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The Werewolf	By : chedevy Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 9799 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Friday; 29 May 1998, 9:40 a.m.
12 Grimmauld Place
It was the date of Draco Malfoy’s trial. Hermione knew from the papers that his father’s had been the day before, and she also knew that Lucius was given conviction of a year in Azkaban. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that short a sentence for Malfoy Senior. Although it was widely publicised that he had denounced the Death Eaters in the end, if only at the last minute, Hermione found the fact that Lucius still had served Voldemort for a very long time impossible to forget.
“Are you ready, Hermione?” a voice asked from behind her.
“Yes, Harry,” Hermione answered as she stood up from Harry’s settee and straightened her knee-long pencil skirt. Her bespectacled friend was standing by the doorframe, fiddling with the cuffs of his crisp, white shirt while simultaneously trying to put on his unusually polished shoes. Hermione watched him with some amusement, very unaccustomed to seeing Harry Potter in much other than woollen jumpers and worn-down sneakers, or Hogwarts school robes.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Harry said, glancing up at her. “I had some trouble with this cursed tie,” he pointed to said garment, tied a bit haphazardly around his neck. “I swear the blasted thing’s got a mind of its own – I’m half convinced it was trying to strangle me. Well, it obviously didn’t know who it was dealing with.”
Hermione rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Of course, oh Chosen One.” Scrutinising Harry’s appearance, she walked over to him and reached to fix his rebellious tie. She stepped away once satisfied with it. “There, better. Now you look neat.”
“Thanks – I figured if I want them to take me seriously, I’d better not look like I don’t care. You don’t look too bad yourself.” She was wearing a modest lilac-coloured shirt that she’d tucked into her skirt, and low-heeled shoes. “Shall we?”
Hermione took his proffered arm, and together they approached the fireplace in the drawing room. Harry let her go first, and so she grabbed a handful of Floo powder, tossed it onto the flames, and intoned loudly, “The Ministry of Magic.” When she stepped into the now green flames, she vanished. Harry followed soon after.

As Harry led the way to Courtroom Ten, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible so as not to attract any attention, Hermione nervously patted down her hair, trailing after him. She couldn’t help it – she was a bit tense. After all, it wasn’t every day that one entered the Ministry Trial Chamber probably filled to the brims with Wizengamot figures. In preparation for this event, she had read all three tomes of The Past, the Present, and the Future of Trial Holding in British Ministry of Magic.
Despite Harry’s attempts to keep his head down, several wizards and witches they passed still managed to recognise him, and occasionally gasps like, “My goodness! Is that Harry Potter?” could be heard. It seemed that Hermione was either less easily identified, or she was simply overshadowed by Harry’s presence, as her name was not uttered nearly as often. For that, she was grateful.
Ignoring the whispers and pointed fingers, they quickly approached the elevator, thankful that it’d just stopped on their level, and they stepped in. Of course, fate wasn’t entirely on their side. The elevator was already occupied by a handful of people.
“Mr Potter? And Miss Granger! I can hardly believe my eyes!”
“Oh, how wonderful! Do you think you could sign here, please, for my son? He is a huge fan of yours!”
“Mr Potter, I’m so delighted to meet you! I cannot express my gratitude...”
Although they were both very happy to be received with such cordiality, the elevator couldn’t descend to Level Ten fast enough. When they finally got off, Harry was smiling, but he looked tired. Hermione knew he was never comfortable with crowds.
The corridor they were in now was empty and bare, and they walked up it in silence. As they climbed down a flight of stairs leading them closer and closer to their destination, Hermione was becoming increasingly nervous. They were very deep underground, in what looked like dungeons – the walls were made of rough stone, and there were torches along them. At last, Harry stopped in front of an ominous-looking door with a heavy handle. “It’s here,” he said quietly. “Ready?”
Hermione nodded, urging him to open the door. With a last glance at her, Harry did.
The courtroom was, as she had expected, full of people. About half a dozen figures sat on the benches on either side of the room, the ones on the right seeming anxious, while those on the left looked rather vindictive – it was clear they were witnesses who had given testimonies in favour and against Malfoy, respectively. At the front of the room, where the shadows were more pronounced, there were rows of higher benches. It was where the members of the Wizengamot sat, as well as the representatives of the Council of Magical Law.
