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Acts of Life	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 21189 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

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Chapter Four—Testifying
            “O-of course we’ll be very interested in what you have to say, Mr. Potter,” stammered the wizard who sat near the front of the Wizengamot in the most sparkling chains, the one Harry was mentally starting to refer to as “the fat one.”
            Harry held back a choke of disbelief. He nodded instead, and turned to smile at Malfoy. He still looked a little stunned.
            Dazzled by me showing up to the rescue, as usual, Harry thought, and smothered a grin. Honestly, between the Fiendfyre and me showing up to get him out of the cell for Snape’s funeral, he ought to be used to this by now.
            “I had a connection with Voldemort that showed him ordering Mr. Malfoy to torture people,” he said, and turned back to the Wizengamot. It was the only time he had ever enjoyed being able to make people flinch with Voldemort’s name. “Other Death Eaters. Thorfinn Rowle was one victim. He also once tortured a woman whose face I didn’t recognize, but she had this scar that ran down one side of her chin, shaped like a star—”
            “Estella Biggs,” said another Wizengamot member at once. “Not a tremendously active Death Eater.”
            “Still looked dangerous,” Harry said, and shrugged. “Mr. Malfoy each time begged not to have to do it. He only did it when Voldemort threatened him with killing his family. That was the motivation for all his acts, you know. Letting Death Eaters into the school and getting the Mark among them.”
            He heard an agitated shuffle from off to the side, as though Malfoy had moved in his chains. Harry didn’t look at him. Maybe Malfoy didn’t like Harry reciting his weaknesses. Too bad.
            We’ll make sure they don’t sentence you to the Dementor’s Kiss, and then we’ll have a discussion about “weakness” and “strength.”
            “That doesn’t make them less wrong,” said the fat one.
            “Of course not,” said Harry, and adopted an earnest face. “I want him punished for what he did! But what he actually did. I don’t want him getting freed later on a technicality.”
            The Wizengamot started shifting and muttering again. Harry looked around with a bright smile. He wanted them to see him as helpful. He caught sight of Kingsley and one or two other people concealing grins behind their hands, so he wasn’t fooling everyone.
            But those people didn’t seem like they were going to tell the truth, either. So Harry went on.
            “Let me tell you about what happened when Voldemort told Mr. Malfoy that he would have to kill Dumbledore…”
*
            Draco cringed. He didn’t think most people knew about that! Or maybe he had just missed it in the initial list of charges. Now Potter was going to make them think Draco was even worse.
            But amazingly, it didn’t seem to be happening that way. Sure, some members of the Wizengamot were glaring at him, and Auror Peterson was muttering indignantly behind him about how some people deserved worse than Azkaban, but there were other people listening.
            When Draco went back to listening to Potter, too, he understood why. Potter was explaining eagerly how bad Draco had been at trying to kill Dumbledore.
            “…and then he poisoned the mead and sent it to Dumbledore. Without even thinking about how a powerful wizard could check for poison in it!” Potter shook his head. “And what about any other person who could have swallowed that poison? Someone who was a guest of Dumbledore’s? What really happened was that Professor Slughorn, uh, took over the mead.”
            Draco blinked to see some people in the Wizengamot exchanging knowing glances, but then he told himself not to be an idiot. Of course there would be a lot of people here who would know exactly what Slughorn was like.
            “And someone innocent did get poisoned,” Potter said, with such abrupt quietness that Draco’s head snapped back to him before he even thought about it. “My friend Ron. I had to save his life with a bezoar.”
            Potter’s eyes were locked on him now. Draco felt his cheeks flush. He went on staring, and Potter nodded at him. There was no winking now.
            Draco had to wonder if Potter had just been pretending to be on his side all along, and now he was going to show his true colors and throw Draco to the Dementors.
            “If he poisoned your best friend,” said a woman with a hat that had a dead wild boar on it, “then why are you defending him?”
            Potter turned and looked at her. “Because maybe you trust the Malfoys to stay down, but I don’t,” he snapped. “Lucius Malfoy got pardoned for his crimes after the first war when everyone knew well and good that he was a Death Eater. Right?”
