Chapter Text
All she could see was silver. Hermione sat surrounded by witches and wizards, some merely spectators, some wizengamot members, and others, like herself, were there as character witnesses. But she couldn’t pull her gaze away from the silver eyes of the man chained in the center of the room.
She shivered, the large courtroom, on level ten of the Ministry far below the ground’s surface, was frigid. The torches flickering from their brackets did nothing to stave off the chill. But perhaps the cold she felt had less to do with the room’s temperature and more to do with the cold, flat gray of Draco Malfoy’s eyes.
Usually, his eyes were a warm silver, but there was nothing warm in his eyes today. They were cold, hard steel. He was occluding. If his blank expression and lack of reaction to the words thrown around him weren’t enough indication, his eyes gave him away. They always did. She could tell within moments of watching him if he was occluding. She had honed the skill in sixth year. She hated seeing his eyes empty like that, as though the spark inside him that makes him who he is has been snuffed out. Perhaps being chained to a chair in the center of a courtroom while witches and wizards discussed your fate did that to you.
She had never seen Draco seem so small. He always held such a regal air, a refined posture. But today, he was slumped in the wooden chair, held up by his chains, and occluding himself into a stupor. She frowned. He seemed so fragile, like he’d given up, resigned to his fate. Part of her expected him to try and fight for himself, to use his connections to get out of this unscathed. But he wouldn’t so much as speak, let alone inform them his father would hear about this. Not that that particular threat held any weight now. His father was just released on probation last week. Draco was the last Death Eater to be tried, the youngest Death Eater among Voldemort’s ranks.
Fear churned Hermione’s stomach. She was afraid that they would try and make an example of him. She thought that Lucius had gotten off easy all things considered, but her stomach dropped as it occurred to her that they might punish him by holding no punches on his son. It would destroy the man to watch his only son be imprisoned, or executed for following in his footsteps, obeying his orders. It would crush her as well.
Harry laid a warm hand on her exposed and bouncing knee. She stilled and pulled her gaze away from Draco. Harry leaned in close and whispered, “Calm down, Hermione. You’re making me anxious.”
“What if they don’t listen, Harry?” she whispered, “He’s innocent.”
Harry cringed. “Innocent is a strong word for this situation.”
She shot him a glare. “You know he didn’t personally commit any of the crimes they’re trying to pin on him.”
“But he was there, he didn’t stop them from happening. And we don’t know what was required of him, what his training entailed. He might have had to practice unforgiveables on prisoners, muggleborns, for all we know.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “Would you have been able to stand up to so many Death Eaters, to Voldemort, if you were outnumbered and your only family had been threatened?”
Harry sighed. “I- I don’t know, Hermione.”
“He was put in impossible situations and you know it. No one our age, no one of any age, should have to choose between the lives of strangers and the lives of their family, or their own life. Of course, he chose whatever it took to survive, it’s human instinct.”
“Save something for the wizengamot, Hermione.”
She blew a frustrated puff of air out of her nose and settled in, listening to the wizengamot debate the extent of Draco’s involvement in the war.
It seemed like hours had passed before Harry was called to make his statement, following Luna who announced to the wizengamot that she believed Draco was a good man because he brought her food and blankets when she was imprisoned in his home. Hermione squirmed in her chair, switching between watching Harry, the wizengamot, and Draco as Harry told the room about Draco refusing to identify them in Malfoy Manor and lowering his wand on the astronomy tower.
“Which is why I believe that the charges against Malfoy should be dropped. He was an underage wizard under duress and a threat to his own life and his family’s lives. When Dumbledore offered him a way out, he lowered his wand.”
“But he didn’t take it,” piped up a squat-looking woman in the purple robes of the wizengamot.
“He wasn’t given a chance to. The Death Eaters burst into the room before he could.”
“So, you mean to say that Draco Malfoy, son of notorious Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, the youngest Death Eater in history, would have accepted help from the Order of the Phoenix if only the Death Eaters had delayed their arrival?”
