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It's Just A Tale	By : ehcie0utada Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 3026 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series belong to J.K. Rowling. All credits should go to her...the money as well. I don't get any profit for writing this fic.

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DISCLAIMER: The Harry Potter series belong to J.K. Rowling. All credits should go to her.

WARNING: DH SPOILERS…well, basically all the HP books are spoiled here.

This is a response to the 36 Dramatic Situations Challenge by Incessant_Darkness.

It’s Just A Tale

By reiAlethea

Chapter 3: Forlorn

"Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds."

George Eliot

Ever since Ron became his best friend, Harry was treated as part of the family. For the entirety of his adolescent years, he became so close to the Weasleys that it came to a point where it had become natural for them to show how they were at home. Harry has seen most of it from Mrs. Weasley, who chastised her children numerous times in front of him. Luckily for him, although he was treated like a son, there never was a time when he had been the subject of Mrs. Weasley’s infamous face-melting glares. At that moment, however, Mrs. Weasley’s very deadpan stare, which was usually reserved only for her mischief-making children, was the first he has ever seen directed at him.

Harry felt fazed. He had done it, he thought; not only did he make Ron mad, he also finally made Mrs. Weasley angry. A million ugly outcomes were already forming in his mind, and he braced himself for the inevitable.

Mrs. Weasley’s expression softened somewhat. “Your coffee’s gone cold, dear,” she said, glancing at Harry’s half-empty cup, “why don’t you grab that. I’ll pour you a fresh cup.”

Harry’s mind went blank. The sudden amiable expression on Mrs. Weasley’s face caught him off guard. He was expecting to see fury in Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, followed by a never-ending sermon that could have put any priest to shame, but the outcome that he was so sure would happen did not come to fruition. Confused but not wanting to argue, Harry got up from his seat, carried the cup, and trailed behind Mrs. Weasley towards the kitchen. As he set his cup on the sink, he thought the situation was better than he expected, and he silently thanked the heavens for it.

“Now, before you apologize for some fault I know nothing about,” Mrs. Weasley started while floating the kettle on the stove and setting down two clean cups on the table, “why don’t you explain to me what happened?”

Harry almost thought he was already off the hook, but apparently it was just the beginning. Having no choice, he complied and sat across her. He still didn’t know how to start telling the red-haired woman the reason of her son’s outburst nevertheless. Maybe describing the setting would buy him time, he thought.

“We’re just playing wizard’s chess and talking, Mrs. Weasley…”

“Yes, I can see that,” said Mrs. Weasley, “but go on Harry.”

He had no choice. He fiddled with his fingers nervously. “Then...I, well, I told them about the letter I got…from Malfoy’s lawyer.”

“By Malfoy, you mean the little one, Draco?” she asked. When Harry nodded feebly, Mrs. Weasley’s face showed bewilderment. “So what is in the letter, dear?”

“He’s in Azkaban now,” replied Harry, “for being a Death Eater and allegedly killing Professor Dumbledore.”

“That much is expected,” she said. Harry nodded.

“Well, he’s having a trial next week…and…”

“Yes?” Mrs. Weasley’s eyes crinkled with curiosity.

Harry bit his lip.

“…well, he asked me to testify…for him.”

The kettle whistled loudly, but it took a few seconds before Mrs. Weasley noticed the noise. With a wave of her wand, she hastily whisked away the kettle from the stove and poured coffee into the cups. Harry noticed a few drops of the umber-colored liquid spill on the scrubbed table surface.

Mrs. Weasley became silent, seemingly pensive with the information disclosed to her. “Are you going to testify?” she asked, her voice almost inaudible.

Harry hung his head. He hasn’t really decided yet. He strongly wanted to accept it, but there were so many things to consider, one being the Weasley’s reaction. When he got the letter he was sure it would trigger a negative effect, and Ron’s outburst a few minutes ago was enough testament of what he feared. The Weasleys had already endured so much emotion during the past few days that he simply didn’t have the heart to bring any more news that would further their pain.

Harry was silent for some time, and Mrs. Weasley couldn’t help but sigh. She knew Harry wanted to testify but was concerned of their feelings as well, and she felt sorry for the boy for being caught in the middle.

“I know you want to, Harry. And you should.”

He looked at Mrs. Weasley with surprised eyes. “You’re not mad at me, Mrs. Weasley?” he asked.

“Nonsense, Harry! Why would I be?” Mrs. Weasley replied. “Want your coffee with milk and sugar?”

