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Under the unequal light of the oldest lamp of the room, Draco Malfoy was absorbed in the writing of a few letters.
His back slightly hunched, he was regularly dipping an elegant feather pen, coming from the last albinos peacock of the estate, in night blue ink carefully resting on his desk. His mother had insisted on him conserving a memory of the animal she knew his son liked since childhood, despite the desapprobation of his father towards the attachment of his descendance to an inferior being.
Another proof of his so-called paternal love. As a Malfoy, as the heir of a Pureblood family, what’s the appeal of caring about those trivia… That’s right, father ?
He interrupted himself sometimes, and then he put down his pen, threw his head back against the roughness of his seat and took a long breath. His grey gaze, tired by the task he was until then absorbed in, detached itself from the varnished wood of the antique desk to stare at the high ceiling of his room, at the Malfoy manor.
The processus has repeated itself enough times for the young man who, after a while, his back sore, stretched his lean frame and stood up without a sound to come leaning against the unique window of the room. There, his long hands folded behind his back, he allowed himself to close his eyes.
Draco was exhausted.
The last four months hadn’t been the brightest of his existence, so to speak. The battle of Hogwarts hadn’t been concluded the moment where, causing the deadly curse of the greatest dark wizard of all time to ricochet, the Savior of the magic world (by two times now) had put an end to a long, too long reign of terror.
No, of course no, things weren’t meant to be that simple, thought Draco bitterly.
The triumphant forces had been efficient enough to bridle any attempt of escape or resistance from the recalcitrant supporters of Voldemort. The wizarding world needed answers, and justice : it was the official speech given by Kingsley Shacklebolt, in his capacity as new Minister, to soothe as much as possible a mourning, bruised wizarding population.
“The members of the Army of Dumbledore didn’t fight to gain a public stoning.” McGonagall had outbid.
She’s right, she’s always been right.
Draco and his parents were no exception to this rule. As soon as the first ministerial injunctions had been pronounced, every Death Eater known by the Department of Magical Law had been caught.
Thus Lucius Malfoy, a growing beard, heavy bags under his eyes, had been firmly grasped by one of the Aurors who had been rushed to the Manor, a few hours after the end of the battle. Just before his arrest, it’s in the frozen corridor of the Malfoy estate’s entry that he had addressed his last words to Draco. Narcissa Malfoy, face pallid, could only cling onto the shoulders of his son.
“Draco, don’t reproduce my mistake. My plans did not include any unknown, and all was about to happen just perfectly consequently. But Dumbledore’s forces tricked… inelegantly, I must say, and this is where it leads us.”
He had cast a brief glance towards the window, moistened his thin lips, and put his attention back on Draco, who hadn’t had any other choice than looking him back.
“You are a clever, very clever young man… Now that the Dark Lord isn’t anymore, the heir of the Malfoy family must conduct his attention back to the prestige of our name…”
His cold glare riveted to the devastated face of his son, Lucius had slowly started to delusion. “You understand, don’t you, Draco !? Be assured to appear as a poor, defenceless boy, manipulated by the Dark Lord, whose family has been threatened…”
Narcissa Malfoy had tightened almost imperceptibly her grip on his son’s shoulders. Staring at his husband with a terrified expression, she had been unable to emit the slightest sound.
Lucius, for his part, having paid her no attention, had overbid, his drawl voice adopting more frenetic tones. “... they will pity, these Knut-rated judges of the Magenmagot… Yes, they will pity… We have the connections, we have the resources, we are superior … I’ve already taken the necessary means in your regard, Draco, to ensure the perennity of our name… Act just as I taught you…”
His features had suddenly twitched into an expression of sheer disgust. “This ‘Harry Potter’ ...” The name had been spat, and Draco had felt his mother trembling with him at its evocation. “This insufferable boy, the Chosen, the Saviour… Is the attraction of all the wizarding world, and he defeated his sworn enemy… the enemy of the nation, the Big Bad one…”
An unusual smirk, almost farcical, had then appeared on the formerly aristocratic lines of Lucius Malfoy’s face. Draco, ears buzzing, didn’t have seemed to proceed with whatever his father was saying. “Their attention will only be on him, and then, you shall…”
A big thud had interrupted Lucius and, a few seconds later, it was a whole bunch of Aurors which had landed with a bang. The Death Eater they had come retrieving in their hands in a flash, they hadn’t hidden their utter disgust when looking at Lucius. One of them had spoken to Narcissa and Draco, indicating they were to stay at the Manor until further notice. In the most supreme indifference, the Auror had then cast some restriction charms and joined his colleagues who still were maintaining a silent Lucius. A moment later, they had all Apparated without a look back on the remaining members of the Malfoy family.
