Death Eaters would have been avoided entirely.
He tried to contain these thoughts of "what if" and "if only," but they harassed him mercilessly. His emotional walls were hopelessly shattered; he let out an exasperated sob.
Harry looked at him sharply again. "What?" he asked.
Draco shook his head dismissively, trying to collect himself. He needed to calm down and accept his fate. Besides, he'd had a wonderful - albeit stressful - few months with Hermione and he would cherish that, probably for as long as he was in Azkaban.
If the dementors didn't eat all those memories, that is.
Fear prickled his heart again, followed by a sense of resolute determination. He knew what he needed to do.
"Actually Potter... I need you to do something," he spoke suddenly.
Harry rounded on him, a dangerous edge to his expression. "And what do you want?"
Draco studied his chained hands, steadying his voice. "I... I need you to keep a copy of my memories of Hermione."
The green-eyed wizard glanced at the Auror standing in front of the door, then narrowed his gaze at the blond. "What do you mean?"
Draco faltered, his head dropping. "It's just... the dementors are relentless... " He looked up, his eyes actually pleading, and Harry matched his gaze with something that looked like remorse. Or understanding.
"Oh," Harry muttered, processing the implications of his question.
"I've already started to lose those memories," Draco continued softly, "and I want to make sure I can... if I get out... at least have one thing to look forward to."
Their eyes met again, and for the first time Harry found that he actually cared about what happened to Draco, not just for the sake of Hermione, but for Draco's sake. Despite all that Malfoy had done to him over the years, he knew that the young wizard didn't truly deserve what awaited in Azkaban.
He tried not to think of Sirius's experiences there; the man's constant nightmares, the faraway look in his eyes, the layers and layers of barriers he kept over those memories, to the point where he could barely access them without the color draining from his face. Harry hadn't been able to get much out of him about his time there, but from the snippets Sirius had let slip, Azkaban was dark, chaotic, and frigid, lacking any life beyond the mostly mentally ill prisoners.
After a few seconds he covered the awkward moment with a clear of his throat, straightening his shirt.
"Alright, I'll do it. Wait here, I'll tell Gerard's assistant."
Draco raised his hands sarcastically, his chains dragging along the surface of the table.
He wanted to preserve their time together as much as he could, for it really was the first time he had truly trusted anyone with how he was feeling. He'd always brushed off Snape's questions, his knowing looks, and had dodged his school friends whenever they tried to engage with him on a deeper level. He'd found brief moments of solace - talking to the Hogwarts ghosts, whose wry disregard for life gave him the ammunition he needed sometimes to put aside his emotions; or even unloading on his cat Pewter, who always seemed to be extra friendly when Draco was distressed, despite not being able to understand his rants.
Hermione had somehow cut through all of his bullshit - her innocent determination, her blind compassion, her precise intellect... combined with her subtle, demure attractiveness... it had been his undoing.
He was in awe of her power, a power that had been taken from her in the beginning but was returned with unbelievable force.
He briefly wondered how he could have ever considered her weak, how he could have ever doubted her abilities. In the beginning, she'd had very little physical strength due to the strength-sucking curse, and had been blind. And yet, she'd managed to still attempt to escape, formulate plans, and help him strategize. Not to mention the things she had told him about traveling in the woods, which he had brushed off as nothing before.
And now she was apparently taking over the deeds to his estate, pulling strings at Azkaban, and essentially bringing down the entire legal system, just to give him a chance at life.
He felt like an idiot for ever doubting her.
Harry reentered the room, holding his wand and a vial; he pressed the tip to Draco's temple without hesitation, and Draco closed his eyes and concentrated on those memories: her determined face as she had felt up a tree in front of her; her uninhibited amusement as she had splashed water at him, her hair plastered to her head; her red cheeks as she had bit through the pain of her wound. Her compassionate expression, her eyes so close, as she had questioned him about his darker emotions, her breath warming his face. He thought through it all, even the fights they'd had about strengthening their campsite, the arguments that had divided them, even as they had wanted nothing of the sort.
