Chapter Text
Within the Department of Mysteries, the doors of the six known divisions rotated each time an Unspeakable had to transit to their work spaces. Not everyone made it out of there as they were glued to their duty of capturing mobile knowledge, but there was a calendar in each cubicle that, with an arrow, moved incessantly over the numbers to mark the primary events of the day. The fourth of April in the year 1914 was marked.
Although it was spring, the cold was creeping unbidden into the Ministry's facilities. From the door beyond the lift that led from the atrium of the Ministry, emerged Lytton Saltonstall Jr, an Unspeakable who worked in the Space Chamber with his usual accessory of a cane, which had no other handle than tear-simulating gems. Dressed against a chill, he positioned himself to enter the first door that could lead him to his cubicle.
Checking that nothing was out of place in his grey robe, covering his two-piece suit, Mr. Saltonstall Jr. didn't notice how a brown door, made of weathered wood, flickered in front of his face. No one else was coming down the lift, and no one else wanted to leave their respective divisions.
He finished checking his attire, and with a wince, looked up at the door handle, praying that this time he would get the Space Chamber. His wand was tucked away in his atypical holster that hung from his arm, and it emitted a buzzing sound that quickly caught the attention of Mr. Saltonstall Jr. He pulled it out and checked it, noting that there was nothing wrong with it, and clutching it in his non-dominant hand, he opened the door with his other hand.
In front of his blue eyes, there was nothing but darkness. It was not uncommon to see it in the Space Chamber or the Death Chamber, but for some reason, Lytton Saltonstall Jr. hesitated to step forward. Instead, he looked at the door and noticed the wrong colour. With his mind scrambled, he forgot his Departmental incantation protocol and took his wand in his dominant hand, emitting a Lumos.
Like a click, a light came on above the man's head, glued to the ceiling, with no device to explain its presence. But Mr. Saltonstall Jr. was disturbed by what loomed ahead: another door, this time a wine-red colour. Set against the darkness, it was unlike anything in the other divisions of the Department. Remembering his colleagues, he did nothing more than step outside.
On the fourth of April 1914, a few months before the Great Muggle War, the calendar was once again marked with an important but secret event: the day where the First Door created that long hallway that would become better known with the code, later divulged, as the LOHAUN.
Lytton Saltonstall Jr. was not the first wizard to open it, nor did his companions wish to touch it. The First Door was shrouded in diagnostics spells, incantations of knowledge and protections. The only thing that came out in those three months before the shrill alarm of the violation of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy touching the edges of France by the Muggle war was that the LOHAUN was hiding among the Space Chamber and the Time Room, yet, though it followed the random pattern of showing itself to the Unspeakables just like the other divisions, at the mere mention of the name that had been imposed on it, it appeared above it, even at the expense of another gate.
The First Door, for a long time, was the Door. With research stopped like a dead star, the Unspeakables realised that other priorities took up more space and were easier to meet, and the commotion created by that Door was closed to four people almost five months later. One of those people was a French refugee, who, eager to prove something to the world, volunteered for the exploratory expedition to the First Door.
Marie-Barbara Peylin, a Savante proud to have Belonged to Ombrelune at Beauxbatons, had transferred to the British Ministry of Magic after leaving her home in the middle of the city of Mulhouse, with her family running after the climax of one of the first French Muggle battlefields. Two of her brothers were casualties of that battle, and her mother, torn by grief, took her remaining younger sisters to Ireland. By this time, Mademoiselle Peylin had already requested a transfer to Britain, believing the rumours of the French Muggle-born soldiers in the Great War.
Standing in front of the First Door, her scuba uniform dipped in protective spells and her metal helmet, she tried to calm herself. From her lips, the only thing she murmured was a prayer: “I want to see my brothers, once again”. Everyone thought this was a suicide mission, but she wanted to find her brothers.
She opened the Door under the expectant gaze of her three companions, who watched Mademoiselle Peylin's every vital piece of information. She entered expecting to see darkness, or at the very least, a desolate place. Instead, Marie-Barbara Peylin surveyed everything in sight with confusion, then with surprise.
When she returned after what seemed like an eternity, she was subjected to interrogations from her companions. What was it? They asked, where was it? When was it? What did you see?
The first thing they received was a terrified, tearful, amazed look from Mademoiselle Peylin. Then a sentence that moved her companions: “I don't know how I can describe it, I don't have a sensible answer for you. It's... How can I describe something beautiful to you? There are no words... Not for a new universe”.
They were all around her, stunned and frustrated, with one holding her arms so she wouldn't fall completely to the ground. Together, trapped, they felt a snap run through their own bodies and like a flock of birds, their heads turned to the left. Marie-Barbara Peylin, stricken and trembling, let out a blood-curdling scream.
A door, this time in topaz green, had appeared. It was not unlike the texture of the Door... Oh. Of the First Door, the Unspeakables realised with inescapable horror.
On that day, the fourth of September of 1914, several layers of spells of protection, surveillance and preservation were lifted. Always with a cold breeze, the darkness of the LOHAUN roamed the infinity that existed within a pavilion untouched beyond exploration and diplomacy. After Marie-Barbara Peylin's impossible act, meetings were called among the Unspeakables, fearful that one day this pavilion would remain an unsolved mystery even after the End of Eternity.
A month later, a duo of Unspeakables entered the Second Door: their names were Declan Moore, an 18-year-old, and Patrick Lynch, a 25-year-old. Both of junior rank, and with a complicated history with Ireland. From that dive, only Patrick Lynch returned with unfocused eyes and blood along his tunic. Declan Moore's body was never able to return to his motherland.
Although Marie-Barbara Peylin was the first to step foot inside LOHAUN, it was Patrick Lynch who was able to compress the tangled mess that was the Door he had been given.
Thus it was that the First Door became known later as the Peylin Door, and the other Three Doors that appeared after it became known as the Three Doors of Lynch. These Three Doors, of varying colours in the palette of green, were what triggered the AMPM, an acronym for the official title of Activation of Moore's Portals Management, where the Unspeakables first studied from afar what each of these Three Doors might contain.
The First Door of Lynch, on the AMPM scale, was classified as Dangerous, as Patrick Lynch's brief report had only mentioned that it was a “terrible universe, where the air seemed to place every virus in one's own body, and that the only way to save oneself was to take the blood of every living thing”. From that mission, three of his six companions were found dead.
The Second Door of Lynch, under another report, the younger Lynch classified it as Inconclusive and said it “was a white box, where the horizon blurred”. Not much was divulged beyond those words.
The Third Door of Lynch's report was the pinnacle for Patrick. On the last day of December, after the Christmas and Yule festivities, Patrick Lynch wore his own scuba suit and, accompanied by two other people in their own uniforms, entered the Third Door. The first thing they encountered as they stepped onto lush terrain were distant mountains that had no height limit and seemed to want to touch a violet sun. That sun made them itch horribly all over their bodies, but with a muttered incantation, Lynch was able to stop them all within a hair's breadth of death.