            The woman shifted. Draco watched her, forgetting his own predicament for a second. Was she one of the people his father had bribed to claim that he was under the Imperius Curse? Maybe. Draco had never asked his father for names.
            “If he had stayed in prison where he belonged,” Potter continued harshly, “maybe the Mr. Malfoy in front of us would never have thought that he needed to obey his father and become a Death Eater. And maybe if you condemn this one for things he didn’t do, then his mother is going to use a lawyer to make you regret that someday. I don’t want to have to stand there and watch him walk away because the Malfoy money saved him. I want him to be punished exactly for what he did, not anything more that his mother could argue with was injustice.”
            He turned around and looked at Draco. “It was an accident that the poison got Ron. Just like sending a Bludger at someone in a Quidditch game and hitting them and knocking them off their broom. You meant to hurt them, but not that badly.”
            Draco swallowed. He didn’t comprehend the look in Potter’s eyes. It was understanding and accusing all at once, and Draco knew pretty well that it was impossible to look like that.
            “It was still attempted murder,” said the fat wizard.
            “Right,” said Potter, nodding. “But with Ron, it was an accident. And Albus Dumbledore was already dying of something else. And he knew exactly what Mr. Malfoy here was trying to do. He offered him a chance out, for protection of his family, on the Astronomy Tower. Malfoy tried to kill him and couldn’t do it.” Potter sighed, and suddenly looked older, while Draco rooted frantically through his memories for how Potter could know that. Even the Dark Lord hadn’t been there!
            “Look,” Potter said quietly, “I’m not saying that he didn’t do wrong things. I’m saying that he did some things accidentally, some things without meaning to, some things under duress. I think he should be punished more for letting Death Eaters into the school than for making half-hearted attempts on Albus Dumbledore’s life or for doing things to me, just because I’m the Chosen One.”
            He says that like he hates it, Draco thought in surprise. He was learning that a lot of the things he had thought about Potter were wrong, but he had been sure Potter still enjoyed the fame that came from his title.
            Maybe not.
            “He also hurt my great-niece with his cursed necklace,” said another woman who wore a giant golden pendant that looked as though it could brain someone to death. Draco swallowed nervously as she glared at him. “I want him brought to justice for that.”
            “Katie Bell?” Potter gave the woman a curious glance. “Then I suggest you also don’t decide on his punishment and advise the others about it. That’s another thing his mother could bring against the Wizengamot, if they listen to the desires of family members about this one case and not any others.”
            “How dare you—”
            “Listen,” said Potter, and his voice was harsh enough that Draco flinched. When he looked at him, Potter was leaning in with his hands on his knees and a savage look on his face that Draco remembered from some Quidditch games. “I am trying to get justice here. Not revenge. Otherwise, I would have demanded that Mr. Malfoy be kissed by Dementors because of what he did to me. But I actually care about more than revenge.”
            He turned around and looked at Draco. Draco thought Potter’s words were meant more for him than for the Wizengamot, even though it was hard to see how they could be. “We want real peace and justice after the war. Not a bunch of revenge killings that will only create a new generation of people who’ll tell each other that Muggleborns and Muggle-lovers are the cause of all their trouble.”
            “Katie suffered!”
            “So did a lot of other people,” Potter said, and whipped around again. “Yes, Mr. Malfoy should be punished. But he shouldn’t be punished because he made one particular person suffer and you’re angry about that. He should be punished because what he did was wrong.”
            The huffy woman opened her mouth to say something else, but the woman with the boar on her hat spoke to her in an undertone, and she calmed down. Draco hoped that they wouldn’t let her really decide on his sentence.
            “So,” said Potter. “Let me tell you about a few other things I know because of my connection to Voldemort…”
*
            Harry staggered back to his chair and sat down. His throat felt like it was made of sand, and his muscles were all made of jelly. He didn’t know what would happen next, but hopefully it could happen without him and his pounding head.
            He had spoken forcefully. He didn’t think he’d got angry. He hadn’t exploded. He had used his title and power in ways he hated to use them.
