Chapter Text
Sitting in the special atrium to the Wizengamot courtroom, Draco Malfoy simmered in the least formal robes he felt he could wear before the wizarding world’s elite. Beside him, his wife of two years, Astoria, dressed in far finer robes, gave his knee a gentle rub with a slight smile, signaling that his mask of cool annoyance hadn’t fooled her.
Her touch let him relax a fraction, and he sank into the overly cushioned seats provided, resisting the urge to rub his temples or pace. The room felt designed to cradle him into complacency, a sensation he distrusted deeply.
It wasn’t overtly comforting, nor was it menacing. The beige walls were dull for a wizarding space; bronze door plaques glinted coldly; the rich red carpet clung to his soles; the chairs enveloped him like a practiced charm; and the portraits grinned with the vacant satisfaction of minor bureaucrats content with centuries of Ministry service, and by extension, the Wizengamot. The numbing serenity pressed on Draco’s mind, recalling the stifling decorum of Malfoy Manor.
The room evoked the same unease as when his father, Lucius, had once used honeyed words to probe his Hogwarts dealings, convincing Draco this space was meant for delivering bad news to the powerful. He wanted to glare until it all burned.
His mood wasn’t helped by the Ministry’s vague letter summoning him and Astoria to a minor Wizengamot chamber on the day he’d planned to start a family with his enticing wife. Draco had been eager for the intimate moment, only to be irked by the Ministry’s intrusion at the outset of his vacation.
Still, unwilling to be branded Undesirable Number One again or further stain his already tarnished name, he’d complied, arriving on time like a model citizen.
Then they made him wait. He suspected a repeat of the Ministry’s post-war trial tactics, where delays unnerved him, hinting that someone in the political arena he’d avoided was targeting his waning influence.
With less tolerance than in his school days and a keener sense of Ministry games, Draco demanded answers loudly until the plump desk clerk assured him the summons was on schedule, delayed only by the Wizengamot’s overrun with another wizard’s matter.
This got Draco seated, but it didn’t soften his demeanor, requiring Astoria’s calming presence to prevent an outburst. He knew he was being somewhat unreasonable, but after years of manipulative encounters with wizarding authorities—save for Umbridge, who’d favored him as a Slytherin prefect—he felt entitled to his defiance.
It felt good to push back, even if it only deepened his rift with the wizarding establishment.
Fifteen minutes late, a scrawny man with oversized glasses and a quill behind his ear opened a side door. “Lord Malfoy, Lady Malfoy, please enter.” Draco stood rigidly, feeling Astoria’s reassuring hand-squeeze as they entered the partially walled-off courtroom section.
Beyond the sprawling benches encircling a quarter of the room were two desks and chairs, a central dais, more benches, and a pulpit. The latter two were occupied: the Speaker, a sneering Death Eater relative who’d chosen bureaucratic sadism over dark allegiance, sat at the pulpit, flanked by Wizengamot members.
The scrawny man directed them: Astoria to a bench behind Draco, and Draco to the leftmost bench facing the pulpit. Once seated, the Speaker cleared his throat. “This is the sentencing of a case against Lord Draco Lucius Malfoy, determined in a trial in absentia.
As the Lord is presumably unaware of this case, we offer him the chance to hear the trial details. Speak now, Lord, if you wish them read.”
Draco frowned, baffled by what case could be leveled against him, given his absence from wizarding affairs since Voldemort’s defeat three years ago, but said, “I would like them, please.” Murmurs rippled through the room, and Draco wondered if he’d missed some formal phrasing. Unbothered, given his deliberately cheap robes—shabby enough for even Crabbe to notice—he smirked as the murmurs continued until the Speaker raised a hand, his face as sour as ever.
Draco felt no wiser.
“Very well. On March 31, 1999, a Wizengamot member requested an assembly to hear a case against you, Lord Malfoy.
The plea was granted, and the case was thus: you, Lord Malfoy, were guilty of multiple counts of attempted murder through your Death Eater activities. Specifically, you targeted individuals, including Order of the Phoenix members and innocents, during the Second Wizarding War.