Draco, still under the shock, had managed to think a single thing.
They forgot me. Why didn’t they arrest me when I have the Mark, this dirty Mark, just like him… ? I… I have to say something… I must… I shall… I…
A sudden pressure had startled him, and his pale face had been immediately turned on Narcissa’s, who, ghastly, had seemed on the verge of fainting anytime soon.
Mother… !
No, he couldn’t have. The scene has been replaying dozens of times in his head these last months, and he always went back to the same conclusion. He wouldn’t have abandoned Narcissa Malfoy, he wouldn’t have chosen to lift his sleeve at this moment, designating himself as Lucius and his likes’ equal.
None of this was what he wanted.
I am so stupid. What would it have brought to mother if I had surrendered ? Nothing. I would have abandoned her like he abandoned her, like he abandoned us in order to bring to ‘perfection’ the sole name of ‘Malfoy’ two decades ago.
Draco was feeling nauseous, a familiar sensation even since his sixth year. He slightly shifted on his side, and slowly opened his eyes, putting them on the apparent darkness of the gardens, the only scenery offered by his window on that thundering August night. He could hear the tumult from afar.
I am. So. Stupid.
The papers didn’t wait to relay whatever information they could put their hands on, most of them before any checking. But, as Shacklebolt has said, people need all types of comfort after the war.
The Ministry had other preoccupations at the time , said Draco to himself ironically, like, randomly, chasing after Death Eaters. Seen that way, sure, the papers represented a lesser threat.
After urgent rehousing and war victims' help plans, Death Eaters trials didn’t wait long to be established; pushed by a wizarding world eager to see those responsibles for the massacre pay, the biggest names were the first examples of this ire.
An incident had occurred during the transfer of prisoners from Azkaban to the extraordinary tribunal of Magenmagot : the few wizards who should have supervised them hadn’t received a big punishment by learning to a furious Shacklebolt and a delighted people that, despite their efforts, they couldn’t prevent the Demontors’ frenzy, way too happy to jump on the defenceless Death Eaters at their reach.
What an irony… Of course it would be obvious that on the only three prisoners of the lot rescued still of mind, buried between Goyle and Yaxley, Lucius Malfoy had survived too…
His sentence hadn’t been more clement, Draco rejoiced : the capital punishment would have been preferable to a full life under the enforced security of Azkaban, which was what Lucius bailed out. Draco had at least gained the certitude of not having to see again the hateful face of the man who acted as his father the 18 last years of his life.
However, three Death Eaters were not enough for the magic press and, a few days after his birthday, in the course of June, Draco was put in relative glory by the work of Rita Skeeter, who had apparently succeeded to slip through the cracks. Regaining his post of morally debatable reporter, she had put him in a light he would prefer not to have, on the front page of the Daily Prophet.
“DRACO MALFOY : THE FORGOTTEN DEATH EATER, FORGIVEN ?”
by Rita Skeeter
“It’s been a month now since the most sensational event of the modern history of Britain magic : the battle of Hogwarts, where He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had been blasted by the Chosen one, the favourite young wizard of the nation, Harry Potter. But following the incidentally shortened trials of the remaining Death Eaters, our dear readers found themselves destitute, with so little material about the crunchy details of these war criminals’ history. But few people know that a famous-named person got rid of the radars of justice : Draco Malfoy.
BUT WHO IS HE REALLY ?
