June 5, 1998
Draco hated his birthday.
He sat in a chair. Chained to it, to be accurate. Oh, the sight he must make to the court and bystanders. The pale Malfoy heir in his best robes (Mother insisted) hauled into the Ministry from his stint of house arrest to answer for his crimes.
Curiously, though neither his lawyer nor Draco had asked, an intriguing group of witnesses showed up to testify. On his behalf.
McGonagall spoke.
"Coerced."
"Forced."
"Under duress."
"Bigoted yes, not a murderer."
"Raised by Lucius Malfoy."
"Azkaban is not the answer here."
"He was a child. He was used."
"You want a scapegoat and you've already locked up his father."
Potter spoke:
"Brainwashed."
"No, we were never considered friends."
"I never used the word 'brave.'"
"Just making the point that others tortured willingly. He didn't."
"Didn't murder Albus Dumbledore."
"Didn't murder anyone."
Weasley spoke:
"Didn't identify us."
She spoke:
"What choice did he really have?"
"Voldemort threatened both his life and his mother's life."
"Was a minor when he took the Mark and again, under duress."
"Deserves a second chance. We should be prioritizing rehabilitation over revenge here."
Draco did not speak for most of his own defence. He'd been advised to keep silent unless asked a direct question and only then to give the briefest answer possible.
So he answered "yes" or "no" depending on the question. He delivered a concise speech on his regrets, on his fears for his own life and his mother's life. Though he meant every contrite word, he wanted to say more. So much more. Especially to her.
Because they had met again.
She'd writhed and twitched on his drawing room floor covered in blood, sweat, and dirt. He'd stood some feet away and looked anywhere but at her.
He still avoided looking at her.
At the end of the whole charade, the court handed down a laughably lenient sentence. Probation for two years, monthly wand checks and interviews with a parole Auror, and a paltry (for a Malfoy) fine.
The eventual summation of Draco Malfoy: a pathetic, misguided, naïve boy. Got in too deep and couldn't seek help. Tragic, really, but not much of a threat. The courts and hungry mobs had bigger fish to fry.
He'd been master of the Elder Wand for the better part of a year until Potter disarmed him. Potter had wielded Draco's own Hawthorn wand to fell the Dark Lord.
How fucking poetic.
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May 2, 1999
YOU ARE READING
Between Certifiable and Bliss
FanfictionStrange things, dreams. How much credence should we give to where our subconscious takes us? There are many things Draco did not need in his Sixth Year. He did not need Theodore Nott implanting strange dreams in his head, for one. In the ensuing yea...
