Chapter 24

hand on the throttle

"Law, like music or drama, is best understood as performance..."

Law as Performance, J.M. Balkin and Sanford Levinson, Yale University (1998)

Hermione and Narcissa Malfoy sat across from Cassian Warwick in Narcissa's favourite sitting room. The barrister, ever the commanding presence with his piercing gaze and brisk manner, sifted through the neatly stacked files Hermione placed on the table. Letters of testimony—each one a lifeline for Draco—lay among his case notes.

"I'll admit," Warrick began, his gravelly voice, "this is impressive work, Mrs. Malfoy."

Hermione's stomach fluttered at the title, though she forced herself to stay focused. "Will it be enough?"

"It's a solid foundation," Warrick said, lifting a letter penned in Ollivander's delicate script. "Testimonies from Ollivander, Potter, Weasley, Lovegood, and the others paint Draco as a young man trapped in impossible circumstances, making choices to mitigate harm where he could. This aligns well with the narrative we've crafted."

"It's not a narrative," Hermione snapped, her voice cutting—almost Malfoy-like. She wasn't sure whether to be proud or worried. "It's the truth."

Warrick barely blinked, his tone as smooth and detached as ever. "Yes, of course."

The casual dismissal made Hermione's fingers curl into fists beneath the table.

Didn't he see it? Didn't he understand that this wasn't some well-spun defence to twist the court's perception—it was reality?

This wasn't about crafting a sympathetic image for the Wizengamot to swallow. It was about proving that Draco Malfoy did not belong in Azkaban. That he was more than his last name, more than the sins of his father, more than the Dark Mark still burned into his skin.

Her temper flared, sharp and unrelenting. "You speak as though the truth is irrelevant." Her voice was low, tight. "As though it's just another legal angle to manipulate. If you don't actually believe in Draco's innocence, how the hell do you expect to convince them?"

Warrick exhaled through his nose, steepling his fingers as he regarded her with something between patience and mild irritation. "Mrs. Malfoy, you misunderstand me. Truth is rarely enough in a court of law. Perception is everything."

Hermione's jaw clenched, but before she could argue further, Narcissa leaned forward, cutting through the tension with the practiced precision of a woman who had spent her life navigating men who thought themselves untouchable.

"And the votes?" she asked, her elegant features composed but her tone sharp. "Have you factored in the influence I've secured?"

Hermione inhaled deeply, forcing herself to settle, focusing on the political battlefield Narcissa had been waging behind the scenes.

Narcissa had accomplished more than Hermione ever could have hoped for. She had leveraged every debt, every favour, and every buried secret at her disposal. She had convinced key members of the Wizengamot that aligning with the Malfoys was still in their best interest, whether through quiet persuasion or subtle threats cloaked in pleasantries. She ensured that some more neutral votes leaned in their favour and eliminated the possibility of certain key adversaries swaying the final decision.

The most significant victory? She had secured a conditional alliance with several more influential families—those who had remained in the grey space between loyalty to the Dark Lord and loyalty to the Ministry. They would not outwardly champion Draco but would not condemn him. It was a delicate balance that had taken weeks of careful maneuvering.

Warrick nodded, his expression grim, but not without a trace of optimism. "Yes. Combined with the testimonies, it gives us a fighting chance. However…" He paused, fixing Hermione with a sharp look. "The key lies in presenting Draco as not just a victim of circumstance but someone who chose to rise above it."

Hermione swallowed, knowing what was coming. "What do you need from me?"

"I need you to speak," Warrick said, leaning forward. "Not just as a witness, but as his wife. Your voice carries more weight than you realize. The Wizengamot won't see you as a bystander—your presence ties their war hero to his redemption. Stand before them as Hermione Malfoy and tell them why Draco deserves their mercy."

Hermione's breath hitched, her pulse hammering against her ribs. What if her words weren't enough? Doubt coiled tight in her chest, but then she caught the faintest shift in Narcissa's expression—melting the edges of her usual icy poise. Narcissa believed in her. Draco believed in her.

This trial represented everything they had fought for—redemption, choice, and the belief that they could be more than their pasts. Hermione swallowed hard, forcing air into her lungs.

She could do this. She would do this. Speaking before the Wizengamot was just another hurdle thrown before them in a never-ending battle.

"I'll do it," she said, ignoring the tremor in her voice.

Warrick gave a curt nod. "Good. Be concise but heartfelt. Highlight his courage and the risks he took to protect others. Emphasize his growth since the war and the life you're building together. Leave them with no doubt that redemption is not just possible but already underway."

"I'll draft something and send it for your review immediately."

Narcissa reached out, placing a cool hand over Hermione's. "Thank you."

Hermione managed a small, tight smile. "I'll do whatever it takes."

Warrick rose, gathering his papers. "This is the best position we could hope for. Now, it's time to execute. The trial is tomorrow. Rest tonight, Mrs. Malfoy—you'll need your strength."

As the barrister left, Hermione and Narcissa sat together, each in their own world.

"I won't let him down," Hermione whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

Narcissa's voice was calm, her poise a steadying force. "I know you won't."

The Malfoy Library was silent, save for the faint rustle of parchment as Hermione flipped through the rune book. The candle beside her flickered, casting long, restless shadows against the towering shelves. Her quill scratched feverishly against the worn parchment, her fingers cramped from hours of relentless notes, calculations, and spellwork.

She couldn't sleep—not with the trial looming over her like a spectre. Draco's fate balanced on a knife's edge; still, her mind wouldn't stop turning over the one thing she could control.