Checking the environment, he asked his colleagues to watch their footing in case they fell into a natural trap in that area, until a fear came suddenly and froze their bodily responses, watching as a smoke spirit formed in the air until it transformed into a human being, with some incorrect, out-of-place features. It seemed to articulate something with its mouth, but the language it conveyed was not recognized by the three Unspeakables. A moment passed and this living being realised that it could not understand them.
From his slightly strange clothing, as if an orchid had been tattooed on his skin, the human being took out of his geometric pocket a collar. He approached Patrick Lynch at a considerable distance and presented this collar, which had a very fine chain and a softly pulsating gem. The young Lynch, glancing at his companion with his eyes who quickly made a diagnosis with his hidden wand that came out with no negative results, took the collar and put it around his neck.
As if out of the water, Patrick Lynch found that his ears suddenly popped and the human being, taking his surprised look as permission to speak, asked the following question: “What are you doing, coming out of that Outsider Tunnel?”
“We come in peace.” The Unspeakable replied. His colleagues looked surprised and confused.
“Hmm. What kind of costume are you wearing?” asked the human, narrowing his eyes. He lifted his chin, searching for an explanation.
His colleague, the one furthest away to Lynch, reached over to tap him on the shoulder and murmur something in his ear. Patrick Lynch didn't understand what she meant and gave her an irritated look.
“I don't understand you, Doris. Repeat that again”.
The Unspeakable Doris MacNaughton recoiled in astonishment. Then she cleared her throat and looked at the human with a shuddering smile. Patrick Lynch ignored that action, knowing that they were in some sort of mishap, and so he answered to the human being what these guys in scuba suits were and what they were using them for.
“Really? I see.” commented the human, with a curious expression. “Well, you're the first people to come out of that Outsider Tunnel in over two hundred thousand cycles”.
“Two hundred thousand?” said Patrick, dumbfounded. His body trembled with apprehension, and his mind was chewing over every departmental protocol in the Diplomacy section. He drew a blank.
“Yes,” replied the human, with a hint of irritation. His long, skeletal arms crossed over his matted chest. “Who are you? How did you get here?”
“We are wizards. We wish to introduce ourselves first…” said Patrick nervously. His companions bowed their heads at his colleague's gesture. The human was still staring at them with a reluctant, narrowed gaze.
“Go ahead.” He waved his hand. Patrick took a step forward.
“I am Patrick Lynch, I come as a representative of Great Britain. We want to open an invitation for cooperation between our countries to learn more about this mode of transport. At the moment, you are the first person who has been able to establish contact with us and we would very much like to be able to understand this... universe”, recited Patrick Lynch, as if reading a distorted speech from memory. His other colleague, Fate Fordyce, buried his elbow in the side of his body but Patrick Lynch remained unmoved.
“Patrick Lynch, good morning”, spoke the human being, with a kind of sarcasm that the young Lynch assumed, given that the place they were in did not simulate the illumination of a cloudy or sunny morning. Then he murmured his name, commenting: “You are in the land of Feathrain. I'm just a common subject of the land, if you really want to know, the Guards will probably help you. Though…”
“What, though?” Patrick asked, uneasy after the elongated pause of silence.
“Though if you're here, and you've only been received by me, a nobody, the All-Seeing One probably knows it. It means you were destined to be here!”
With that cry, Patrick Lynch and his team wished more than ever to return to LOHAUN. They returned after two hours, and their report could go no further than a succinct account detailing a first contact with Feathrain's highest authority. It was thus that the translator collar managed to be carefully duplicated and carry LOHAUN's first official diplomatic mission.
One of the long-term consequences of that strategy profoundly devastated the team of Unspeakables running LOHAUN: the high-ranking Unspeakable Patrick Lynch was the first wizard to stay in one of the foreign universes after three years of work, severing the Lynch family's line of pure-blood descent, by marrying Mar'yjels, née Kyssas, a subject of an elite Feathrain family, and they had two children. Neither of them bore the surname Lynch. Patrick died at the age of 31.
Despite the unfortunate death of one of its prodigies, the LOHAUN welcomed the arrival of Iòsaph Travers, who came from the main lineage of his pureblood family and needed to cement his position as a Ravenclaw at the top of the most prestigious ranks in the Department of Mysteries. Although he agreed to join the LOHAUN thinking it would be on a temporary basis and just a stepping stone to becoming one of the Heads of the department, on the third day he realised his ill-considered decision.
While the other divisions had their Unspeakables working in teams only in extreme and urgent cases, the LOHAUN required all its members to come together as a collective and study each Door down to the smallest detail. Iòsaph Travers liked to work alone and on projects that would bear fruit in the long term, however, the LOHAUN gave him one of the Doors of the Chimera Sector. Of four doors, each represented a Chimera head: a lion, a goat, a dragon and a serpent. Mr. Travers was given the lion one.
It was a challenging Door, for due to the history of diplomacy attempted with a previous team (and its failure, which led to their move to the Dragon's Door), another of the alternate Universes was known: in the Lion's Door, Britain did not exist and the Door was rooted in the land of Singapore, and the Singaporeans did not take kindly to dealing with the British.
That day, Iòsaph Travers was one step away from death by stress, but after dealing with them for five hours, another tenuous diplomatic deal was struck between the alternative Singapore and the Britain of his reality. The problem was that, at the end of their meeting, Mr Tan, by the name of Hao Ming, with an apologetic bow, stood silently as his eyes scanned Mr Travers, under the great shade that a long tree, with braids that curved at the end and made of pulsating technology, could offer them.
“We want to visit your side, too. You see,” he pronounced politely, making the translator's incantation that the LOHAUN Unspeakables had been invented for such cases not work over its capacity. “As you are aware, this is the first time we have been presented with a Door of yours. Of course, we have similar Portals and receive travellers who have strayed far from their own homes... But we don't want to take any chances with the unknown nature of the Door: who knows? There is no way of knowing if it has been plagued by demonic magic.”
“Demonic magic?” Iòsaph Travers sputtered, turning his body sideways towards the Door, his brow furrowed and his nostrils flared to breathe calmly. “We come in peace, as I told you. We have already agreed that each team will study the Door on their own side, so don't mistake that as an invitation to go through to the other side. If you want to go in, bring results first and we can compare them. Until then, let's stick with the settlement as agreed.”
Mr. Tan, with eyebrows raised in puzzlement, then let out a throaty laugh, with his mouth tilted to one side and glancing at his companions at his sides, ended by observing Mr. Travers with a serious expression. When his laughter died away, he nodded: “Of course, of course. Collaboration between our countries is important, but don't forget that. It is you who have come here, asking if more Doors have appeared. Let us collaborate, we will be willing to do more renegotiations, and if the day comes, to set foot in Britain, esteemed Travers.”
