Chapter Text
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
Black clouds were towering up over the snow-covered peaks, beaten forward by a sharp wind that turned the Lake into a churning mess and raked through my hair like an ice queen's long-nailed fingers. The first fat raindrops darkened the rocks as I crouched beside our small fishing boat and carved my name in the bow with my knife. That way everybody would at least know who had rowed that boat.
Because I'd find a breach in that damn Shield charm or die trying. I'd show them that I cared nothing about any verdict from the bloody Wizengamot.
Potter had made me break the restraining order. I had yelled at him and thus most likely activated the monitoring spells at the Ministry. But I'd rather die in a Grindylow's embrace tonight than let myself be locked away in Azkaban.
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And down the river's dim expanse -
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance -
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
The only thing I cared about now was confronting Potter. Potter, the fucking Saviour, the bloody Boy Who Only Lived because Mother and I had lied to the Dark Lord, which could've easily cost us our own lives. All I could think of was the urge to yell into his face what a bloody failure at being a saviour he was.
If he had really wanted to help, he would've long convinced the Ministry to extract his memory ‒ or ours ‒ to see who was speaking the truth and who was just too prejudiced to even consider that possibility.
The rain fell heavily now, a constant icy downpour, and the natural imperviousness of the wool couldn't protect me any longer from getting soaked to the skin. I shivered, my fingers already clumsy with cold as I loosened the chain tying our boat to a wrought-iron ring set in the rock.
When I sat down on the narrow bench, Mother's silhouette appeared in the firelit window of the tower. She'd tried to stop me, in vain. I didn't want to think about drowning in the Lake or how ‒ if ‒ she would survive without me here. I was utterly fed up with life fucking me over, again and again, putting me in situations where I had no choice other than to act according to the will of someone who didn't care for me at all ‒ the Dark Lord ‒ or even despised me ‒ the oh-so-righteous witches and wizards of the Wizengamot. Not to mention Father, who never cared for my own ambitions but only wanted to turn me into a younger version of himself.
There'd always been one person who could've helped me out of all that: Potter. If he'd only accepted my offer of friendship, he might've been able to protect me from the fate awaiting me. If he'd only thrown all the weight of his Saviour status into the balance, I was sure our sentence wouldn't have been that harsh.
I pushed the boat away from the rocks with an oar, the rudder post already slippery from the rain.
How saviour-like was it to sit well-fed and warm in his common room, sipping pumpkin juice? While we, who had risked our lives for him, were close to losing them to cold and hunger?
I started rowing. This close to the rocks, the waves were capricious and made it hard to keep the boat steady. The Wizengamot could go fuck themselves. I had nothing to lose, had I? There was nothing left to strip me of or do to me to make my situation any worse. Azkaban? I laughed at the thought and rowed harder.
The orange glow of the tower window was soon hidden by the curtain of rain. For a moment I feared I had lost direction until a glance over my shoulder reassured me. Hogwarts with all its lit windows glittered in the darkness like the milky way on a clear night.
I rowed and rowed. Down in the valleys of the waves, with nothing but black walls of water rising up around me, I was sure I was just led in a circle by the Shield charm, scraping along its invisible barrier. Riding up the next wave's crest, I almost doubted my eyes when the castle loomed like a beacon made of stone at the far shore.
I gritted my teeth, ignored the water seeping into the boat through the leaking bottom and rowed on until my fingers, frozen stiff and numb, lost their grip on the oars.
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Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right -
The leaves upon her falling light -
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song.
The Lady of Shalott.
Harry returned to Hogwarts early the next morning despite the Weasleys' entreaties to stay with them until the New Year, like Hermione. Not even the homey atmosphere at the Burrow and Molly's excellent cooking could keep him away. If there were to be any consequences for his stupid blunder, he needed to be present to do as much damage control as he could.
The weather had taken a bad turn since he'd left; rain was lashing against the tower's window panes, to the point where the lights in the common room had flickered to life even though it was barely past mid-morning. The gloomy atmosphere matched Harry's mood; he was still beating himself up over his thoughtless misstep as he morosely stared out of the window overlooking the churning Black Lake.
The Silent Isle was but a speck in the distance; he pictured the waves crashing against its rocky shore in violent sprays. Not even the Giant Squid poked a single tentacle from its underwater lair. Unwillingly, Harry was reminded both of the isolated hut on the rock Vernon had taken his family to while trying to outrun Harry's Hogwarts letters and the seaside cave where Voldemort had hidden Slytherin's locket. Neither the Lake nor the island was as remote or as ominous, but he still shuddered at the memory of precarious trips in flimsy boats.