Evidence, drawn from your testimonies and others’ during post-war trials, was held by the Wizengamot. The trial proceeded in absentia, without defense or prosecution, and you were found guilty on all charges.
Any objections?”
Draco found his voice. “You mean apart from being coerced into joining the Death Eaters to protect my family?”
“That’s why this is a lesser charge, Lord Malfoy, not a full murder conviction,” the Speaker said dully, as if Draco were slow. “Had you acted with full intent, you’d have been arrested a year ago.
Other objections?”
“You’re joking!” Draco snapped. “Nothing about duress?”
“The charges concern your actions as a Death Eater, not your reasons. Other objections?”
“So if I hadn’t been forced, I wouldn’t be here?”
“That’s why you’re not charged for actions beyond your Death Eater role,” the Speaker said. “Further objections?”
“Yes! This is bloody unfair! Doesn’t my testimony against other Death Eaters count?”
“The law applies equally, Lord Malfoy, regardless of unrelated actions. You were involved in Death Eater trials, so you should know how it works.
Any further objections, or may we proceed with sentencing?”
Draco’s jaw locked, his mind blank. Finally, he asked, “Can I appeal?”
“No, Lord Malfoy. The evidence, deemed truthful by you in prior trials, allows no appeal.
May we proceed?” Draco nodded stiffly, and the Speaker gave a faint, satisfied hum.
“Very well. The ruling stands, with no further objections noted.
I now pronounce sentencing on behalf of the Wizengamot.” The Speaker cleared his throat. “Given the scope of these charges, monetary penalties would typically apply; however, due to their number, I recommend a sentence of mulier adultera .
So the Speaker has spoken, so let it be.” His gavel rapped, prompting gasps across the room. Draco, largely ignorant of wizarding law, sat confused.
He hissed to the scrawny wizard beside him, who’d dozed through the proceedings, “What does that mean?” The wizard started, looking puzzled. “Mulier adultera? I don’t speak Latin.”
The man’s eyes widened. “My apologies, Mr. Malfoy. I didn’t expect it to be so… severe.”
“What the bloody hell is it?” Draco demanded, fed up with the room’s whispers and eager to know the Wizengamot’s latest injustice.
“Er… well…” the wizard stammered, flushing. “It means ‘adulterous wife.’ The Ministry, on the Wizengamot’s behalf, will alter your marriage bonds so another wizard may… er… claim rights to your wife. Lady Malfoy will become an open-concubine. I’m sorry. It could’ve been worse.”
“What?!” Draco roared, the term ‘open-concubine’ stirring a vague memory he couldn’t place. He fixed the wizard with a searing glare.
“What does ‘open-concubine’ mean? Are you saying she’s…”
“She’ll remain your wife, but also be another wizard’s concubine.” Draco’s glare turned furious, tears of outrage pricking his eyes.
For the first time, he glanced back at Astoria, pale and frightened, her eyes meeting his. He tried to offer reassurance but feared he only made her nauseous, her face turning green.
Feeling ill himself, Draco faced forward, stunned. The Ministry couldn’t do this, could they?
A gavel’s smack jolted him. “Order! Order!” the Speaker barked. “Now, to business.
The sentence stands, but must be fulfilled.” He glanced at a parchment before continuing. “Due to Lady Malfoy’s pureblood status, muggle borns are barred from claiming her rights.
You may leave now.” A shuffle followed as some Wizengamot members exited, the noise churning Draco’s stomach. When they were gone, the Speaker resumed.
“Rights will be awarded via auction, Lady Malfoy’s open-concubinage going to the highest bidder.”
A cry of anguish came from behind, and Draco yearned to comfort Astoria. “Bids start at five hundred galleons, increasing by one hundred.
The auction begins in one hour. Court adjourned.” The Speaker rose and left, followed by others, and the scrawny wizard—whose name Draco now cared nothing for, irrationally blaming him—turned to him.
“I can escort you and Lady Malfoy out.”
“We’re fine,” Draco growled, and the wizard backed off. Draco stormed through the gate to Astoria, grabbing her arm and nearly dragging her out. She didn’t resist, trailing him through hallways.