Harry nodded again. A sugar bowl and a bottle of milk came floating out of the fridge a second later. Mrs. Weasley was helping herself with two sugar cubes when she continued. “You’re not hurting anybody, Harry,” she reassured, “if you’re thinking of Ron, don’t worry about it. He’s just having a hard time accepting Fred’s passing, but he’ll come around eventually.”

Harry hadn’t expected Mrs. Weasley to take the situation so easily. She was Fred’s mom after all. He half-expected her to be more emotional about the predicament than any member of the family. But this rather unusual understanding on her part he simply couldn’t understand.

“But you know Malfoy’s a Death Eater.”

Mrs. Weasley’s face became a little somber. “Yes I do,” she replied, “but that doesn’t mean he did what the other Death Eaters did.” She paused for a moment, seemingly weighing the words she’s going to utter next. “As a matter of fact, I think he joined because he had no choice. Even though Fred’s death is caused by that wretched group he is part of, I don’t blame him for it. Fred’s death is not his doing, and I believe too that he didn’t kill anybody, including Dumbledore. I really do pity that boy.”

Harry watched in amazement as Mrs. Weasley sipped her coffee. When he thought such outcome was not possible, here it was, happening right in front of him. He felt a more profound respect for Mrs. Weasley. Despite the loss of her son, it didn’t stop her from being compassionate even towards an enemy.

She noticed Harry looking at her and smiled. “Dear, you should add some milk and sugar to your coffee before it gets cold,” she said.

He stammered a hasty “sorry,” which made Mrs. Weasley chuckle. Everything seemed to go well, but Harry still felt unsettled. Ron was still mad at him, and he couldn’t think of any way to appease his friend’s anger. He didn’t blame him for reacting that way, but as he looked at the milk slowly dissolving in his cup, he couldn’t help wishing that the redhead reacted the same way as his mom either.

Things were never easy for him ever since the beginning. But as he sat there, drinking coffee with Mrs. Weasley in the Burrow’s kitchen, he wondered when that pattern would end.

***

Harry twisted and turned that night. The black bed sheet had crumpled, the comforter twisted to knots, but still The-Boy-Who-Lived-Twice couldn’t sleep. Images of earlier events in The Burrow still perturbed him, particularly his rout with Ron.

Ron looked piercingly at Harry. “Doesn’t Fred’s death mean anything to you, Harry?” he asked grudgingly. “What about Professor Lupin? Tonks? Don’t their deaths mean anything to you?”

Harry sighed. “Ron, it’s not Malfoy who killed them – ”

“HE IS STILL ONE OF THEM!”

Hours had already passed, but he could still see the flaming orbs that were Ron’s eyes at the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t suppress a shudder at the thought. The redhead hasn’t been talking to him, and Hermione, being stuck in the middle of the fight, couldn’t do anything but keep quiet. Mrs. Weasley’s support surprised and relieved him, but he still felt unsettled. He knew he shouldn’t have divulged the letter because of the possibility of a misunderstanding. However, not telling them felt wrong either.

Harry gave up the idea of getting sleep and instead got up from the messed-up bed. He groped for his wand on top of the wooden bedside drawer and with a flick, the light turned on. He pulled a white parchment out of the same drawer, and as he slipped on his glasses, he unfolded and read the contents of the letter again.

Dear Mr. Harry Potter,

Good day to you! I’m Leander Apollo Wight, defense lawyer of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I’m writing in behalf of my client, Mr. Draco Malfoy, who is currently detained in Azkaban for allegedly murdering Albus Dumbledore and participating in the Death Eaters’ crimes. He will have a trial this coming Friday, June 5, and he personally requested me for your assistance as a witness to the case.

The trial will be held at exactly 4:00 pm in the Ministry of Magic courtroom 10. If you wish to assist in any way, please send an owl to me no later than June 3.

My client is hoping for your kind consideration.

Sincerely,

Leander Apollo Wight

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Ministry of Magic

He read the letter over and over again, still indecisive. He still didn’t know whether he should testify or not. He hadn’t exactly been on good terms with Malfoy since they both stepped into Hogwarts, so it wouldn’t make a difference if he refused. However, there was a gnawing feeling that he should help his former archenemy despite everything. Mrs. Weasley’s words echoed in his mind, and as much as he hated to admit it, he shared the same sentiment: Malfoy had been the victim. He knew Malfoy was innocent, so telling the Wizengamot the truth was just the right thing to do. Not doing so would only make him feel guilty.

But in testifying, wouldn’t he also feel guilt for somehow betraying Ron, his family, and most especially, his godson Teddy?