For once, he was almost grateful for the Shield Spell barrier, as it would keep Draco safely on the island.
His train of thought was derailed by a second-year who'd opened the window next to him to let in a grumpy, bedraggled owl which had somehow missed the morning mail delivery.
"Hey, is that a boat?" the girl chirped. "Marissa," she beckoned to her friend, "come look ‒ someone's out on the Lake!"
In an instant, Harry had yanked his own window open, causing several protests from the few students sitting around the fireplace when they were hit by a gust of damp, chill air blasting into the common room. "Oi, Harry! Are you daft?" someone complained angrily.
Harry was leaning out of the window as far as he could. Already his glasses had fogged over and were all but useless, but he could still make out the nutshell of a boat being buffeted by rain and wind as it cut through the waves towards Hogwarts. A single person was slumped over the oars. Draco!
"No, someone else is," he yelped, slammed the window shut and sprinted towards the portrait hole.
"I'm gonna kill the idiot," he fumed as he raced down the staircases to the Entry Hall, yanked the big double doors open and jumped the few steps into the courtyard. Cursing the fact that he couldn't Apparate, Harry ran as fast as he could across the quad, sent a blasting hex against the gates so they swung open and took a sharp left onto the footpath along the castle wall. He only had a vague notion of where the Durmstrang ship had surfaced from the Lake all those years ago to guide him.
He didn't even know whether Draco would land in the same spot, but at least he'd be able to see where the boat was headed; he'd take it from there once he reached the water's edge.
Harry nearly took a header into the Lake when he finally skidded to a halt as soon as he had a good view of the open water. Rain pelted down on his head and back, he was gasping for air and his sides ached fiercely as he doubled over from exertion, but at least he saw that he'd calculated correctly.
The boat's course was very erratic, but still headed towards Harry. However, nobody seemed to be steering it ‒ there was only one oar which dangled precariously over the side, and Draco ‒ Draco wasn't moving! Without hesitation, Harry waded into the choppy waves, not caring that he was drenched to the skin within seconds. All that mattered was to drag the boat ashore and bring Draco to safety.
Panting with exhaustion, Harry pressed two fingers against Draco's jaw, just below his ear. For an instant or two, all he could feel was icy, clammy skin. Harry's heart nearly stopped with sudden fear. Suddenly, he felt a pulse. First one sluggish beat, then another. He wasn't dead then, merely unconscious.
Oh, thank Merlin!
Redoubling his efforts, Harry managed to get close enough to drape one of Draco's arms across his own shoulder and try to lift him out of the boat. The movement brought Draco back to his senses.
Disoriented, Draco blinked until he realised where he was … and who was with him. His pale, haggard face contorted in fury and he started to fight Harry's hold, almost capsizing the rickety vessel in the process.
"Easy there," Harry started, only to be cut off by Draco's hoarse, scratchy voice.
"Potter," he croaked. "Potter, you moronic coward!"
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Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died
The Lady of Shalott.
Taken aback at the unexpected vitriol, Harry nearly dropped him back onto the bench. Only the realisation that Draco most likely needed immediate medical attention let him hold on.
Fuck, he looks awful!
Despite the anger burning in their depths, the grey eyes were dull and sunk deep into their sockets, ringed by dark circles that spoke of utter exhaustion. Draco's lips had a decidedly blue tinge against his chalky-white face and every movement was jerky and stiff as he struggled to climb out of the boat under his own steam. Harry tightened his grip and braced the bony back to help.
Of course, Draco had to be contrary even as he sagged against Harry's sturdy frame. "Let go of me!"
Despite the dire situation, Harry had to grin. Predictable much? "No way."
With an incoherent cry, Draco started flailing about, beating his fists weakly against Harry's arms, back and chest. Harry didn't flinch, just held on even more firmly.
"Draco, I—"
"DON'T YOU DARE USE MY NAME, YOU BASTARD! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!"
Amazing how loudly a barely conscious, half-drowned man could shout.
"Malfoy, then," Harry offered in an effort to placate him, discarding most of what he might have said under any other circumstance on the spot. He had more immediate concerns. Draco's too-thin clothes were sopping wet, clinging to his emaciated frame, and he looked more than half-frozen. "Listen, we can talk all you want once I've brought you to Madam Pomfrey. Just let us get in out of the cold first, okay?"