Draco didn’t track their path, only that Ministry workers parted as he raged through, until he found a secluded room to barge into. Once inside, he exploded.
“Bloody buggering fucking hell!” he swore. “Stuck-up, unjust wankers! Treasonous bastards! Fuck them all! I didn’t ask for this! My wife—cheating on me!”
Astoria snapped out of her shock, her face reddening. “You?! You?! You’re not the one becoming some fat old wizard’s fucking whore, are you? And cheating? You think I want to fuck whoever pays the Ministry enough? Like I’m some street tramp? Fuck you!”
Still fuming, Draco shot back, “I’d rather fuck some pureblood bitch than stand here emasculated, my life sexless! At least you might enjoy it!” Astoria looked ready to stab him, and Draco’s head cleared enough to say, “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just… after everything, you know?” Her glare softened, but forgiveness seemed distant.
“Astoria, you know I didn’t mean it, right? I’m bloody pissed.” He met her defiant gaze, arms crossed.
“I know you’ll hate this as much as I will.” She softened further, enough for Draco to pull her close, her smaller frame against his. He briefly wondered if this was the last time he’d feel her untainted, but pushed the thought aside.
Astoria wasn’t to blame. “I won’t take this out on you,” he whispered.
Her body stayed tense, but her voice softened. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
She relaxed, then sniffed angrily. “At least I can punish you when you’re an arse, like now.” Draco stiffened, and Astoria sighed.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’ll hate this. I know you will too. I promised fidelity, and I’ll break that. Can you forgive me?”
Draco, stirred uncomfortably by her words, kissed her ear, whispering huskily, “Yeah, I forgive you. I will.”
“It’s just…” Astoria sighed. “I’m not a whore… you know?” She panted, and Draco hummed, nuzzling her neck to reach her dress’s zipper.
“I’m really not, whatever the bloody Ministry says.”
“You moan like one, though,” Draco purred, slipping the straps off, ignoring her betrayed yet guilty look. He turned the blonde, kissing her deeply, exploring her mouth as he had countless times.
Astoria moaned, blushing, and Draco broke the kiss to murmur, “You’re such a dirty girl.”
She hummed in agreement. “Yeah, I am. You like it, though. You like it bad.”
“Yes, I do,” Draco breathed, admiring her topless form before kissing her again, palming a breast. “I love that you’re a dirty girl. A devious, bad, wild seductress. I love how impure you are in bed. You’re a naughty witch. You’ll be naughty, won’t you? You won’t help it.”
“I’ll be such a terrible wife,” Astoria moaned, and Draco hardened.
“Maybe make it up to me,” Draco suggested, his voice ungentlemanly. This might be his last chance to enjoy her untainted mouth…
“Yes,” she groaned against him.
As he guided her head down, a sharp jab struck his skull, and he jerked back with a loud “Ow!” Astoria toppled onto him, their fall crushing his manhood under her bosom. “Ah!” he yelped, and she quickly rolled off.
The mood shattered, Draco softened, searching for the disturbance to incinerate it. They found an enchanted paper plane summoning them back to court.
Draco groaned. His chance was gone.
Astoria hurriedly redressed, slipping on her dress straps and cloak, her disappointment milder than Draco’s.
Once presentable, Draco led them back to the courtroom, where the sullen Scrawny Man greeted them, guiding them to the back benches. A new wizard awaited, introduced by Scrawny Man.
“This is Mr. John” he said. “He handles… this sort of business. He’ll present you, Lady Malfoy.” The Malfoys glared at him, then the new man, who returned a disinterested look.
Draco noted the man’s asexual demeanor, wondering if it was deliberate, his insect-like indifference grating.
Draco shot him a venomous look, then sat, glaring at the room.
Wizengamot members filed into the side benches, the Speaker returning last to his pulpit. His gavel banged. “Order!” he called, silencing the room instantly.
“Before the auction, Mr. John, court officer, will display Lady Malfoy for bidders. Mr. John, Lady Malfoy, if you please.”
“Come,” John said to Astoria, who glared defiantly before her resolve faded, and she rose.
“Your cloak?” Reluctantly, Astoria removed it, revealing her tight, modest Malfoy dress. Draco hoped he imagined the whistles from the room.
