"Silence!" exclaimed Kingsley Shacklebolt from his place at the centre of the Wizengamot. "Mister Zabini, please sit down! Mister Potter, I shall be forced to have you escorted out if you don't calm down now!"
Blaise clenched his jaw and complied under the mocking gaze of Percy Weasley. He dreamt of drawing his wand to explode the skull of that ass-licking–
"Blaise, calm down," Hannah whispered in his ear, disrupting his train of thought. "If you don't, you could lose all of your progress," She reminded him.
It was her fourth time accompanying him to a hearing. Today Harry was also at their side for the last day. All of their hard work came down to this moment, and they had been forced to bring back the Chosen One, the Survivor, as a final attempt to resurrect any meaningful change to the lives of those affected.
They hoped that the Wizengamot would finally swing in their favour. The deliberation for their case had dragged on for days and tensions were running at an all time high. At the start of the year, Blaise had resumed his efforts to speed up the handling of their case. A month later, not much had happened. Despite his achievement in convincing Muriel Prewett to support their cause, they remained perplexed. It had been a long and tortuous road and he'd given in to her blackmail, but she was now on their side.
"The meeting is suspended until the Members of the Wizenmagot have made their decision," Kingsley announced, tapping his mallet on his desk. "See you tomorrow at nine o'clock for deliberation."
Blaise sighed and gathered his things to leave the audience room. To say that he was disappointed was an understatement. He would have liked to have been able to debate for longer; he still had full pages of arguments to present to them. If only Amos Diggory hadn't monopolised the floor for half an hour…
A particularly oppressive hubbub arose in the auditorium and he hastened to leave it. This was one of the most important hearings of the year. It had lasted six days and this would hopefully be their last meeting.
He and Harry were ready to appeal if necessary and he was sure that Hannah would be too. She was just as committed as they were.
Blaise had grown somewhat closer to her over the course of the few months they had been working together. He hadn't known her at all when they were at school, and he had to admit that he regretted it as the weeks spent working with her passed. She had very recently joined his law firm and they now worked together on most of their cases.
He could even admit he was becoming friends with her. They sometimes ended their working days in a bar, or at each other's homes. He had gotten to know Longbottom by extension. He still remembered the grimace his former comrade had tried to hide from his fiancée when Blaise first entered their home.
Harry put his hand abruptly on his shoulder as they walked towards the floos of the Atrium. He had barely realised he had entered the Ministry lifts, too immersed in his thoughts. He was already mentally repeating and dissecting all the speeches made by the various speakers at the Wizengamot and preparing how he could dismantle their arguments if they were to reject their bill again.
"Zabini, we're going to Grimmauld for a drink with Hannah. Will you join us?" he said when he turned to him. "Parkinson can come too."
Blaise glanced quickly at his watch and sighed. He had no reason to refuse and taking the evening with friends would probably do him good. He knew that he could lock himself in his office all night until he fell asleep, in order to go through all the documents relating to the case.
"Shall I meet you there?" he said with a nod. "By the time I get home, change and tell Pans', we should be there in half an hour."
"Perfect," Harry nodded, drawing out his wand and ready to go. "See you later, mate."
Then he disappeared down one of the Atrium floos.
Blaise stood frozen in front of it, as Potter's last words buzzed through his mind. Mate. He couldn't remember ever being this close to him. They weren't even on a first-name basis. Their relationship had remained strictly professional since the end of the war. Cordial, of course, but not friendly. They each had their own interests in working together and they had always stuck to them.
What were those interests now? Blaise no longer felt the same way as before. Their battle was the same, they had been working together for some time to ensure that justice was done and not to take advantage of each other.
Blaise remembered very well the months following the war, how happy he had been to have Potter at his side, begging him to help free Theodore.
He felt bad when he remembered the feeling of power he had felt. It had been as if he had the upper hand, as if Potter depended on him. Maybe he had, at the time.
Potter had used him as a lawyer. Blaise had used him for his name and fame. They had both benefited and won.
From that point on, things were different, healthier. They collaborated, they wrote to each other, they plotted. If they took advantage of each other's skills, there would be nothing… wrong about it. They no longer wanted to free Theo or Draco, they wanted things to change drastically. For everyone.
Blaise blinked as he heard one of the floos on his right light up and he finally decided to move. He entered the one opposite him and vanished into the green flames. His head was still filled with the voices of those who had spoken at the audience.
He reappeared in his living room and immediately took off his coat, sending it to hang in the hallway with a flick of his hand. As he came out of the fireplace, he almost fell over backwards, catching his feet in a box full of books.
