Disclaimer – Standard disclaimer. I don’t own anything.
CHAPTER 20 – The Trial Pt 1: Reality Construct
And so the day came. Caius Draconis Malfoy: High Clan Lord, corrupt aristocrat; leader of society, suspected Death Eater; dressed in standard issue blue prison robes with his head held high and his hands and ankles chained, was led through the streets to the courtroom where his future would be decided for him.
Spectators lined the streets on all sides – wizards of all sorts and classes, armed with signs and placards (Down with the Malfoy! Down with the High Clan! Equality for All!) – and watched as the Malfoy Lord passed by, some of them hissing and sneering in derision, in gleeful, vindictive triumph, enjoying the sight of the Malfoy bought so low, some of them watching in silence, perhaps compelled, through a kind of odd respect, to stand witness even though they could do nothing to help.
Others still watched in foreboding, seeing here the end of something that had stood for longer than they could possibly imagine; the end of everything they had fought for, everything they had given up so much to preserve. In their actions to save themselves and their way of life, they had been twisted, corrupted, and the corruption had eventually led back to this. Snape wondered whether they thought it worth it.
Certainly, it looked as if this trial would be the end of the High Clan’s almost mystical influence on society – if Draco were found guilty, and it looked very likely, the myth of High Clan immunity would be shattered forever, heralding what people like Arthur Weasley would call a new golden age of liberty, fraternity and equality. And the price? Why, only one man’s life. Only a torn, shattered Covenant that would tear the Great Binding apart. Only a magical backlash that would unleash consequences Voldemort had never even dreamed of…
Such a small price, really, for a social revolution.
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Walking through the streets, hampered by his chains and by the Aurors ostensibly supporting him, Draco could actually feel the crowd, feel their emotions – the vicious, almost mindless prejudice intensified by the odd shared consciousness of a mob, the odd, rare moments of empathy, of sympathy, and something more, something deeper. Sheer, vindictive hatred, and a dark, feral triumph that would dearly love to see him utterly crushed and destroyed, begging helplessly and hopelessly at their feet…
He looked up, at an overhanging balcony four stories up, and saw them.
Pansy, not so beautiful now, if she ever was – she had just
buried husband number four, and had taken him for all that she could possibly get. Vincent and Gregory, their faces still deceptively vacuous, the merest hint of intelligence glinting in their eyes. They worked together, as they always had, even when they had been his, well, his minders, really. Voldemort never really trusted Lucius, who had joined him so reluctantly. Eugene Wilkes, lean and lithe and far too sleek for Draco’s liking, with his smooth empty charm and his blank, soulless eyes, stood beside William Rosier, bluff and hearty, forthright and amiable, with an insatiable lust for power and a voracious appetite for young boys.
Marcus Flint had no real vices that he knew of, but his family had hated Clan Malfoy ever since Kaylan Malfoy had played both ends against the middle, ensuring the failure of the rebellion in 1746, and the prosecution of any who had been foolish enough to commit themselves too far. The Malfoy had earned quite a few enemies with that spectacular coup, and what was two hundred years, in the grand scheme of things? They had earned many enemies over the centuries. Unfortunately, it had all come back upon them with a vengeance now.
They watched him with feral, fanatical eyes, and he could feel their hatred beating against him with almost tangible force, turning his stomach, causing him to stumble, just for a moment, as he was taken off balance…
And then he dragged his eyes away, looked desperately into the crowd, vulnerable now to the emotion and the feeling he had allowed in when his defenses dropped, battered and bruised by the hatred and the rising scent of violence that could, with the drop of a hat, turn into a full-blown riot. He couldn’t run in these chains, and there was no way that he could defend himself against the whole crowd – although he could probably kill quite a few of them before they tore him apart through sheer weight of numbers.
The shouting grew louder, rowdier, the scent of violence rose even higher into the still, midday air, and he was surrounded on all sides by rage and hatred and prejudice, with the six instigators of this whole situation watching on in detached interest, in the knowledge of their invulnerability and their safety from the seething mass of humanity below. He turned his head and stretched his battered senses out, searching for a friendly face, for help, for something, anything, that would allow him to centre himself again, to regain his equanimity.
And then he saw her. Ginevra, standing on another balcony, watching. The only truth in a world gone horribly mad. He looked deep into her dark velvet eyes, looked into the calm centre of her soul, the other half of his, now – and she smiled. And everything came back into focus.
He was the Malfoy. And he would not be defeated – not by six renegade Clans, not by a vicious media campaign, not by a biased jury, and most certainly not by this crowd. He straightened himself, walked proudly once again – and faced the crowd with head high, with calm, cool eyes, with the charisma he had inherited through his blood and the confidence he had gained through hard experience, and dared them to attack. Dared them to take him on.