"I'm not going anywhere with you," Draco spat, swaying alarmingly as he finally managed to stand. He swore at his lack of balance. "You're … mus' t'll you tha- … I'm … you are—" he began, groaned piteously and clutched his head. "Potter, I … you—"
Then his eyes rolled back, he gasped once and collapsed like a puppet whose strings were being cut one by one. Only his quick reflexes enabled Harry to catch Draco before he landed full-length in the water.
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Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame.
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
"Oof!"
Harry staggered and nearly collapsed himself as he was unexpectedly burdened with Draco's totally unresponsive body. For one panicky moment the phrase ‘dead weight' flashed through his mind, but then a rattling breath was drawn next to his ear and he sagged with relief. Draco was merely unconscious again.
He was also damned heavy, despite being thin to the point of emaciation. Harry could feel every one of Draco's ribs even as he struggled to stay upright on the slippery rocks and manoeuvre both of them back onto dry ‒ well, less wet, anyway ‒ land without dunking both of them. Harry started to curse a blue streak when an unfamiliar hand gripped his arm and a voice said, "I've got you, man. Let me help."
Harry caught a flash of yellow around the bloke's throat ‒ Hufflepuff, then ‒ and thought he recognized Kevin Whitby, but couldn't be sure. Whatever; what mattered was that he steadied Draco long enough for Harry to regain solid footing.
"Somebody conjure a blanket," he requested hoarsely, fumbling for his wand. He knew he'd had it when he ran down from Gryffindor tower, but if he'd lost it … no, there it was, held out to him hilt-first by a wide-eyed girl in Ravenclaw colours. He nodded his thanks, suddenly becoming aware that there were nearly a dozen students of all Houses gathered around them. Apparently, his mad dash across the school had drawn an audience. Well, fuck it; all he cared about right now was to get Draco out of the freezing rain and into Madam Pomfrey's capable hands as soon as possible.
With Kevin's assistance, he wrapped Draco into the blanket he'd asked for, then swished and flicked his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa." Draco's limp body rose up from the ground. His head tossed a bit and he moaned once but stayed otherwise still. One of the older students thoughtfully cast an Impervious charm on both of them, making Harry flinch even though he appreciated the small kindness. "Thanks," he muttered at the group in general. "I'm taking him to the hospital wing now …"
"Go ahead, Harry," another student whose name Harry couldn't recall said. "I'll make sure everybody gets back safely."
"Uh-huh." Harry was incapable of anything but a distracted grunt after incanting Locomotor. He put his free hand on Draco's ankle to better direct his motionless form and began the arduous trek back to the castle.
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"Who was that?" the little Ravenclaw who'd found Harry's wand asked.
"Harry Potter," someone said.
"Well, duh," she retorted, scowling indignantly at the speaker. "I meant the bloke in the boat ‒ and who would be out on the Lake at night, in this kind of weather, anyway?"
"Someone stupid," a voice called from the back, to a few cackles from others.
"Or someone desperate," Whitby murmured as he used his wand to pull the battered boat completely ashore. "Someone who has nothing to lose ‒ like Draco Malfoy."
There was a moment of incredulous silence. "But … isn't he in Azkaban?" the girl asked.
"No, he was exiled for life to the Silent Isle, behind an impenetrable Shield Spell." Of course a Slytherin would know.
"Where's that?"
Whitby jerked his thumb over his shoulder to somewhere across the Black Lake. "Over there."
Another Ravenclaw spoke up. "If the shield is impenetrable, how did he get through? And how do you know it's him, anyway?"
Whitby smiled wryly. "First, I have no idea ‒ and second, I recognise him from before the War. The hair, you know." He tied the boat to a rock with a Conjured rope and straightened, rubbing warmth back into his hands. "Plus, there's also that."
He pointed at the boat's bow. There were letters carved into the top board ‒ nearly invisible in the dark, warped and distorted by wetness. They all peered closely, one or two even tracing the crude lines with their fingertips.
"Bloody hell, it really says Draco Malfoy!"
Whitby wiped raindrops from his cheeks and smirked. "Kind of a dead giveaway, wouldn't you say?"
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Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace.
The Lady of Shalott."
"Is he dead?" Euan Abercrombie whispered, looking shocked as Harry passed him in the Entrance Hall.
Harry ignored him, too focused on keeping up both the Levitation and Mobility charms as he manoeuvred Draco's unmoving body towards the Grand Staircase and up, past curious students and whispering portraits, intent only on reaching the Hospital Wing as fast as possible.
Barely avoiding the trick step, he was shouting for Madam Pomfrey even before he was faced with the conundrum of opening the Infirmary door without losing control of his spells. Lucky for him, the mediwitch had already been alerted and had flung the door wide.
