The last thing Draco wanted was for Harry Potter to show up at his trial.
By rights it should not be possible for a day to get worse than "chained to a chair terrified before the entire Wizengamot.” But then a familiar scrawny, dark-haired figure strolled in and Draco knew he was doomed.
He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on breathing, trying to force some shade of feeling back into limbs that were numb with terror. He looked pathetic, he was pathetic, and he knew it. But he hadn't worried over such things in a long time.
It could be worse. Voldemort could have won.
Draco wasn't absolutely sure at what moment he had changed sides, but it had certainly had something to do with the realization that the Ministry as his bitter enemy was far less destructive than Voldemort as ally.
They could send him to Azkaban, of course. They would send him to Azkaban, of that he had no doubt. Draco remembered his father, grimy, pale, and teetering on the edge of insanity after a single year there. But even that had been less tortuous than life for the three of them had become, walking on eggshells in the Dark Lord's presence. Even in Azkaban the Malfoys would remain, at least nominally, together. Not even dementors could be worse than the web of interlaced threats that the Dark Lord had woven around them, always menacing one family member in order to manipulate the others.
And family was the single, solitary thing that Draco still cared about.
“Harry Potter,” the new Minister’s deep, solemn voice was saying. “You were not summoned.”
“No,” Potter said. “But I should have been. I came to ask if I could give evidence.”
“This court has reviewed the report you submitted.”
“That report was general. I’d like to share…” Harry struggled for a moment with the formal language of the court. “I’d like to share particular information about Draco Malfoy.”
No doubt you would, Potter.
But Draco couldn’t muster up the slightest scrap of loathing anymore. Whatever stores he had once carried had been utterly exhausted in the past year. Emotion was simply not worthwhile anymore.
And yet, he was petrified.
“Mr. Potter.” The respect, Draco registered dimly through his fear, was not of the general obsequious variety that Potter had to stomach from nearly everyone nowadays. The Boy Who Lived was genuine friends with this Minister Shacklebolt. Another nail in Draco’s own coffin.
“Harry. There isn’t a Death Eater alive or dead on whose trial your personal testimony would not have bearing, but for your own sake the report was deemed sufficient, under the stipulation that the Wizengamot would summon you if there was express need. Do you feel that circumstances compel you to make an exception in Malfoy’s case?”
“Yes, sir.” Harry’s voice was firm.
“Then I will permit it. But I must warn you that Veritaserum is administered to all witnesses.”
“Truth serum?” Potter sounded faintly shocked. “Not just to the defendants?”
“In cases this serious, it is Wizengamot policy to administer the potion to all parties under questioning.” There was no mistaking the apology in the tone.
It was a moment before Potter responded.
“I accept.”
“You don’t have to do this, Harry.”
This from a quiet voice in the third row, belonging to a small ginger-haired man. Arthur Weasley, Draco realized, even before his face came into focus. No, Potter, you don’t have to do it. This lot is more than ready to do your work for you. In how many other faces in that crowd might he recognize the family members and friends of Voldemort’s victims? Of his own?
Draco didn’t try. He didn’t want to know.
Weasley’s comment was out of line in an official court setting, but the Minister didn’t correct it beyond a small wave of his hand. Shacklebolt knew what everyone else in the room did: that given the events of the past three years, Harry Potter hadn’t the slightest reason to trust the Ministry or any of its affiliates. That three years before, he himself had been standing before the Wizengamot, expecting nothing like a fair trial, and that it was only thanks to Albus Dumbledore that he’d received one.
The body of the Wizengamot had changed since then. So many dead. But still…
“I know, Dad.” His voice was strained, and something about the sentence was off. Potter didn’t have a father, never had. “But I’m the only one who can. I agree to the Veritaserum, so long as the Minister is the one who questions me.”
“A reasonable request,” said Shacklebolt. “Any dissent?”
He glanced around the room, which was still and silent. Potter was escorted to a seat somewhere out of Draco’s line of sight. He was too terrified to turn his head, and he already knew the look of satisfaction that Potter would be wearing…
The charges were read.
Active support of the wizard styling himself Lord Voldemort.