He sighed heavily. The battle to testify or not raged on in his head, making him more and more confused. Harry looked at the calendar hanging on the wall. There were still some days left before the trial, plenty of time to think about it…

A sudden pop roused him from his thoughts. When he looked up from the letter he was reading, Kreacher was already bowing so low in front of him that Harry thought his snout-like nose touched the floor.

“Kreacher apologizes for coming at this hour, Master,” croaked the elf, “but a letter of urgent nature just arrived for you.”

The wrinkly house elf pulled an envelope under the snowy white towel draped over his thin chest. “Thanks Kreacher. You may go,” said Harry as he got the letter from Kreacher’s outstretched hands. The elf bowed low once more then disappeared with a faint pop. Harry unfolded the letter that has been handed to him and read.

Dear Harry,

How are you? I’m sorry if I wrote to you at such an hour, but I have to speak to you immediately about important matters. If you’re still up, firecall me in my home.

Truly yours,

Kingsley Shacklebolt

He wondered what Kingsley meant by important matters, but since he knew there was no way he was going to get some sleep anytime soon, he immediately ran downstairs towards the living room fireplace. On his way down he saw Kreacher currently wiping the frame of Mrs. Black’s covered portrait.

The jar of floo powder stood beside the fireplace, ready for use. Harry got a handful and threw it in the dying embers. A roaring green flame suddenly sprang forth, and he stuck his head inside the flames, seeing the flames lick at a few of his bangs.

“Shacklebolt Flat.”

In an instant, a view of Shacklebolt’s home appeared in front of him. Frames of colorful abstract art pieces were hanging on the clean white wall. Black cloth blinds covered the large vertical window. A black modern sectional sofa adorned with red and white square pillows lay in the middle of the room. A cream-colored rectangular carpet covered part of the oak hardwood floor, and lying on top of it was a small black coffee table with a white bowl filled with red and green apples.

Kingsley came into view a few seconds later. Judging from the cloak he’s wearing, it looked like he just came from work.

“Hi Kingsley,” said Harry, “you wanted to talk to me about something?”

Kingsley gave a small smile. “Yes,” he said. “But if it’s not too much trouble for you, I’d like you to step into my home for a few minutes to talk about it.”

Harry nodded and removed his head from the fireplace, only to step into the green flames once more. He felt a strong wind blow against him, followed by a forceful tug in his gut for a brief moment before he found himself standing in Kingsley’s fireplace.

“It’s good to see you Harry,” Kingsley greeted as Harry stepped out of the fireplace and dusted himself.

Harry shook his outstretched hand and smiled. “It’s good to see you too Kingsley,” he replied. He surveyed the room and thought that although it looked modest, it was well put-together.

Kingsley led him to the awaiting sofa and gestured for him to sit down. “Do you want anything to drink?” he asked.

“No thanks,” replied Harry. “So what is this important matter that you want to tell me?”

Kingsley sat down a few seats away from Harry. “I have some terrific news,” he started, “I made a few arrangements with the Auror Department a few days ago. They are ecstatic to welcome you to the group, and come Monday you will already start training under them.”

Harry was speechless. He had dreamed of becoming an Auror since he stepped into Hogwarts, but the war and not attending his last year at Hogwarts put the dream to a halt. He thought it was impossible for him to reach his goal. However, Kingsley’s wonderful news brought hope in him again.

“I…I can’t believe it,” he stammered. His smile widened more, and Kingsley beamed at him just the same. “Thanks a lot Kingsley. That’s the best news indeed.” He shook Kingsley’s hand one more time with gusto.

“And there’s more,” added Kingsley as they broke the handshake, “Ron and Neville will also be under the training of the Auror Department.”

Harry’s smile melted.

“Is something the matter, Harry?”

Harry sighed. Images of Ron’s angry face surfaced in his mind once more. “It’s nothing Kingsley,” he said. “I’m just really tired.” Harry thought it best not to tell Kingsley about the letter he received. There had been too much feedback already from his friends that he dared not receive another one from the current Minister of Magic.

Kingsley looked at him quizzically, but didn’t press any further. “I apologize for cutting your rest short, Harry. Don’t worry, I would make this very brief,” he continued. “Since you will be under the training of Aurors and will be constantly going on trips, I also arranged for your added protection. Starting tomorrow, two Aurors will escort you until you finish your training.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” he said, but Kingsley’s face was serious.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “No. Definitely not. I can take care of myself, you know that.”