"Over here, Mr Potter! Quickly!"
She deftly took over, guiding Draco onto the nearest bed. The door banged shut again, cutting off the stares of nosy students who had followed in Harry's wake. Then she started wielding her wand with almost frightening speed and accuracy. In practically no time at all, she had Draco stripped, dried and in hospital pyjamas and was casting one diagnostic spell after the other, all the while muttering angrily to herself.
"Silly boy, what were you thinking? You don't chase a Crup outside in weather like this, never mind trying to cross the Lake in a leaky boat!"
One of her spells flared in electric purple light.
"Oh, bother!"
If anything, her spells flew faster. "Exposure, borderline frostbite … Nimue and Morgana, beginning malnutrition, too? You poor thing!"
Harry stood pressed against the wall, almost paralyzed with fear at the litany of symptoms. He already knew that Draco's pulse was thready at best and could hear his rattling breath even at a distance. Madam Pomfrey was quite competent, she'd patched him up often enough in the past, but she was just a mediwitch ‒ what if Draco's condition for once exceeded her skills? What if he needed a Healer, or to be transferred to St Mungo's?
Did the terms of Draco's sentence even allow medical care in an emergency?
He decided that he couldn't care less. Now that he had Draco here, he would see that he got what he needed. If the Ministry and the Wizengamot didn't like it, they could just sod off.
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When Kevin Whitby herded the group of students who'd followed Harry to the shore back into the castle, the rumours had already started flying faster than spellfire.
"Did you hear? Potter brought Malfoy!"
"He's dying, isn't he?"
"Already dead ‒ the Shield Spell killed him when he broke through!"
"No, he froze to death. It's the middle of winter, and he was out in the storm who knows how long!"
Whitby shook his head. "No, he's still alive ‒ at least, he was when we dragged him from the boat," he said. Almost immediately, he was surrounded by almost every student who'd remained at Hogwarts over the holidays. Finding himself the centre of everyone's attention, he couldn't resist bragging a little.
"I was there; I saw everything," he said, raising his voice enough so that all could hear. "And let me tell you, Malfoy was cussing Harry out just as bad as ever! Almost as if he didn't want to be rescued!"
"At least not by Potter," the Slytherin who'd been there as well snarked.
"What did Malfoy say?" a curious firstie wanted to know, staring at Kevin with avid brown eyes.
Somewhere in the throng, a Prefect cleared her throat in warning. Taking the hint, Whitby shrugged. "I'll tell you when you're older. Maybe."
"Aww!" The firstie wasn't the only one groaning in disappointment.
"That's enough, all of you," the Prefect said. "Harry Potter saved Malfoy ‒ again, he's not dead yet, and Madam Pomfrey is looking after him. That's all we know for certain. Anything else can wait. Now scram!"
They scrammed ‒ all except Abercrombie, that is. He'd slid down the nearest wall and was now huddled on the floor, the picture of misery. His hands were clenched between his drawn-up knees, but Whitby could still see that he was trembling. Kevin hesitated. They weren't friends and Abercrombie wasn't of his House, but they shared a lot of classes and thus knew each other reasonably well. Not a single Gryffindor or Prefect was in sight, much less a teacher.
So it was up to him, the Hufflepuff. Whitby sighed and hunkered down next to his year mate. "You okay, Euan?" he asked.
Abercrombie shook his head. "No."
"Why? I thought you hated Malfoy." The report of the dressing-down Harry had given the boy and his cronies had made the rounds, too.
The boy gulped. "I do," he said. "But … but I kinda also don't want him dead. Not seriously, y'know?."
Neither he nor Whitby had been at the Battle of Hogwarts, but Kevin had had relatives on both sides of the War; one of his uncles had fought on Voldemort's side and another had died in the defence of Hogsmeade. The whole family was still reeling under the fallout.
"It's easy at a distance, isn't it," he said at last. "Nobody tells you it's different when you know the people you're supposed to hate."
"Yeah." Abercrombie sniffled. "It's just … when I saw Harry bring him in, Malfoy looked dead. And I … I felt awful!" A few heartbeats later, he added almost inaudibly, "Still do, really."
"Why? Because Malfoy isn't actually dead, or because you wished him to be?"
The boy hesitated. "Both," he whispered at last, then started to cry.
"Oh, Euan." Whitby sighed and draped an arm around the shaking shoulders. If he only could've heard the things Malfoy had said when he realised it was Potter who was hauling him ashore, Euan would be half as devastated. Which gave him an idea. He gave the narrow back a friendly pat.