The attempted murder of Albus Dumbledore.
Use of the Imperius Curse on Rosmerta Morrel.
The near-manslaughter of Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley.
Draco glanced involuntarily at the orange smudge in the third row again.
The illegal induction of Death Eaters onto Hogwarts school grounds.
Accessory to kidnapping, torture, assault, and murder.
How easy, Draco thought, to wrap up everything he’d done and seen done to others in that final, neat little phrase. Accessory. That was what he was, beyond a doubt. Ornamental, useless, and cowardly, like the peacocks peppering the grounds of Malfoy Manor. Just another little reminder to Lucius Malfoy that he had more to lose than a wand and a mansion if he got out of hand. Accessory.
If only that were all. If only they could read off the list, vote Guilty, and set him rotting in a dark little prison cell as quickly as possible.
But of course, Potter had to have his moment first.
To Draco’s surprise, that moment wasn’t quite yet.
Most of those whom the Snatchers had dragged to Malfoy Manor had been killed immediately. There were written statements from a few others. Potter’s friends, of course, were too busy to attend the trials that had by now become routine. Thomas stepped in, and the Lovegood girl. Ollivander was presumably not well enough to appear in court. Statements came from other Death Eaters, the ones who’d cracked and confessed early, and were all too eager to pin the blame on a well-known target like the Malfoys.
None of it bothered Draco. He knew where he was going. He just wanted to get there, to sink onto the grimy floor, out of reach of the hundreds of prying eyes, and to sleep.
Even Goyle pointed a finger at him. That should have hurt, but quite simply, nothing could anymore.
And then it was Potter’s turn.
Out of the corner of his eye Draco saw him accept the goblet they handed him, witnessed his light shudder of disgust although the potion had no taste.
Shacklebolt asked routine questions at first. Could Potter corroborate the testimonies of the other witnesses? Yes, he could. Was he aware of any other crime committed by Draco, of which the court was not?
Potter paused, and said, “Not when he was of age.”
“Tell us anyway, Potter.”
And Potter, blushing, told the story of the assault on the Hogwarts train at the beginning of sixth year. Shacklebolt noted it down.
“Is that all you’ve come here to tell us, Potter?”
Potter shook his head vigorously, upending his already untidy hair. “Not at all.”
“Then speak.”
Harry took a breath. “There are several things I’d like this court to, er, take into account,” he said. “Most of the actions Malfoy was charged with took place when he was underage. I just want to check that, well, he’ll be tried as an underage wizard for that, won’t he?”
“Yes,” said the Minister. “That has already been noted.”
“Good,” Harry said. “You might have thought about this too, but I want to point out that he was raised by Death Eaters. Raised on Voldemort’s ideology. I know for a fact that Dumbledore didn’t blame him for his involvement with the Death Eaters, not completely.”
Draco, floating in his miserable haze of exhaustion, pricked up his ears slightly. Had he heard correctly? Was Potter trying to defend him?
“I’m afraid that the late headmaster’s opinion is not of direct relevance to this trial, Potter.”
“But I think it is,” said Harry quickly. “Let me explain. Dumbledore knew that Draco was trying to kill him. I heard him say so. He let him try, because he knew that Draco was being forced into it by Voldemort, for the sake of revenge against Lucius Malfoy.”
Draco frowned. How did Potter know so much?
“Be that as it may…”
“I haven’t finished,” Potter rushed on. “I was there, on that tower, the night Dumbledore was killed.”
“Yes. We have your written testimony that the late Severus Snape killed him.”
“Right,” said Harry. “But what you don’t realize is that Draco could have. He got there first. He disarmed Dumbledore. Then the other Death Eaters caught up, and egged him on to do it. But Malfoy froze up. He didn’t want to kill anyone.He wouldn’t have, I saw it. And that’s when Snape took over.”
The Minister noted this down also. “There are still the other attempts on the headmaster’s life, and the damage they caused.”
“That’s true,” said Harry. “But what Dumbledore said to Draco was that those were so, er, lackluster that he didn’t think he was really trying. Ron and Katie are my friends. I’m still pissed--that is, I’m still furious about it. But really, what made Malfoy so dangerous in sixth year was that he didn’t want to be hurting anyone. So he just sort of...flailed about, I suppose, and did more damage that way. His heart wasn’t in it.”