“Yes I do,” Kingsley replied, “but there are still a lot of Death Eaters out there. We can’t risk your safety.” Harry strongly disliked the idea. Memories of last summer were still vivid in his mind. He consented with the Order to use six people, most of which were his closest friends, as decoys in transporting him to safety. The death of Mad-Eye Moody and the injury George got in that ordeal left him guilt-stricken until the present. He didn’t want to relive that moment again. He didn’t want anyone to risk their lives for his safety.

“Kingsley, I don’t want anyone to be killed on my behalf anymore. Please.”

“I’m sorry Harry,” Kingsley cut short, “but until Death Eaters still roam freely on this land, the decision is final. The Aurors will be in Grimmauld Place tomorrow morning.”

Harry felt furious. There was too much to handle already, and now this: Aurors, at the prime of their career, risking their very lives to protect him. The horrors he endured just last year threatened to come back once more. The good news divulged to him earlier seemed miles away.

“I’ve think I’ve heard enough for the night, Kingsley. I’d better go.” He stood up abruptly from the couch and paced quickly towards the fireplace. He was too frustrated to even notice that Kingsley tried to stop and pacify him. With a loud bellow of “Grimmauld Place,” Harry was back in the Black’s living room.

He dashed to his room and flopped on his bed. There had been too many ups and downs for one whole day, and the beginnings of a dull headache pounded in his forehead. The peace and quiet he so achingly yearned was gone in an instant. And it was all because of…

His hand landed on the white parchment sprawled on the crumpled sheet. Malfoy’s letter lay on top of the bed, dog-eared and heavily creased. As soon as he figured out what it was, he couldn’t help but swear at it. Ever since the letter came, all kinds of horrible outcome and memories surfaced. They were already out of Hogwarts, but still, the ferret-boy managed to annoy and ruin his composure.

He snatched the letter grudgingly and walked towards the wooden desk littered with a stack of books. And after pulling a parchment out of the drawer, he scribbled a hasty reply.

***

Midnight had fallen in Azkaban. Draco was curled up in the corner of his cell, his pale fists clenched tightly, and the knuckles bloodied and bruised. A wave of pain and hopelessness washed over him as seconds ticked away towards his looming trial. He was certainly doomed, and on his birthday too. ‘What a lovely way to spend my eighteenth birthday,’ he thought. Try as he might, the images of the events a few hours ago swam in his mind.

Four days had passed since he was in the visitor’s chamber. After the letter was given to him eleven days ago, he had two consecutive meetings with Mister Wight regarding the case. However, the lawyer managed to disappear without a word regarding his witnesses.

Now he was back again in the same room, sitting on the same chair, with the same brown-haired lawyer looking intently at him.

“I’m sorry to be the giver of bad news,” Mister Wight started, the familiar melodious voice echoing around him. “Regarding your witnesses, Mister Blaise Zabini and Miss Pansy Parkinson declined your offer.”

A pang of hurt coursed through Draco. It was typical of Blaise to save his own skin first when things turn to the worse, but he wasn’t expecting Pansy to join in as well. ‘Her parents might have prevented her,’ he said to himself. He wouldn’t exactly expect Pansy’s parents to eagerly save a Death Eater, would they? Of course they would protect their daughter from harm and prevent their name from being tarnished. He knew most people would quickly distance themselves from suspected Death Eaters for fear of being associated with them, most especially after the War. The tables have turned, he thought bitterly: the Death Eaters had become the outcasts of Wizard society.

He looked at his lawyer sitting in front of him. Even if he wanted to show his disappointment, he couldn’t. No, he shouldn’t. Malfoys weren't supposed to show emotion. Malfoys weren’t supposed to show weakness.

“That’s not all," said Mr. Wight. He took an envelope out of his robes pocket and pushed it across the table to Draco. "This came from Mister Harry Potter."

Draco stared at the yellow envelope and, with fumbling hands, opened the letter. He quickly read the contents of the parchment.

Dear Mr. Wight,

I received your letter, and I will think about it. I will keep in touch as soon as I made my decision.

Harry Potter

Draco placed the letter on top of the wooden table; his face remained stoic. Mister Wight resumed on clasping his hands in front of his chin.

"I meant to give this to you sooner, but I thought it best to wait,” he explained, “I received this letter five days ago, and I waited everyday for a reply. But I haven't received a single letter since then."

Draco felt his heart wrench tightly. ‘What was there to expect, Draco?’ he said to himself. He tried to convince himself that he saw this coming, but he couldn’t deny the fact that he was more disappointed. No, disappointment was too light a word to explain his emotion. He felt betrayed, hurt, and he didn’t know why he was feeling so towards the man who had been his enemy from the start.