Harry clenched his jaw. “Well, obviously I can’t speak for him. I can’t read minds, but based on what I saw, the lowering of his wand, and his clear hesitance at committing the crimes you’re trying to charge him with, I believe he was considering taking the help.”
Hermione’s eyes shot to Draco as he scoffed. His gaze was trained on the chains around his wrists. His eyes were still flat steel. The squat woman turned toward Draco. “Have you anything to say to this claim, Mr. Malfoy?”
He didn’t so much as flinch. He kept his lifeless eyes down and waited until the woman turned her attention back to Harry and dismissed him from the stand. “Let’s have our next witness, please.”
Hermione stood and straightened her pencil skirt, nervously brushing herself off and preparing to speak toward the character of her childhood bully.
“Please state your full name for the record.”
“Hermione Jean Granger.”
Draco’s head shot up and Hermione froze, trapped in his cold, steel gaze. Hermione’s heart ached at the sight of him in chains, staring at her in shock.
“Miss Granger?”
Hermione blinked and turned toward the squat woman. “Yes?”
“I asked for you to begin your statement.”
Hermione cleared her throat and fiddled with her sleeves as she approached the witness stand. “Oh, right, of course.”
She took a deep, steadying breath and began. “Draco Malfoy does not deserve to be charged for the crimes laid on him. At the time of several alleged crimes he was underage, which disqualifies him from being charged as an adult according to the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Wizardry article 7 section 12 which states: ‘If an underage witch or wizard is suspected to have participated in a crime, especially involving dark magic, he or she will not be held to the full extent of the law, but will be granted a probationary period equal to the crime committed.’ Furthermore-”
“Miss Granger, if I may interrupt,” the squat woman, who was beginning to remind her of a blonde Delores Umbridge, interjected. “We know the law, dear. Mr. Malfoy is not facing Azkaban for crimes committed before his seventeenth birthday. But, if you recall, he was involved in several nefarious acts after he came of age last June, including kidnapping, torture, murder-”
“Allegedly. You have no solid evidence that he committed any of these acts willingly. Every memory that has been submitted to the wizengamot clearly shows Malfoy complying with these acts reluctantly and under threat. He did nothing of his own volition.”
“How well do you know Mr. Malfoy?”
She cleared her throat and forced herself to focus on the woman speaking, not the blond chained in the middle of the room. “He and I have been classmates since age eleven.”
“Friends, were you?”
“N-no.”
“How would you describe the nature of your relationship with Mr. Malfoy?”
Hermione pursed her lips, considering her words carefully. “We were simply classmates.”
“You wouldn’t classify your interactions as hostile, Miss Granger?”
She blinked. “Well, I - that-.”
“We’ve seen a lot of memories, heard a lot of testimonies, Miss Granger. It seems to be rather common knowledge that Mr. Malfoy here was something of a bully to you.”
She clenched her jaw. “Which should only give my testimony more weight.”
“How do you mean?”
“If I, as a frequent target of his hostility, can see that Mr. Malfoy is innocent, why can’t you, the so-called unbiased authority of the wizarding world? Perhaps you should consider whether you’re evaluating him fairly or letting his family’s reputation cloud your judgment. You should ask yourself if you’re charging him with these crimes because he is truly responsible or because you’d like to make an example of him.”
The woman clenched her jaw and glared at Hermione. “I think that’s quite enough of that. Have you any closing remarks?”
Hermione nodded and locked eyes with the woman. “I fought in this war to end prejudice among wizarding kind. If you let this man’s title of the youngest Death Eater in history decide his fate, instead of his actions and motives, you’re no better than Voldemort torturing and killing muggleborns for their parentage.”
Hermione shot one last glance at Draco, still staring at her with flat, steel eyes and a clenched jaw, then stormed out of the courtroom letting the door slam shut behind her.
Draco watched, mesmerized, as Hermione left the chamber with her curls bouncing behind her. He sat frozen for long moments after the door slammed shut. She came. Not only that, she defended him. Why? She should be first in the line of people who want to lock him up and throw away the key.