"You know … Malfoy was cussing way too much for someone who's in serious danger of kicking the cauldron anytime soon," he said musingly.
Abercrombie peeked at him out of wet, reddened eyes. "R-really?"
Whitby grinned and winked. Looked as if he got to tell the juicy details after all! "Oh yeah. Like, when he first regained consciousness, he …"
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I had no idea how long I'd been out. But I knew perfectly well where I was. The white sheets, starched so much they were a little scratchy, the lingering taste of Pepper-Up on my tongue and the distinctive lemony smell of Madam Pomfrey's Cleaning charms had given it away before I was fully awake: I was at Hogwarts, in the Hospital Wing.
I couldn't tell whether it was dusk or dawn; the twilight seeping through the windows just sucked the colour out of everything. It was like waking up in a world reduced to shades of grey. Hail drummed against the windows as if giants were throwing fistfuls of pebbles at them.
Poor Mother, she was probably worried to death ‒ how likely was it for me to survive in that weather? I tried to sit up. How likely was it for me to reach the Lakeside at all? Shouldn't the Shield charm have prevented me from leaving the Silent Isle? I cleared my throat to call for Madam Pomfrey. If I could break the shield, maybe an owl could get through to Mother.
"Ma—" The croaked syllable was drowned out by the banging of the door and Potter's voice.
"How often do I have to tell you, Mr Carduroy? You can't take Dr— uh, Malfoy back to the Isle now. He's sick, he almost died out there on the Lake!" He sounded flat, strained, as if it cost him every bit of self-control not to yell at the Auror. I knew the feeling; Carduroy had a talent to make one want to punch him in the face.
"Not your decision to make, Mr ‒ ah ‒ Potter, right? I have strict orders to Apparate him back immediately."
I could literally hear the smug smile on Carduroy's face and the need to punch him grew. They were close now, Potter's footfall light in comparison to the Auror's heavy tread that was accompanied by a squelching sound. Unfortunately Filch, who normally would threaten to flog any student daring to enter the Hospital Wing with mud on their shoes, was too much of a bootlicker when it came to authorities to give Carduroy a piece of his mind. I quickly lay back down, slid deeper under the sheets and pretended to be still asleep.
The footsteps stopped at my bed and a shadow fell over me. I peeked through my lashes and saw Potter standing protectively at the side of my bed, his back towards me. Which meant his arse was only inches from my face. Gorgeous. Even when clad in those ugly blue Muggle trousers. Jones. James. No, wait ‒ jeans!
"You're not taking him anywhere until I have spoken to the Minister himself," he said through gritted teeth.
"Oh, but I will, Mr Potter. You're risking an offence report for interfering with an Auror in the performance of his du—"
A crashing sound from one of the windows made us all wince; fortunately, Potter and the sheets hid my reaction well enough.
"What in Merlin's—" Potter swore, the rest drowned out by the desperate flapping coming from outside. "That's an owl." His shadow vanished, the window creaked and a cold gust of wind swept through the room.
"Poor you," Potter murmured and I imagined him smoothing the bird's ruffled wet feathers. "Would you close the window, Mr Carduroy," he added, returning to the bed. "That's a message from the Ministry. I'm sure it's important if they force an owl halfway across the country to deliver it in this weather."
"Let me see," Carduroy demanded in his I'm-the-important-person-here-voice and snatched the bird out of Potter's hand. They were so focused on one another that I dared to open both my eyes to watch.
How glad I am that I did! I'll never forget Carduroy's face when he read the message. Without a word, he crumpled the wet parchment into a ball, threw it across the room and stomped out of the room, his dramatic exit spoiled by his still-squelching boots. But he managed to slam the door shut quite well.
Potter shook his head. "Kings really needs better staff," he murmured as he went to pick up the note. Smoothing out the creases, he returned to my bed and sat on the mattress. His eyes darted across the lines and when he was done, he started to laugh.
I quickly closed my eyes when he turned towards me. Potter took my hand and ran his thumb over the back. "It's a good thing you're sleeping through all of this. You know that I wouldn't have let him take you away again, don't you? Not when it was my fault that you got into trouble."
His weight shifted as he moved; he probably was raking his fingers through his hair as always whenever he was agitated.
"I only just got you back. If I've learned one thing from this whole mess, it's that I need you in my life. I need your wit, I need your sarcasm, I need you to challenge me every day of my life." He sat there for a moment, stroking my hand and pushing a strand of hair out of my face.