            But getting justice for what had really happened was more important, in the end, than how uncomfortable he felt. And he had already used his title for things like getting Malfoy to Snape’s funeral.
            You have to keep going.
            Harry grimaced. He was probably going to hate that in a few years. The only thing he could absolutely say was that he thought he would always use his power to help other people. Using it to help himself made him feel sick.
            The Wizengamot deliberated in voices too low for Harry to hear, their seats protected by charms that made it impossible to eavesdrop. Harry didn’t think he could have cast any spells that would have let him listen in even if those charms weren’t there. He was simply worn-out. He closed his eyes and let his head flop to the side.
            “All right there?”
            Harry opened his eyes curiously. The voice wasn’t one he knew.
            A small, dark-haired man stood in front of him, touching his short beard as if he thought he had food in it. Harry recognized him. He was the Auror who had helped Peterson bring Malfoy to Snape’s funeral the other day.
            “My name is Apollo Petruvsky,” he said. “I thought someone ought to bring you water if you’re going to faint.”
            Harry laughed and straightened up. “Hardly that,” he said, although his voice did rasp, and he accepted the glass of water that Auror Petruvsky handed him a second later. “I appreciate it, though.”
            “Good,” said Petruvsky, and smiled a little. “Take your time to recover.”
            By the time that Harry gaped at him, he had already strode away to take up his position behind Malfoy’s chair again, and left Harry blinking at air.
            Then he smiled. He had never seen a sample of Auror Petruvsky’s handwriting, but if he’d had to make a wager right now, he would have bet that it matched the writing on the mysterious note that had told him the real time of the trial.
            And now, all we can do is wait.
*
            The fat wizard with all the golden chains decorating him finally stood up. Draco looked at him nervously. He was fiddling with one of the chains that held an Order of Merlin, and cleared his throat several times more than necessary.
            “So. We have decided on the following punishments for Mr. Draco Malfoy.
            “For letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts, he may not ever return to Hogwarts, and spells on his wand will be bound not to go above the level of first-year spells for ten years.”
            Draco swallowed. He knew he was going to be hard-put to do anything in normal wizarding society without his NEWTS. From the contented smiles on some of the Wizengamot members’ faces, they knew that, too.
            Then he straightened his shoulders. Well, his name and his parents’ actions would already have made it difficult.
            “For his attempted, if accidental, murders of Katie Bell and Ron Weasley, he is ordered to surrender to them the sum of a thousand Galleons each, from his family vaults.”
            Draco just nodded. He hadn’t really assumed his family would have much money left, anyway.
            “For his torture of Death Eaters during the war, he will receive six months in Azkaban.” The fat wizard’s voice sounded grudging, but Draco didn’t know if that was because he thought it should be more or he thought it should be less. “However, this will not commence immediately. He will be required to testify in the trials of his parents, as well as possibly of other Death Eaters.”
            Draco shuddered. He didn’t know if he would come out of Azkaban sane.
            But it was better than it could have been. He told himself that as he stood up and walked towards the door from the courtroom, with Peterson prodding him on with her wand in the middle of his back. It could have been ten years. It could have been the Dementor’s Kiss, like he thought Bell’s great-aunt had wanted.
            “Malfoy!”
            Draco turned his head and blinked. Potter was walking beside him, his face pale but determined.
            “I’ll come visit you in Azkaban,” he said, and pressed Draco’s hand once, and then turned and walked towards the Wizengamot.
            “You don’t deserve that much kindness,” Peterson said, and prodded Draco again when he would have stood looking after Potter. “I suppose you know that.”
            Draco said nothing. He wanted to look after Potter again, but it would do no good.
            He continued walking, and tried to work out in his head how many days six months would be. How many hours. How many seconds.
            He would…he would get through it. Somehow.
            That determination crystallized in him the more time he spent walking. Because he might have to pay for his crimes, but they couldn’t kill him. He was going to survive, and spite them all.
            He supposed he could have worse motives for survival.
*
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SP777: I’m extremely depressed and finding it hard to keep writing.
I haven’t found a job yet.
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Acts of Life