Not a single hand was raised.
Bean was starting to turn purple. “All who vote for acquittal, raise your hands.” Still not a single
movement from the jurors except to look down. Bean strode over to them. “May I remind you
that you are here to serve the cause of justice! What say you?”
“What about justice for us?” a young wizard on the jury asked, then reddened and looked
down again.
A witch burst out, “If You-Know-Who is back, do you think he won’t be able to find those of
us who were on this jury? We didn’t know about that when we agreed to do this!”
An older witch stood uncertainly and said, “With all due respect, Mr. Bean, would it be
possible for us to--discuss the verdict and sentence in private, and to give an anonymous vote?”
She looked uncertainly at her fellow jurors, since they hadn’t talked about this. Some of them
nodded to her, others still looked uncertain. Harry remembered that in Dumbledore’s Pensieve,
the verdicts were given quite promptly after the testimony, by a show of hands, no anonymity.
But all of those trials were held after the fall of Voldemort.
Bean reluctantly nodded to the witch, then went to the door in the corner and knocked twice.
The dementors who had escorted Malfoy into the room went to the chair. The chains released
him, and they lifted him to a standing position, escorting him out again. Harry watched through
narrowed eyes; somehow, he felt looking at the dementors this way might prevent them from
having any effect on him. When they were gone, the members of the jury rose and filed out. The
chamber seemed to be in some disarray; everyone had expected to get the verdict immediately.
This was an unexpected development. The rest of the crowd starting moving about now, and
Harry saw Dumbledore giving an angry glare to some reporters who started to approach them.
Then Harry turned and saw Eustace Bean approaching them.
“Albus. May I speak to you privately? Perhaps Alastor can escort your students to the
commissary for some tea.”
Dumbledore nodded at him. “Of course. I had hoped to speak to you as well. May I bring
someone else along?”
Bean nodded and Dumbledore gestured to Lupin to descend the rows of seats to join them.
When he was standing next to them, Dumbledore said, “Eustace Bean, may I introduce to you
Remus Lupin? Remus will be our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor in September. I’m
afraid we cannot impose upon Alastor any longer.”
Harry felt this was the first bit of good news he’d had all day. He grinned at Lupin. “Really?
You’re coming back?”
Lupin smiled at him. “It’s all set. The board of governors practically begged me.” Harry turned
to Hermione and Ron, who also looked thrilled. Ginny wasn’t paying attention; she was gazing
with concern at Draco Malfoy, who stared at the chair where his father had been. Lupin made
his way through to them.
“Hello again, Draco,” he said to him. Why did I think they wouldn’t know each other? Harry
thought stupidly. He taught all of us two years ago; of course he knew Draco Malfoy.
“Hello, Professor,” he said automatically. Lupin smiled.
“Not ‘Professor’ again yet. In September,” he said. Then he looked at him soberly. “You
showed great courage today, Draco.”
He looked down at Lupin; Harry was startled to realize that he too was taller than Lupin now,
who was only of medium height. “Thank you,” he said softly. Lupin nodded to him. He didn’t
seem to expect any long conversations. Dumbledore and Lupin walked off with Bean, and
Moody clapped a hand on Draco Malfoy’s shoulder.
“Come on. Let’s all see if there’s anything edible at the commissary. If there is, we can all mark
this day on the calendar and celebrate it in future years as a holiday.” He smiled that unnatural
smile of his and then they were all laughing, even Malfoy, as they went back up the serried rows
to the door where they’d entered. Harry checked his watch; it was one-thirty. The trial had
taken two-and-a-half hours. Harry didn’t know whether that was short or long. Probably short,
since Malfoy hadn’t really argued with any of the charges except the Imperius, and he’d still
admitted to putting it on Cho Chang, and he himself added the charges of trying to recruit
Hermione and Ron to be Death Eaters. On the other hand, it also didn’t seem that it should
have taken that long for everything that was said to be said. Then he remembered all of the
instances when the chamber had erupted in noise, and the time that Malfoy had spent undressing
to reveal first his bruises, then his Mark.
Thankfully, Ginny and Hermione hadn’t been asked to testify. He’d been terrified; and now
there might be an inquiry about Wormtail, and thus, about Sirius. Perhaps Dumbledore could
convince Bean to drop that for now, he hoped.
When they emerged into the corridor, the reporters were there again, asking questions, taking
photographs. Moody looked at them with his magical eye and they fell back, repulsed by his
strange appearance. He was leading the five of them back toward the bronze door, when they
came face to face suddenly with Narcissa Malfoy.
She glared at her son with eyes full of hate. Then suddenly she slapped him across the face.