He groaned in pain and hopped up and down, massaging his foot. Bloody toes. Bloody boxes. Bloody lawyer's shoes.
"Blaise? Is that you?" Pansy shouted from the kitchen.
"Yes," he grunted as he put his foot down.
He took a long breath to calm his pain before resuming.
"I thought we were waiting to be sure we had the house before we started packing," he said as he heard his wife arrive.
Pansy walked into the living room, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He rolled his eyes.
They'd been wanting to move for two months. They wanted something bigger, further away from the city. They wanted a change of scenery and to stop living in what Pansy so aptly called a "slum".
They weren't complaining about having chosen their flat after the war, when they'd wanted a residence close to the Ministry. But now that their lives were more stable, they needed a change of scenery and their secondary little house in Scotland wouldn't be enough. Pansy had formally refused for them to spend their lives there. She wanted a house, a big, beautiful house. A manor if they could find one. They could afford it.
She wanted a place she could decorate any way she wanted, where she could invite as many people as she wanted, where she could host charity evenings for her foundation. She wanted a place where her husband could play Quidditch in his spare time, where she could have her own office and not work on a corner table, where he could make love to her in every room without getting bored.
And Blaise wanted to give her the world.
So Pansy took care of the visits. He trusted her, knew that she would choose the house of their dreams, the one in which they would grow old.
And she had finally found it, a week earlier. It had been enough to brighten up her far too gloomy daily life for a few days. They had wanted to buy it straight away, but the owners had made it clear that their names wouldn't be enough to get them it so easily. They would still have to wait. They were in a good position to buy a house, but Blaise knew resentment when he saw it, and the look in the owner's eyes betrayed him.
He prayed to all the divinities in the world that his wife's dream wouldn't be squashed. That would be too much in one go. He doubted she would be able to surpass it.
"I wanted to take my mind off things," she admitted as she undid her bun.
He didn't refrain from undressing her with his eyes at her gesture and a smile that was anything but innocent took place on his wife's lips.
"How did it go?" she asked, changing the subject as she approached him.
She clung to his neck as he shrugged. He wrapped his arms around her hips and kissed the tip of her nose.
He had no desire to talk about the hearing at the moment. He would have liked to dip into a glass, or even a bottle, but he had promised himself—again—to stop drinking at New Year. The day had been long, too long.
However, he knew that this discussion would be inevitable. From the look Pansy gave him, he knew she wouldn't let him change the subject as easily as she had. Besides, if she agreed to come to Potter's place, she would at least need to know the bare minimum of information about the session.
"I don't really know," he admitted with a wince. "They don't let us see anything, it's almost as if they were taking the piss out of our project. And the Minister kept giving me warning looks when I contradicted one of the Wizengamot members, but I ignored them."
She ran her fingers through his hair to gently massage the back of his head. He surrendered to the feeling of it, exactly what he needed to relax.
"You're not risking your place at the Wizengamot, are you?" she asked worriedly.
"Not when I'm the one pleading. He can't hold anything against me as long as I'm on the opposite side. He'll probably summon me as a way to put pressure on me about his next decisions, but that's as far as it should go."
She nodded, before resting her head against his chest and closing her eyes.
"What about you? Have you been here all day?" he worried, raising a hand to her cheek so she could look at it.
Since Christmas, Pansy had been working less and less. She had almost abandoned her foundation and entrusted most of her work to her assistant, Pia Moretti. Pia had been hired just before the holidays, after Pansy realised that she couldn't manage everything on her own.
But now Blaise was wondering who was really in charge of the foundation.
"No, I just popped in to give Pia a hand with the leaflet distribution in Diagon Alley. I got back a couple of hours ago and I–"
She cut herself off. He frowned when she huddled her face against his shirt.
"What's going on? Have you heard from Draco? From Granger?"
She shook her head against him, her shoulders suddenly jerking. Worry mounted. She had been in such a state so often recently that it was difficult for Blaise to judge the seriousness of the situation.
He no longer recognised his wife, he no longer recognised the woman he had married. She was constantly on edge, sleeping much more than usual and eating little. She hardly ever smiled, and it was even rarer for her to make sarcastic remarks. It broke his heart.
He didn't understand what was going on. He was lost.
"No," she murmured in a trembling voice. "I've sent other letters, actually. I thought that– I thought that if I reminded them that my birthday was coming up, they'd finally agree to answer me."
Blaise closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. A lump of anxiety slowly settled in his stomach and he rested his chin on the top of her head.