She was so passionate while addressing the wizengamot and petitioning for his release. He had seen her give impassioned speeches before, but this one… He was blown away by her sincerity. Somehow, she genuinely believed he was innocent, that he deserved a second chance.
He knew better, of course. He wasn’t innocent. Guilty by association. Guilty of standing by and allowing things to happen. Guilty of casting curses and other nasty things to avoid punishment for himself or his parents. Guilty of keeping up pretenses to protect those he cared about… to protect her. He had called people foul names, including her. He had hurt people and watched terrible things being done to people who didn’t deserve such horrible treatment, but he did it all to keep her safe. Because if anyone knew about her, about how he felt for her, they were both doomed.
“Mr. Malfoy.”
Draco looked up at the tall, gangly man approaching him. In his peripheral, he noticed a crowd of people leaving the courtroom.
“Gawain Robards, Head of the Auror Office. I’m here to question you before the wizengamot. We’ve dismissed the spectators for this portion of the trial. We are not able to question you under veritaserum because you are quite a skilled occlumens which negates the effects of the potion. A colleague of mine, an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries, has developed a solution for situations like this. It’s still experimental, but I’ve gotten approval from the wizengamot to use it during our interview.”
Draco blinked, letting his occlumency walls drop. “Do I have a choice?”
Robards pursed his lips. “Technically you do, but if you refuse this option the wizengamot is likely to throw out your statements if they believe you aren’t being completely honest with them.”
Draco sighed. “What is it?”
Robards pulled a set of thin silver bracelets from a box in his pocket and showed them to Draco, and then the other people in the room. “These bracelets will be placed on the wrists of the accused. If he speaks anything but the entire truth while wearing them, they will glow red and warm up.”
There was scattered murmuring among the wizengamot as Draco considered his very limited options. He could refuse the bracelets, have his interview thrown out, and guarantee time in Azkaban. Or, he could try. He could take the offer, speak for himself, fight. He had come into the courtroom today prepared to face a lifetime sentence in Azkaban, or several years at the very least. The image of Hermione pleading his case with so much passion flashed in his mind’s eye. Somehow she believed that he was worthy of a life outside Azkaban, a second chance. Maybe he could be free, truly free for the first time in years.
He pursed his lips as he deliberated, then nodded, consenting to the use of the bracelets. Robards closed the distance between them. He tapped the chains on Draco’s arms with his wand causing them to draw back from his wrists. When Draco’s wrists were free of the chains, Robards placed a bracelet on each arm. He tapped each bracelet with his wand and they snapped closed around his wrists. They heated quickly, making Draco wince, then cooled.
“Alright then, let’s have a little test, shall we? Tell us your full name.”
“Draco Lucius Malfoy.”
The bracelets did nothing.
“Very good. Try a lie, if you please.”
Draco narrowed his eyes at the man and sighed. “I hate quidditch.”
The bracelets glowed red and burned Draco’s wrists. Draco clenched his jaw, holding back a yell. He didn’t want to appear weak in front of the entire wizengamot. After thirty seconds, the bracelets cooled again and Draco drew a deep breath, glaring daggers at the man who put those infernal bracelets on his arms. Warmed was much too innocent a word to describe what they did. Seared was much more accurate.
“Very good, very good indeed. Let’s proceed. Is it true that you were the youngest Death Eater in Voldemort’s ranks?”
Draco took a moment to steady himself. “To the best of my knowledge, yes.”
“Did you take the dark mark willingly?”
“Yes.”
The bracelets glowed and burned Draco for another thirty seconds, as he clenched his jaw and tried not to react.
“Let’s try that again. Did you take the dark mark willingly?”
“I- I did it to restore the Malfoy name.” He eyed the bracelets fearfully and added, “And so that he would punish me for my father’s mistakes and leave my mother alone.”
Robards watched the bracelets, then Draco’s face. “And by ‘he’ you mean, Voldemort?”
Draco nodded.
“Had Voldemort punished your mother before?”