As the Lion's Door closed, Iòsaph Travers saw Mr. Tan's dull smile as he and his companions retreated among the branches and plants growing out of the artificial tree, and his fists clenched as he maintained an indifferent expression, blinking slowly. Then he turned around, and cried out in frustration. That was the beginning of his end.
The Unspeakable Iòsaph Travers, another of higher rank, spent nine years in negotiations with Mr Tan, then Mr Wong and finally Mr Lee. Despite his daily bitter victory of never giving them entry to Britain, the lineage that belonged to his father and mother died with him of a heart attack. His last words, neither beautiful nor celebrated, could not be engraved on the plaque given to him for his memorial. Singapore was the only thing that haunted his heart in bad faith until death. He could never go beyond the square metre on which the Door was positioned.
Regardless of the tragedies and joys surrounding LOHAUN, the following year, in 1927, the attacks of a dark wizard under the title of Grindelwald began. Once again, the LOHAUN was delegated to four people. For ten years, they could not go beyond the four fixed people, the six people who walked around in a position of temporary refuge and thirty doors that could not be explored beyond their square metre.
In 1937, in the summer where Tom Riddle would soon ruin the lives of two children on a simple beachside shore near London, almost all the LOHAUN team gathered in their own conference room. Fifteen people were grouped there, and among them was the Minister of Magic, Hector Fawley, a person so flamboyant that his personality clashed with the seriousness on the faces of the ten LOHAUN members. At the main table, everyone was seated, except for the Supervisor of the project, who was raising her wand to cast a spell to project the results. Mr. Fawley's smile grew each time Supervisor Bohannon showed images of exceptional worlds.
"So how many countries are willing to maintain a diplomatic relationship with us?" asked the head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation straightening up in his chair, with a grimace on his mouth.
Supervisor Bohannon raised an eyebrow: “At least sixteen countries, including another alternative England. Why the question, Mr. Rockrose?”
Mr. Rockrose put a forced smile on his aged face, focusing his scornful gaze on Mrs. Bohannon. Minister Fawley raised his eyebrows, awaiting his response.
“Because there are important matters that deserve to be handled with care... It is my wish to be able to understand the sample of countries in which we can forge diplomatic relations and thus favour wizarding Britain. Especially in tumultuous times such as now”.
“Ah,” The disbelief was marked on Mrs. Bohannon, but she quickly wiped it away in favour of a tight, polite smile. She put her hands behind her back dressed with the black robe that had gold-coloured lapels, setting her apart from the rest of the Supervisors of the Department of Mysteries. “I understand. It is very important to dialogue with the interest in mind of the welfare of our countries, mainly because they will be led by... us. Right, Mr. Rockrose?”
Mr. Rockrose stirred in his chair, and with a snort, nodded his head. At the top of the table, where Minister Fawley stood, the door to the room opened and an Auror stepped through. He leaned over the Minister's head and murmured something in his ear. The Minister's smile got dull, turning down at the corners of his mouth, but he checked every expression of those present and froze his smile forcibly. The Auror, uncomfortable and caught like a mad bird, turned away and closed the door, leaving the conference room in silence, with Supervisor Bohannon lowering her chin in a gesture of impatience.
“I am afraid I have received some very inconvenient news. If you'll excuse me…” the minister mumbled, through gritted teeth. His smile never faded, even as he rose from his chair so quickly that his robes flew up to reveal his cotton twill trousers. “I must leave, but I am very grateful that you have let me attend this very important LOHAUN meeting. It is impressive, and of course, we will continue with our agreement, and... Well, I'm afraid there will probably be a collaboration between our entities, and it would be great if those diplomatic relations could benefit our Nation”.
Shaking his head, he backed towards the door slowly, letting anyone not belonging to LOHAUN stand as well. As soon as he left the room, taking anyone who wasn't welcome there with him, Supervisor Bohannon relaxed her posture in a bad way and looked at her Assistant in the Senior position.
“The Minister's a bloody fool”.
That elicited a gasp from his Assistant, the young Sophronius Selwyn: “But how can you say that, Supervisor, he's the Minister!”
“And bugger it, we were right to talk to Mr. Rockrose, he'll give us less interference and more opportunities to guard the Doors”.
The young Selwyn sighed in exhaustion. He walked over to one of the chairs near Supervisor Bohannon, who was still standing and flicked her wrist and moved the spell to erase the images of the LOHAUN Doors' worlds.
“I understood that yesterday there was a further attack on another street of Townsend Square, this time in Kent. The other time was in Oxford, if I remember correctly”.
“Grindelwald this, Grindelwald that. Never mind”. Under Sophronius's sceptical gaze, the Supervisor pursed her lips and then snorted. “Well, yes, it does matter. That the Ministry doesn't care about it means that soon LOHAUN will have no one to look after it. That's why it's necessary…”
At the far end of the room, there was an unlit fireplace. The green fire suddenly flickered to life and a letter flew from within its colourful walls and shot to Supervisor Bohannon's feet. Unable to react, the Assistant lifted the letter from the floor with a muttered Wingardium Leviosa from the flick of his wand, and Supervisor Bohannon narrowed her eyes, receiving the letter reluctantly.
Looking at the blue seal on the letter, the Supervisor gasped briefly: “This can only mean one thing…”
She tore it off and devoured the contents of the letter. Her eyes snapped to the Assistant and she huffed furiously, in contrast to her colourless face.
“By the bollocks of Hufflepuff”. Her face moved towards one of the Unspeakables. He was a gentleman in his forties, with a grizzled moustache that barely expanded past his lips. “Mr. Buchanan, your wife's trial is at the end of the month, is it not?”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Bohannon”. He replied sheepishly, with his eyes on the floor and his hands placed on top of his body, slouching his posture.
He looked ashamed and pale, knowing that Azkaban was the place where all criminals went, no matter how serious the crime was. Though his family's reputation stood on a cliff, Mr. Buchanan didn't seem to mind, for he continued with a defensive edge to his voice, “My Azure knows very well that she shouldn't have stolen from... er, we hope she gets a fair sentence in Azkaban”.
“Well, you're very lucky to still be here, especially now that I don't know what they felt like trying to revamp Azkaban”.
“Revamp?” interrupted the young Selwyn incredulously. His gaze burned the letter, to which the Supervisor pushed it aside and tucked it away in one of her tunic's compartments.
“I suspect. They didn't say it in those exact words, but that they now want to expand Azkaban's capacity means that all such policies are reactive”. She pounded her fist on the table, startling everyone there. “It means all those trials will have to wait, assuming they'll use house arrest now that Azkaban had to take in prisoners extradited from Erksburg”.
“Since when have you had this information?” asked the Assistant, eyes narrowed. In response, the Supervisor maintained a cool expression that showed nothing, except for her arms crossed and her foot touching the ground in a beat.
“Over there”. She said briefly. Turning around and striding over to Mr. Buchanan, she put her hands on his arms, almost in an embrace. The distance did not allow her to go beyond professional boundaries. The smile Supervisor Bohannon wore was devoid of emotion, only white teeth showing. “Don't worry, Mr. Buchanan... You... could you convince your wife to participate in a special project?”