Harry and Hermione made their way towards the right side of the room, and they took their seats. A notable change from the past was that the courtroom was no longer swarmed with the Dementors; it was Kingsley Shacklebolt’s handiwork, Hermione knew. After the war, thanks to Kingsley’s determination to better the Wizarding Britain, several modifications had been introduced to the Ministry, one of which was banning the Dementors from guarding Azkaban and its inmates. The dark-skinned wizard had been elected a temporary Minister for Magic not long after Voldemort’s demise, and by the look of things, soon his position was going to become permanent.
Hermione noticed Harry looking around the courtroom with similar curiosity, but before she could open her mouth to say something, she heard footsteps. The door in the corner of the room opened, and three figures walked in. There was no mistaking the white-blond hair belonging to the tall young man in the middle.
Draco Malfoy, Hermione was surprised to see, didn’t look unkempt or dirty like she had expected. He was wearing a set of impeccable, clearly expensive robes, the fabric of which seemed to be the blackest of black, and while some strands of his hair were sticking up as if he’d run his hands through it, she could tell he had slicked it back before the hearing. He was still quite thin, his skin had a grey tinge to it, and there were shadows under his eyes, but all things considered, he looked better than during Voldemort’s reign. That, and the fact that he had access to his own clothing and toiletries, indicated he hadn’t been kept in Azkaban prior to the trial.
Nevertheless, he wasn’t giving the impression of being too pleased. Malfoy was scowling at the dreary guards at his sides who were holding each of his arms in what came across as an unnecessarily strong grip. They led him to the centre of the room where a single, menacing-looking chair stood in plain sight, and once there, they practically threw him onto it. Instantly, chains sprung up ostensibly from nowhere, startling the disgruntled teen as they sneaked up his black-clad forearms and bound them tightly to the armrests, rendering him harmless. Malfoy shot the guards a glare like they were bugs he desperately wanted to squash, but was too disgusted to touch.
“Draco Malfoy,” a familiar, deep and soothing voice called from the front of the courtroom, prompting Malfoy to look up. It was only then that Hermione realised Kingsley was already present, sitting right in the centre of the highest bench. “You are here to answer charges pertaining to participating in the Death Eater’ activities. The evidence for and against you has already been gathered, and we only need your own testimony to pass judgement. What do you have to say in your defence?”
Clearly, the information that there were witnesses testifying in his favour was new to Malfoy. He frowned slightly, turning his head to regard the people sitting on the right side of the room (those on the left side, he didn’t spare a glance.) Hermione, who for a while now had been aware of Narcissa Malfoy sitting several metres away from her, only now noticed Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott seated even further down the bench. Malfoy saw them, too (he appeared a bit taken aback) but then, he spotted Harry and Hermione. His jaw fell open.
While they’d received many curious glances since entering the room, it was nothing compared to Malfoy’s unveiled disbelief. His brow still slightly furrowed, he gaped incredulously, flicking his eyes from one part of the Golden Trio to the other, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. When he finally shook off his surprise after several seconds, he closed his mouth, blinked a few times, and then turned back to the Minister, his expression now rather wary. Hermione had to bite back a smirk.
“Well, sir,” Malfoy began, after clearing his throat. “I have only one thing to say.” When he spoke again, his voice was deeper with, presumably, sombreness. “It’s that there is not a day I don’t regret my bad decisions and misdeeds.”
Hermione frowned now – his words sounded a little too practised. Meanwhile, Malfoy lowered his blonde head. “The guilt I feel is agonising,” he confessed in a voice that was a little too loud. “Every morning, I’m flooded by remorse for my formidable actions, and nothing could possibly express my penitence for those I have wronged,” he said. “I have made many mistakes since joining the Dark– You-Know-Who’s supporters... And now, these mistakes are just tearing me apart.”
Malfoy paused here, evidently aiming for a dramatic effect. To Hermione’s amazement, when he looked up at Kingsley again, his face was the picture of childlike gullibility. “I regret what I’ve done, sir,” he repeated. “I realise forgiveness is probably too much to wish for, which pains me greatly... but I can only hope that one day I’ll be able to atone for my sins. I want very badly to make amends, sir,” he declared. “I’d like nothing more than to do that as a free man – not in Azkaban.” And he hung his head, as though resigned to whatever fate that would befall him.
Tight-lipped, Hermione had listened to this with no small amount of incredulity, disgust, and a fraction of dismayed amusement. What was this idiot doing? His words sounded awfully unctuous and insincere, and his wide-eyed look only made him come across as greedy for freedom. Hermione could see right through his tormented facade, and she was sure Kingsley could, too.
