Grey
The next morning arrived beneath a steel-gray sky, the air thick with the lingering chill of autumn. At the Burrow, the atmosphere inside mirrored the somber weather. Harry, Hermione, and Ron had risen early, the weight of the impending trial hanging over them. They had touched on the Malfoys’ case in scattered conversations over the past few days, but never in full detail. Each of them carried unspoken thoughts and lingering doubts, their arguments half-formed and their feelings complicated. Now, all that remained was to step into the courtroom and see how the Wizengamot would judge the family’s fate.
At the breakfast table, the subdued silence spoke louder than words. Mrs. Weasley, though ever-dutiful, moved with a heaviness that betrayed the exhaustion she carried. Ginny sat beside Harry, absently tracing patterns on the table with her finger, her spark dimmed in the wake of recent losses while Percy sipped his tea in silence, the Daily Prophet open but largely ignored. Arthur was the last to join, his demeanor resolute but his smile faint and strained.
He joined them at the table, his presence offering a semblance of stability. However, even he couldn’t lift the heavy atmosphere entirely.
As they ate, the conversation inevitably turned toward the trial.
"Ready?" he asked quietly, looking over the trio. His tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"Ready as we’ll ever be,” Harry replied, his tone steady but weary. His plate was nearly untouched, though he had been sitting there the longest.
Hermione nodded after him, a stack of parchments at her side. She had reviewed it more times than she could count, yet her unease remained.
"We’ve prepared as much as we can," she said, her voice steady but lacking its usual certainty. "Now it’s up to the Wizengamot."
Ron looked up from his toast, his brow furrowed. “Do you think it’ll even make a difference? I mean, we can vouch for them all we want, but it’s the Malfoys. People will never forget that.”
“They might not,” Hermione sighed, stirring her tea. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t at least try. Those things matter, Ron.”
Ron snorted softly, pushing his plate aside. “Doesn’t mean they’re good people.”
“I’m not saying they’re good people,” Hermione countered. “I’m saying they deserve a fair hearing, not just a lifetime sentence because of who their family is.”
Ron glanced at her, then at Harry. "Whatever happens, at least we can say we tried. That’s more than Malfoy would’ve done for us."
"Maybe," Harry said softly, his eyes fixed on his tea. "But this isn’t about Malfoy. It’s about doing what’s right, even when it’s complicated."
Ginny glanced up then, her gaze shifting between the two. “Do you really think the Wizengamot will be fair about it?” she asked quietly. “After everything? People want someone to blame.”
“We’ll do our part,” Harry said firmly, setting down his cup of tea. “What happens after that is out of our hands. As long as it’s fair, we’ll accept it.”
Hermione exhaled, closing her notes with a soft snap. "We’re not trying to save them from consequences," she said, her voice firmer now. "We’re making sure they’re judged for who they are now—not just what they were during the war. If the sentence is fair, then that’s all we can ask for."
"So, what are we supposed to say?” Ron asked abruptly. His voice carried a mix of curiosity and unease as he looked at Hermione.
Hermione hesitated, setting her parchment aside. “Well, Mrs. Malfoy saved Harry’s life when she lied to Voldemort, and Draco…” She paused, frowning as she searched for the right words. “Draco hesitated. He didn’t identify us when we were brought to Malfoy Manor—he could’ve identified us, but he didn’t. That moment may have saved our lives.”
Ron’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, but he didn’t exactly help us either, did he? Hesitating isn’t the same as choosing the right side.”
“No, it isn’t,” Hermione admitted, her voice steady. “But it’s something. And we can’t forget Narcissa. Without her lie, Harry wouldn’t be here.”
Harry finally looked up from his tea. “She didn’t do it for me,” he said quietly. “She did it for Draco.”
“That doesn’t make it any less important,” Hermione argued gently. “Intentions aside, it changed everything.”
Ron sighed, rubbing his temples. “And what about Lucius? Are we supposed to just let him off the hook because his wife and son had a few decent moments?”
The question lingered in the air. None of them had an answer. While Narcissa’s actions and Draco’s hesitation offered some grounds for leniency, Lucius was a different matter entirely. His unwavering support of Voldemort and his actions throughout the war painted a picture that was difficult to redeem.
Arthur, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke. “The Wizengamot will decide Lucius’s fate,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Your role is to speak honestly about what you witnessed. Let the truth guide the outcome.”
Harry nodded, though he barely touched his plate. His stomach churned with nerves, not for himself, but for what was to come. It wasn’t just the trial—though that was daunting enough—but the uncertainty of whether their words would make any difference at all.
As they ate, Ron broke the silence once more, his voice laced with skepticism. “So... we all agree, yeah? Whatever happens today, as long as it’s fair, we’re okay with it?”
“Yes,” Hermione said, meeting his gaze with quiet resolve. “That’s why we’re doing this. Not to clear their names, but to make sure they’re judged fairly."
Ron frowned, leaning back in his chair. “And if people don’t care about fairness? If they just see ‘Malfoy’ and think, ‘Yeah, send them to Azkaban’?”
“We can’t control what other people think,” Harry said quietly, finally speaking up. “But we can control what we say. If we’re honest about what happened—about how Narcissa saved my life, about how Draco hesitated—then at least we’ve done our part.”