Having been heard, at the end of May, during his own trial - which followed directly his mother’s, Narcissa Black (formerly Black, see page 7 for the chronology of this family whence notably comes from Sirius Black, the famous ex-condemned) - the young man admitted with certain poise owning the Dark Mark, which is, as a reminding, the symbol of Death Eaters, put by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in person on the left forearm of his followers. When some would pity Draco Malfoy for his young age or for his pleasant features and pretty face, it is good to remember that he is actually the son of one of the most fervent Death Eaters of our area, Lucius Malfoy.
If the trial had been kept secret, some exclusive information emerged, the sources of which, obtained by your servant, will remain for the greater good (if you are interested by the notion, read Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore by Rita Skeeter) in the dark : the young Malfoy indeed possesses the Mark, and when we could expect a condamnation consequently, it appears that Draco had been exempted of every fault by the Magenmagot.
BUT WHAT HAPPENED ?
Heard before his son, Narcissa Malfoy had been judged culprit of passivity towards terrorist activities, but the surprising testimony of Harry Potter in person in her favour reduced her sentence to a year of house arrest. Whether we agree or not, the word of the Savior of the wizarding world has a substantial weight and it would be unwelcome to call his actions in question. This testimony was also supported by a certain Rubeus Hagrid, keeper of keys and grounds at Hogwarts.
Yet where Narcissa Malfoy had been recognized as non-bearer of the Mark, Draco had also benefited from the providential help of Harry Potter, standing for the defence, this time seconded by some of his school friends. The exhaustive content of this trial is still unknown, unfortunately, but it appears that he received no sentence at all. We can still wonder about this case, which shall rest a while in the minds of our fellow citizens.”
Draco let his cheek lie against the pane, and the nauseous feeling came along. Somewhere outside, the thunder was still roaring. Memories of the trials didn’t stop to appear these days. Pictures, sounds of the day which had determined the rest of Draco and his mother’s existences.
Until then, they had been staying at the Manor in a welcome loneliness, sharing painfully about the past events, linked to the exterior world by the sole intermediary of The Prophet's daily owls. Draco had had time, an awful lot, left to himself thinking. Thinking about his family, thinking about him. On his role in the war, and before it.
If he had withdrawn a feeling out of this, it was certainly shame.
They had been averted by a short missive, the day before, of the Aurors’ arrival the following day, charged to achemine them at their trials. Draco was no optimist. He had prepared himself at the attitude of the outside world around them, and especially around him, Draco.
A Death Eater scum doesn’t get any forgiveness. … Heh, me, a Death Eater… He had even succeeded in making me believe I was one of them, as if I took the Mark willingly.
Draco bit his lip, eyes still closed, remembering the day of his trial. Skeeter’s article had only worsened the filthy sensation he was experiencing. I DID merit a sentence, Death Eater or not. It was the litany Draco has repeated to himself. Even if I did not kill, like them, I’ve done enough otherwise. I deserved…
I… Potter…
Draco let a tear slip, then another. He was tired, so tired, and still wasn’t used to the fact that he was now able to exteriorize his feelings, after a year of total control at his life’s risk. After a while, he sniffed once, breaking the heavy silence of the room.
“I am pitiful. I didn’t deserve… any forgiveness.”
The scene replayed itself in his mind.
All happened very quickly. Narcissa had just taken place at the defendant’s bar (the horrible bewitched armchairs had been replaced without the dread of Death Eaters, it seemed) when from the courtroom swift door had emerged Harry Potter in person, followed closely by Weasley, Granger, Hagrid but also Luna Lovegood. While the latter had cast suspicious, anxious stares across the court, Potter had headed himself to the defence bench, without a smile for all those whose faces had brightened up at his arrival.
His hair the usual mess, a serious stance, Draco had been able to see how he toughened up during his run last year : his shoulders were broader, his arms’ muscles more prominent. He sported a noticeable tan, probably due to the exterior life that he suffered the past months (related by The Prophet). He had seemed absolutely confident.
He has become an adult, unlike me. What is he doing here, by the way ? Came to attend the sentence of the last of the idiots and his mother, huh, Potter ?
But Harry Potter hadn’t come at all to act like a spectator, and it’s under the surprised whispers of the auditorium that he had steered himself to the witnesses’ bar and defended without failing his mother’s cause.