His cold, emotionless mask was giving way when the prison guard walked in to collect the prisoner. For once he was relieved of the guard's interruption, and as he slowly stood up, he requested something from the lawyer one last time.

"Can I keep the letter?"

Mister Wight sighed and stood up too. "It's yours, Mister Malfoy. But I think the officials will examine it first before giving it to you."

"I understand," he replied. "Would you please give it to the officials then? I will wait for the letter." With that he walked alongside the prison guard and the Dementor, leaving the brown-haired lawyer brooding in the chamber again.

Draco shifted his gaze to the torn pieces of paper lying some few inches away from him. A well of anger surged within him once again and he pounded his fist on the stone wall. He thought that there was hope for freedom. He blindly hoped that Harry Potter, the one person whom he taunted, will miraculously leave the past behind and help him. He thought noble Harry Potter will care.

He thought Harry Potter will save him just as he saved the Wizarding World.

He thought Harry Potter will save him once more…

But the letter showed him that he didn’t know any better.

‘What were you expecting Draco? A sudden change of heart?’ he seethed. ‘You think Harry-Fucking-Potter will save you again? Accept it Draco. You’re doomed to die here in Azkaban. No one will save you. Not even The Savior of the Wizarding World.’

Warm tears trickled down his cheeks without his bidding. Why did it hurt so much? With his head bowed in defeat, he sobbed for the first time in two years.

***

It was the afternoon of June 5. The sun glowed to a fiery orange, and everyone at the Ministry tarried with their work. But unbeknownst to all, a tarrying of different nature occurred deep in the Ministry dungeons.

A crowd of Ministry officials were squabbling amongst themselves as they await the person to be tried. Dressed in neatly pressed minister robes, Kingsley Shacklebolt resumed his seat in the middle of the front row bench. Mister Wight stood on the right side of the room, leaning on the railing that divided the Wizengamot benches from the prisoner’s arena.

When the door swung open, an eerie silence enveloped the room.

Draco Malfoy entered the room with two Dementors lazily floating and two Aurors looming behind. He traipsed and sat at the lone chair placed in the middle of the room. He chanced a look and saw a multitude of faces glaring at him. His face showed no signs of emotion, but deep inside, he winced at the harsh stares.

Kingsley looked at the pale blond man briefly and unfolded the roll of parchment before starting. “The accused being present, let us begin. Are you ready, Mister Malfoy?”

“Yes,” replied Draco. Kingsley nodded in acknowledgement.

“Disciplinary hearing of the 5th of June,” Kingsley’s voice resounded, “into the offences committed under the Decree for the Unlawful Termination of Life using Magic and the Decree for the Anti-Terror Magical Movement by Mister Draco Malfoy, resident at Malfoy Manor…”

The words became warped in Draco’s mind. ‘There is no hope for redemption now,’ he thought as he looked at the magically-induced handcuffs binding his wrists. He didn’t know if the feeling of hopelessness was brought about by the presence of the Dementors, the sullen atmosphere in the dungeon, or the fact that no one will be present in his trial to clear up his name.

“Interrogators: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic; Justin Asher Kraft, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Akari Wakahisa, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister; Ford Artemis Bowler, Court Scribe ; Leander Apollo Wight, lawyer for the defense.”

Mister Wight started to pace in front of the Wizengamot, and the people sitting on the rows of benches gazed at the brown-haired lawyer with interest.

Kingsley Shacklebolt cleared his throat momentarily before resuming the speech. “Mister Wight, are there any witnesses you would want to call for the defense?” said the Minister. Draco saw Wight’s brows furrow and the creases on his forehead deepen. The scratchy sound of writing echoed inside the courtroom.

Mister Wight was about to open his mouth to speak when the door creaked open. The shadowed faces of the Wizengamot shifted to the entering man. A buzz in the crowd drowned the scribbling sound.

Draco turned around to take a look too. The contrast of light hid the man’s face, and for a moment he could not decipher who entered the room. But as the door shut, he was surprised to see the very last person he expected to come.

The buzz instantly died down as a clear, deep voice resonated in the room. The court scribe resumed his writing.

“Witness for the defense, Harry James Potter.”

TBC

***

A/N: Thanks Akira for the review! Yay! I finally got my first review!

All kinds of reviews are most welcome. Come on readers, give me some love! Press the review link and let me know what you think about the story so far.

Anyway, thanks for reading!

--- rei
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It's Just A Tale