He'd expected this. Pansy couldn't have failed to mention it to Draco. She had been planning to celebrate her twenty-sixth birthday in France for weeks. She had been convinced that things would go well over the festive period, but things went enormously awry.
Blaise rocked her to sleep almost every night, when she had crying fits as she realised that she still hadn't received any answer from Draco or Granger. He had brought her back to her senses several times when she had said she wanted to go to France to sort things out. Blaise knew that it was a terrible idea that would have done more damage than good. They had to give them time. He'd learned that the hard way every time Draco had been angry with him.
And that was precisely what he was doing. He remained silent, absent, to give them space. He had promised himself he would be there the day they came back to them, the day they forgave them– if they did.
Perhaps it was foolish, perhaps it was naive to think that this would solve things. But Blaise couldn't imagine any other way of dealing with it. He simply couldn't spend as much energy as his wife chasing after two people who were so destroyed by their past. He was tired. He had done his best and he continued to fight for justice every day.
"They'll answer eventually, Pans'," he whispered to his wife, cradling her against his heart.
When he heard her sobbing against him, Blaise knew they wouldn't be joining Potter for drinks. He hugged his wife to his chest as he led them to their bedroom.
With a flick of his wand, he undid the sheets on their bed and laid her on it, before sitting down beside her. She curled into herself once she was settled and Blaise's heart clenched in his chest.
Definitely different. She seemed destroyed.
"How about ordering something for dinner?" he offered gently.
He stroked her cheek with his thumb, ignoring the tears that rolled down her face. Pansy nodded slowly and he leaned over to kiss her temple.
"I'll be right back," he murmured before standing up.
She held his hand and pulled him in for a kiss. It tasted like tears.
"Thank you," she whispered, resting her forehead against his. "Thank you for being here."
He swallowed hard. The emotion was gripping him. He just kissed her again, before going back into the living room to send Potter a Patronus and go out to get their dinner.
When his silver eagle flew out of the window, Blaise disapparated, determined to spend the evening comforting his wife. There was nothing better to do anyway, was there?
oOo
It had already been dark for two hours and Draco was waiting patiently for Hermione to return for dinner. There had been something he wanted to ask her. Something that had been nagging at him for some time.
It had been on his mind for weeks, but he hadn't dared to ask her. But now he felt he could, that their relationship had gotten to the point where he had the right to ask. They knew each other better, they even talked sometimes. It felt right. He had the right. He wanted to know what job she did and he felt they were close enough to be allowed to. She wouldn't mind. Would she?
As he did every evening, he had prepared their meal, choosing the perfect recipe from the books in the library. This time he had opted for boeuf bourguignon, a French dish. The images in the cookbooks had made his mouth water. It was the perfect meal around which to have a discussion. The perfect meal for his question.
The meat had been cooking on a low heat for three hours and a delicious smell wafted through the house. Draco had set the table on the kitchen island, as he did every evening. After all, as Hermione had so rightly said, it was silly to set the table in the dining room for just two people. Besides, it was much nicer for them to sit facing each other on the high chairs in the kitchen.
He glanced at the kitchen clock, which read exactly seven o'clock. A second later, he heard the front door open and Hermione's voice speaking to Albert. He smiled. Their routine was going perfectly. Everything was in place, they were on time. It felt right.
Soon, as he was taking the casserole off the fire and placing it on a trivet, Hermione came through the kitchen door and their eyes met.
"Good evening," she said with a slight smile. "It smells wonderful."
"Thank you," Draco replied as his cheeks flushed pink. "I was in the mood for something warm and comforting, with the snow outside."
"That's perfect," she smiled as she settled down.
"I've saved a few bits of meat and vegetables for Albert."
Hermione's face lit up and Draco realised that once again, he had done the right thing. She reacted like that every night, as if she couldn't believe that he could assist her, that he could be so helpful and kind.
But her reaction caused him to overthink.. Was she reacting this way because he was a Death Eater and her old nemesis? Or was she simply not, or no longer, used to anyone paying so much attention to her?
He couldn't help but wonder again as Hermione led Albert to the pantry where the full bowl Draco had prepared for him lay.
He was still staring at her when she returned to her seat and began to eat her meal. She looked tired to him. The week was ending and she looked like she'd had a hard day. His question came back to him. Now was the time.
His anxieties returned too, much to his annoyance. He felt really stupid for never having asked her. How could he have missed it after months of living together? She would probably think him ridiculous for never having asked.
She hadn't mentioned it to him either. Perhaps she didn't feel like talking about it? Perhaps she was ashamed? After all, her job certainly wasn't magical, so perhaps she feared he would judge her for it. Did she really think that of him?
