Chapter Text
Draco, August, 1998
The melancholy creeps like black mold. Draco knows he should fight it off—scrub his internal machinations with positivity or optimism—but he just can’t muster the energy.
No matter what he does now, the facts will remain the same. Draco is almost certainly going to Azkaban. It’s strange, to know what’s coming. His trial is tomorrow and there is precisely zero chance that he avoids a prison sentence. Not a single death eater has been spared what the public at large are calling retributive justice. The foregone conclusion barrels forward and it does not appear to give a fuck about Draco’s preferences.
Draco’s on a balcony overlooking the gardens, which feel freshly scrubbed but lonely, too. The manor hasn’t recovered from the war. It's still standing, still grandiose in the way that old buildings tend to be, even after they’ve been gutted and damaged. There’d been peacocks once. They’d strutted, arrogant and fanciful and far too brazen for their own good, before Macnair had butchered them all. For sport. Draco had watched, hadn’t stopped him.
“Feeling sorry for oneself isn’t really brave,” Draco says and then mutters, “I wish I was brave,” softly.
Had it not been for his inevitable one-way trip to Azkaban, Draco knows he would never have cast the spell. He rubs at his arms, searching for some sign that it's worked—it's only been a few minutes, but he craves confirmation.
He’d found the spell—a messy ancient thing—in his great great uncle Cassius’s collection, scrawled in the margins. It was peak idiocy, casting a handwritten spell. Draco knew it, but then he’d never been very good when left on his own. Wallowing had soured to recklessness and Draco had hoped doing something would stifle the melancholy.
It hadn’t.
“Mr. Draco, sir,” Minty, one of their few remaining house elves, says, startling Draco out of the memory. “Miss Pansy is here.”
“Send her to the ballroom,” Draco says. “I’ll be down shortly.”
It’s his last night as a free man and, while he will never tell her, there is no one he’d rather spend it with than Pansy Parkinson.
* * *
“Are you trying to torture me?!” Pansy says, looking at the device in the middle of Draco’s ballroom with open suspicion.
Muggle music knocks around the empty walls, the sultry tones of Will Smith bouncing off vaulted ceilings.
“Torture?” Draco says, wounded. “I’m merely providing you with an education. I’m expanding your cultural palate.”
“I don’t like Muggle music.”
“That’s a touch elitist of you,” Draco says.
“It’s not that it’s Muggle,” says Pansy, doing her best to sound dignified. “It’s just that it’s…it’s so bad.”
“Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It has all the hallmarks of a classic!” Draco says, defensive.
“He’s not even singing! He’s…” Pansy struggles to find the words. “He’s talking with style!”
“I think Muggles call it The Rap,” Draco says, shimmying his shoulders. “I like it.”
“Where did you even find that thing?” Pansy tries to sound haughty, but she gives the Boom Box a wide berth. Neither she nor Draco know what kind of Boom this box contains. It could explode at any moment—they both know it.
In his quest for enlightenment—which included but was not limited to the nuances of what the Muggles call Pop Culture—Draco had purchased the strange box as well as a stack of circular disks.
“I bought it at an Electronics Shop.” He says the last two words slowly, determined not to botch the pronunciation.
Gettin’ jiggy wit it.
“You went to a Muggle store? Alone?”
Na-na na na na-na-na.
“Alone,” Draco says, trying not to sound too pleased with himself. “And I paid with a Credit Card.”
Pansy shudders. “If you start talking about invisible money again, I will sew your lips shut.”
“It’s fascinating!” Draco says, a bit dreamy eyed. “I don’t know how they trap all of your assets in a tiny piece of plastic, but they do! It works every time.”
Gettin’ jiggy wit it.
Pansy glares at the boom box, as if it’s interrupting them on purpose. “Seriously Draco. Is this some kind of punishment?”
“Let me change the song—”
“That’s really not the solution I was hoping for—”
But Draco is already moving slowly towards the boom box, creeping on his tip toes, lest he startle it into explosions. He jabs at the next song button.
The fast-talking man is replaced with something much more soothing. “Oh! This is by Lenny Kravitz." It's a strange name, Draco thinks, but to the Muggles, so is Draco. He scoots back across the room and settles down next to Pansy. She’s taken her socks off and is wiggling her toes.
“Are we going to talk about it?” she says, eventually.
I wish that I could fly, Into the sky, So very high, Just like a dragonfly.
Draco closes his eyes. Perhaps, if he pretends she isn’t here, if he just ignores the question, maybe everything will disappear.
I'd fly above the trees, Over the seas in all degrees, To anywhere I please.
“Draco,” she says again. “You trial is tomorrow—”
“Is it?” Draco’s voice is a shrill.
“And you haven’t said a word about it.”