The cleansing spell. The final piece.

Her hands trembled as she sifted through the pages of her notes. The equations made sense. The potion's properties aligned perfectly with the curse's arcane nature. The rune, carefully refined, provided the stabilizing force.

On paper, it was flawless.

But using magic wasn't just theory. It was practice, refinement, and skill.

And she needed to test it.

A safe subject. The phrase echoed mockingly in her head. There was no way to test this without risk. There were only Death Eaters, and the few left were all incarcerated or on the run.

If she failed—if the spell backfired—it would be on her.

Hermione's gaze drifted to her forearm, to the faint, silvery "M" carved into her skin—a brand, a reminder, a curse of its own. The mark Bellatrix had carved into her during the war was meant to remain forever.

Carved with a curse knife.

Her pulse thrummed.

It wasn't Voldemort's essence, but it was a curse.

This was her answer.

But she needed Bellatrix's essence.

Hermione took a slow, steady breath and reached into her bag, fingers brushing against the cool, smooth wood of Bellatrix's wand. She kept it after the war, after she found her own wand in the Black Library, and tucked it away as both a relic and a reminder. Now, she would use it for something else entirely.

Her grip tightened as she pulled it free, its dark surface gleaming under the candlelight. Bellatrix's magic still clung to it—twisted, malevolent, but traceable.

She created the enchanted sphere using the same spells as before, pressing the wand's tip to its surface.

The reaction was immediate. A pulse of sickly light spread through the sphere, a sharp crackling tension filling the air as the spell worked, just as it had during the war. The magic within the wand—Bellatrix's magic—was drawn forth, shifting, unspooling in delicate, dark tendrils that curled inside the sphere like smoke trapped behind glass.

No screaming. No agony.

Just the quiet hum of power as the essence settled.

Hermione exhaled shakily, setting Bellatrix's wand aside. The sphere was ready.

Now, the potion.

She modified it carefully—altered to cleanse a curse from a knife rather than the Dark Mark. The ingredients were precise, the brewing meticulous, and now, imbued with the extracted magic, it shimmered faintly in the vial beside her. It was remarkably similar to the one needed for the Dark Mark. Similar enough to test the theory, at least.

She grabbed her own wand with a steadying breath, fingers ghosting over the raised scar on her left forearm. If the spell worked, she'd rid herself of this last lingering stain of the war. If it failed—she swallowed—then at least the consequences would be hers alone.

She uncorked the vial, the familiar scent bitter and metallic, and tipped it back in one swallow. The potion burned as it slid down her throat, magic igniting inside her like a spark catching dry tinder.

She drew the rune over her arm with precision, the ink sinking into her skin like molten silver. Her heart pounded as she lifted her wand to the brand and started the incantation, watching as the rune began to glow.

The first wave hit like ice. A sharp, biting chill surged through her arm, spiralling outward, pulling at something deep inside her skin. Then came the heat—searing, blistering, like fire spreading beneath her flesh. The pain stole her breath, her vision swimming. She gasped, clutching the edge of the desk as the rune burned brighter, too bright, too strong.

Something was wrong.

A scream clawed up her throat, but she bit it back, choking on the terror that she had miscalculated. The skin on her arm sizzled, her vision warping, twisting.

What had she missed? What had she overlooked?

She forced herself to push through the agony, focusing on the rune, the intent, the spell's purpose.

Not destruction—cleansing. Not severing—restoring.

Black spots dotted the edge of her vision. Bile rose in her throat. Then—A sudden snap.

The pain stopped.

Hermione gasped for air, her chest heaving. The glow flickered—then dimmed, and when she dared to look down, her arm was bare. The "M" was gone. Completely. The skin beneath was smooth and unblemished.

She let out a shaky laugh, trembling with exhaustion and relief.

It had worked.

It had nearly destroyed her—but it had worked.

Her fingers ran over her now-unmarked skin, the proof of her success sending a wild, thrumming hope through her veins.

Tomorrow, everything changes.

The grand courtroom of the Wizengamot was packed to the rafters. Every seat was filled, every corner crowded with witches and wizards from across the magical world. The air crackled with whispered speculation, the buzz of voices a low, simmering hum, like a hornet's nest disturbed.

The trial of Draco Malfoy had become a spectacle, drawing not just Ministry officials and legal scholars but common folk eager for a glimpse of either justice or ruin. The Malfoy name—once synonymous with wealth, power, and blood purity—was now tethered to something else entirely: scandal. People had come to watch the fate of a family that had stood at Voldemort's side to see if the heir to that dark legacy would be condemned or redeemed.

At the centre of it all sat Draco. Silent. Composed. Trapped beneath a thousand watching eyes.

The lead prosecutor, Aldric Rowle, stood before the court with measured confidence, his sharp eyes sweeping across the room like a predator surveying its prey. He was an imposing, broad-shouldered figure with silver streaks running through his dark hair. His voice, rich and controlled, commanded attention.

"Draco Malfoy was not simply another child caught in the crossfire of war," Rowle declared, his tone slicing through the restless murmurs. "He was an active participant in the rise of Voldemort's regime. He was marked by the Voldemort himself. He conspired to bring terror upon Hogwarts, to allow Death Eaters inside its walls, and when the moment came, he did not turn away. He stood with them."

Rowle paced, his wand tapping against his palm in a rhythmic beat.

