Chapter 1
Draco felt… nothing. He sat on that hard, wooden chair and faced the Wizengamot. It looked incredibly different now that his father was dead—many more witches and many more half bloods and Muggleborns than Lucius ever would've allowed. They stared at him with the kind of anger and hatred that screamed of his father's doing. No one could put that much pure wrath in another person's face—that betrayal, that disgust, and that very purposeful need for revenge. They would skin him alive.
His father was dead, his mother imprisoned. The only thing left for them to take their anger out on was him—the Malfoy heir. He'd inherited their hatred, too, it seemed. Nothing could save him now, and he faced their burning eyes with emptiness in his chest. Honestly, he'd expected to be scared. Facing death should have been terrifying, or at least sobering, but Draco just felt… nothing. He couldn't even tear his eyes from the wall enough to answer the Minister, let alone face him, but Draco slowly found himself not caring.
It didn't matter. There wasn't a thing left in existence that could have influenced the trial. Well, there was one thing, but Draco didn't bother to consider that possibility. Because it wasn't a possibility, he told himself. Years had passed since Voldemort's death, and Draco had no illusions about what would or would not happen. No one would testify, and he didn't expect them to. He didn't deserve it.
"Mr. Malfoy, you are being charged with sixty four distinct offenses. How do you plead?" Draco was going to cry, but he didn't know why. It didn't make any sense, and yet his hands were shaking and he couldn't breathe quite right. For some reason, Draco had always thought that he would come. He wouldn't—Draco knew that, better than he knew most things—but really seeing that fact in actuality hurt. Not that Draco deserved the presence of the Golden Savior, let alone his testimony. Besides, if Potter had any sense or any capacity for remembering, the former Gryffindor's testimony would only hurt his case in the end. Still, it stung not to see him in the crowd of onlookers.
"Mr. Malfoy?" He hadn't answered, he realized,and yet he couldn't really care. For some reason, Draco just felt numb. Maybe he was realizing, for the first time, that he was going to die at the hands of the light—not the dark. Draco had never expected to get this far. Honestly, he'd expected to die for his mistakes, or in that fire, or in his holding cell, or even by Dementor but he definitely hadn't ever thought that he would actually go to trial. Somehow, he'd never imagined that he would live this long.
"Mr. Malfoy, how do you plead?" He opened his mouth, fully prepared to say guilty, but no sound came out. Honestly, Draco tried—he really tried. But, no matter what he did, his mouth refused to make a sound and he just gaped blankly at the Wizengamot. It all felt so… distant. Like it wasn't really him who was sitting there, awaiting his sentencing. They looked ready to hang him by his wrists from the ceiling, even if one or two seemed to pity him. Draco could hardly see the pity, anymore.
Everyone jolted, suddenly, but Draco didn't understand why. All of them were staring, now, and he distinctly felt that there was something he didn't understand , but the silence was suffocating. He couldn't turn because of the restraints, but he saw their eyes on the door. Was the executioner here already? Draco was in no particular rush to die, but he also could have sworn that the trial had to end before he could be killed. Maybe the laws had changed? How long had it been since he'd been arrested, though? He was content to sit there, lost in thought and awaiting the inevitable, until he saw the Minister pale.
"Mr. Potter, how nice to see you again. Surely, we can find a better time—"
"I'm not here for you, Andrew." There was no way. Draco couldn't stiffen or struggle against the restraints, but he didn't have to because a head of messy black hair was stepping into view. He knew that voice, he knew that hair, but there was no way. Was there?
"Potter?" His voice broke over the second syllable and it was barely a whisper scraping out of his throat but Harry whipped around to face him, so he'd clearly heard it. Merlin, there was so… much in those eyes. He didn't say a word, but that moment of eye contact said more than enough. When Harry turned back to the Wizengamot, Draco finally let the tears start. It was real, now.
He heard Potter's voice—no, Harry's voice—addressing the court and the Minister, spinning tales and telling little anecdotes from their school days of how he'd made the Savior's life hell. Draco should have known better. Harry wasn't here to testify for him, he was here to testify against him. Story after story painted Draco into this horrible, Lucius-like mold and he was about ten seconds from throwing up when Harry pulled out a wand. Draco's wand.