For his sanity, he dismissed them as echoes through the glass barrier. John gestured to the central dais, and Astoria followed, her nervousness barely masked.
They reached the dais too soon for Draco’s liking, and he liked it less when it rose, exposing Astoria in her—now too revealing, he thought—dress. “Lady Malfoy,” the Speaker intoned, “is nineteen, married nearly two years. She plays for the Holyhead Harpies, a renowned Quidditch team. She has C-cup breasts, weighs one hundred twenty pounds…” Draco tuned out, his vision reddening.
The Ministry’s detailed measurements of his wife—how did they have them?—were read to the crowd, met with unmistakable approval.
Draco realized a spell magnified Astoria’s image, and the desk before him smoked as his magic surged. Reining in his fury, he refocused, noting Astoria avoided his gaze, glaring at any member bold enough to leer.
The Speaker gestured, and John whispered to Astoria.
Her reaction was instant. “No bloody way!” she shouted.
Greengrass whispered again, but Astoria grew angrier.
Resigned, John looked to the Speaker, who nodded. With a wand wave, Astoria’s dress floated to his arm, leaving her nude save for red panties.
Astoria’s arms flew to cover herself, her face shifting from defiant to mortified. Mutters—likely old witches judging her underwear—filled the room.
None of their business! Draco’s hateful glares silenced them, and the Speaker lowered his raised gavel without a sound.
“Lady Malfoy, please,” he said. “This is necessary. Uncover yourself. We’re adults here.”
“Go to Hell!” Astoria snarled, and Draco swelled with fierce pride.
John gave the Speaker another resigned look, receiving a nod. Another wand wave, and Astoria’s panties joined her dress, her arms forced outstretched in a seductive, utilitarian pose, baring her fully.
Draco’s fists clenched, nails drawing blood, at the sight of what only he, her husband, had seen.
The chamber’s jeers, more brothel than government, enraged Draco, but two aurors emerged from the shadows, halting his rise. Furious, he nearly fought, but Astoria’s pleading eyes made him sit.
The Speaker, looking pleased, waited for the room to quiet. “As you see, Lady Malfoy is as beautiful as reputed.
Having seen her offerings, who wishes her as concubine?”
Theodore Nott’s voice rang out. “Five hundred galleons!”
“Bastard!” Draco roared, nearly lunging as Nott smirked condescendingly.
“Five hundred!” the Speaker confirmed, ignoring Draco. “Do I hear six hundred?”
“Six hundred!” another called. The bidding continued, but Draco faded, shocked.
How was his wife being auctioned as a sex slave to men he’d fought against?
The bids narrowed to Neville and Potter. Draco’s stomach sank, weighing which was worse: his rival or a former acquaintance?
Logic suggested Neville bid out of kindness, but betrayal overwhelmed Draco. Astoria looked broken on the dais.
“Ten thousand, two hundred galleons,” Potter called, outbidding Neville.
“Ten thousand, two hundred,” the Speaker acknowledged. “Ten thousand, three hundred?” Neville hesitated, glancing at Draco, who could only half-glare, half-plead.
“Going once!” Neville’s hand twitched. Potter smirked, then gave Draco an unreadable look, his gaze lingering lustfully on Astoria. “Going twice!” Neville slumped, defeated. No, Draco thought.
It was a nightmare. His pulse raced, palms slick with blood and sweat. This can’t happen.
“Done!” the Speaker declared, eliciting sighs of relief, regret, and dismay. It was over.
“The Wizengamot decrees that Lady Astoria Malfoy’s marriage bond be modified to make her Lord Harry Potter’s concubine, effective immediately, with Lord Potter to pay ten thousand, two hundred galleons within one month of consummation. Thank you, Lords and Ladies.
Justice is served. Court dismissed. Lord and Lady Malfoy, Mr. John will advise your duties.” The Speaker vanished, followed by muttering Wizengamot members, many casting final, appreciative glances at Astoria as she angrily redressed. The dais lowered, and she and John returned to Draco.
“I’ve never been so humiliated,” Astoria spat. “Sold like a whore, to Potter of all people! Why—” John cut her off.