“That’s for disgracing the family.” she said icily. “That’s for throwing away everything your
father and I have ever done for you, for telling us how stupid we were for saving your life when
you could have been killed as a baby.”
He stared at her in surprise. Then he woke up and glared at her just as angrily. “Saving my life?
Screwing up my life is more like it. At least Potter’s parents showed they loved him; they
decided they’d rather die than let him serve that scum you and father call a lord. They loved him
enough to give their lives for him!” Harry had never heard before exactly what it was that Draco
Malfoy envied most about him--now he knew.
“No, I didn’t die for you! I lived for you! And your father did, too! But do you appreciate it?
No, you’re an ungrateful little whelp who deserves everything you’re going to get!” And she
spat at his face suddenly, shocking them all, especially Draco. He put his hand to his cheek,
disbelief in his eyes. He stared at her speechlessly.
“I should tell you,” she said icily. “That regardless of the verdict and sentence, you’d better
speak to that excuse for a headmaster about where you will spend your summer holiday, and
your future Christmas and Easter holidays, because it certainly won’t be at Malfoy Manor. You
are never to darken our doorstep again. You are no longer our son. You are dead to us. You
will also have to make some other arrangements for paying your tuition and school supplies.
You will never see another Knut from us. You have completely disgraced the Malfoy name.
You are no longer a Malfoy!” As she spoke, her hair flew loose from its carefully constructed
upsweep and her face grew red. Harry thought of veelas again. “And as far as the Hara Kiri
curse--it’s a pity this isn’t Japan. Then perhaps you would do the right thing after bringing such
disgrace on your family and actually commit Hara Kiri!”
He opened his mouth to speak, but he had no words. He watched her turn and march down the
corridor away from him. Then he turned to Ginny, who uttered an inarticulate cry and threw her
arms around him; he put his cheek on her blazing hair, eyes shining, a shocked look still on his
face.
They all stood awkwardly in the corridor, unsure what to do after the dreadful display from
Mrs. Malfoy, but when Moody spotted some reporters coming their way, he moved them along
again to the large bronze door, and thence to the circular room with the portals. Moody
directed them to a doorway which Harry had noticed before had a number of long tables with
benches, similar to the house tables in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but a bit smaller, only seating
about ten people each. After going through the portal, they selected a table. Other tables were
populated by Ministry employees who were just finishing their lunches and preparing to return to
their offices. Harry looked around; he didn’t see anyplace to line up with a tray to get food.
There were just tables and benches in the large underground room--which could be anywhere in
the city of London, he realized after a second, depending on the location of the abandoned tube
station they had converted into the commissary. He looked uncertainly at Moody, who grabbed
a plate from a stack on the table. Looking down at it, Moody muttered, “Corned beef and
cabbage, boiled potatoes and a stout.” The requested food appeared on his plate, and a pint of
stout next to it. So Ron took a plate from the stack as well.
“Bubble and squeak,” he said experimentally, “and pumpkin juice.”
The food appeared. The other students also procured plates and placed their orders. It took
Harry a while to decide what he felt like eating. Oddly enough, the first thing that came to mind
was something he’d only ever had at Mrs. Figg’s. For all that her house smelled of cabbage
(and more than a little like cats) the food she’d served him had been good, and certainly in more
generous portions than the Dursleys. “Moussaka,” he said clearly, hoping the house elves or
whoever was taking the orders knew what this was. “And flatbread and lemonade.” In a matter
of moments, the food had appeared, looking just as Harry had remembered it the last time he’d
been at Mrs. Figg’s, years before (although, as Moody had warned, the food wasn’t as good as
Mrs. Figg’s--it was slightly bland). Ginny was having some shrimp dish that smelled garlicky
(luckily, Snape wasn’t present), and Hermione had chosen (without a thought to the invisible
servers, he noticed) a serving of paella.
Only Draco Malfoy had no food in front of him and did not look as though he wanted any. He
still looked in shock. Ginny tried to get him to try some of her lunch, and Ron did the same, but
he shook his head dumbly, a vacant look in his eyes. He wasn’t truly with them, Harry thought.
This was a price he hadn’t expected to pay. He was suddenly disowned, cut off, destitute and
alone. For someone who had led the kind of privileged existence Draco had, this would be an
utter shock to the system. Harry felt confident that Dumbledore would find some way to sort
things out for him, and he probably would not care at all about the tuition, but, having had no
family really, for most of his life, Harry could not begin to imagine what it would be like to have
one, and then have it snatched away because he had done the right and just thing.
By the time they were done eating, it was two-thirty. They didn’t get up. Dumbledore and Lupin
came through the portal and joined them at their table after putting a hand briefly on Draco
Malfoy’s shoulder. Harry remembered him doing the same with the young Snape, when Sirius
had given him the goblet of blood. Harry again felt the same concern about making sure that
Draco stayed on the right side, that he didn’t slip back into what was easy and familiar.