He then thought of their more delectable memories: her beautiful face as she furrowed her brows at the sensation of his hands on her bare sides; her gasps at his kisses; her lovely nude body, leaning against the wet tiles of the shower, water cascading down her back, sliding down her skin...
He fought the wave of heat that threatened to overtake him and doubled his concentration.
Merlin, when she had pressed her body against him in the night, it had taken all of his effort to simply snuggle her closer... though he had kicked himself for his nervousness at the time, he was now grateful that they had taken it slow. The anticipation had been excruciating, but he had also known that he would miss her skin, her touch, her warmth, her mind, more than he would miss his own pleasure, or any sexual acts between them.
The last memory he saved was of her flaming form, her soul, as it burned his mind, overpowered him with her compassion, her untarnished emotions.
Harry sighed as at last the memories stopped coming, and tapped the final strand into the vial and sealed it with a stopper. He pocketed the precious vial inside his robes.
"Can you tell her that I'm sorry?" Draco asked when he opened his eyes.
Harry stared at him like he had requested a balloon animal. "What?"
"Tell her I'm sorry. For ever doubting her or making her feel insignificant. She's... she's amazing."
Harry's gaze softened. He came to stand before Draco, crossed his arms, and said, "Tell her yourself. Don't give up yet."
"It'll be the Kiss for me, I can feel it."
Harry shook his head, uncomfortable in his position of needing to console the blond wizard. "No. Don't give up."
"I'm the reason Dumbledore is dead. I'm the reason the Death Eaters were able to get into Hogwarts. I deserve it."
"You're also the reason we've caught most of them."
Draco scoffed bitterly, his head dropping more.
Harry knelt next to Draco's chair, clearing his throat uncertainly. When the blond looked up, his eyes were glossy.
Harry stared at him for a long moment, recalling a small memory of Draco in a bathroom, struggling to keep it together. He'd looked so wildly helpless, tears streaming down his face, confessing his fears to Moaning Myrtle, of all people...
He sighed. "Don't let the dementors get to you, Malfoy."
Draco shook his head, his eyes now clenched tight, for he knew if he opened them again, he would lose it.
The door opened, revealing more Aurors and Gerard.
"It's time," the attorney murmured, patting his plaid sport coat.
Draco kept his eyes closed as the Aurors pulled him up.
It was a long trek to the dungeons; after their registered portkey deposited them in the single, dingy transportation room, they wound, seemingly at random, through the dark corridors and stairwells until they came at last to the oak doors of his courtroom. Nausea swept through Draco as he was dragged to his seat; his throat had already closed along the way, tears falling without his knowledge. He tried to wipe these on his tattered prison shirt as the courtroom filled.
There wasn't as much chatter as usual, despite the room being filled past capacity. Various members of the jury were already in their seats, their eyes downcast; members of the Wizengamot spoke in broken whispers. The Minister looked thoroughly distracted, his reading glasses hanging perilously off his nose as he absorbed the lengthy document in front of him. Reporters and photographers lined the walls, fumbling with their equipment. Rita Skeeter was among them, looking devilishly out of place in her acid-pink frock.
Draco risked a glance at the civilian benches behind him; they were packed, people stiffly sitting shoulder to shoulder. His mother was seated just to his left, her bloodshot eyes lined with precise makeup; Pansy, Blaise, and a few of his german friends were seated beside her, not consoling her but near her for solidarity. Behind them he recognized Professor McGonagall, Madame Pomfrey, and a few other Hogwarts teachers, as well as some other people he hadn't expected - some of the Aurors that had stormed Master's hideout; Jesse Worthington with her cat, Loki, in her arms; Neville Longbottom, looking incredibly tough in his Auror robes, despite his wide eyes; and even some of his father's former coworkers, all looking at their laps in shame. Harry Potter had found his seat next to Nora Constable, who was watching the press in the corner through narrowed eyes.
Merlin, he wished Hermione was here - even just to see her, one last time, would make all of this seem bearable -
Gerard patted his shoulder, and Draco forced his gaze back to the front of the room, where the Wizengamot had finally quieted down. Draco was encouraged to stand from his seat, and his chains were once again symbolically removed; their clattering seemed impossibly loud, echoing through the chamber.