His head began to ache, he felt sick. His anxiety was getting the better of him. He realised that things couldn't be perfect between them, that perhaps he had got his hopes up too high for an idyllic friendship. Maybe they weren't even friends after all.
Suddenly nothing was right. Everything was wrong. Everything was wrong.
He had hoped for nothing. The last few days had been an illusion, a lie, a utopian dream. She didn't confide in him, she didn't trust him, she was even afraid of him!
She hated him. He was nothing compared to her, he…
"It's delicious," she said, which was enough to snap Draco out of his ruminations.
He looked up from his plate and into Hermione's eyes. She was still smiling. She had even closed her eyelids to savour the taste and tenderness of the meat. Draco's heart slowed, his anxieties vanished.
And so he made his move.
"Hermione," he began before clearing his throat. "Where do you work?"
She opened her eyes again and Draco met her caramel gaze. It shone with joy, and satisfaction that did him a world of good. She frowned slightly and Draco bit the inside of his cheek.
"I own a bookshop in the village," she told him, lowering her gaze to her plate.
Draco smiled. She hadn't taken it the wrong way! She'd even answered him! And on top of that, he realised that he could almost have guessed the answer himself.
Hermione Granger, bookshop owner. It was so obvious, so fitting.
"I should have told you sooner," she resumed, playing with the remaining carrots on her plate. "I didn't even think about it, maybe I just assumed Pansy had told you."
He understood that she felt bad about not telling him and decided to change the subject.
"Do you get many customers?" he asked as he poured her more vegetables.
He knew her well enough to know that she wouldn't be satisfied with just one plate. She looked up and he saw in her eyes a certain relief.
"Not that many, mostly regulars," she replied as she resumed her meal. "The days are pretty quiet, especially after the holidays."
He nodded. He had succeeded. He felt even better, even more confident now. It felt right.
"Hermione Granger, bookseller," he smiled with amusement. "Guess things haven't changed that much."
oOo
The hubbub of the audience was back, but the room was much fuller. The section reserved for the public was packed to the rafters and whispers could be heard from the stands.
Speculation about the outcome of the trial was varied. Some thought that the Wizengamot would strictly refuse the bill, or were convinced that it would be accepted, while others spoke of a compromise.
Harry was sitting between Blaise and Hannah, who both seemed on the verge of an emotional breakdown. To his left, Hannah was tirelessly rereading her notes as if hoping that some solution or answer would appear before her eyes. As for Blaise, he was staring at the members of the Wizengamot one by one, hoping to read in their faces some clue as to the outcome of the audience. But nothing. They gave no indication, as if they had all been trained in Occlumency during the night.
Harry ran a hand over his face and tried to concentrate on something other than the ambient noise. He was worried that their battle was already lost.
He winced as he realised that this was how he always thought. In fights, in duels, in battles. Why couldn't things be simpler? Why couldn't he be optimistic any more?
He saw Blaise look up at Pansy, who was sitting in the stands, and his heart sank. He wished Theo had been there, he wished he could have calmed down when he met his eyes. He wished—he wished—that this whole mess would come to an end and that his husband would finally be recognised as completely innocent of the crimes of which he was accused.
Harry clenched his fists under his desk and took a deep breath. He would meet him again in a few hours. He just needed to be a little patient.
He could hear Theo's voice repeating it to him.
Be patient, Harry James Potter! You look like a four-year-old in front of a packet of sugar quills! For Salazar's sake, you're unbearable.
And he was. His leg twitched under his hands and he pulled his glasses up over his nose every ten seconds. If they won this first hearing, they were sure they could do much more. Everything could change very quickly.
After what seemed like an eternity, Kingsley rose from his seat as Chief Warlock and cleared his throat. The room fell silent. Harry felt his heart pounding in his chest and wondered if the others could hear it too. He was on the verge of a breakdown. He would have preferred to be at home.
How could he explain that he had been able to defeat a Basilisk at the age of twelve, but that he was incapable of remaining calm in the face of an assembly of bloody politicians?
"The Wizengamot and I have made our decision," Kingsley announced.
The whispering resumed, but Harry paid it no heed. His gaze was fixed on the former member of the Order of the Phoenix. The Minister's eyes sparkled, though he couldn't quite work out why. Was this a good sign?
"From 15 February 2006, the minimum sentence for those bearing the Dark Mark will be reduced to ten years," he announced.
Harry couldn't believe his ears. The audience erupted in cries of revolt and joy as he remained motionless in his chair. The world was moving around him, but all he saw were shapes and colours.
They had done it.