“Why don’t we focus on the more pressing matter of a grown man who thinks he can fly.” It’s becoming difficult to breathe. Draco rubs his calves.
I want to get away. I wanna fly away.
“How long are we going to dance around—”
“It’s bizarre really,” Draco says. “He’s a muggle. There’s no reason that he should be able to just spread his wings and fly away. Unless it’s a metaphor—”
“Draco—”
“In which case, I need to revisit the meaning of this entire song. As a metaphorical conceit, it may be rather brilliant. Let’s listen to it one more time—”
“It tomorrow, and we haven’t talked about what could happen if—”
Draco snaps his chin up and faces her. “If I go to Azkaban?” His words are still shrill, but the edges are sharp. Like glass in a shattered window. “If all of the wizarding world takes one look at me and what I’ve done and realizes that I deserve to go to Azkaban?”
“You don’t deserve to—”
“Don’t tell me what I deserve!” Draco’s shoulders are heaving, his breaths coming in painful gasps.
“I’m sorry.” Draco barely hears her. But he feels Pansy’s hands rubbing soothing circles into his back. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I’m sorry.”
The song ends.
Pansy’s hands still.
“I’m scared,” Draco says. It’s a confession and it’s all he’s got.
“Me too.” Pansy’s head falls onto Draco’s shoulder and he realizes that this is what he has to lose. “Me too.”
Draco knows he should tell her about the spell. Deep in his guts, at the centre of him where his honestly lives, he knows he should tell her. But as he breathes in the smell of her—of lavender and hairspray—he can’t bring himself to do it. For just a little while, the weight of her head and the weight of his future seem to balance and everything feels calm.
I’ll tell her tomorrow, he thinks. And if the Winzengamot sends me straight to Azkaban, well. Then it won’t matter.
* * *
Draco doesn’t look at the chair, or the chains hanging limp at his sides. He doesn’t look at the raised seats or the purple robes. He picks a stain on the cool cement floor and forces his eyes to stay put. Looking at it will only make it worse.
The whispers, though, fall upon him like arrows.
In the weeks and months following the Battle of Hogwarts, the Ministry had opened all trials for alleged Death Eaters to the public, in an effort to avoid the hushed suspicion that certain families were buying their freedom. Dollars soaked in blood to smother the guilt. And so Draco’s shame would be witnessed by most of wizarding London.
Draco had made his peace with the audience, but he still hadn’t expected there to be so many. There must be hundreds of people crowding into the pews. Hundreds and hundreds, and more coming all the time. Draco feels them. Their hatred is thick in the air.
“This is what a thousand eyes feels like,” Draco mutters.
Narcissa is sitting beside him, her posture impeccable, her lips a thin line. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. She’s with him, alive, and that’s what matters. The last two Malfoys, to be tried together.
Unlike his father. If Draco ever saw Lucius again, it would be in chains. Lucius had been sentenced to ten years in Azkaban. Draco has no idea how to process this, and so he hasn’t.
Most of the people have stopped shuffling, most bodies have found their seats, when a gavel snaps the room to attention.
Someone from the highest benches above says, “The accused being present, I call to order the trial of Narcissa Cassiopeia Malfoy and Draco Lucius Malfoy, on the fifth of August, of the year 1998, into offenses committed during the Second Wizarding War, in which the accused allegedly harboured and housed He Who Must Not Be Named, committed acts of torture, knowingly participated in… ”
Draco lets the words wash over him. He still doesn’t look up. The world will see him, they will look at all he’s done, and they will judge. There’s nothing for it now.
Suddenly, the whispers coalesce, startled back to life. They’re so loud and Draco doesn’t want to hear. He doesn’t. But he can’t make them stop.
“Is that Harry Potter?”
“…The Chosen One!”
“…they hated each other….”
“…probably saw a lot of what happened…”
“…Death Eater scum…”
“…he was there when it happened…”
“Potter!”
Arrow after arrow crashes into Draco’s back, but he doesn’t look up. Looking at it will only make it worse. Of course Potter is here. Was there anyone Draco had hurt more than Harry Potter? It made sense that he would want to see their old rivalry finally set to rest.
Still, the vestiges of his pride prickle. Of course he came to gloat.
“Mr. Potter?” the man with the gavel says, and he sounds surprised. Which is when Draco hears the footsteps. Not heading up into the gallery but down. Down into the pit, soft against the cement floor. Settling next to his chair. Draco can see a set of trainers—there’s a tiny hole where the left toe pokes out.
“Hey,” Harry says, and Draco’s not sure exactly who he’s talking to. Hey isn’t exactly the kind of language that one uses to address the Wizengamot. Draco can’t stop staring at the shoes, because he’s scared. He's so scared and looking at it will make it worse.