Hermione nodded in agreement, though her brow furrowed as she considered Ron’s question.
“It’s not going to be easy,” she admitted. “I know there are people who will never forgive the Malfoys, no matter what we say. But this isn’t about making people forgive them. It’s about giving them a chance. That’s all.”
Ron snorted softly, though it lacked his usual bite. “Yeah, but you’re not the one who spent six years getting hexed and insulted by Malfoy every time he walked past.”
“I haven’t forgotten what he’s done, Ron,” Hermione said, her voice sharp but calm. “But I also know what it’s like to be judged for things you can’t control—like your bloodline. And no one deserves to be condemned without a fair trial.”
Arthur cleared his throat, drawing the group’s attention. “Fairness isn’t about who deserves it,” he said gently. “It’s about doing what’s right, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
There was a pause, the unspoken understanding settling over them all. Ron leaned back in his chair, letting out a deep sigh. “I just hope we’re not wasting our time.”
“Ron.” Arthur’s voice was quiet but steady, drawing everyone’s attention. “It’s never a waste of time to stand up for what you believe in. Even if it’s difficult. Even if people disagree.”
The weight of his words settled over the room.
Ron leaned back, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He sighed again, running a hand through his hair.
He stared down at the table.
“Fine. But if he sneers at me even once today, I’m taking my testimony back.”
That earned a faint chuckle from Harry, though Hermione shot Ron a pointed look.
“Just focus on the bigger picture,” she said firmly.
As the morning dragged on, each of them retreated into their own thoughts.
Hermione retreated to the sitting room, her notes spread out on the coffee table as she reviewed the key points she wanted to make. She muttered under her breath as she read, occasionally pausing to jot down a thought or rearrange her arguments. Narcissa’s lie to Voldemort, Draco’s hesitation at Malfoy Manor, and their eventual withdrawal from the battle didn’t erase the harm they had caused, but they were proof that the Malfoys were not beyond redemption.
But despite the thoroughness of her notes, doubt crept into her mind. Would anyone listen? Would the Wizengamot care that Narcissa had lied to Voldemort to protect Harry? Or that Draco, though reluctant, had ultimately chosen not to betray them at Malfoy Manor?
Harry was quieter than usual from where he sat by the window, staring out at the dull gray sky. His thoughts drifted between the trial ahead and memories of the war. The frantic escape from Wiltshire, the terror in Draco’s eyes when he hesitated to identify them, Narcissa’s quiet bravery in the Forbidden Forest and the defiance she showed in lying to Voldemort—those moments had tilted the balance in their favor.
He couldn’t forgive Lucius, not after everything the man had done, but Narcissa and Draco were different. They’d made choices—small, pivotal ones—that hinted at a glimmer of humanity. Their choices had been small, but they had mattered. Would that be enough to convince the Wizengamot to see them as more than just Death Eaters?
Ron paced the living room restlessly, his unease clear in every step. He trusted Hermione’s judgment, even when he didn’t fully share her optimism. But no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t erase the memory of being dragged into the basement of Malfoy Manor, his wrists bound, Hermione’s screams piercing the air as Bellatrix tortured her. He wanted to believe people could change, but the scars made it hard.
When he wasn’t pacing, Ron stood at the window, staring out into the dull gray morning. The tension between his anger at the Malfoys and his loyalty to Hermione churned inside him, making it impossible to settle. He hated the Malfoys for their cruelty, for the way Draco had tormented them for years. And Lucius—his jaw clenched at the thought. Lucius Malfoy wasn’t just a Death Eater or a staunch supporter of Voldemort; he was the one who had slipped Tom Riddle’s diary into Ginny’s cauldron all those years ago, setting off a chain of events that nearly killed her.
The image of Ginny, pale and trembling in the hospital wing after being rescued from the Chamber of Secrets, was still etched in Ron’s memory. He could never forget the guilt and rage he had felt when he learned it was Lucius who had planted the diary. That had nearly cost him his sister, and though years had passed, the wound was still raw.
“Fairness,” he muttered under his breath, the word twisting in his chest. How could Lucius Malfoy deserve fairness after what he had done? Ron clenched his fists, his knuckles white. He hated the man with every fiber of his being.
But then there was Hermione, so determined to ensure the trial was just. She believed in fairness—not for Lucius, but for Narcissa and Draco. And deep down, Ron knew she was right. He didn’t have to like the Malfoys to recognize that what Narcissa and Draco had done during the war mattered. Narcissa’s lie to Voldemort had saved Harry, and Draco’s hesitation at Malfoy Manor had bought them precious time.
Ron sighed heavily, his breath fogging the windowpane. He hated them for their past, but he couldn’t deny the truth. He didn’t have to forgive the Malfoys—or forget what they had done to his family—but he could stand by Hermione and ensure they were judged for the people they had chosen to become, not just for the sins of their past.
And as much as he despised Lucius, he knew that fairness wasn’t about feelings. It was about doing what was right, even when it hurt.
By the time they gathered at the hearth to Floo to the Ministry, an unspoken resolve had settled over them. They would speak their truth and let the Wizengamot decide. Whatever the outcome, they had done everything they could.