It hadn’t been. Gods, what a nightmare that year had been. Flights of inspiration as he worked on the Vanishing cabinet and dreamed of the hero he’d be to Lord Voldemort, to the Death Eaters, to his parents...long periods of despair when the project seemed beyond him entirely...daydreams of bringing the Malfoy name into favor again...attempts to remember who he used to be, what he used to care about before this single-minded obsession took over...all of this alternating with the deepest depths of self-loathing at his own inadequacy and worse, at the atrocities he was attempting to commit.
“And another thing,” said Potter, into the silent courtroom. “Even more important: At one point I was taken prisoner by the Snatchers and taken to Malfoy Manor; you read that in the report. Draco was there. He was pressured by Lucius and Bellatrix to identify me. My face was sort of swollen from Hermione’s Stinging Hex, but they suspected who I was. And I saw my reflection. You could tell it was me, if you knew me well. Draco knows me well. He spent six years at Hogwarts hating me, and the feeling was mutual. And yet, he refused to identify me. Just said again and again that he didn’t know who I was. If he hadn’t, I don’t need to tell you how different the outcome of the war would have been. In a weird sort of way, we have Draco to thank for our lives.”
“Very well,” mused Shacklebolt, after a moment. “Is that all, Potter?”
“Almost. You remember that the reason Voldemort couldn’t defeat me was that the Elder Wand’s allegiance had passed from Draco to me. It was in Malfoy Manor that I disarmed Draco, that same night. And he wasn’t really fighting back. I think...I think he’d ceased to fight a long time before then. He was just sort of swept along, a victim of Voldemort like any other. There are more ways than just Imperio to manipulate someone, you know. And I wondered...I wondered if maybe, if I’d been raised by Death Eaters like he was, I might have gone the same way.”
Pin-drop silence in the courtroom.
“Thank you, Potter. It is time for the defendant to give testimony.”
Draco closed his eyes again as the goblet was pressed against his lips. What more was there to say? Did they really need to hear it all again? The hope that had flared briefly in his chest as Potter gave testimony was gone, squashed down by the true weight of all his crimes. Potter’s words gave the whole thing a splash of color, of perspective, yes, but what did that matter when that black list of charges still echoed in the ears of the Wizengamot?
“Do you disagree with any of the charges, Malfoy?”
Draco shook his head mutely.
“And Potter’s testimony?”
“Correct,” he croaked.
“Were any of your crimes committed under duress?”
“All except breaking Potter’s nose.”
“Explain,” said the Minister succinctly.
“He was spying on me. I saw my chance, and--”
“Not the assault on Potter,” said Shacklebolt, and despite the gravity of the situation, there was almost a trace of amusement in his tone. “What leverage persuaded you to take Voldemort’s side?”
“None, at first. It was an honor, like my parents always said.”
The moment they rolled off his tongue, Draco wished desperately that he could take the words back. Severus had warned him, once. This Veritaserum was worse than poison.
“And later?”
“What Potter said. My father had incurred the Dark Lord’s wrath by misusing an object that had been given to him for safekeeping. The Dark Lord assigned me to kill Albus Dumbledore. I took it seriously at the time, but I pretty soon realized the real point of the assignment. A sixteen-year-old, murder Albus Dumbledore? No. He only wanted an excuse to kill me, to torment my parents.”
“And later?”
“Later it was reversed,” said Draco, in a tone that would have been barely audible if not amplified by magic. “He would have killed my parents--any of us--if the others refused to do as he said. By that time I didn’t care for the Dark Lord’s cause. Only my family.”
“Did you yourself participate in the torture of victims?”
“Yes.”
“Only when forced to?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Dozens,” said Draco, his voice trembling slightly.
“Did you kill?”
“No.”
“Kidnap?”
“No.”
“Aid in the detention of prisoners?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Five, if you count Potter and his friends.”
“Participate in sexual assault?”
“Merlin, no. The Dark Lord was indifferent to such things, and so most of the Death Eaters feigned it too. The only ones who got off on anything were the sadists.”