"I'm a better me when you're around. I don't know what to do when you're not around to make me prove myself again and again." He prepared to stand up and his fingers loosened around mine. "Well, you need your sleep. I'll come back later."
I couldn't let that happen, so I tightened my hold on his hand and pulled him back down. "Potter, don't be an even bigger moron than usual. You're not getting to run away from this now!"
Caught off guard, he lost his balance and fell on top of me. His glasses were a cold pressure at my temple, but his breath was hot on my mouth as he whispered, "Malfoy ... Draco, what— I—"
"I heard," I said. "You need me in your life. And you need me so you can prove yourself. Well, here's your chance ‒ prove how much you need me!"
As it turned out, Potter was neither a moron nor a coward at all when it came to kissing. Actually, he proved himself worthy of all the snark and sarcasm I would've had to offer. If my mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied.
Once I had recovered my breath, I asked, "What did the Minister have to say? Why am I still here and not on my way back to the Silent Isle with the charming Mr Carduroy?"
"Read for yourself," he said and his eyes sparkled as handed me the parchment, now even more crumpled.
Harry ‒ the Minister wrote,
So Mr Malfoy finally managed to escape and reach Hogwarts despite the most inclement weather conditions last night. Good for him!
Frankly, I'm surprised it took him until now.
Before you Apparate into my office and try to hex me into oblivion, please let me explain (this is just a summary of the Wizengamot's decree, so bear with me and actually read it, young man):
- There can be no doubt that the Malfoy family as a whole supported Tom Marvolo Riddle, aka 'Lord Voldemort', and his terrorist organisation for years by word, deed and through giving financial and political support.
- Narcissa Malfoy, née Black and her son, Draco Lucius Malfoy, both ultimately renounced the insurgent and his agenda.
- Narcissa and Draco Malfoy individually lent help to Harry James Potter on two separate occasions (cf. verified Pensieve testimony by HJP) at crucial moments during the final days of the conflict and at peril of their own lives.
That being said, the Ministry of Magic and its judiciary, the Wizengamot, were not as unsympathetic to your arguments and various petitions as we made you believe; it was always our intention to eventually offer them leniency, if not a partial or even full parole. However, before we did so, it was decided that a set of conditions had to be met:
- Both Narcissa and Draco Malfoy had to own the fact that they broke the law.
- They had to acknowledge the Wizengamot's right and duty to sentence them.
- They had to comply fully with the terms of said sentence.
- If at one point either or both should choose to disregard those terms, it had to be for a valid reason.
The Ministry of Magic and the Wizengamot agree that all of the above conditions have been met and that a remission of sentence can therefore be granted.
This decision has been reached because of a number of mitigating reasons (most of which you already pointed out ad nauseam):
- Mrs Malfoy was at least in part bound by her marriage vows to follow the political agenda of her husband, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.
- At the time Draco Malfoy joined Riddle's organisation, he was still a minor.
- Both Mrs and Mr Malfoy in essence defected, although for mainly personal reasons.
- Arguably, the sentence passed was unnecessarily harsh.
To make a long story short, both Malfoys impressed the Ministry and Wizengamot by acknowledging their guilt and expressing remorse. They proved it by submitting without complaint (mostly, anyway; I've heard things about young Draco) to their exile and made the best they could of their altered circumstances, which is why they're being pardoned.
On a more personal note (and yes, you may share this with them), the Wizengamot and I never intended to keep the Malfoys on the Silent Isle indefinitely – and the threat of Azkaban was ever only just that, a threat. Even the Shield was never truly impenetrable; we merely told them it was. Well, it was from the outside, to protect them from exactly the kind of attack you reported. (I hope you already gave those young idiots a good bollocking; if not, I certainly will. Or let Minerva do it; your choice.) From the inside, not so much.
Anyway, in effect the Malfoys created their own prison by assuming they were locked in. They could have left the island at any time. It speaks to their characters that they didn't try to break out earlier.
Why didn't I tell you? Because I took a Wizard's Oath not to. We all swore not to tell anybody. If the press had got wind of the truth, the public would've stormed the barricades, and the one thing we didn't need after the trials was a riot.
So go ahead and give Mrs and Mr Malfoy the happy news – as of today, they're free to leave the Silent Isle and return to their home, official confirmation to follow. (There are a few details yet to hammer out, but they can wait a while.)
I hope this will show you that you can trust the Ministry to do the right thing, even if you can't see it right away.
Your friend,
Kingsley Shacklebolt
Minister for Magic
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The End.
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