Suddenly, she wasn’t very certain if testifying in Malfoy’s favour was the right thing to do. Admittedly, she may not have expected him to renounce all his erroneous beliefs concerning pure-blood supremacy, and hoping for the foolish boy’s total redemption was spreading it on thick, but she’d really thought she had caught a glimpse of genuine regret in Malfoy during the war. Surely, the fact that he, even mindful of consequences, had been unable to kill Dumbledore implied there was some inward goodness in him. With the farce Malfoy was making now, though, she had to wonder again just what she was doing, sitting on this bench.
Malfoy was a coward, a racist pig, and a cruel bully, but she’d never considered him incorrigibly evil. As a Marked Death Eater, however, it was very unlikely he’d been allowed to just sit at the Dark Lord’s table and do nothing; although Hermione couldn’t have possibly known any details, she had a vague idea on what basis Voldemort had operated. Malfoy had been forced to torture people. He had probably, at some point, contributed to someone’s death. While she was quite convinced of all this, she also had no doubt that, at least on some level, he felt real remorse for some of the things he had done.
Either way, he was going completely wrong about earning the Wizengamot’s sympathy. Clearly, he had no experience nor a slightest clue on how to appeal to people for forgiveness.
Luckily for Malfoy, Kingsley decided to give him another chance (though not before offering him a very sceptical look.) “We shall see about that,” the Minister said unconvincingly, but eyed Malfoy with some speculation. “Mr Malfoy, we have been provided with some evidence that you were reluctant to partake in the Death Eaters’ activities. What do you say to that?”
Malfoy just stared up at Kingsley for a while, and then cleared his throat once more. He was giving the impression of being rather uncomfortable with this subject. “Yes,” he muttered. “I... Yes.” And he grew silent. Evidently, this was not a part of the little speech he’d learned by heart – he was speaking more quietly now, and his eyes were down. “But He didn’t take no for an answer. Of course I had to do what he told me to.”
Malfoy paused again, alternating between glancing at his lap, at Kingsley, and to the sides, and he looked suddenly edgy – not at all like during his earlier grovelling. He took a deep breath, but his next words were somewhat hurried, as if he expected Voldemort to suddenly emerge out of thin air. “You must understand it’s a lifelong commitment – being a Death Eater, that is,” he said. “There’s no way out once you become one. If you’re suspected of treachery or defection, the punishment is death. I... I knew this. I had no choice but to...” Here, Malfoy sighed explosively, as if irritated with his inability to express himself. His foot was tapping a tattoo in the stone floor.
“I didn’t enjoy it,” he drawled, glancing at the ceiling. At the statement, three witches on the lowest bench broke into whispers, but Malfoy merely shot them an irritated glance before continuing. “I didn’t. I thought it would be different, I thought... But then I was already one of them. I had the Mark burned into my arm, and I couldn’t just get up and leave. The Dark Lord is– was rather, ah, severe, to those who opposed him, even to his followers. There was always punishment.” He swallowed visibly at that, and shivered. Hermione noticed that in spite of the war being over, he still appeared to fear Voldemort – it was in the way he chose his words so carefully, and in the obvious avoidance of voicing the Dark Lord’s name. He licked his lips nervously, shook his head, and exhaled nasally. “I was sixteen when I joined. Well, it wasn’t like I’d have a choice, anyway, was it? But... it didn’t take me long to – to regret it.”
And this time, it actually sounded sincere. Malfoy seemed to have forgotten his earlier pretence entirely, and while his voice was deep now, too, it was void of that obnoxious falsity. An emotion similar to pride rose in Hermione’s chest when he finished speaking, and for some reason, her eyes were becoming damp. Beside her, Harry looked sombre and somewhat thoughtful, and from the corner of her vision, she could see Mrs Malfoy crying soundlessly into a handkerchief.
“Very well,” Kingsley said at last. “Your testimony will be taken into account, Mr Malfoy. The Council will now proceed with passing verdict.” Stiffening, Malfoy appeared to hold in his breath, just like Hermione did – she felt oddly moved by this whole event. “Those in favour of an Azkaban sentence will please raise their hands...”
About fifty or sixty members of the jury raised their hands, however in the a sea of two hundreds witches and wizards they were quite a minority. Hermione watched as Malfoy, bound as he was, visibly sagged in his chair in relief, and she couldn’t restrain a smile. Beaming, she turned to Harry to see him already regarding her with half-curiosity, half-amusement, and she shrugged unconcernedly. All around them, whispers were erupting – after all, it wasn’t often that a confirmed Death Eater managed to elude Azkaban after a trial. Come next morning, the news was sure to make the papers.