A groan was heard in the background, then the sound of a chair being pulled back. The Assistant had his hand raised, pointing a finger at the Supervisor, with a startled look on his face.
“You're not talking about...?”
The Supervisor didn't wipe away her smile and kept her gaze on Mr. Buchanan, who was sweating more and more.
The Assistant went around the corner of the table, worried about the rest of the people who were silent and uncomfortable.
Without averting her defiant gaze, the Supervisor spoke: “Mr Selwyn, can you send a word to our Head?”
The question stopped the young Selwyn in his tracks. He furrowed his brow, his eyes giving an uncertain look.
“Would that be wise?”
A silence settled in the room. The Supervisor took her time to look at the young Selwyn, her lips pressed together. Almost everyone was looking at her seriously, just listening to their own breaths.
“The LOHAUN…”
She exhaled and then took a deep breath, as if it made her uncomfortable to speak.
“It must continue to exist, even if the purposes have not been clear so far. All those deaths, all that old age... Someday all that will be erased. The LOHAUN may be forgotten. Those doors will soon be closed”.
“That's not going to happen”. The Assistant interrupted, approaching Mrs. Bohannon with an outstretched arm. Mrs. Bohannon shook her head, both at the action and the phrase.
“The LOHAUN," she repeated in an exclamation. “will remain here as long as Mr. Shafiq and I are alive. Nothing more, nothing less. And may Merlin protect us all”.
Unbowed by young Selwyn's unconvinced expression and the stiff postures of all his staff present, she turned and walked to the door. Opening it, she touched the wooden frame and looked over her shoulder at Sophronius Selwyn: “Now send that notice to Mr. Shafiq. I will not repeat it”.
Three months later, on October 18th, 1937, Mr. Shafiq stood outside the doors of the central halls of the Wizengamot, as a formal name under the Council of Magical Law, and he was not alone. Recognised as a tall, dark-skinned man, with his robe resembling that of Supervisor Bohannon and the seal of the LOHAUN subdivision imprinted on one of his breastplates, he managed to stand out among the similar robes of his subordinates, who were too few for the legal event that was to be set up that day.
And he was not alone in terms of their own department either: over there was the Head of the Department of Mysteries, accompanied only by the respective Heads of the other divisions. In particular, there was the Head of the division of the Time Room, who wanted to push another measure in favour of a tool called Time-Turner. It didn't matter, because for Mr. Shafiq, the other divisions didn't even bother to go to the LOHAUN door, with their incessant claims that they consumed more than half of the Department's monthly budget, even though in reality it didn't go beyond 5%. Only Mr. Shafiq, with his straight back and defiant gaze, was talking to his colleagues, mumbling through the first large-scale request for LOHAUN.
Nor were they alone in terms of ministerial departments: on the other side, there was the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Mr. Parkinson, who kept his cheeks red as a sign of nervousness.
“With everything going on over there, I think it's imperative that we do this event,” he said as he touched his silk handkerchief to his forehead, sweating profusely. He was breathing as if he was short of breath inside his lungs. “Imperative... Important... Important... Imperative...? Important...? By the whores of Merlin”.
Hearing the insult, Mr Shafiq almost choked on his saliva and cleared his throat, avoiding the gaze of his subordinates. The doors of the Wizengamot were still closed, high as if they were a gatekeeper's entity that did not allow them to get their priorities straight. Perhaps that was why the Council spent days and days discussing endless laws. Mr. Shafiq hoped that this time Merlin would help his luck, even if he apologised for listening to Mr. Parkinson's vulgar words.
The doors opened slowly, revealing the head of the Deputy Minister, Mrs. Mary Edevane. With her glasses resembling the bottom of a bottle, her eyes widened to the point where her pupils moved like those of an owl. Her serious face did not give way to a smile, but instead she scanned every face in the entrance in detail. She blinked slowly, before greeting tersely: “Ladies and gentlemen”.
Everyone nodded, reciprocating the greeting. Mrs. Edevane opened the door fully with a wave of her dark wooden wand, allowing a view of the large space of the Wizengamot.
“Welcome. We are in a short recess, and will soon be discussing the Bills you have submitted”, said Mrs. Edevane as she led the way into the Wizengamot room.
Almost all the members of the red robes were seated, except for the section that was partially occupied by the other Heads of the other Departments. At the altar, stood Mr. Aqathrope, the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, with a serious face and his arms folded on top of his particular robe.
Waiting for everyone to sit down, Mrs. Edevane stood near Mr. Aqathrope, with a couple of papers in hand. Minister Fawley was in the back, waiting his turn. She pointed this out to Mr. Aqathrope, who pouted and, with his back straightened, waved him to the Wizengamot's podium. There was hardly anyone over the age of 30, so the recess was necessary.
Mr Shafiq, nervous, took another deep breath. He put his hands on his knees and looked at Minister Fawley, who had a confident smile on his face. The Minister raised his hand, silencing the low murmurs in the room.
“Welcome. We are here for another day in which we are in dialogue for the welfare of Wizarding Britain”, said the Minister, without pausing. “Now, as usual, I have noticed that there are several things concerning public safety, the Treasury, overseas relations, especially with Germany…”
The Minister spoke and spoke on various Bills, and touched among them the Bill for the division of the Time Room, to which Mr. Shafiq snorted in reluctance. In between these announcements, each Head of Department spoke in favour of reforms or creation of articles and laws, so the session had to drag on for another hour. Not all Bills were moved by Minister Fawley, sometimes Mr. Aqathrope introduced some Bills of a private nature from the Wizengamot to debate the First or Second Reading.
“I call the Minister”. Mr. Aqathrope said, his voice a little slurred. His mouth twitched, picking his nose with his grizzled moustache.
As Minister Fawley took the podium for the umpteenth time, Mr. Shafiq raised his head to listen.
“Mr. Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, I would like to propose another Bill that has been brought to my attention from a subdivision of the Department of Mysteries. However, I fear that this Bill must be of a private nature and only as reactive law”.
Mr. Shafiq searched in detail each face of the Council, who approached their peers to whisper in their ear. The only thing he was allowed to show was a nod with a modest smile.
“The Bill is presented by Mr. Aamad Shafiq, Senior Unspeakable of the Department of Mysteries, under the title of Head of the Subdivision of the Long Hall of Universes”, said the Minister, looking directly at the parchment without diminishing its volume. Mr. Shafiq lifted his chin, feeling the stares of the entire Wizengamot.
Without pausing for breath, the Minister continued speaking: “The long title of the Bill is for public safety, relating to the prison of Azkaban. This is to prevent an overpopulation of the Ministry's prisons in future trials, seeking to utilise the exterior relations working within the Long Hall of Universes, by having collaborations for the exile of prisoners regardless of the degree of security, and only as a measure of maximum safeguard and of a reactive nature. I give the word to you, Mr. Aqathrope”.