"Representative from the jury, have you a verdict to present?"
A jury member rose, glancing at Draco, and said, "We have, Minister."
"Proceed, and we shall vote."
The general organization of the day was this: the jury would decide on the guilt or innocence for each charge. The Wizengamot had the power to contest the decisions, which would revert any claims to innocence, but halve the projected sentence for the offense. Afterwards, various representatives from the government would submit claims to lenience, based purely upon the worth of the information provided by the accused.
It was a brutal arrangement that ensured that the Ministry retained the majority of the power, despite the illusion of the power of the people, in the form of the jury. They were a mere front, put in place to suggest fairness. Draco dared not be ungrateful however; he knew that he was lucky to get a trial at all.
"On the charge of attempted murder: not guilty."
The Minister glanced around the Wizengamot; the majority raised their hands.
"On the charge of assault: not guilty." More hands were raised.
"On the charge of treason: not guilty." The Minister looked around the Wizengamot; less than half of them raised their hands, and he nodded to the Record Keeper to record the dissent.
"On the charge of dealing in illegal artifacts: guilty."
There was a collective intake of breath from the civilian benches; a few cameras flashed. The plum uniformed wizards raised their hands again.
"On the charge of use of an Unforgivable Curse: not guilty." After some hesitance, the majority of the wizards raised their hands.
"Oh the charge of conspiracy to commit murder: guilty." More gasps sounded around the courtroom. The Wizengamot assented.
"On the charge of collusion with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the terrorist organization known as the Death Eaters: guilty." More gasps. Draco's blood pounded in his ears.
"And lastly, on the charge of impeding a national investigation: not guilty." The Minister glanced at the Wizengamot, receiving their assent, and turned back to the lead juror.
"Please give your sentence recommendation for each crime to the Record Keeper."
The juror stepped around the railing and deposited the parchment roll on the Record Keeper's table. They took it up and levitated it beside them.
Draco knew that at least two of the crimes he had been declared guilty of demanded a life sentence in Azkaban. He prayed that Gerard's odd style of defense had garnered some sympathy from the jury.
"Record Keeper, what is the collective sentence for these crimes?"
The Record Keeper did some calculations on their parchment, referencing both the official sentencing guide and the jury's suggestions. They looked up. "55 years in Azkaban," they answered.
There were more gasps around the room, and more camera flashes. Draco's eyes swam as fear began to seize his heart.
When the chatter died, the Record Keeper continued, "With a minimum servitude of 25 years, and an 860 thousand galleon compensation fine to the Ministry of Magic."
"Thank you, Record Keeper. Representatives from this ministry, please submit your claims now."
Draco watched as the various representatives got up and deposited their parchment on the Record Keeper's table. Nora nodded to Draco reassuringly as she passed him; a girl he recognized from school - Hannah Abbott - also acknowledged him, a tight fist around her rolled parchment, her other hand tucked into her deep green robes.
As the representatives filed back to their seats, the Record Keeper made notes in the notebook, the parchment rolls now levitating around the table.
The silence dragged on, broken occasionally by a camera flash or a cough; Draco's heart beat frantically. He already knew that tears were sliding down his cheeks; he made no more moves to wipe them away. There was nothing to pretend for anymore; the day had finally come for him to pay for his mistakes, and no amount of pride would save him.
After what seemed like forever, the Record Keeper vanished the floating parchment rolls and nodded to the Minister, indicating that a decision had been reached.
"Record Keeper," the Minister said formally, "What is the final sentence?"
The Record Keeper stood, and there was a collective rustling around the dungeon as everyone held their breath.
"10 years in Azkaban, with a minimum servitude of two years, and a 426 thousand galleon compensation fine to the Ministry of Magic."
Author's note (11/3/17): We're getting close to the end! It seems bleak now, but don't worry, I promise it gets better. Thank you all for reading - feel free to review and tell me what you think!