"Do not be deceived by whispers of coercion," he continued, gaze locking onto the assembled Wizengamot members. "Fear did not force Draco Malfoy to take the Dark Mark. It did not force him to imperious an innocent woman. It did not make him lower the defences of Hogwarts and usher in Voldemort's followers. Those were choices—choices that cannot be dismissed simply because the war is over."

A ripple of whispers flowed through the courtroom. Hermione felt it like a current beneath her skin, trying to drown her. They had expected this argument, but hearing it aloud was different. More cutting. More real.

Rowle turned back to the assembled crowd.

"You have heard much about the Malfoys in the past year. About their supposed change of heart. But let me remind you of the facts." He raised a hand, fingers curling into a fist. "Draco Malfoy wore the Dark Mark. Draco Malfoy attempted to kill Albus Dumbledore. Draco Malfoy Imperiused Madam Rosmerta, turning her into an unwilling pawn in a murder plot. These are not allegations. These are facts."

Silence.

Then Madam Rosmerta was led to the witness stand.

Hermione forced herself to stay still, though her pulse hammered wildly.

Rosmerta's usually warm, lively face was pale and drawn, her fingers twisting nervously. She settled into the chair, gaze flickering across the sea of faces before landing on Draco.

She held his gaze for only a second before turning away.

"Madam Rosmerta," Rowle began. "Please, in your own words, tell us what happened."

Rosmerta took a breath.

"I was cursed," she said. "The Imperius Curse. I was made to—" she hesitated, gathering herself. "I was made to carry out his orders. I had no will of my own. I delivered the cursed necklace to Katie Bell. I smuggled in the poisoned wine. I… I helped plan a murder."

Her voice shook, but she pressed on.

"I was not aware. I was not in control. And I was left with memories of actions I never wanted to take." Her fingers gripped the edge of the witness stand. "Because of Draco Malfoy."

The courtroom stirred an uneasy wave of shifting bodies and exchanged glances.

Rowle nodded solemnly. "You were freed from the Imperius after the battle of the Astronomy Tower, were you not?"

"Yes."

"And did Draco Malfoy ever attempt to undo the curse himself?"

A pause.

"No," Rosmerta admitted. "No, he did not."

Rowle turned, sweeping his gaze across the court like he had just sealed Draco's fate.

"The war is over, but that does not mean we can ignore the actions that led us here today. Draco Malfoy was not just another frightened student. He was an enabler of the Dark Lord's rise."

The whispers turned into hushed but urgent conversations. The tension in the room thickened, pressing down like a storm, ready to break.

Hermione's hands curled into fists beneath the table.

They had expected this. She tried to remind herself. They even planned for it. But gods, it still hit like a curse to the chest.

Rowle stepped back toward his desk, setting his wand down with a decisive clink.

"This is not about vengeance," he finished, his voice dropping lower, more deliberate. "This is about accountability. The people of Britain suffered under Voldemort's rule. Families were torn apart. Innocents lost their lives. And while many were forced into terrible choices, not all chose to stand beside the Death Eaters. Not all chose to bear the Dark Mark."

Rowle straightened.

"Draco Malfoy did."

Rowle nodded to the judge. Madam Rosmerta was released from the witness podium and returned to the crowd. Rowle set his wand on the table before taking the seat himself.

The courtroom hung in a breathless silence before the Chief Warlock's voice rang out.

"The defence may present its case."

Warrick rose slowly, adjusting his robes with deliberate ease, as if he had all the time in the world. The courtroom still buzzed with Rowle's words, the echoes of accusation.

And then he spoke.

"The prosecution has woven a compelling tale." His voice was smooth, confident, and unbothered by the performance that just unfolded. "They painted Draco Malfoy as a mastermind of destruction, a willing participant in Voldemort's reign, a man who enthusiastically chose the Dark Lord's path."

Warrick paused, letting the words linger, letting their absurdity settle over the Wizengamot.

"But here's the truth: Draco Malfoy was a child caught in war, not its soldier. A boy who was given no choice but survival, forced into an impossible position that none of us here can truly understand. He was not a commander nor a leader. He was not a willing executioner. He was a pawn."

Rowle scoffed audibly, but Warrick ignored him.

"The prosecution speaks of the Dark Mark as proof of loyalty." His voice sharpened. "But I ask this court, what choice did Draco Malfoy have? Refuse and die? Refuse and watch his parents tortured before him? Refuse and watch his whole family murdered?"

Many in the crowd shifted uncomfortably, the rustling like thousands of insects in flight. Cockroaches. Hermione had to stop herself from sneering at them.

"The Ministry is well aware of how the Dark Lord operated. He did not recruit, he claimed. Draco Malfoy was a child when he was marked. A sixteen-year-old boy under threat, under orders. If a sixteen-year-old is imperiused into committing a crime, are they responsible for their actions? No. And yet, Draco Malfoy, under duress so great that grown men crumbled beneath it, is expected to have done what not even some of the most seasoned witches and wizards could manage—defy Voldemort alone."

Warrick paused, allowing for silence. Let the statement settle.

"The prosecution accuses my client of aiding and abetting Death Eaters," Warrick continued, pacing smoothly before the bench. "They bring up Madam Rosmerta, a woman cruelly used in this war." He turned to her, his voice dipping into something softer, more deliberate. "And yet, did Draco Malfoy choose to Imperius her? Or was he ordered to? Would he have survived refusing?"

Rosmerta's lips pressed together, but she said nothing.