“Mr. Potter, it’s an honour,” the man with the gavel says, and Draco suddenly understands the kind of power saving the wizarding world can afford a person. There is no other man alive who could stride into the middle of a formal hearing unencumbered. “Your presence here is a bit…unexpected.”
“I’m here for their trial,” he Potter, his voice unapologetic and clear.
“In what capacity?” the man asks.
“Oh,” Harry says, as if the reason for his presence should be obvious. “I’m here to provide testimony for their defense.”
“For my defense,” Draco whispers and hears his words echoing around the dungeon.
“…defense!”
“…his defense!”
“…he’s defending death eaters!”
Somewhere, a gavel is banging away, desperate to bring the room back to order. But Draco doesn’t hear any of that.
For the first time that day, Draco looks up. Sees that Harry is staring at him, green eyes wild and alive and focused. He’s always wanted those eyes on him. And now that he has them, Draco feels naked and very much not enough.
Potter is ragged, like a messy draft of the person Draco used to know. His edges are scribbles and there are dark smudges under his eyes.
I’ve never seen eyes like his, Draco thinks, and he feels all of his restraint crumble to nothing. He lets himself stare, lets all of his feelings pour out into the unflinching attention of Harry Potter.
It’s all a dizzy mess, when the Wizengamot opens the proceedings. Draco's crimes are described in that horrible kind of detail that looks too close, and everything is huge and ugly.
Potter’s face is stern in a haggard sort of way. He looks so calm, staring down a court full of the most powerful witches and wizards in Britain, but his magic betrays him. Draco wonders if anyone else can feel it, if anyone else realizes that Potter is a massive cumulous cloud rubbing static into the air.
It shouldn’t calm him—should have the opposite effect—but Draco is comforted, knowing that the precious Chosen One is nervous too. It makes him feel horribly human.
Eventually, Potter starts to monologue. It’s with less bluster than usual, so Draco knows he must’ve practiced. Which means that this intervention on his behalf was planned in advance.
Can’t resist an opportunity for attention, can you? Draco thinks, and his rage starts to prickle.
Potter’s still talking. Insisting that Draco saved his life at the manor by refusing to identify him. It’s true, but Draco hasn’t told anyone that, and he wants to scream, wants to pin Potter to the ground and force him to explain how the fuck he knows. Who does he think he is, spouting opinions about Draco’s innocence and guilt?
Anger claws at his throat. And when Potter reveals that he’d been there at the top of the Astronomy tower, Draco can’t bear it. He’s carved his palms open with ragged fingernails.
“He’s not a killer,” Potter says, and Draco is desperate for cross examination.
How do you know! How can you be sure, when I’m still so guilty?
Draco’s rage is a rash, and the only way to scratch is to scream and scream, but he can’t because there are a thousand eyes on him and he’s supposed to be deferent. Licking the boots of the fucking Hero, come to save the day. Again.
“We sacrificed so much. It seems stupid to tear ourselves apart now,” Potter says, letting out a breath he must’ve been holding. “It’s over. Just let it be over.” Draco can hear all of Potter’s bruises in this final line; he sounds so tired.
No one’s moving, a thousand breaths trapped in a thousand chests. Purple robes frozen, slack jaws hanging in stasis. The silence is unnatural—this many people shouldn’t be so still.
One heartbeat. Then another.
“We will consider your testimony and return with a verdict,” the man with the gavel says. “This court will recess for twenty minutes.”
The quiet shatters. And Draco is so angry, he thinks he might die.
Potter’s close. It’s uncanny, but Draco can feel Potter’s eyes. He’s always known when Harry Potter was looking at him.
The angry itch flares and Draco is on his feet. Potter’s just so fucking close.
“What are you playing at!” Draco’s yelling but against the noise all around them, it hardly registers.
Potter flinches. He looks…sad. But he doesn’t say anything.
“You can’t just walk into my life and stomp all over everything. You can’t just show up at my trial. You can’t…” Draco feels blood in his ears.
“I didn’t mean to stomp,” Potter says, and his voice is gravel and sleepless nights.
Draco hates how calm the words are, when he feels hot all over. Potter, in his stupid shaggy jeans and a shirt that hangs like a tent flap. And he’s just staring at Draco without any of the fire that used to be there.
As if Draco doesn’t matter at all. It makes him want to lunge, grab Potter’s shoulders and shake him until he remembers that he used to care about what Draco was up to. That he used to look at Draco with something more than pity.
It’s too much, seeing Potter like this. Still trying to save the world—one rotten death eater soul at a time.
“You can’t save everyone!” Draco explodes. “You can’t fix everything. Or be the centre of every fucking universe.”
The rage is a rash all over him, fury building and itching and Draco wants to climb out of his skin.
“I’m not…” Potter’s mouth twists into a frown. “I saved you, didn’t I?”