Moving all the Magenmagot, he had described the tale of his confrontation against Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest - outbid by Hagrid - and pressed the importance of Narcissa in Harry’s victory : without her lie, at the nose of the darkest of the wizards, Harry would have been done for real; this had sufficed to make everyone remember the dread of a world where Harry Potter would have lost .
A year of house arrest at the Manor. Her sentence had been minimal.
After a brief glance towards his mother, which he had hoped soothing, he had replaced her at the defendant’s bench, his left sleeve purposely lifted in a gesture he had meant to hasten things. Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had ruled the session, had contented himself with some formality questions Draco had answered to distractingly.
Potter, him, hadn’t been moving from his spot. He changed his glasses. They suit him better. Bigger, more rectangular, elegant. And he finally wears things to his size, Draco couldn’t prevent himself from noticing.
He had kept his bright green eyes on Draco, studying him long.
Walk out this room, Potter. I feed no wish to have you witnessing my disgrace for the umpteenth time.
After a few seconds, uncomfortable, Draco had averted his gaze to the luminosity of Potter’s.
He had wanted a unique thing, that everything ends. That he received what he deserved. His mother safe, he could… incur the punishment he merited. “Minister Shacklebolt, I have no doubt that every single person here has no wish to pursue losing their time with someone like… me…”
He had interrupted himself, biting his lip unconsciously, arms folded around himself in an instinctive gesture, covering his Mark. “You should… I…”
“Kingsley, following the proofs you required, I am in full capacity to simplify things for the Magenmagot. Let me speak for the defence and I’ll spare a lot of time for all of us, I assure you.” Potter had interrupted Draco with a tone that didn’t leave any room for discussion.
Draco remembered having lifted his head, an incredulous expression likely on his face. Potter had spoken for his mother, who saved his life, but him… ? Potter had taken his eyes off Draco, and started masterfully his pleading, backed up by relentless looks towards the jurors, his magic displaying a powerful aura.
He had evoked different scenes of their childhood, painting Draco as the product of a world and corruption and dark magic in which he never had a word to say, his destiny written by his father.
He had depicted the terror and the insufferable pressure experienced by anyone who would have to share his house with Voldemort for a year, with a rightness which had rendered Draco ill at the evocation of these painful memories.
He had spoken of Draco’s bravery when had refused to identify him, Granger and Weasley at the manor; of his refusal to let one of their school comrades die under the dreadful Fiendfyre; but also of Luna who, with her vague and soft gaze, had acquiesced at each of his words when he had described the captivity of his friend at the Manor, soothed by the discreet but regular visits of Draco who however risked a lot. He had brought her food, or simply stood by her door, talking to her, reassuring her.
It had rendered Draco mute. How can he… ?
But this time, he hadn’t averted his gaze from Potter’s, whose attention had reported on Draco at the last words of his pleading.
And then, Draco had wanted to cry.
It was only a few dozens of minutes after that Draco had been definitively exempted of all charges linked to his involvement in the conflict. Still dazed by the events, he had felt the protective arms of his mother around him, who had immediately enclosed him at the verdict’s announcement. But Draco hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Potter.
And then, when departing, the green glare of Potter had crossed this, grey and wet, of Draco. On that moment, this latter had only been able to put a hand on his mouth. There, the traitorous tears he had contained until then had rolled pitifully on his cheeks, blurring his view.
He had needed a few more seconds to gather the necessary strength to turn away; and finally settle himself into the comforting heat provided by Narcissa’s arms, allowing his damp cheek to rest against his mother’s.
When he had looked back, Potter was gone.
A flash suddenly filled the vast chamber, and the dazzling light of it forced Draco to open his eyes. Breathing deeply, his attention reported itself on one of the letters scattered on the desk : written in an emerald green, and adorned with a familiar emblem, it was waiting for almost a month now, on a corner of the varnished furniture. Waiting for an answer.
An answer only Draco could provide. And Draco had made his decision.
After letting escape a last sigh, he detached himself from the cold window and wiped the remaining traces of tears from his eyes. Then, softly, he took his place back on the antique chair and grabbed firmly the heavy peacock-feathered pen.