"The prosecution conveniently ignores that Draco Malfoy never killed, never maimed, never sent a single Unforgivable Curse with intent to harm. His worst crime? Failure. He failed to kill Albus Dumbledore. He failed to stand openly, at great risk to himself and his family, against the war." Warrick turned sharply, eyes flashing. "And yet, I remind you all, the boy was sixteen when those failures occurred. Sixteen, while his father sat in Azkaban and his mother was forced to beg the Voldemort for mercy."

His gaze swept across the Wizengamot, unwavering.

"Draco Malfoy was not Voldemort's ally. He was Voldemort's prisoner."

Silence.

Then Warrick turned slightly.

"The defence calls Harry Potter to the stand."

More than one gasp echoes throughout the chamber.

Harry stood, stepping forward, his Order of Merlin gleaming on his chest.

A stunned hush fell over the room. The Boy Who Lived, standing before them to defend Draco Malfoy.

"State your name for the record," Warrick instructed.

"Harry James Potter."

Warrick nodded. "You knew Draco Malfoy before the war?"

Harry's lips quirked wryly. "Since we were eleven."

"And during the war?"

"Yes, even then." Harry exhaled slowly. "Draco Malfoy saved my life."

That rippled through the courtroom, a staggering wave of shock.

"He provided life-saving anti-venom when I was bitten by Nagini, Voldemort's snake, under great threat to his own life," Harry continued, his voice clear, unwavering. "Draco was also with us for a time during the Battle of Hogwarts, where he actively tried to help. And I've seen his hesitation up close and the fear in his eyes."

Warrick let that hang. Let the words saturate the space.

"Mr. Potter," he continued smoothly, "you and Draco Malfoy were childhood rivals, were you not?"

Harry didn't blink. "Yes."

"And yet, you stand here today defending him. Why?"

Harry's expression hardened. "Because justice is about truth, not personal history."

Harry's gaze cut towards the Wizengamot, landing on the Chief Warlock, his meaning clear.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter." Warrick nodded. "I'd now like to call Mr. Ronald Weasley."

Ron stepped forward next, standing before the court. Unlike Harry, he shifted slightly, glancing toward Hermione before he spoke.

"I won't pretend Draco and I were ever friends," Ron said, rubbing the back of his neck. "We weren't. I honestly still don't like him much."

There were a few amused chuckles from the gallery.

"But that doesn't mean I can't recognize when someone's trying to do the right thing," Ron continued. His voice steadied. "He refused to identify us when we were captured and taken to Malfoy Manor by snatchers. He could have turned us over to You-Know-Who right there—his life would have been easier. But he didn't. That's worth something."

Warrick gave him an approving nod. "No further questions."

The Chief Warlock hesitated, then gestured vaguely. "You may step down."

When Narcissa Malfoy was called to the stand, the entire courtroom straightened. There was always something commanding about her presence, as if you were faced with royalty unexpectedly.

She took her place before the Wizengamot, her chin lifted, her hands clasped before her.

"My son is not a villain," Narcissa said, her voice steady, threaded with steel. "He was forced to grow up too quickly, to make impossible choices. His heart is good, even if his circumstances were not."

Her cold blue eyes met every single member of the Wizengamot. A reminder of the promises, bribes and blackmail she worked on in the last month or so. More than one person visibly paled.

"Draco saved lives at great risk to his own," she continued. "He saved Harry Potter. I saved Harry Potter during the final battle. That should mean something in this room today."

And then, with the perfect pause, she turned slightly toward the courtroom.

"Do you condemn a boy for being born into war? Or do you allow him the same chance to heal as everyone else?"

Silence.

"Objection!" Rowle stood. "The witness may not address the crowd directly."

"Sustained." The Chief Warlock said.

Her point made, Narcissa smiled and returned to her seat when she was dismissed from the stand.

Draco remained silent, still shackled, his face unreadable.

Warrick inhaled, preparing to call his next witness.

Draco stood, the chains clanging around him and the Aurors beside him tensing, though he had no wand and the manacles stifled his magic.

Warrick, thinking on his feet, cleared his throat. "I call Draco Malfoy."

The courtroom fell silent, the murmurs dissolving into air.

Draco straightened, bound hands resting on the stand before him.

Then he spoke.

"You've all decided what I am before I even opened my mouth." His gaze swept across the Wizengamot. "Some of you see a coward. Others, a criminal. And some of you—" his lip curled, a flash of dry humour breaking through, "—just see a Malfoy."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Rowle wants to paint me as a willing participant. A zealot. He's wrong. But I won't waste my breath trying to convince you I was a hero, either. I wasn't."

A flicker of tension rippled through the chamber. Warrick went utterly still. Even Rowle, predator-sharp, tilted his head as if intrigued.

"I was sixteen." Draco's voice was quieter now, but no less powerful. "And I was given an impossible choice. My father chose to kneel. I—" his throat worked as he swallowed, "I was forced to kneel. But I never bowed."

The words landed like a stone dropped in water, rippling outward, sinking deep.

Draco inhaled sharply, meeting the Chief Warlock's gaze directly.

"You say I had a choice. But tell me, which one of you—sitting safe in your homes, watching from a distance—would have made a different one?"

The silence stretched, suffocating.

"I don't expect forgiveness. I don't expect pity. But I do expect to be judged for the truth."

And then, he turned to Hermione. Just for a moment. A silent tether.

"And the truth is—I won't be my father's son."

Draco sat back down, the Aurors beside him relaxing visibly.