"Draco Malfoy saved my life. In fact, I would say that he saved the lives of everyone here today, and everyone outside those doors. He is the reason that I can stand here before you. He is the reason that you can all sit here and listen to trials day after day instead of rotting in your graves." The room was his. Harry had become an amazing speaker over the years and an even better performer, so it was no surprise that the entire Wizengamot was putty in his hands. It was here, though, that he paused long enough to turn back to Draco.
"Someone once told me that sometimes bad people do good things, and sometimes good people do bad things. It isn't that one thing that defines you—which is why Severus Snape is in Azkaban and why my godfather isn't alive—but I think patterns like that are for adults. We were kids." Harry paused, letting that sink in, but Draco couldn't look away from those eyes. They were green, like always, but they suddenly looked like life preservers being thrown into the ocean of shit that was his life, and he ached to reach for them. The restraints bit into his wrists
"We were kids," Harry repeated. "We were kids and, for six years, I hated him. Yet, here I am. I would argue that, between the two of us, I'm the one who deserves to go to Azkaban and yes, I said that right. Out of the two of us, who do you think has killed more people?" Various mutters of 'Malfoy' circulated the room but Harry wasn't having it.
"You're wrong, it's me. Between the two of us, who do you think has cast more Unforgivable curses? And who do you think has had more curses used on them?" More murmurs, but the sentiment in the crowd was shifting and Draco could feel it.
"You're wrong. If I had grown up with parents like his, I would have fought for the dark side too. But, if I had grown up like he did, there's no way in hell that I would have thrown my wand—my only defense—to the one person who stood against everything my family and my side were fighting for. If someone is going to Azkaban today," Another pause, but Draco was already so unsteady that it felt like years had passed since they'd started the trial. "I would argue that it should be me."
People gasped, as if they hadn't seen where that train of thought was heading or hadn't expected Harry to actually say it, but Draco couldn't focus on that. He was swaying. The heat and the lights in the courtroom were blistering and there was no way that he was actually seeing or hearing any of this, right? Even if he was, there was no way that the Wizengamot was going to send Harry fucking Potter to Azkaban. Still, though, had Harry really just put himself on the line like that? For Draco?
"Upon hearing the testimony of Mr. Harry James Potter, arguing for the acquittal of Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy, the court will now move to a vote. Those in favor of pursuing punishment for the accused, please say aye," Their voices boomed, bearing down on him with the full weight and hatred that his father had created. "All those in favor of clearing the accused of all charges, please say aye."
The sound was like a choir. Draco had never heard so many votes for an acquittal before and he knew before it was even announced that he'd been freed. No Azkaban, no executioner… He couldn't get his mind to comprehend that fact, but then there were people. They were swarming near him and buzzing with cameras but Draco didn't understand why because the fuss was about Potter, not him, until he realized that the Golden Boy was approaching.
Draco was a mess of tears and shaky limbs but Potter didn't even seem to notice. He approached the bench and spelled away the restraints like it was nothing, like he hadn't just been the deciding factor to whether Draco would live or die. Cameras flashed everywhere, but Harry just held out his hand.
"I want to start over. Hi, I'm Harry." Draco took the hand almost instantly, scarcely daring to breathe in case he shattered this illusion somehow.
"Draco." Before he even realized that people were screaming questions at them—or rather, at Harry—he was on his feet and he was hugging the man. This didn't make sense. Why would Harry care if he lived or if he died? But Harry hugged him back, snaking an arm around the small of his back and tangling a hand in his hair. He didn't realize how hard he was sobbing until Harry began to whisper little reassurances to him. Salazar…
"I love you." Where the fuck had that come from!? Draco reeled, and tried to get away before Harry could hex him or repeat what he'd said for the press to hear, but Harry kept his grip. For years now, Draco had suppressed those three little words. He didn't even know Harry well enough to fall in love with him! But the hand in his hair just continued to smooth and the arm around his waist didn't loosen.
"I know."