“We’ve spoken to Bean about Wormtail. He knows that he is a dark wizard who is also an
unregistered Animagus, taking the form of a rat. He knows that he helped Voldemort regain his
body and that he put the Cruciatus Curse on Draco here.” He squeezed Malfoy’s shoulder
again. “He knows nothing yet about--Snuffles. And for now, it will stay that way.” Harry
noticed that Malfoy had a perplexed look on his face. How much could they tell him? he
wondered. How trustworthy was he now, really?
“He also knows that Wormtail has a distinctive silver hand, and in his rat form, a silver paw. The
Department of Magical Law Enforcement will be on the lookout for him. That is the best we can
do for now...”
“Professor?” Harry said suddenly.
“Yes, Harry?”
“The silver hand--it seems to have changed him. He’s different now. More confident.”
Dumbledore nodded. “It is a very powerful magical object that Voldemort has bestowed upon
him, and it is part of his body. And as it is silver...” he turned and looked at Lupin, and Harry
understood. He in particular had to be very careful if ever he encountered his old friend
Pettigrew. Silver was fatal to werewolves. But apparently Dumbledore decided that they had
explored this topic for long enough.
“The jury isn’t back yet,” Dumbledore told them all. “We all need to find a way to occupy
ourselves while we wait.” The Weasleys had come into the commissary not long after they had
commenced eating, and Mr. Weasley stood now and approached their table.
“Well,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “I could give everyone a long-overdue tour of my
office.”
Ginny looked very excited about this, as did Hermione. Ron was less excited, but Ginny was
pulling on his arm, reminding him for how long they’d wanted to see where their father worked.
She tried to pull on Malfoy’s arm too, but he shook his head, looking glum. Harry actually might
have liked to see the office, but he begged off too. He didn’t want Malfoy to be alone. He
thought of Penelope Clearwater, thinking there was no way out but suicide. He had never
thought of Draco Malfoy as someone who could be suicidal (homicidal, yes), but now he
decided there was a definite danger, and it made him nervous. For one thing, there was Ginny;
Harry hated to think of how she would react if Malfoy killed himself. He thought he had nothing
left to live for; Harry had to remind him that he had Ginny.
The others left for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, and only Malfoy and Harry were left
in the commissary. Suddenly, Malfoy rose and took off his robes, folding them up hastily and
cramming them into his bag after taking his wand and inserting it in a special pocket along the
outside of his right thigh. Harry watched him go, then picked up his own bag and followed. He
emerged into the circular room, but there was no sign of Malfoy. Then Harry listened; he heard
footsteps echoing down the curving corridor they’d taken to come here from the station
platform. Oh no, thought Harry. He’s going to the station.
He ran down the corridor, and then he started to hear the footsteps before him running, not
walking away from him. He sped up and finally found Malfoy staring at the solid wall in which
Dumbledore had opened an archway with his wand. Try as he might, Malfoy couldn’t seem to
get it to open. He struck his wand on the bricks repeatedly, looking for the spot that would let
him out. He looked over his shoulder, seeing Harry, and decided to ignore him, continuing to
bash his wand on the wall, until Harry thought he would snap it. He had already snapped.
Harry moved to stand next to him, then grabbed his wrist and gently took his wand from his
hand. Malfoy stared at him as though he were a stranger, his wrist still in Harry’s hand. Harry
pocketed Malfoy’s wand.
“You don’t want to do it, you know.”
“Do what?”
Harry stared at him intently, waiting to answer. “Throw yourself in front of the train,” he finally
said.
Malfoy looked alarmed, as though Harry had read his mind. “How did you--”
“Because that’s the first thing I’d think of, if I were you. I wouldn’t think of the obvious thing.”
“What obvious thing? There’s a better way to kill myself down here? Besides getting you
hacked off enough that you might do it for me?”
“No. I mean the obvious reason why you shouldn’t.”
“What’s that?”
“Ginny.”
The moment Harry said the name, Malfoy’s face crumpled, and he nodded, then leaned against
the unyielding wall and slumped down to his haunches, hiding his face in his hands. If he was
crying, he was doing it silently. Harry wondered how young he was when he had learned to do
that, to cry so silently that his father wouldn’t hear, so no one would suspect what he was doing.
He remembered the years in his cupboard under the stairs...Harry also leaned against the wall,
slowly sliding down to a sitting position. He stared into space, his legs stretched out in front of
him, waiting.
After what seemed a very long time, Malfoy lifted his face. He sat down on the floor like Harry
now, his legs stretched in front of him, and sighed. He sounded very tired. They sat like that for
a while, not talking. Finally Malfoy said, “Potter.”