This hearing wasn’t over yet, however. “Those in favour of another punishment,” Kingsley’s deep voice rose easily above the noise, and quickly the courtroom became quiet again, “will please raise their hands.”
Nearly the entire jury, on both sides of the room and at the front, raised their hands this time. Malfoy’s previously relaxed countenance returned to wariness; it seemed that while he wouldn’t be spending his nearest future in prison, he definitely wasn’t going to get off scot-free, either.
Kingsley appeared to be assessing the situation, deliberating on an appropriate penalty for someone guilty of unspeakable acts, but undeserving of Azkaban. A frizzy-haired witch sitting next to him leaned in closer to say something quietly, and Kingsley nodded to her when she finished speaking. Then, he addressed the room once more. “Those in favour of a monetary fine,” already the jury were nodding in approval, “of at least 50,000 Galleons, and furthermore, those in favour of a 50,000 Galleons charity donation to war victims, will please raise their hands now...”
If possible, even more hands were raised than before. Malfoy paled considerably, but the Minister didn’t seem content with ending the trial just yet. This time, he spoke directly to the accused. “Mr Malfoy, this Council has it on good authority that you were unable to freely attend school due to being involved in the Death Eaters’ activities...”
Although it went without saying that the subjects taught by the Carrows couldn’t have counted as legitimate classes, the other professors had taught theirs quite efficiently (considering Hogwarts had been run by the Death Eaters.)
“Yes,” Malfoy said with unease. “I was often, ah, held up. I didn’t attend classes often.”
Kingsley looked around at the jury. “According to the current Headmistress of Hogwarts, the renovations are expected to be complete by September this year, and the school should be ready to open without any delay,” he said. “The Headmistress has also come to a conclusion that any seventh year student who wishes to attain their N.E.W.T.s should have a chance to repeat the year.” Again, he spoke to Malfoy, “Mr Malfoy, let me be honest with you – I do not believe, and I think the jury will agree, that you are a redeemed person. However, we don’t consider you irredeemable. The Council has put great faith in you today by not sentencing you to Azkaban, and let it be clear that this decision was based hugely on your age. You are young – the youth are easily impressionable. It was your downfall in the past, but now it can just as readily prove to be a blessing.
“With that being said,” Kingsley was back to addressing the room at large, “I ask those in the jury, who agree with me that a compulsory school attendance until completing education is an adequate penalty for the accused, to please raise their hands.”
For some reason, Malfoy gave the impression of being almost panicky as he looked around himself. Many hands were raised, and they seemed to be in the majority, though not by much. A lot of wizards and witches were visibly very disapproving of this idea – they were shaking their heads and eyeing Malfoy with severe distrust. No doubt some of them had children who also went to Hogwarts, and weren’t very keen on bringing their offspring into the presence of a Death Eater. Either way, they were outvoted. Malfoy was going back. He was paler than ever, which Hermione couldn’t quite understand – was he that afraid to face his peers again, or was there something more?
“And lastly,” the Minister said, quietening down the noise. “As we have heard, the accused expressed an ardent desire to atone for his misdeeds.” Hermione knew where this was going, and she couldn’t help but smirk into her lap; of course Kingsley wasn’t going to let Malfoy’s impudence go overlooked. “Therefore, I urge to raise their hands those in the jury who believe, as I do, that Mr Malfoy’s wish should be gratified. I believe community service is a pertinent solution. Initially, I suggest 250 hours of supervised social work.”
Hermione was sure that this time each and every member of the jury raised their hand. They were also all wearing similar expressions of satisfaction and derision, and she really couldn’t blame them – Malfoy had had it coming all along for the farce he’d made at the beginning of the trial. It’d been downright insulting towards the jury, and judging by the unhappy look on his face, Malfoy realised that, too. Hermione watched without any sympathy as he closed his eyes and tipped his head back, his jaw tightly set. She could only imagine his annoyance with himself.
“Very well,” Kingsley said with a quirk in his mouth. “The details of your penalty will be sent to you via the owl, Mr Malfoy.” He stood up from the bench. “I consider this trial over.”
The Council and the Wizengamot members were all getting up from their seats, so Hermione and Harry did, as well.
“Well,” Harry said to her, “I suppose he got off fairly lightly, considering.” He gave a smirk of his own.