A slow breath shuddered through Hermione's chest, but she couldn't seem to release it. This wasn't part of the plan. Draco wasn't supposed to speak.

They had rehearsed every angle, prepared every witness, and crafted a strategy that relied on perception, politics, and carefully framed truths. But this—this raw, unscripted declaration—was something they hadn't planned for. Draco had refused every request by Warrick to testify, to work off of a carefully curated script.

And yet, as she looked at him, standing there in chains but defiant, she knew this was more powerful than anything Warrick could have written.

Because it was real.

Because it was Draco.

And perhaps, it was the first time he had ever truly spoken for himself.

The stunned silence in the courtroom stretched. Even Rowle had stilled, his expression unreadable. The Wizengamot members shifted, some uncomfortable, some intrigued, all caught in the gravity of Draco Malfoy claiming his own fate.

Hermione swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe. He had just rewritten the battlefield. She had to decide, in mere heartbeats, whether to follow the original plan—or adapt.

She knew the answer before the thought was even complete.

Hermione squared her shoulders.

Draco had given them something more than strategy. He had given them truth.

Now, it was her turn to make them believe it.

Warrick stood and exhaled slowly, then turned back to the court.

"The defence calls Mrs. Hermione Malfoy to the stand."

The courtroom erupted the moment Warrick spoke her name.

Hermione Malfoy.

As she rose, a storm of whispers swept through the chamber, a tidal wave of shock and scandal.

She did not falter.

With measured steps, she walked to the centre of the courtroom, her posture rigid and her head held high. She was dressed in the robes Narcissa had chosen for her—a dark, tailored outfit that commanded authority without ostentation, elegant but undeniable. Her Order of Merlin, First Class, gleamed sharply against the fabric, reminding everyone present of who she was.

Not just a Malfoy.

A war hero.

A woman who had fought and bled for this world while others had cowered in their parlours, waiting to see which side would win.

Her hair—typically wild, untamed, defiant—was sleek today, smoothed into waves that framed her face, giving her the air of a lioness ready to defend her pride.

And then she saw him.

Draco sat in the stands, flanked by Aurors, his pale hands shackled with cursed iron. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—sharp silver, unguarded just for her—held something that made her breath hitch.

He trusted her.

He believed in her.

And that—more than the injustice, more than her fury at this entire mockery of a trial—was why she refused to fail.

She turned to the Wizengamot, her hands steady at her sides, though anger hummed beneath her skin.

"Silence in the chamber!" the Chief Warlock called, the gavel striking the podium.

The buzz died down, but the tension remained like one strike could make it pop.

Warrick stepped forward, his expression composed. "State your name for the record."

"Hermione Jean Malfoy."

The name rang through the chamber, echoing in the silence like a cavern.

Not Granger.

Malfoy.

She let them choke on it.

"You are an esteemed war hero," Warrick continued. "You fought against Voldemort. You witnessed the horrors of his reign firsthand. You're a renowned Muggleborn. Given all that, why are you standing here today defending Draco Malfoy?"

Hermione exhaled slowly.

"Because justice is not vengeance," she said, her voice unwavering, carrying across the room. "And because the man sitting in that chair, my husband, does not deserve to be there."

Rowle snorted, but she ignored him.

"The prosecution has painted a picture of Draco Malfoy as a willing participant in Voldemort's war," Warrick said, his tone neutral. "What is your response to that claim?"

Hermione's jaw tightened.

"They are wrong," she said.

"Explain," Warrick prompted.

She turned her gaze to the assembled Wizengamot, her rage controlled but coiled, ready to strike.

"Draco Malfoy didn't choose to stand beside Voldemort," she said, her voice steadily rising. "He was given a choice: obey or die. Follow orders or watch his mother be slaughtered. Follow orders or endanger me, his wife, and my mission. You sit here, passing judgment, knowing fully that Voldemort did not tolerate defiance. That no one—no matter how powerful—could say no to him and live."

She took a deep breath, remembering her instructions from Warrick to keep her emotions in check.

"And yet, despite the impossible position he was put in, Draco did defy him. In every way he could, without losing his life."

Warrick nodded. "What evidence do you have of this defiance?"

Hermione lifted her chin.

"Draco Malfoy did not kill Albus Dumbledore," she said firmly. "Though he was ordered to, though he was forced to, he couldn't do it. He was sixteen years old, standing on a tower with a wand in his shaking hand, and he could not kill."

Before the murmurs of the gallery could rise, Warrick stepped forward, his presence as controlled and deliberate as ever.

"This is not conjecture," he stated. "This is not speculation nor my witness's word alone. It is evidence. Verified, untampered, and recorded from Mr. Harry James Potter's mind."

That silenced the room.

Warrick gestured to the Pensieve resting at the centre of the courtroom, its silvery depths swirling as the memory was called forth. "We will now present the moment Draco Malfoy stood on the Astronomy Tower and made his choice."

With a flick of his wand, the chamber dimmed, the torches along the stone walls flickering low as the surface of the Pensieve rippled—and then, the memory unfolded.

Draco stood atop the Astronomy Tower, his wand raised, his entire body shaking with the weight of the command placed upon him. Dumbledore stood unarmed, his face calm, but his eyes filled with something devastating.

"Draco," the old man's voice echoed through the chamber, carried on the air of recollection, "you are not a killer."

Draco's breath hitched in the memory, his wand arm trembling. His face was pale, his expression raw with panic, desperation, and hesitation.