He nodded and again came to the podium, a little wearily. He picked up the parchment, cleared his throat and began to read: “That this Bill be now introduced as those present. All those in favour, please say ‘aye’, those against, please say ‘nay’”.
For a moment, all present, both in the red robes and in the robes of each Department, paused to deliberate the Bill. Suddenly, a clamour of resounding "ayes" filled the Wizengamot room, calming Mr. Shafiq's appearance.
“I believe all ‘ayes’ have it”. Mr Aqatrope remarked, scanning all the faces with his eyes as they nodded decorously. “Yes, the 'ayes' have it. I call the Minister”.
“I bring the Bill”. The mentioned spoke as he passed around three duplicate copies of the official document that Mr Shafiq himself had written, in an unconscionably polite manner, with all the legal support he had received from Supervisor Bohannon and his subordinates.
The subordinates held their breath, each watching as the Minister spoke in the ear of the Clerk of the Wizengamot, near the Court Scribe. The Clerk then collected the copies and reviewed them along with the other Bills. He looked at the Head of the Wizengamot, and nodded, to which Mr. Aqathrope banged his wand on the podium and called for silence.
“Now that most of these Bills have been tabled, let us go in the order presented for their First Readings”.
Mr Shafiq nervously prepared for the long session of the Wizengamot. In the Enactment Clause, which was reactive in nature, it had been written that it would be activated under the Minister's commencement order, and only as a new paragraph in the Penal Security section. The Second Reading began in December, and in February the Wizengamot met again to review the Bill, with the entire subdivision of the LOHAUN present, clarifying and discussing each point.
On 18 August 1938 the LOHAUN Bill was finally passed, under the short title of the Reactive Foreign Prisoner Transfers in the Event of Public Safety Emergency Act, known colloquially among the Wizengamot and Department of Mysteries circles as the First LOHAUN Bill. Mr Shafiq was happy for his positive leap in reputation, though soon the Global Wizarding War would obscure that development. Nevertheless, he doubted that the Emergency Bill would ever be used, even if Grindelwald was just around the corner. Supervisor Bohannon joined him in that sentiment, and they went back to work on some of the Doors that presented them with problems, as if the Bill were just another feature of LOHAUN.
The first person to benefit by the Bill was Mr. Buchanan's wife, young Azure Buchanan, née Hugstone, who was extradited to the Wolf Door under the care of Italy on a sentence of robbery for three years and a day's imprisonment with one year's probation. Mr. Buchanan, heart-broken, could not bear it, and died of exhaustion before the sentence of his wife was served. She never returned, and became the only civilian to enter LOHAUN for more than 58 years.
During that time, the LOHAUN was an area disconnected from the outside world, even more so than the rest of the divisions of the Department of Mysteries. The number of Doors grew and grew, and the team never grew beyond an austere thirty people. Emergency Protocols were activated when Voldemort took control of the Ministry of Magic, causing those thirty people to hide the LOHAUN under the enchantment of a Fidelius, jumping from Keeper to Keeper. When the Second Wizarding War was over, those thirty people sighed with relief and returned to the LOHAUN as if nothing had happened.
However, four months after the Battle of Hogwarts, two months after the last of the recognised Death Eaters were caught, one month after the London Trials began, an accomplice in love with a lower-ranking Death Eater attempted to make an escape in Azkaban via a bomb created from a botched enchantment and potion. To her regret, her suicide took the life of her lover and fifty other people. The fragile structure of Azkaban did not stand and fell.
No one was sure whether they could move on from this abrupt event. And no one wanted to deal with the legal ramifications of criminal sentences. Or the welfare of the nation, for that matter. Too many people for twenty ministerial cages.
Among them, the Malfoy family was some of the first to be judged. Standing in the ruins of Hogwarts, they were one of the few associated with the losing side to stay and face the consequences of their actions. The vast majority, not that many of the Death Eaters, had fled as soon as Voldemort died. The three of them, clutching each other between arms draped over shoulders and forearms, watched from afar as the corpses were loaded and sorted. In the background, two contradictory sounds could be heard: one of weeping that permeated along the walls and from the faces that had to shut down each of the people who wanted to kill them, and one of joy, of maniacal screams celebrating the end of the war.
Draco Malfoy, shielded by the arms of his father and his mother, watched from a distance, in the light that filtered into the space filled with dirt and blood. Feeling the resignation seeping into his eyes, he swallowed and remembered that he hadn't eaten. He neutralised his expression and scanned the people who ignored them, crying or laughing, without ever blinking an eye.
In his ears, Malfoy thought that he was replaying the hallucination of Aurors killing defected Death Eaters in the Forbidden Forest; in Hogsmeade; in the Ministry; in Malfoy Manor.
Everywhere.
He closed his eyes, and pressed them shut from the pain of the dryness. He breathed in numb relief, as if his bones had atrophied from exhaustion, and recognised the warmth of his father's hand resting on his shoulder, clapping at him for not running away. He recognised the weight of his mother's hand, clapping at her for standing by his side. His parents had finally made a good decision: they would not die that day. Or on the day they were summoned to their individual trials, under the stern gaze of their lawyer and solicitors.
Sometimes the world ended in a moment, and the next day it was time to get up, no matter what. Draco Malfoy, in his black tunic topping for a black two-piece suit, waited for his parents to come down to the entrance of the Manor. The stones on the path to the edge of the Apparition area had a soft coating of water on them, doubtful whether it was from rain or irrigation water. That little nagging detail was unable to get through the young Malfoy's mind. Then he heard his parents' synchronised footsteps and gave a small jolt as he felt the warmth of his mother's hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her and nodded.
The three of them left Malfoy Manor like a piece of history immutable to change, followed by Aurors who watched them every second. All the deaths and tortures inside the Manor would be eclipsed by the floor and walls forever (or at least until one of the three decided to return, but that was in Morgana's whispers). The spells of safeguarding and safekeeping understood and vibrated, one with the other, releasing the sigh of dark magic. All memories and dead bodies ceased to be magical, being closer to the marble statues of graveyards than the streets that decorated the passage of magical London.
Muggle cars passed incessantly in front of the Ministry of Magic, making it difficult for reporters to harass every person who entered to find out more about the trials. By the time the Malfoy's landed, the only people in front of the building were a mother and a baby sitting on a wooden bench and some Aurors standing on guard. The Muggle Westminster City Council had decided to expand the street of Whitehall into several green spaces, even if they were just patches of grass and benches that no one paid any attention to, except for that mother and her baby, bouncing in her lap and trapped in her arms.
The baby's laughter mingled with a nursery rhyme that the young Malfoy struggled to recognise the words coming out of a nearby mechanical device.