Draco hesitated, then nodded.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to answer verbally. I’m not sure if the bracelets can analyze non-verbal communication.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Did Voldemort task you with Dumbledore’s murder?”
“Yes.”
“Did you agree to the mission?”
Draco blinked. “There was no agreeing or disagreeing. He gave you a task and you either completed it or you were punished.”
Robards watched the bracelets with pursed lips. “Were you punished after the incident on the astronomy tower?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Draco closed his eyes and fought a shiver at the memories beating against his occlumency walls. “The Cruciatus.”
Robards swallowed. “Did you receive that punishment often?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“B-because I wasn’t… I didn’t want to torture them… I refused to kill them.”
“Who?”
“The mud- muggleborn prisoners.”
“They wanted you to torture and kill muggleborn prisoners?”
“Yes.”
“And you refused?”
“Yes.”
The bracelets burned and Draco couldn’t suppress a yelp.
“Did you refuse to torture and kill muggleborn prisoners?”
Draco panted. “Not every time. I- I was so tired of being punished. I couldn’t bear to see my mother punished again.”
“So you tortured and killed prisoners?”
“No.”
Robards raised his eyebrows as the bracelets didn’t react. Draco locked eyes with Robards. “I never killed anyone.”
Robards nodded and Draco slumped back into his chair. “Mr. Potter made an interesting observation in his character statement earlier. He said that he believed that you would have accepted help from the Order on the night that Albus Dumbledore was killed if the Death Eaters hadn’t interrupted your conversation. Is that true? Would you have accepted help from the Order that night on the astronomy tower?”
Draco stared at the man, willing him to feel the heavy weight he had been carrying since that night. That nagging thought at the back of his mind that maybe things could have been different if he’d only had a few more moments with the old man. Maybe he and his parents could have been spared some of the pain and anguish they experienced if he had had time to accept the offer. “Yes.”
“You would have defected that night?”
“Yes.”
“What about the incident in Malfoy Manor? Mr. Potter touched on it briefly in his statement as well. He seems to think that you refused to identify him, Mr. Weasley, and Miss Granger, to save them. Is this true?”
Draco hesitated. “Yes.”
The bracelets glowed red and Draco’s skin seared in their heat.
Robards leaned closer to him, though still standing several feet away. “Did you recognize them when they were brought into your home?”
Draco couldn’t stop the trembling in his arms, making the chains rattle. “Yes.”
“But you refused to identify them, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To spare them.”
Once again the bracelets burned red and Draco groaned.
“Why did you refuse to identify them?”
Sweat dripped down Draco’s forehead and he blinked it out of his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. The chains continued to rattle as his body trembled. He was aching all over. Not here, not now in front of all these people.
“Mr. Malfoy, why did you refuse to identify them?”
He had no choice. He had to speed this along before he was reduced to a convulsing mass of cruciatus tremors right there in front of all those people. “To spare her.”
“Her?”
Draco nodded.
“Miss Granger?”
Draco clenched his jaw, refusing to meet Robards’ gaze as he nodded again.
“Verbally, please.”
Draco glared at Robards. “Yes, Granger. I refused to identify them to spare Hermione Granger. A fat lot of good it did though thanks to my maniacal aunt.”
Robards blinked dumbly for several moments. “Mr. Malfoy, do you care for Miss Granger?”
“Objection!” The squat woman yelled, reminding Draco of her existence. “That’s irrelevant to the trial.”
Robards pursed his lips and studied Draco’s face as he panted and fought to keep the tremors away. “Mr. Malfoy, do you believe that muggleborn witches and wizards are inferior to purebloods?”
Draco clenched his jaw and stared at Robards. “No, I don’t.”
“Have you ever believed so?”
“Yes.”
“When did you stop?”
Draco’s heart thumped wildly in his chest. He was tiptoeing awfully close to his most guarded secret. The trunk in his mind stuffed full of memories and secrets, rattled violently, begging to be opened. He met Robards' gaze and took a deep steadying breath. “When I met her.”
“Who?”
“Hermione Granger.”
The bracelets sat, cool and silver, against his blistered flesh.