"I have to do this," he choked out. "He'll kill me. He'll kill my mother."

The memory played on, showing the sharp, frantic breaths, the way Draco lowered his wand, raised it, and dropped it again the final time. He stepped forward, almost like he would ask Dumbledore for help.

And then—Snape appeared.

With a single flash of green light, Dumbledore was falling.

Draco staggered back in the memory, his wand still unused.

And then the scene faded, the mist of the Pensieve retracting as the courtroom snapped back into reality.

Silence. Thick, tangible silence.

"You all saw it," she said. "You saw the hesitation. The terror. The guilt." Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. "You saw a boy trying to survive in a world that had already decided what and who he was."

She let it settle, let it weigh down the silence.

Then she drew in a breath and pressed on.

"Draco Malfoy saved Harry Potter's life," she continued. "He provided him with anti-venom when Voldemort's snake bit him. He cared for those imprisoned in his home as much as he could, since he was also a prisoner there. He refused to identify us when we were captured at Malfoy Manor, despite knowing it would have guaranteed his family's safety."

She turned, locking eyes with the Chief Warlock.

"He could have condemned us. It would have been easier if he had. But he didn't."

Silence.

"Is that the mark of a Death Eater?" she asked, her voice ringing through the chamber. "Or is that the mark of someone who was never meant to be one?"

Rowle stirred. "And yet," he said, voice smooth, "Draco Malfoy took the Dark Mark. That is undeniable."

Hermione turned to him sharply.

"And how many of you," she asked, voice cutting, "would have refused if your mother's life depended on it?"

The words hung there, jagged and raw.

Rowle said nothing.

The Wizengamot shifted, uneasy.

Warrick took a step back. "Mrs. Malfoy, what do you believe is the real reason Draco Malfoy is on trial today?"

"Objection!" Rowle called out, his voice sharp.

The Chief Warlock studied Hermione for a long moment before turning to Warrick. "Rephrase your question, Mr. Warrick."

Warrick nodded, unfazed. He met Hermione's gaze before turning back to the Wizengamot.

"Mrs. Malfoy, in your view, what factors have contributed to your husband standing trial today?"

"They want someone to blame," she stated. "The Ministry, Wizarding Britain, want an easy villain to condemn because it is easier to punish a name than to face the truth."

Her gaze flicked back to Draco and found him looking at her.

Not on the floor.

Not at the people who had come to judge him.

At her.

She squared her shoulders.

"But the truth is, there is one person to blame here—Tom Riddle, better known as Voldemort. And he is dead, thanks to Harry Potter."

She turned back to the Wizengamot.

"And the truth about Draco Malfoy is that he is not a war criminal."

She took a final breath, steady and sure.

"He is a survivor."

Silence.

A single heartbeat passed.

Then another.

Then—"The defence rests," Warrick said.

The courtroom sat in stunned silence.

Then, finally, one of the oldest members of the council, a witch with a stern, lined face and robes as ancient as her authority, leaned forward.

"We have read the character attestation letters from various community members and heard compelling testimonies," she said slowly. "And while the crimes committed in the name of Voldemort cannot be ignored, neither can the acts of courage and humanity presented here today."

Hermione didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out everything. She felt Draco's gaze from across the room, waiting, hoping, bracing himself for the worst.

She forced herself to meet his eyes.

A flicker of something passed between them—hope, fear, love, the unbearable ache of being so close yet still untouchable. His hands remained bound in cursed iron, his shoulders taut as if he'd never allowed himself to hope.

Hermione wanted to tear the chains from his wrists. She wanted to scream. To fight. To make them see.

Instead, she clenched her hands into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms, and willed herself to stay strong.

"The Wizengamot will deliberate," the elder witch declared. "The fate of Draco Malfoy will be decided shortly."

With those words, the chamber erupted into movement. The Wizengamot members rose, their robes sweeping past like storm currents as they filed toward their private chambers. The restless crowd murmured, some outraged, others cautiously optimistic.

Hermione's breath finally escaped her lungs, but it did nothing to ease the gnawing anxiety burrowing into her ribs.

Across the room, the Aurors stepped forward. Draco's chains clanked loudly in the stillness, a brutal reminder that he was still a prisoner, still at their mercy.

She watched, helpless and burning with frustration, as he was led from the room, his head held high, but his fingers clenched into tight fists.

She prayed—to Merlin, to every Malfoy ancestor who had ever wielded influence in this world—that this would turn out as they needed it to.

Because they had done everything they could.

Now, all they could do was wait.

The verdict was taking longer than Hermione anticipated. Each tick of the ornate clock in the Ministry's waiting antechamber was like a knife twisting in her chest. Every second, another invisible wound was on her soul.

She sat with Narcissa, Theo, and Harry. Everyone who promised to provide testimony was here today, in the crowd if they weren't called to speak. Narcissa's hands were folded neatly in her lap, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her calm façade. Theo tapped his foot nervously, the rhythm erratic, while Harry stared at the floor, his expression distant but simmering with quiet frustration.

Panic crept up Hermione's throat like a rising tide. Her hair began to crackle faintly at the ends. She knew the creams and serums to keep it neat were about to be burned off. She clenched her fists in her lap, desperate to keep herself composed.

She promised herself she would learn to control this.

But as the minutes dragged on and her thoughts spiralled—What if they decided against him? What if she hadn't done enough?—The sparks became more pronounced. Small, static pops of uncontrolled magic.