“Yeah Malfoy?” Silence. “Well, Malfoy?”
“You can’t call me that.”
“What? That’s what I always call you.”
“I know, but I shouldn’t use that name any more. I’m no longer a Malfoy, remember?”
“What are you going to do, go by just one name, like Sting?”
“Who?”
“Nevermind. So I’m supposed to call you Draco now?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so. You still call me Potter.”
“All right.” He took a deep breath and forced out the word: “Harry. There. I said it.”
Harry made a face. “Don’t do that. This isn’t going to work. As far as I’m concerned, you’re
still Malfoy.”
He actually smiled a little. “And I suppose I’d better keep calling you Potter.”
“So we actually agree on something.”
“A miracle.” They each had a small smile. They were quiet again for a little while, but it was a
more companionable silence this time. Then Malfoy spoke again. “So, Potter. What do you do
with those Muggles of yours all summer?”
“Last summer I relandscaped the garden for five pounds a day.”
“Oh, right. The manual labor.”
“It was good exercise. And I actually had some spending money for once.”
Malfoy was silent again for a time before he spoke. “How much is five pounds a day in
Galleons?”
“I don’t know. Probably not very much. It’s not even very much in Muggle money. That’s why
I knew my aunt would agree to pay me that. It’s so little it’s laughable--but it’s better than
nothing.”
“How do you pay for your Hogwarts stuff, then?”
“I have an account at Gringott’s. My parents left me some money.” Harry felt a little
uncomfortable discussing this with him, now that he had nothing. It was even worse than with
Ron.
“Well, you could change some of your Galleons into Muggle money, you know. The Goblins
don’t mind. In fact, they love it. It’s the chief way they make money, after all. First, they set the
exchange rates so that they’re favorable to them always, then they also charge a transaction fee
on every exchange--a percentage, naturally, rather than a flat fee. Since plenty of wizards and
witches need to buy things in the Muggle world, they really clean up. And their loan policies are
even worse. I can personally tell you of several pureblood families who think nothing of
converting large amounts of gold to Muggle money just so they can put it in Muggle banks as
collateral, then take out even bigger Muggle loans using that. The Goblins would kill if they
knew how much business they were losing to the Muggles, but their rates are ridiculous. They’re
driving the wizard loan business away.”
Harry listened, not really interested in what Malfoy was saying, but in how he managed to find
something to talk about that didn’t have a direct connection to the crisis in his life right now. He
could babble about Muggle versus Goblin loan policies and Harry could sit with him, pretending
to listen and understand about compound interest and how much you had to make to offset the
Goblin exchange fees in each direction, and know that at least he was keeping Malfoy from
winding up under a train.
Harry was actually started to doze off when he heard footsteps and looked up to see
Dumbledore approaching. They each stood, and Malfoy took out his robes again, and Harry
gave him his wand back, which he pocketed. When Dumbledore reached them, he said simply,
“They’re back.”
They both nodded, then followed him down the corridor to the circular room where the others
were waiting. Harry knew it wasn’t worth it to bother asking Dumbledore how he’d found
them. In a daze, Harry walked along next to Hermione; they went through the great bronze door
again, past the gauntlet of reporters, into the ancient chamber where wizarding law had been
tested, for better or worse, for more than a millenia before Hogwarts even existed.
They took the same seats they had before and waited. Harry saw Cornelius Fudge seat himself
behind Narcissa Malfoy again. There was no way he could keep all of the foreign press from
writing about Voldemort’s return, even if he continued to suppress it in the Daily Prophet. What
would he do now? Harry wondered. Which side was he really on?
The jury finally filed back into the room. Then the dementors returned with Lucius Malfoy, who
was chained to the chair once more. At last, Eustace Bean walked down the rows of seats and
stood next to the chair. Lucius Malfoy’s jaw was set. He glared around the room. Harry met his
eyes at one point; he saw him look at his son, at Bean, at the Weasleys and the jury members,
who looked visibly nervous. Please, thought Harry desperately. Please let them be brave
enough to do the right thing, to not fear Voldemort and the Death Eaters...
“Lucius Malfoy!” Eustace Bean pronounced loudly and deliberately. “You have heard and
answered the charges against you. Do you have anything else to say in your defense?”
He stared into space, not dignifying this question with a response. Bean nodded, as though he’d
expected as much. He turned to the jury and nodded. The same witch who’d requested privacy
for them to reach their decision stood again, a sheaf of parchments in her hand which shook
vigorously due to her nervousness. Bean looked at her intently. Then his voice rang out in the
stone-walled chamber:
“Do you have a verdict?”
* * * * *