“Any other crime which has not been discussed today?”
“Getting this damn Mark,” said Draco bitterly. “Underage magic, every year of my life. Learned Unforgivable Curses when I was thirteen. Bribed my way onto the school Quidditch team. Participated in Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad. That was Ministry-sanctioned at the time, but probably not legal, considering the amounts of Veritaserum we were using on minors. Oh, and I threatened Borgin with a werewolf attack. That has to be sort of illegal, considering I could have followed up. Give me ten seconds and I’m certain I could come up with more.”
Unfortunately, they did. He talked himself ragged. Every petty misdeed, every threat or bribe he’d enacted, every illegal curse his loving parents had taught him during that childhood of arrogant wealth and power. Every crime he’d stood by and watched, never knowing if he could have done anything to prevent it. Only knowing that he’d never tried.
The jury retreated for deliberation. Potter kept sending glances in his direction, glances that Draco now knew contained sympathy. Why, though? That was what he couldn’t figure out.
The verdict was Azkaban. Two years.
He’d known it, of course. Had known all along--
Wait.
Two? Two years? That couldn’t be. Draco had taken it for granted that he would be imprisoned for life; the trial was nothing more than a joke, a way to make the humiliation public. The Malfoys were not half-hearted blood supremacists on the Death Eater fringes; they had always been members of Voldemort’s inner circle. And there was not a witch or wizard left in Great Britain who could doubt it.
Two years? It was incomprehensible.
What Draco couldn’t have known was that his monotonous litany of crimes, stretching from the earliest years of his childhood, had conjured more compassion for him than even Potter’s speech had done.
“Let me talk to him, please. Just for a moment.”
Draco became aware that he was being unchained from the chair of judgment. A familiar face swam into his vision, thin and pale, framed by dark hair, with eyes magnified by those ridiculous round glasses that Potter had been wearing since age eleven. Probably before. Never thought of updating that prescription, did he? Get some new frames, at least. Merlin.
Damn, his mind was wandering again. Just wanted to sleep.
“Listen, Draco,” the face was saying quietly. “I did the best I could, all right? Azkaban’s not what it was; the Aurors are rounding up and exterminating the dementors. It’s more or less a normal prison now. Two years, and I’ll come find you. Help with what I can.”
Draco blinked at him. He knew there were things he should be saying, feeling. Shock? The usual simmering hatred? Overwhelming gratitude? All three? By rights he ought to be sobbing at the feet of the Chosen One. Out of the many Potter had saved he deserved it least.
But what came out instead was a croak.
“My parents?”
“They haven’t been tried yet,” Harry told him, with a sort of grimace. “It’ll be soon, the Minister isn’t dragging this out. I’ll put in a word for your mother; she sort of saved my life. After I, well, died. It’s a bit complicated.”
The question in Draco’s eyes must have been very plain, because Harry shook his head, expression growing cold.
“Not Lucius. I’ve nothing to add, and I wouldn’t if I could. He tried to kill my wife once.”
The fear was so bitter and so sudden in Draco’s mouth that it took several moments to process the change in Potter’s tone, and more to take in the import of this last sentence.
Wife? Potter had a wife? And Father had tried…
The Weasley girl. Of course.
How long have I been locked away?
He tried to calculate. It had been two months, at least, since the Battle of Hogwarts. Maybe three. There had been so many pieces to put back together, an entire government to reform, bodies to bury, property to restore to its rightful owners, Voldemort sympathizers to track down. Not that Draco had participated in any of it, of course, aside from sitting in the Ministry dungeon enduring endless interrogations on the locations and activities of other known Death Eaters.
“Finished, sir?”
Draco knew the brusque, uneven tone. It was one of the Aurors who kept him under guard. As though it were necessary--a gaunt, unarmed boy who’d never been more than an honorary Death Eater in the first place. He laughed suddenly, and there was a pause.
“Yes,” Potter finally said. “Take him. Put him...put him with his parents, if possible.”
“That’s not up to me, sir.”
“I know,” Potter said, in a slightly frustrated tone. “I know.”