“London Bridge is falling down... Falling down, falling down…” sang the radio in a toneless voice, tumbling over the soft melody. “London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady…”
The baby's laughter echoed and echoed, even as Draco Malfoy crossed the street with his parents so cautiously to avoid the cars and reached to step onto the first stairs of the Ministry, under a hidden entrance that was only available to those soon to be imprisoned.
The musical rhyme repeated itself again, with a buzzing static that hurt and did not assuage the bitterness it left in Draco Malfoy's mouth, with no attempt to swallow saliva.
“London Bridge is falling down. Falling down, falling down. London Bridge is falling down. My fair lady…”
Along with the baby's laughter, the rhyme was cut off as soon as the Ministry doors closed. The atrium of the Ministry was silent, though it seemed as if the walls watched every step the family took, and it was as if all the wizards and witches who wanted to spy and rage at the trial were hiding in the stone walls, waiting to show themselves in the corners and scare them away. With heavy legs and tense shoulders, the three of them approached the lift and descended to the tenth floor, arriving at the compromising hour of the trial inside the Magic Law Council. Outside the door of the Court of the Magical Council of Law, they were met by their lawyer and his team, who first approached to speak in whispers to Mr. Malfoy, the first to stand trial. Both Draco and Narcissa Malfoy stood at a distance, heads bowed so as not to draw attention to themselves.
Inside the Court, there was a tomb-like silence and seriousness was evident in each of the heads of the Council, along with Minister Shacklebolt who sat near the podium. With the war, several seats on the Council were empty and with the trials to come, perhaps half of them would not return. Certainly the Malfoy's would not be able to step foot on the Council for at least a generation.
Draco Malfoy watched his father realising the situation he was in, sitting on one of the benches near the defendant's area. The patriarch lifted his chin, not looking away from a fixed point. A throat clearing sounded throughout the place like an echo followed by the sound of footsteps behind the podium. It was the Judge of the Court, Mr. Vasylenko, and he was in charge of the War Trials, appointed by the International Confederation of Wizards.
“Good morning to all in attendance. All rise. The Honourable Judge Vasylenko presiding,” spoke Minister Shacklebolt in the role of the court clerk in the courtroom. The young Malfoy stood silently, his head low and his breathing calm. “The High Court of the Magical Council of Law is now in session. You may be seated, please”.
Almost everyone sat down except for Minister Shacklebolt, who had yet to pledge his role as Clerk of the Court. Another throat clearing came from Mr. Vasylenko, raising his wand and conjuring a Sonorus: “All parties ready to proceed?”.
The prosecutor and the defence lawyer for the Malfoy's were seated at their respective tables, separated by a long corridor that stretched into the entrance. The prosecutor had all his advisors at his side, while the lawyer had only Mr. Malfoy and his one assistant.
“Yes, your Honour”. The prosecutor spoke first with an outstretched hand to his assistants. “I am Jerome Wyatt and I am accompanied by Miss Thomas, Mr. O'Connor and Mr. Fischer. We are here on behalf of the Ministry in this matter”.
The defence counsel stood up as soon as the prosecutor finished speaking and sat down: “Your Honour. I am Robert Osborne and next to me is Mr. Daniel Selwyn. We are representing the defendant, Lucius Malfoy”.
“Thank you very much”, said Judge Vasylenko, without changing his serious posture. He turned his gaze to Minister Shacklebolt. “Mr. Court Officer, could you please call the case, and the reasons for our presence here today”.
“We are in the presence of the case of the Prosecutor v. Lucius Malfoy, reference HCMCL, mark, the second of September in the year 1998. And for the record, we are in an open session”.
Pleased murmurs broke throughout the place, like an overwhelming weight on Draco Malfoy's head. Somehow, listening to his blood rushing through his ears distracted him. He heard Judge Vasylenko introduce himself as a figurehead of the International Confederation of Wizards, and that he would be presiding over every trial that handed down every sentence of the Death Eaters and their associates. It was fortunate that he had picked up that information despite the volume of the noise of his blood. Once again, it seemed that his body was trying to fail in situations beyond his control.
He had missed the report of the charges against his father, but it was not something he needed to know. His mother's hand, placed on his knee, forced him to remain silent and still. The benches were too uncomfortable to pay attention.
“How many charges did my father get, mother?” whispered Draco Malfoy, not taking his face from his place. The wood in front of the witness chairs was scuffed, though it retained the same untouchable varnish.
“Ten”.
“Do you think…?”
“Not yet”.
Draco Malfoy fell silent, still not paying attention. The prosecutor was giving his opening statement, with such exaggerated movements that every head in the Wizegamont and the public nodded with each point. Then they called the first witness, Ginny Weasley, to give her statement about her possession of the diary. Draco Malfoy was still listening to the sound of his blood, despite looking blankly at the Weaselette. There was an exchange of questions and answers between the prosecutor and Ginny Weasley, then it ended and Mr. Osborne harassed her with questions that ended up making the girl red-faced. The cross-examination ended and the prosecutor called several witnesses, one by one, until he was satisfied, putting stress and bitterness on Mr. Osborne.
The lawyer called his mother as the first witness, and then him. He had little recollection of Mr. Osborne's and the prosecutor's questioning, but his mother's demeanour revealed nothing. Neither disappointment nor pride. Just a raised chin, looking at her husband.
Due to the nature of the trial, Judge Vasylenko announced that he had heard and observed the evidence presented by both sides, and that he would take a few moments to pass a sentence. He had asked the jury of the Council to make a fair decision. Draco Malfoy wanted to laugh at that statement and shake his head adamantly. He simply closed his eyes, even with the noise in his ears.
After a break where he only managed to eat a couple of sweets provided by his mother and a glass of Aguamenti offered by the angry-faced officers, Draco Malfoy watched his father's expression crumple in terror as he heard the jury's verdict: fifteen years in the Azkaban prison and probation for life.
The young Malfoy thought that in this instance, perhaps, he might show his fear at hearing his verdict. If he managed to do so today, for he would be too sleepy and tired. The trial had gone on for hours and he still had to get through his mother's before it was his turn.
Neither trial was held today. With a brief farewell that stirred anger within Draco Malfoy, they watched Lucius Malfoy being led away to Azkaban. He looked at his mother and took a deep breath, holding her hand and they left. As they rode up in the lift, the young man told her that her trial would go well and to try to take care of herself so that when they could be together again, they could celebrate the sacred month, trying to honour the trees of the Manor.
“Don't be a fool, my son. You will return as if it has been but a day”.
His mother's trial was on Friday, and in the temporary position of patriarch, Draco Malfoy argued for a long time with the lawyer to try, however he could, to get his mother the lightest verdict she could get. It was fortunate that she did not have the Mark and had simply acted according to her role as wife and mother. Narcissa Malfoy had to make a life for herself in the time possible out of the two prison sentences the family would get. The lawyer insisted and insisted that everything would work out well for her. The young man was not reassured.
He thought there would be no change in terms of his parents' two trials. Of course, his mother's had fewer heads, and it was a semi-public trial because of the charges Narcissa Malfoy faced. Sitting on the benches, he clenched his fists and breathed. The defence side did not have many assistants, just as in his father's trial.
