The Acquittal
Narcissa Malfoy has been here before. In front of the Wizengamot, at her own hearing. This time around, it was not that intense, not that brutal, as Crouch made it last time. The certainty of the Dark Lord’s demise, affirmed by the presence of a very human body, bone and flesh, although sickly, has made the law-keepers softer. They know the danger is gone.
But nobody trusts her. Most in the room are convinced Narcissa Malfoy does not deserve it, not even a hearing, not even a consideration. Narcissa can smell the loathe off of them. She does not have to be legilimens to do that.
Kingsley Shaklebolt sits at the head of the Wizengamot and a chill travels through Narcissa’s spine. A chill that reminds her of the gravity of the thing, of a most probable future for her — in the mouth of dementors. She is in chains, and seated and all eyes are on her.
As she meets eyes with Harry Potter, the boy offers her a kind, apologetic smile — something she cannot say she deserves. The smile is in stark contrast to the barely concealed glare Ronald Weasley sitting to his left offers her. To his right then, Narcissa’s eyes move only to settle upon Hermione Granger. Narcissa’s breath hitches in spite of herself. The agonizing memory resurfaces, and Bella is dead . But the tired eyes of the golden girl project indifference. If she hates Narcissa, her pale face gives nothing away. And Narcissa prepares herself for her fate, knowing in her heart of hearts Draco would not meet the same.
Then, Harry Potter speaks for her. Narrates before the entire Wizengamot, every detail of the night when Narcissa Malfoy lied to the most powerful legilimens in the world, and risked her life for the good side. That Narcissa initiated Voldemort’s downfall, and how it is because of Narcissa that he stands in front of them, alive, and they could win the war. He paints her a hero, and announces he would lose faith in the virtue of justice, if Narcissa Malfoy was sentenced.
But even if a hero, even if the chosen one , his words carry sentiments the Ministry is not much convinced by. The Order is not much convinced by. Harry is too trusting, too young, too naive — Narcissa can hear them thinking.
She did it for her son, they think. She only did it for her son. And Narcissa feels herself smile bitterly. All true.
And then, another voice rings through the courtroom. Softer, sharper, but so firm, so full of fire that Narcissa forgets how this very voice broke and shattered on the mahogany floor of the cursed place she calls home. Narcissa’s eyes find Hermione and despite her former composure, she trembles. Not out of fear, but out of something else. It is the soft tremble of someone who has no clue how to accept kindness when offered, how to take love when given.
Because, although she is surprised Hermione could even detect it in her state, Narcissa Malfoy knows precisely what the golden girl is about to say.
She says,
Mrs. Malfoy saved me. I was at Malfoy Manor, wandless, tortured by none other than death eater Bellatrix Lestrange, who gave me this. Hermione reveals he forearm to the court, brandishes her trauma, and the wind knocks out of everyone in the room. The established wizardkind knows dark magic when they see it. Their beloved golden girl, cherished war hero, brains of the golden trio and brightest-witch-of-her-age, now forever marked “mudblood.”
And she would have done worse, had it not been for Narcissa Malfoy. Mrs. Malfoy is a natural-born occlumence, one who could evade Voldemort himself. And she shielded my mind from Bellatrix. In doing this, she knew numerous of our secrets and did not reveal them to anyone — secrets which kept so, essentially won us the war. She saved us from revealing our locations, the people we love, our hunt for the horcruxes.
She was on our side long before the battle. She won us the war. Hermione only smiles, softly. Her eyes give everything away now.
And this, acquits Narcissa. More so, redeems her.