One of them managed to shock Theo, who turned startled.

"I need some air," she said, standing on shaky legs.

Narcissa looked up, concern flickering, but Hermione didn't wait for a reply. She left the chamber, her feet carrying her down the empty hallway until she found a small, unused room. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

The panic erupted.

Images of Draco in chains, his face pale and resigned. Chains clanked as he walked, his hands manacled. Cold judgment in the Wizengamot's eyes, the finality in the Chief Warlock's tone as he read the charges—played on an endless loop.

She clutched at her chest, her nails digging into her skin as if she could physically pull the anxiety away.

"He can't go to Azkaban," she choked out. "He can't."

Tears blurred her vision as she heaved uncontrollably. The air was thick like she was breathing through a straw. The edges of the room wavered and darkened, her peripheral vision tunnelling.

She moved closer to the middle of the room, away from the encroaching walls. She needed space. She needed air.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, a relentless, suffocating drumbeat that drowned out every rational thought. A cold sweat slicked her skin, her breaths coming shallow and uneven. The faint crackle of magic sparking her hair in bouts of static electricity snapped like distant fireworks, each pop ricocheting through her skull, jagged and unrelenting.

Her legs gave way, sending her to the floor, her palms pressing against the cold stone tiles. But even the sharp chill of the floor did nothing to anchor her.

Memories assaulted her—Draco's pale face in the courtroom, the distant, unreadable expressions of the Wizengamot, the suffocating fear of failure.

Her hair crackled louder, and errant sparks lit up the room.

She was a live wire, ready to explode.

She gasped, her throat tight as if a vice wrapped around her windpipe. Her vision blurred further, tears falling freely. The room tilted, spinning, her sense of space dissolving completely. Her thoughts spiralled, each one darker and more frantic than the last. Slowly, her hands unclenched, her breath steadied, and the spinning world anchored itself again.

What if he's sentenced? What if I failed him? What if this is the last time I'll see him? What if they gave him the Dementor's Kiss?

The thoughts hit her like physical blows, her body curling into itself instinctively, her nails digging into her arms as she tried to steady herself.

She was drowning in panic, her mind betraying her with images and fears she couldn't fight off.

It was too much.

Too loud.

Too fast.

She couldn't stop it.

She couldn't breathe.

The door creaked open, and a familiar silhouette filled the doorway.

"Granger?" Theo's voice was initially hesitant, but it became more urgent when he saw her. "Bloody hell."

He crossed the room in a few strides, crouching beside her.

"Breathe, Hermione," he urged, his hands hovering awkwardly near her shoulders before finally resting on them. "Fuck." He let out a curse when he was zapped with an electrical current. He jumped back, hands removed, but stayed close.

"Hey, look at me. In and out, yeah? Like this." He exaggerated a deep inhale and exhale, demonstrating for her.

Hermione tried to mimic him, but her breaths came out shaky and uneven, sobs escaping between them. "I can't—Theo, I can't—"

"Yes, you can," Theo interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. "Come on. Focus on my voice. In and out. There's no way Malfoy would let me live if I let you pass out in here."

A weak laugh bubbled out of her amidst her gasps, and Theo smirked. "That's better. See? You're already calming down."

Gradually, her breathing slowed, though her body still trembled. Her eyes felt like they were dried with sandpaper. Theo stayed close, observing her, his usual snark replaced with a rare sincerity.

"Draco's going to be fine," he said. "I don't say that lightly."

Hermione nodded, wiping at her damp cheeks with shaking hands. "What if—what if I didn't do enough? What if I failed him?"

"You didn't." Theo leaned down further to catch her eyes again. "You've done more than anyone else could've. And if those idiots can't see that, we'll figure out a way to break him out."

Hermione snorted despite herself, Theo's comment breaking through her despair. She'd said something similar to Narcissa.

"Don't laugh, Granger. You successfully robbed Gringotts." Theo moved from his crouch to kneel before her. "If anyone in the world could break Draco out of Azkaban, it's his wife. Don't sell yourself short."

Hermione let out a huff, a small laugh escaping again. "Thanks, Theo."

Theo stood and dusted off his trousers before extending a hand to Hermione.

"Right then, Granger. On your feet. And don't thank me—seriously, don't. I've got a very delicate reputation to uphold."

She took his hand, allowing him to pull her up. "Oh, of course. How could I forget?"

He smirked, nudging her lightly as they walked. "Now, let's get back before Harry comes looking. You know how he gets, hovering like some overzealous mother hen."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but Theo wasn't finished.

"Although," he added with a mock-thoughtful tone, "he does have those dazzling green eyes. Makes it hard to stay annoyed."

Her laughter bubbled up before she could stop it. "Dazzling green eyes, Theo? Are you crushing on Harry Potter now?"

He feigned indignation, clutching his chest. "I prefer to think of it as admiration. Can't blame a bloke for noticing, can you? He's a war hero, Hermione. Our saviour."

Hermione's laughter softened into a smile, the lingering tension loosening. "You're incorrigible."

"Thank you. I aim to please." A wicked grin spread across his face. "And I'm just saying, Potter has a certain charm. It's wasted on him being all noble and whatnot."

Shaking her head, Hermione's laughter softened, replaced by a newfound steadiness.

They would never give up, no matter the outcome.

The courtroom doors groaned open, the sound like thunder. The members of the Wizengamot filed in, their robes swishing and faces unreadable, their decision casting a shadow over the chamber.