“Yes,” said Hermione. “Especially when you remember he could’ve landed in Azkaban.” She shivered. “Shall we, er, go confront him now or something, do you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know...” Harry was clearly dubious as he looked at Malfoy; the chains binding the blond to the chair had released on their own, and he was now standing beside Mrs Malfoy, massaging his wrists. “I mean, sure, the bloke may not be Azkaban material, but I’m not too keen on budding up with him.”
Hermione nodded, relieved. “Yes, I feel the same way. Let’s get out of here, then. Do you want to stop by The Burrow? Ron must be dying from curiosity, even if he won’t admit it!”
“Sure, The Burrow sounds good,” said Harry. “I was going to drop by anyway... Oh, Ron’s going to be so disappointed when we tell him Malfoy’s going back to Hogwarts,” he snickered. They were moving towards the door, though it was rather crammed and there was a crowd of people before them.
“He’ll be furious, more like,” Hermione said, laughing. “Especially now that we’ve finally convinced him to repeat the year with us. Then again, this might just change his mind – better if we don’t tell him.”
Harry grinned. “And hide all the papers from him tomorrow?”
“Drat, you’re right,” she sighed in mock exasperation. “Oh well, we can’t exactly blame him, though, can we? Malfoy’s a right jerk when he wants to be...” She pondered this for a second. “Actually, no, scratch that. When you think about it, Malfoy’s always a –”
“Granger!”
Hermione stopped in her tracks, nearly tripping. Beside her, Harry grabbed her arm to steady her, and they both turned around towards the source of the voice – it was a very familiar, cold voice.
“Malfoy,” Hermione uttered, as she caught her breath – he’d almost given her a heart attack!
Sure enough, Malfoy was striding towards them with a vexed look on his face and Pansy Parkinson on his arm. They were several metres away, definitely not close enough to have been able to hear Hermione’s words in the bustle of the crowd, but it’d certainly felt that way. The timing in which Malfoy’s voice had cut through hers seemed just a little too convenient.
Once he and Pansy reached them, a silence fell. “Potter,” Malfoy finally drawled.
“Malfoy,” responded Harry.
Malfoy cleared his throat; from up close, standing straight in regal black robes, he looked even taller than before, especially without Crabbe and Goyle’s lumbering forms behind him. “Look – I don’t know what your reason for doing this was. But... Yeah. Thanks.” He scowled, and Hermione wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing – he just didn’t appear grateful at all. Pansy looked like she wanted to flee, even while she clutched her boyfriend’s arm in a vice-like grip.
“Yeah, alright,” Harry said after a beat.
Still scowling, Malfoy turned to leave, but not before he sighed rudely. He froze. Hermione watched, bewildered, as his nostrils flared, seeming to sniff at the air, and his eyebrows drew together, evidently in confusion. He turned back around and fixed his grey stare directly on her. “Have you...” He took another great sniff, ignoring Pansy tugging at his arm. Hermione narrowed her eyes; if he was going to make a Mudblood comment...
But Malfoy didn’t comment at all. In fact, he seemed to come out of a trance. His face coloured slightly. “Forget it,” he snarled at her, and turning around for the third time, finally stalked off, dragging a stuttering Pansy behind him.
Gawking after him, Hermione asked Harry, “What was that about, do you suppose?”
Harry looked equally baffled. “I haven’t got a clue,” he answered. They stood there for a moment. “Well, shall we go?”
“Yes. Yes, let’s go,” said Hermione. She shook her head to clear it before looping her arm through Harry’s. Together, they walked out of the now empty courtroom.

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Just what the heck did Draco want? :D
Kain; hello again, sorry for the late update! It will should interesting indeed, and I hope I'll not disappoint in making it a decent read :D
As for the situation with Lucius Malfoy, I could not agree with you more - Lucius did actually deserve Azkaban. His circumstances were much different from Draco's or Narcissa's. He was a Death Eater for YEARS, he was even Voldemort's right hand-man, he is bound to have murdered people, and still, his punishment was cancelled by the mere fact of having defected at the last second. It wasn't even that he'd suddenly seen the error of his evil ways - he did it for the sake of finding his son.
Although in canon Lucius managed to evade Azkaban completely, I made the man suffer a little for his sins and sent him off to prison for a year... This was no whim - it will serve a role in the later chapters :D
Thank you for the review! I hope you stick with me and continue to read my story! :)
Trelweny; I'm afraid I won't be coming back to repeat the chapter from Draco's POV, but I'll try to plant some of his thoughts on the trial in the future chapters! Thanks for commenting - hope I won't disappoint! :D
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