Gasps broke the expected blanket of murmurs, but Draco was simply crestfallen. Bored, he examined the ceiling of the Court and noticed that it expanded as if it had no limits each time the metal decorations curved upwards, into the darkness, hidden behind the chandeliers that lit the hall. As if something had called to him, he moved his head to the right. He met green eyes and scratched glasses, reflecting the candlelight.
His stomach turned and he began to hyperventilate, ignoring the muffled comments of the people sitting in the back. He took a couple of seconds and calmed his expression, thinking that nothing mattered. He concentrated on checking the clean clothes he was wearing, which were a small contrast to the Battle of Hogwarts, where he was now wearing a grey shirt with a flannel jacket and dark jeans. He looked back up at Harry Potter's face which didn't seem to have a trace of hostility or mockery, just complete seriousness. Draco Malfoy jerked his chin in a sharp nod, and looked away towards his mother.
She would be fine.
Harry Potter gave his testimony of the Battle and left as soon as his cross-examination was over, and with it, half of the general audience, which was, in itself, few. Narcissa Malfoy's verdict was met with silence. As they left the trial and entered their lawyer's private chambers, Draco Malfoy was finally able to embrace his mother.
“Wait for me, mother. I need you to take care of yourself”. He babbled into his mother's shoulder, who was hugging him tightly.
Narcissa Malfoy was sentenced to five years' house arrest, with two years' probation. As for the young Malfoy, the summons for his trial called for him to attend four days after his mother's one. In those four days, they spent cleaning the Manor with counterspells under the supervision of some Aurors, who didn't feel inclined to be there. Only on the afternoon before the trial did the two sit in the sitting room with a cup of tea in hand. They did not speak at any moment.
In the morning, Draco Malfoy donned a two-piece suit in a colour that was neither cold nor warm. On top of that, he put on a thin robe to counteract the cold and the small amount of rain that would certainly fall in the afternoon. He fixed his hair and smoothed his chest with his hands. There were no House elves at the Manor, so breakfast was light and very simple. The same routine was repeated: head to the edge of the Anti-Apparition ward under the eyes of the Aurors and go to London. This time there was no mother and baby sitting on the wooden bench. All that was there was that music box, a radio that no longer produced music. Draco Malfoy looked away immediately, and entered, with his insides frozen in terror.
The beginning of the trial was similar to his father's, with the introductions and technical information giving him a headache. Judge Vasylenko had an air of weariness about him, but his determined expression did not waver. Mr. Osborne was at his side, whispering in his assistant's ear. For the young Malfoy, it was very strange to be in the position where his parents had been before, because the desk squeezed his legs as it was small. The wood was stained with strange substances that he could not figure out what it was. Seeing his mother on the defence bench made him want to cry. He never understood, until now, that it was a little bubble of protection. If he was there, nothing would happen to him. He tried to focus on what they were saying.
“We are in the presence of the case of the Prosecutor versus Draco Malfoy, reference HCML,” repeated the Minister Shacklebolt, “mark, the eight of September in the year 1998. And for the record, again, we are in an open session”.
He lost the thread quickly, thinking that he was here now and had to pay attention. He raised his head, listening to the status of his case. He didn't know how much he would get, since his lawyer felt it was too early to tell. He counted several deep breaths and controlled the trembling of his clasped hands, hidden behind the desk, trying not to listen to the whips of the cameras hanging dangerously over the audience seats. He moved his eyes to the witness benches in his defence. Suddenly, his heart stopped for a second and soon began to beat fast.
Harry Potter was there again. With the same serious expression, the same glasses, the same scar, the same tangled black hair and in the same sitting position, next to his mother. His clothes, similar to the previous one but in different colours, had several layers because of the cold. Guess he was right, it was going to rain today.
He tried not to let his face betray him in not showing conflicting emotions: he was afraid of the people who were now shouting in anger at hearing of past events, but he was relieved that Harry Potter would be here today, even if it was in courtesy to his mother.
It didn't matter. The Minister Shackebolt asked him to stand up, and when he did, he tried not to be startled by the endless list of charges. Then he was asked without further delay: “Draco Malfoy, having read this information, how do you plead: guilty or not guilty?”
The overwhelming noise of people shouting his name made the blood rushing through his ears increase in volume. He only felt the vibrations of his vocal cords as he announced: “I plead guilty”.
The minister nodded and asked him to sit down. He turned to the prosecutor with another nod and sat down as well.
“Are you ready to proceed, Prosecutor?” asked Judge Vasylenko.
The Prosecutor cleared his throat and replied “Yes, Your Honour”. Judge Vasylenko then asked him to call his first witnesses. Draco Malfoy clenched his still shaking fists, preferring to focus his light-sore eyes on the Judge's podium, listening as the Prosecutor called his countless witnesses who would say with evidence and truth that he was not a good man and deserved a verdict to match his crimes. Madame Rosmerta was one of the first and was asked to identify him.
“Yes, he is sitting in front of the desk... He does not bother to look at me”.
Draco Malfoy's grey eyes did not move from their place, hidden behind a few blonde locks. His breathing was following a slightly frantic rhythm.
“Thank you very much, Madame. No more questions”.
Mr. Osborne jumped into the interrogation, but it didn't come out with good results. And so, and so, and so, and so, until all the Prosecutor's witnesses were gone. Young Malfoy just wanted to get it over with once and for all, but Judge Vasylenko wouldn't call recess and his mother still couldn't look at him. He continued to ignore Harry Potter.
“This concludes the prosecution's case, Your Honour”. Mr. Wyatt announced, sitting down complacently and closing the buttons of his robe.
“Are you going to call any witnesses?” asked the Judge to Mr. Osborne, who was slowly rising from his seat.
“Yes, Your Honour. I will call my first witness, Harry Potter, to the stand”.
A boom rang in his ears, and Draco Malfoy dropped his chin, closing his eyes. The blood rushed and rushed through his mind, trying to distance himself from the events. He didn't know how many minutes had passed, so disoriented he was as he lifted his head and took a good look. Harry Potter was fidgeting in his seat, and playing with his hands a lot.
“Do you think, Mr. Potter, that Draco Malfoy should go to Azkaban?” Mr Osborne spoke, with one hand outstretched towards the audience and the other towards Harry Potter. The above-mentioned swallowed as all the attention of the public was focused on him.
“No, sir. I think there are…” He took a breath, unsure whether to continue. “Other, more lenient punishment measures”.
“Of course. No further questions, Your Honour”. Mr. Osborne said, retreating to the desk. He squeezed the young Malfoy's shoulder and whispered in his ear that everything would be all right. Draco Malfoy just wanted to cry, and go to his mother. The humiliation that Harry Potter could save him once again was killing him. What did he think he was, just another charity case?
