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Salt in Our Wounds	By : thewickednix Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7362 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters portrayed herein. This is made for fun, not profit.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
Part IV

A Rattle Comes the Rain

�Harry, Ron! Come on, let�s sit here!�
Hermione gestures towards the first row in the audience. The Wizengamot is filled with people, and there is scarcely any room for three more people anywhere, but as soon as the name �Harry� sounds through the room and I am recognised, three empty chairs appear out of nowhere in the middle of the front row.
�Thank Merlin you�re famous!� Ron snorts, and strangely enough, this time I agree with him on the matter. If I weren�t, we would never have gotten seats close enough to see anything of Draco�s trial. In fact, if I weren�t, Draco wouldn�t even have a trial.
Sitting down in my seat, Hermione next to me on my right and Ron on my left, I feel the butterflies that have been stewing in my stomach for days starting to flutter worse than ever. While being proud of myself for being able to get the Ministry to hear Draco out, I know that the battle is far from won. Even after getting this far, my story about him helping me escape might not make up for any of his other deeds in front of the jury. The thought makes me so nervous I�m all but shivering from the distress.
Luckily, we arrived so late that I don�t have to wait for long. Suddenly the double doors fly open and Jones and Conway enter the room, followed by a skinny and dirty figure which only the sight of makes my breath catch in my throat.
They enter, leading Draco in chains into the room. I can hardly believe it is him. Every step he takes looks like it requires an immense amount of energy, and a gauze has been wrapped around his head. His hair has been cropped very short, making him unable to hide behind even that in the eyes of justice, and the fact that they haven�t even given him a clean set of robes angers me more than I care to admit even to myself.
Now he walks past these rows of hateful people, trying to stand straight but even then crouching forward slightly, as if he might combust any minute. The wounds on his face have been cleaned, but lower lip is still marred with a huge gush that reaches down to his chin. A stitched three-inch wound traces along his eyebrow, and small scratches and cuts are visible all over his face. How the rest of his body looks, I don�t even want to think about.
Still, it is not even his mauled appearance that disturbs me most right now. It�s that look on his face, that cold, stern expression. That solid Malfoy-armour that he perfects even today, even as his darkest secrets are to be pulled from him by force. That infrangible shield that prevents him from loosing focus, from looking around.
Prevents him from looking into the audience and seeing me. I shudder as he walks past me, as if his mere presence causes my body to react. And some part of my mind hates Draco for being able to ignore me like this, for not even noticing my presence, when the mere sight of him causes my breath to exhilarate.
I breathe deeply and manage to calm down somewhat, fighting to keep my face neutral. And thinking of that, I am struck the urge to laugh out loud. Draco and I are playing the same game now, trying to keep our masks in place.
I only wish I could see through his.