“I don’t need it! Or you! I don’t want to need you!”
Those green eyes are hard and flat when Potter says, “Not like this, Malfoy. Not where people can see.”
Not where people can see, Draco thinks, and feels his rage fizzle to nothing. Of course Potter doesn’t want to be seen with him. Doesn’t want any of Draco’s shame to get on his horrible shoes. Somehow, the idea of Harry being embarrassed of him hurts more than anything else in this horrible day.
“Not to worry!” Draco says, mania spilling over. “We’ll be all over the front page of the Prophet. What luck. You’ve always loved that.”
“Fuck you.” There it is. Anger stirs behind those green fucking eyes and Draco almost groans with relief. I can still get to him. The untouchable Harry Potter and I can still get to him.
“Oh, aren’t you the pinnacle of wit. What a brilliant comeback, Potter. Have you always been this clever?”
Potter closes the distance so fast that Draco doesn’t have time to move away. At first, he’s sure that Potter’s going to hit him and he welcomes the contact. But the blow doesn’t come, and Draco feels Potter place his hand on his elbow.
His mind goes to jelly. Touching, he thinks. Potter is touching me.
“Stop it,” Potter says, and his eyes are on fire. His grip is firm and he doesn’t let go. Not when the crowd starts to settle, not when the members of the Wizengamot return, looking grave. Not even when they read the verdict of their deliberations.
Draco faces his future with Harry Potter holding on to him, refusing to let go.
* * *
Probation.
The word feels artificial.
As soon as the verdict had come down, Narcissa spirited Draco out of the room. “To the apparition point,” she had said. “Quickly now.”
“Probation for Draco Malfoy, for a period of six months, as well as 500 hours of community service, to be carried out in accordance with the list of acceptable activities outlined by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Probation for the same duration for Narcissa Malfoy, along with the seizure of assets equivalent to ten percent of her accumulated wealth.”
Narcissa had wrapped her thin arms around him; it was an unconventional pose for a side along, but Draco leaned into it.
They were gone before the stands could empty. Before he could find Potter and do…he’s honestly not sure.
They’re nearly home now. The wind moves across the grass like a hand drifting over velvet—a soft touch against the grain. Draco feels it on his cheeks, feels the cold in the corners of his eyes.
Two Malfoys stride up the path to the manor, backs perpendicular to fields of green. Neither has said a word since apparating from the ministry.
Harry fucking Potter, always swooping in to save the day, Draco thinks and hates himself just a little more than before. Hate piling on top of hate piling on top of hate. Draco hadn’t known his self-loathing could reach such great heights.
Narcissa approaches the heavy gate announcing the entrance to the Malfoy ancestral holdings, and it swings open to greet her. I’m coming home, Draco thinks, and realizes that he hadn’t expected the day to end this way.
Only now, as they step into the safety of the grounds does his mother finally speak.
“Probation,” she says, and it feels like a question, a statement, and an exclamation all at once.
“It doesn’t feel real,” Draco says.
“It was not the most likely outcome when this day began,” Narcissa replies, and Draco wishes he could reach across the formalities and hold her.
“Potter,” Draco whispers, and he can’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked. Like someone drunk had tried to draw him. Like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Did you reach out? Ask for his support?” Narcissa says and Draco bites back a snarl.
“Of course not,” he snaps, and the fury is back. Does his own mother think so little of him? That he would beg for the saviour’s help? But then he remembers Potter, shoulders squared against the public who loathed Draco and the Wizengamot who wanted to make an example of him. Remembers Potter’s voice—low and even—when he’d said, “Narcissa lied to Voldemort to save my life,” and “Draco refused to identify me,” and “I saw him the night Dumbledore died,” and “He’s not a killer.”
“I didn’t save Malfoy just so he could rot in Azkaban. I don’t want that.” And who dared deny Potter what he wanted?
Not the Wizengamot, apparently.
The gate clatters shut behind him. “Probation,” Draco says, again, as they walk up the lane.
Narcissa stops, bracketed by smooth lawns on either side of her slim shoulders. “Draco,” she says, and her voice wobbles. “We’re …we’re going to be…”
His mother is crying. She hadn’t cried when they’d returned to the manor, not when they’d moved the bodies out of the basement, not when the Aurors had come for father. Narcissa Malfoy had steeled herself against the aftershocks of a war and now she was crying.
Formalities be damned, Draco thinks, and pulls his mother against his chest.
She sobs, and so does he.
“We’re going to live,” he whispers and Narcissa pulls him closer.
“I suppose we are,” she says, breathy. “Now, pull yourself together. It’s far too cold to be weeping in the middle of the lane.”
Draco snorts, but lets her lead him inside. It looks like he may have to tell Pansy about the curse after all.