“Does the Prosecution wish to cross-examine?” interrupted the judge into the awkward silence. The Prosecutor nodded his head and gave his consent aloud. Draco Malfoy, again, closed his eyes and paid no attention. He was well aware of the decisions he had made and the evil deeds he had done against Harry Potter. Though he didn't quite know if he regretted them. Perhaps about being caught.
It didn't matter. He was going to Azkaban anyway, even though Mr Osborne had sent him to the stand immediately after the questioning of his mother from both sides. All of his answers were short and brief, just enough to allow them to thread together the events and emotions that were flooding him at the moment. When Mr. Wyatt looked at him with those glowing eyes, with an aura that screamed ambition and opportunity, Draco Malfoy sat up straight, even feeling his eyes sting. Even when he asked him if he saw himself as a good man, despite his lawyer's denied objection, he didn't crumble. He could be many things, but he knew he was no good. So many self-delusions, for them all to Vanish.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Malfoy. No more questions”. Mr. Wyatt said with a hint of irritation, going to his desk.
“You may return to your seat, Mr. Malfoy”. Judge Vasylenko asked. “Defence Counsel, are you prepared to make your closing statement to the jury?”.
With Draco Malfoy back in that uncomfortable chair, he overlooked his lawyer's closing statement which he already knew by heart, all based on the apparent lack of self-will that the Dark Lord had taken from him. Judge Vasylenko, as soon as Mr. Osborne finished speaking, asked the same of the prosecutor. Mr. Wyatt gave a speech to the audience with such passion that it seemed exuberant, based on his free will, and Draco Malfoy felt like giving him a Muffliato. Too bad his wand was missing and he couldn't only use his mother's wand for it was lost.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this concludes the evidence to be heard in this matter. It is now time for your deliberations”. Judge Vasylenko spoke, interrupting Draco Malfoy's thoughts. “If you have no doubts about Draco Malfoy's guilt, you may find him guilty. If you have reasonable doubt, you must find him innocent”.
A wave of exclamations ranging from outright denials with vicious insults to the title of guilty filled the room. Judge Vasylenko angrily tapped the tip of his wand on the podium and called the court to order.
“One more, and I will ask for a Silencio to be imposed.” said the gentleman, and leaned back in his chair, still weary. “Let's move on. The defence claims that Draco Malfoy must have acted under pressure from Voldemort at the cost of his life and the lives of his family and had no planned criminal intent. The Prosecution alleges that he did not think of the consequences regarding the coercion of Madame Rosmerta and Katie Bell, that he deliberated in the murder of Albus Dumbledore, and that he already has a history of violence against his peers and concealment of torture on his house, acting under free will”.
Then he added, in a hoarse voice: “You may retire to the jury room to deliberate. When you reach a unanimous verdict, inform an Auror. They will tell me that you are ready to return to the courtroom for the purpose of announcing your verdict”.
A couple of moments passed, where Draco Malfoy simply held his gaze with his mother, noting incessantly that Harry Potter still hadn't left. He held his breath under the sensation of his nemesis's gaze, refusing to drink water or cry. The blood in his ears dissipated, crashing against the muffled footsteps of all the people returning from recess. Everyone was on their feet as Judge Vasylenko entered and took his place at the podium.
“Order in the court”. Minister Shacklebolt spoke.
“You may be seated”, said Judge Vasylenko. They all sat down at different paces; only Mr. Osborne, young Selwyn and young Malfoy did not sit down. “Mr. Registrar, has the jury reached a verdict?”
The Registrar hastened to nod his head: “They have, Your Honour”.
“Auror Robards, please bring in the jury”. The Judge asked, looking at the door set aside at the back, where the twelve jurors of the Court came out and sat in the box indicated, next to the heads of the Magic Law Board. “Madam Foreperson, have you reached a verdict?”
The aforementioned Mrs. Geoffrey stood up from her seat. Draco Malfoy tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn't find the air. His fists shook uncontrollably and his legs wouldn't stop shaking. No one noticed him.
“Yes, we have. We, the jury, find the defendant, Draco Malfoy, guilty”.
It was then that his ears disconnected from the sound, and his mind went numb, as if he wasn't really here. He didn't quite process that he was in court, or that he was about to run out of air. His body stopped shaking and he raised his eyebrows, seeing a spot on the floor. It seemed his brain was waiting for something, but there was still no reaction. His head, heavy with stones, watched as the entire jury stood to confirm their verdict.
It took him a while to discern what the judge's lips were saying and gradually the coldness seeped into his bones: “...and now sentencing will take place. Prosecution, do you have any submissions as to the appropriate sentence?”.
“Yes, Your Honour. This is Draco Malfoy's first offence and he admits guilt on all counts”. The Prosecutor replied. “I suggest that the appropriate sentence in this case is a term of imprisonment for seven years in the prison of Azkaban, without parole”.
Draco Malfoy felt like throwing up. He definitely should have given this Mr. Wyatt a Muffliato. His head screamed and screamed from side to side with the word Azkaban.
“And for the defence, do you have anything to say?”.
The young Malfoy looked at Mr. Osborne's constipated red face, who was spouting and spouting speeches of sympathy that he knew would go nowhere. Then he looked at his mother, and his slow breath caught as he saw her bathed in tears. Her hand was clutching a handkerchief, as she gently beat her chest. Draco Malfoy shook his head and his mother stopped her wounded action.
“...so I would argue that absolute discharge of all charges is more appropriate. Such a criminal record will ruin his future. He has been tortured and threatened by both Voldemort and the other Death Eaters”. Mr Osborne replied, trying to finish his speech. He paused for a breath and continued, “In my opinion, he has suffered enough”.
“Draco Malfoy,” Judge Vasylenko called, now looking directly at him. “You have been found guilty of serious crimes and you should not take this proceeding lightly. In this case, I consider the protection of the public to be more important and you should take advantage of this process as rehabilitation before, during and after. I hereby order a sentence of imprisonment for a term of two years and one day, plus three years of probation”.
Now it was time to drop. The world didn't change, but it did feel like it was ending. It was not a feeling he could shake, so his face screwed up in deep fear. He was going to Azkaban.
The world was ending, and all the colours were still the same. The same air, the same sounds. His mother's crying... He had already told her not to cry for him! She should take care of herself! It would be all right! Hadn't she said they would meet again as if it had only been a day!
So why were they both crying their eyes out? Why hadn't Harry Potter left? He should leave, he should leave, he should leave–!
“This court stands adjourned”. Minister Shacklebolt interrupted amidst the cries of jubilation and vengeance. “Order in the court”.
Draco Malfoy was dragged away from the chains imposed after the verdict, unable to look back at his mother or Harry Potter. He couldn't say goodbye to either of them. At least he would be in the same place as his father, even if he hypocritically berated him that he shouldn't have collapsed at the moment when the Malfoy's had to fight for their dignity. It wouldn't happen, of course, otherwise Draco would remind him that neither of them were good enough people to save themselves.
If anything, they would live another day.