******

�Stop dragging your feet, Malfoy!� Jones shouts at me as I stumble and nearly fall stepping over the threshold. �You won�t get out of this one, no matter how you struggle.�
Still crouching from my almost-fall, I turn and spit at the Auror, the most vicious sneer I can muster on my face. Jones stares at me in shock, his eyes wide from rage, and for a moment I think he might hit me. The only thing that seems to prevent him is his colleague, the blond man walking on my other side and staring at Jones with a look of reproach. Jones resorts to grabbing my arm violently and pulling me properly to my feet.
I stumble after the two Aurors, the shackles at my wrists sounding with a harsh ring every time I move, reminding me of my existence and keeping me from falling back into the oblivion I have spent the last months of my life in.
We walk through the halls of the Ministry, anyone and everyone walking by turning to stare at me. That bastard Jones walks taller than is natural before me, looking mighty proud and superior, his boasted height making me look even smaller next to him. He tugs at the chains every time I get left a little behind, causing me to loose my balance yet again. The ignoramus acts as if I choose to do it, as if I could walk any faster, as if I am throwing myself to the ground on purpose.
As if I wanted to humiliate myself further in front of all these morons of the Ministry.
Brutally I am led through the Ministry to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Feeling all the spiteful glances on me, I try to keep my head held high, my eyes focused steadily straight ahead as I walk through the corridors. Not even when we reach the Wizengamot do I give myself permission to look around. From inside the great room I can hear a loud buzz of noise, as if the whole audience of the Quidditch World Cup is gathered in there. I feel a shiver threatening to make it�s way down my back, but I repress it. I am a Malfoy, and as such I do not show weakness in front of such peasants as the vultures that have gathered here. Therefore, as Jones opens the large double doors into the room, I keep my face as calm and collected as I can manage, walking proudly into the room in spite of the shackles.
A massive wall of sound hits me as the door open, but I keep my face neutral, erasing all the noise from around me as I am led down the walk between the benches. Each seat in the audience is occupied, and every one turns to stare at me as I walk past. Some mutter curses and hexes under their breaths, while others shout them out loudly, but I manage to remain unmoved. These people are nothing to me. They can do nothing to hurt me anymore.
�Up here, Malfoy,� Jones� partner orders, nudging me towards a small platform, holding a massive chair of stone, adorned with shackles for both hands and feet. I take a deep breath as I step up onto the platform. A sting of burning pain goes through my legs at the bending of my knees, and I bite back a whimper. I will not give them the satisfaction of witnessing my pain.
�Sit!� Jones hisses, and I comply, albeit giving him a vicious sneer. The Aurors release my shackles, immediately fastening the ones from the chair to my wrists and ankles. Then they step away, each to their own place beside the platform.
From my chair I can see the entire hall, the audience as well as the still empty jury�s seats. I do not look around unnecessarily though, instead I keep my eyes focused on a invisible dot in the distance, careful not to stray from it. I am no circus animal, and I will never willingly be these peoples entertainment by letting them see hom terrified I am.
What feels like hours, but I fact may only be mere minutes later, the noise of the crowd suddenly quiets down. I see movement in a smaller doorway on the other side of the room, and indeed, here is the jury. The rows in the podium are quickly being filled with witches and wizards, all clad in the same plum-coloured robes and looking unsettlingly grim. Nothing I hadn�t expected. In the middle of the prominent first row sit�s an important-looking man, watching me with particular interest. I gather he must be the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the Judge, so to speak. Grachev, I think his name was. Very young to be the Head of the department, he is barely in his forties. I resist the urge to snort.
When the noise has ceased completely, Grachev clears his throat. �Draco Malfoy,� he begins, his deep voice sounding impressively through the room. �You have been accused for murder, torture, the persecution of Muggleborns as well as Muggles, siding with Dark Wizards, and plotting against the Ministry of Magic. How do you plead?�
I do not answer. It is pointless, really, as I will be put under effect of Veritaserum soon enough anyway. The tension in the room increases with each second I remain silent, and I feel myself shrink under the microscope of these peoples gazes. Still, I fight to remain unmoved.
�Very well, then,� Grachev mutters disappointedly, gesturing towards the side of the room where two unfamiliar Aurors are waiting, carrying a small wooden chest between them. The two men approach me, their steps echoing against the stone floor. I feel the hair on my neck rise, and my nails digging painfully into my palms. In spite of myself I feel myself shiver from fear. As much as my instincts tell me to flee, I remain still, knowing a struggle would end in nothing but fruitless humiliation.
The men have reached my chair and put the chest down beside me. I notice how they try very hard not to look me in the eyes. Their fear to face me gives me some strength, and I stare at them both pointedly to make them as uncomfortable as possible.
�Administer the Veritaserum,� I hear Grachev�s voice, and before I have time to react a sweaty, hot hand has grabbed me roughly by the chin and forced my jaw slack. I don�t have the time to do anything, before I feel three drops of tasteless liquid land on my tongue. Then the hand lets go of my jaw, and the two men step away. I fight the urge to spit, knowing it wouldn�t do any good.
For a moment I wonder if they used the wrong potion. I do not feel any different. I thought I would experience a loss of self-awareness or lose touch of reality in some way. But I feel entirely the same as before.
�State your name,� Grachev orders, breaking me out of my thoughts.
�Draco Lucius Abraxas Malfoy,� I hear a terrible, raspy voice answer, long before I even realise it is I who have spoken. And I immediately understand the vileness of this potion. It allows me to be fully aware of myself and my surroundings. I just don�t have any control of what I say.
I notice that a Court Scribe to the jury podium�s left is writing down every word that is said. Something that disturbs me almost as much as being under the influence of Veritaserum.
�Are you a Death Eater?� is the next question. And just like before, that unfamiliar voice, that hoarse, strange voice that does not belong to me answers:
�Yes.�

That couldn�t have been a surprise to anyone, really.

�Why did you join He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?�
�Father told me to, and I did, even though I was barely sixteen at the time and far too young. I failed my mission, and spent the next years making up for my mistake.� The words leave my mouth numbly, no emotion of any kind attached to them. I wonder if the reason is the Veritaserum, or the fact that I have a hard time feeling anything at all when thinking about that time in my life.
The Judge furrows his brow at me. �What was your mission?�
�To kill Albus Dumbledore.�
Another shock goes through the audience, the gasp louder this time. Grachev ignores it.
�But you failed?�
�Yes.�
�Have you ever killed anyone?�
�Yes.� Is the immediate answer, and I do not even bother to try and fight it. I have no control of myself, and all I now can seem to do is marvel at the fact that these words I hear spoken are actually coming from me.
�Muggles or Muggleborns?�
�Both.�
�How many?�
�I don�t know.� Well, that sounded bad. I can hear the sounds of shocked intakes of breath that erupt from every corner of the room. As if murder is more justified if one keeps count of his victims.
The Judge�s voice doesn�t seem affected, which somehow is a small relief. �Why did you kill those people?�
That was an unexpected question. But as before, there is no need for me to think about the answer. �Because I was told to. Sometimes it was previously decided, sometimes there happened to be more people there than expected. It did not matter, we weren�t allowed to leave witnesses.� My voice gets even raspier by the end of the sentence, and I am forced to double over in a fit of coughing. I spit a drop of blood down onto the floor before I am able to sit up straight again.
Grachev�s expression doesn�t change, but he takes a longer break before he continues. This time, the topic he begins is unexpected.
�Is it true that you held Harry Potter hostage during a period of ninety-eight days four years ago?�
�Yes.� Again, the words leave my mouth without delay. Shocked gasps are heard from everywhere, and I am surprised to find that it seems hardly anyone knew about this. The Ministry did a great job covering it up.
�Is it also true that you helped him escape?�
This time the audience doesn�t wait of my response to react. Disbelieving comments are heard from everywhere around me, and I don�t know whether to feel offended that they don�t believe me to be capable of anything even meagrely �good�, or proud that my Malfoy-image has remained so thoroughly intact.
Still, the poison in my veins leaves me no option of what to answer.
�Yes.�
�Why?� Grachev asks immediately, efficiently silencing the voices in the room, all eager to hear my answer.
At this point, only one thought roams my brain.

Shit.

�I did not want him to die. I loved him.�

End of part IV
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Salt in Our Wounds