“Lord Malfoy, Lady Malfoy, follow me.”
“Where?” Draco demanded. “I’m tempted to abandon this farce of a government.”
“That would be illegal. Follow me to a ritual room to meet Lord Potter, so Lady Malfoy may become his concubine as decreed.” Two aurors appeared, reinforcing the order. Draco, gripping his wand, relaxed it, jaw clenching.
Astoria looked murderous, but Draco’s touch on her elbow—now layered with clothes—stayed her. John nodded sternly and led them out, the aurors trailing.
The walk felt endless, stares now unavoidable. Some were sympathetic, others smug, but the jealous ones stung most. The Malfoys ignored them, reaching a Ministry ritual room.
Potter was already there.
“Lord Malfoy,” Potter said, mockingly bowing. He turned to Astoria, eyeing her through her baggy robes. “Lady Malfoy,” he said, trying to kiss her hand, smiling when she yanked it away. “You looked better in the chamber. Pity you covered up.”
Draco, restrained by the aurors, lunged at the taunt, unsure what he’d do to his rival, but was held back. Potter smirked.
“So, Malfoy, perhaps I should’ve taken Divination. I warned you, didn’t I?” Draco recalled ‘open-concubine’ from Potter’s past taunts.
He snarled, “I know you orchestrated this, Potter!”
Potter raised his hands innocently, but John coughed.
“Shall we proceed with the ritual?” he asked.
Draco glared but relented. “Do you have everything, Lord Potter?”
“Of course,” Potter said cheerfully.
“Very well. Lady Malfoy, stand in the center.” Astoria complied reluctantly.
“Lord Malfoy, to your wife’s left. Lord Potter, to her right.” They positioned themselves John at the front, aurors by the doors.
He began chanting.
The ritual blurred for Draco, fixated on Astoria’s ashen face and Potter’s smug satisfaction. He felt his magic twist, lights and sounds swirling, leaving him less connected to Astoria.
John cleared his throat. “Lord Malfoy, remove your wife’s wedding ring from her left hand.”
It was agony, worse than Voldemort’s threats. It felt like excising his soul as he lifted Astoria’s hand, sliding off the ring. Her tear-streaked face mirrored his urge to weep.
It was an undoing of their marriage, a grim inversion of their wedding day.
“Give the ring to Lord Potter,” Greengrass said.
Draco’s hand felt claw-like, dropping the band into Potter’s palm. “Lord Potter, place the ring on Lady Malfoy’s right hand.” Potter roughly took Astoria’s hand, ignoring Draco’s glare, and slid the ring onto her right finger, triggering a bright flash.
“The right-hand ring marks Lady Malfoy’s status as an open-concubine, proclaiming she serves a lord besides her husband. Lord Potter, present the mark of concubinage.”
Potter eagerly produced a choker, branding Astoria with his symbol.
Draco fought tears as his anger ebbed. The thin, three-quarter-inch choker, made of silky Malfoy material, was sheer, with two snakes entwining to bite a bronze medallion bearing the Potter crest.
“Very good, Lord Potter. Give the choker to Lord Malfoy and instruct its placement.”
Potter handed it over, whispering harshly, “Fasten it around her neck.”
“Do as Lord Potter instructs,” John said. Draco moved behind Astoria, hating her flinch at his touch. Gently, as if she might vanish, he lifted her chin, threading the choker under her blonde hair to encircle her neck.
As his fingers brushed her scalp, Astoria’s eyes closed, tears held back. The straps fused, the choker tightening, snakes writhing with green glints. A flash followed.
“The choker signifies Lady Malfoy’s eternal role as House Potter’s concubine, serving Lord Potter alongside his wife.
Finally, Lord Malfoy, take your wife’s left hand and stand before Lord Potter.” Sickened, Draco complied. “Place her hand in Lord Potter’s left, bow to the new Master and Concubine, then stand behind them.”
Draco felt burned alive would be kinder, but he placed Astoria’s—his wife’s—hand in Potter’s, bowed lower than ever, and took his place behind them. “I present the new Concubine of House Potter, Lady Astoria Malfoy.
Our business is concluded. Good day.”