The murmurs of the crowd fell away, replaced by an unbearable hush. Hermione perched on the edge of her seat, her knuckles bloodless against the polished wood of the armrests. The faint scent of ink and parchment from the room mingled with the metallic tang of fear.

Her gaze darted to Draco. He stood across the courtroom shackled, his face ghostly pale under the flickering torchlight. His silver eyes found hers through the sea of faces, and time stilled. He gave her a fleeting, almost imperceptible nod. She bit her lip hard, fighting the tears that stung her eyes.

He looked resigned, but she wasn't. Not yet. Not ever.

The Chief Warlock, towering and austere, cleared his throat.

"We have reviewed the testimonies, memories, and depositions presented before us," he intoned, his voice deliberate and grave. "In light of the evidence and the character witnesses provided, the Wizengamot has reached a verdict regarding Mr. Draco Malfoy."

Hermione's breath hitched. Her vision blurred at the edges, her grip tightening on the chair as she sent a silent plea skyward.

Please… please…

The silence stretched, her pulse roaring in her ears. Each second was an eternity, pressing down on her chest. Her whole being was suspended in the fragile hope of the moment.

"Draco Malfoy," the Chief Warlock said, "will not serve a sentence in Azkaban."

The words dropped like a stone into a still pond, sending gasps and murmurs through the crowd. For a split second, Hermione couldn't move, couldn't think.

Hermione's breath caught midway up her throat, choking on disbelief. The words echoed through the chamber, wrapping around her like something fragile, impossible.

No Azkaban.

Her eyes flew to Draco.

He didn't move, didn't react. He sat completely still, like a man waiting for the guillotine to drop, unwilling to believe it was removed altogether. His knuckles remained white, gripping the chair's wooden arms, his expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, cautiously, his gaze met hers.

Hermione felt it before she saw it—the flicker of life returning to his face, the wary, fragile thing that had been so absent in him for months. His throat bobbed with a swallow, his fingers twitching slightly as if afraid to loosen their grip, fearful that if he moved, the moment would shatter.

Something inside her broke and reassembled all at once.

A sob ripped from her chest, unbidden, unrestrained. Her hands shook violently as they gripped the armrests, her nails biting into the wood. The tension that had coiled in her muscles for weeks, months, years finally unwound—too fast, too much, leaving her dizzy.

Draco's shoulders slumped, the weight peeling away from him slowly. His lashes fluttered as he exhaled, as though finally allowing himself to breathe.

But it wasn't enough. She needed him.

She needed to touch him, feel his warmth, and make sure he was real and not just a cruel illusion.

The Chief Warlock raised a hand, calling for silence as he continued.

"However, given the gravity of the charges and the acknowledgment of his involvement, restrictions will be placed upon him as follows…"

Hermione barely heard the rest.

Her entire world was across the room, shackled but free, looking at her like he still didn't believe any of this was real.

And she would make him believe it.

They had won.

"house arrest…prohibited from leaving the country during his probation. Failure to comply with these terms will result in the remainder of his sentence being served in Azkaban."

It wasn't perfect. But it was something.

She exhaled shakily, turning to Harry and Ron, who gave her a reassuring smile. The kind of smile that said it's over, it's done, we did it.

Draco sat rigidly, absorbing the verdict, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. But his eyes betrayed him. They flickered toward his mother, whose carefully controlled mask of relief and worry mirrored the storm raging inside him.

Then, finally, the Chief Warlock spoke the words that shattered the last of the tension clinging to the air.

"This court is adjourned. Draco Malfoy, you are free to return to your home under the stated conditions."

The gavel struck.

The courtroom erupted.

Some voices rose in outrage, others in relief, but none mattered.

Because the shackles fell from Draco's hands, released with the finality of the gavel's echo.

Hermione didn't hesitate.

She pushed through the crowd, past the whispers, the stares, the hushed voices dissecting the verdict. None of it mattered.

Draco saw her coming.

He stepped forward, his composure finally cracking, arms open, waiting.

Hermione threw herself into him.

His arms locked around her, fierce and unyielding, his face buried in her hair as if he needed to ground himself in the feel of her.

"It's over," Hermione whispered, her voice breaking. "It's finally over."

Draco's breath hitched against her skin, his hold on her tightening. "I can't believe it," he admitted, voice raw, hoarse like he didn't trust reality. Like he expected the chains to return, the floor to fall out from beneath him. "I thought… I thought they'd—"

Hermione pulled back just enough to see him, cupping his face with both hands.

"You're not going to Azkaban," she said, willing him to believe it. To accept it. "You're going home, Draco. With your mother. With me."

A tear slipped down his cheek, and his breath shook as he exhaled.

"With you." The words came out like a prayer like he wasn't just saying them; he was feeling them. He let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh before pulling her back against him, his forehead resting against hers.

"I don't deserve you." His voice cracked. His fingers trembled as they slid over the curve of her spine, holding her as though she was the only thing keeping him upright. "But I'm so damn grateful for you, love."

Hermione smiled through her tears, threading her fingers through his hair, grounding him, anchoring him.

"You're my husband." Her lips brushed his temple. "And I will always fight for you. I love you, Draco."

His hands now framed her face, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones as if memorizing her again.

"Fuck, Hermione," he breathed, the words shaking, reverent. "I worship you. I love you."

The world swirled around them, but they stood still—tethered to one another, held together by the fight, struggle, and unrelenting force of everything they had survived.

And through it all, one thing had seen them through.

Their love for one another.