Time seemed to slow down as his heartbeat sped up and his adrenaline raced, and he could see individual details with startling clarity – see the worry that Ginny tried so hard to conceal behind her smile and her eyes, see the quivering excitement in Wilkes’ damp hand-washing, see the cool control in Luc’s grey eyes contrasting with the tension in his stance, in the pulse that raced under his skin. He could see the warring impulses in the spectators’ eyes, the normal, everyday reasoning of civilized life fighting with the deeper, darker instincts that were banished to the deepest depths of the mind by reason, and logic, and social conditioning in childhood. All it needed was a match…
Above him, he could almost feel the anticipation. But, as they stood frozen in a bizarre tableau, barely daring to breathe, he slowly realized that there was no provocation from above, no match lit to start the conflagration, and he raised his eyes again to see the six renegades almost frozen, staring in almost horror at…Ginny? His fierce, protective wife who nevertheless knew nothing of the Dark Arts beyond what she had learned in Defence? She was holding them silent and still with the power of her gaze and her will alone, hypnotizing them with her eyes. And that was very powerful dark magic. Wherever she had learned it, she held it long enough to allow the crowd to calm down, to let them all return back to sanity, to break the hold the six renegades had had over them that had so influenced their minds, and save his life.
And he felt a fierce rush of gratitude and love, felt it run through the bond towards her – and he knew, when she finally relinquished her hold on them and looked down to him again, a slight triumphant grin on her lips, that she felt it too, and returned it in full measure. Oh, Lady, he loved her, loved her so much it felt as if his heart would burst with it. With his Ginevra beside him, there was nothing, nothing that he couldn’t do.
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Ginny watched everything with eyes that wanted, desperately, to open wide in astonishment – but she knew well enough by now that she had to control her reactions and her emotions, to show nothing to the enemy who watched with detached amusement, to the Ministry who watched with avid eagerness, and to the crowd, who watched in titillation, all of them looking to see how she reacted and what she was feeling.
There were paparazzi at the entry to the Ministry building, crowding and clamouring, all of them eager for a word with Draco as he went in, shouting questions at him (Why did you do it, Mr. Malfoy? Did he know the truth about you? Mr. Malfoy, did you kill him because he was having an affair with your wife? Mr. Malfoy, why did you marry Ginny Weasley? Did you hope to gain her father’s support? Mr. Malfoy, is this some plot orchestrated by your uncle?) and shoving magical recording machines in his face, hoping for an answer, for any kind of response.
One, bolder than the rest, shouted out “Mr. Malfoy, is it true that you killed your father?”
The rest of the reporters went still, as Draco turned, slowly, to face him. He didn’t say anything, just stood there in his chains and his stained and ill-fitting robes, his whole body somehow coiled, giving the impression of something very, very dangerous only just held under control – and he lifted his eyes to the reporter’s, who paled, and took an involuntary step back. Ginny knew the power of that gaze, knew the shock of eye contact – knew that the reporter had just been given a very brief glimpse of the true nature of the Malfoy. It was a terrifying truth, the first time one saw beneath the surface.
She didn’t like to think of what the six renegades might have seen, when she had held them still with her eyes earlier. She didn’t like to think of what that particular use of her magic might have cost her, or what it might have revealed about her. She didn’t really want to know what lengths she was capable of going to, to keep the people she loved safe.
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Intimidated by that little show of force and personality, the paparazzi let Draco through, and then focused on all the other people who were going in after him, who had come to witness the proceedings, searching for anything else that could possibly be used as a story. And there was a veritable gold mine of material – this was the trial of the century, the Malfoy Lord himself! And unlike his father’s one and only brush with the justice system, this wasn’t hushed and hurried, held in a secret location deep in the bowels of the Ministry building where society’s darker past could be concealed. This was taking place in the full light of day, fully covered by the media who intended to milk this for all it was worth.
The Ministry officials – the Aurors, the expert witnesses (a psychiatrist from St. Mungo’s, a scholar known for his expertise in High Clan matters) and other, miscellaneous, necessary personnel arrived, and entered relatively freely, left alone because no one really knew who they were and no one really cared anyway.
The Lords of the High Clan had come out in full force, to watch this trial that would most certainly decide their place in society. Luc Malfoy’s other nephew, the late Caine de Sauvigny’s son, Marc de Sauvigny, who was the true, if relatively powerless Lord, supported by the most powerful of the House’s executives, Dominic and Michel de Sauvigny, all of whom stood firmly behind Malfoy. Dane Harcourt, who, even if he was an Auror, was still a High Clan Lord of some influence – he wasn’t known for his support of the Malfoy, but he was scrupulously fair in his dealings, and he had a cautious, wary friendship with the Luc. Rayden Lestrange, Brandon Avery, Shan Andahni, and Dirk Courtney were all members of the Thirteen, all solidly pro-Malfoy.
The six renegade Clan leaders – in a tight-knit group with their supporters, the minor bit-players of the Death Eater years, such as McNair, Bulstrode, Pritchard, Baddock; they didn’t have the sheer political influence of their opponents, but their malice hung over them like a dark, oppressive cloud whenever they watched Draco.
Then came the other, non-High Clan spectators – the Weasleys first among them, the six brothers, lanky, freckled and red haired, the homely and comfortable mother, the harmless father, a good natured eccentric, and behind them, the daughter – sophisticated, cool and supremely composed (“There she is!” the shout went up) walking beside and almost under the patronage of Luc Malfoy himself.
The paparazzi rushed towards them, madly snapping pictures, Ginny hesitated just a little but Luc put a respectful hand on her back and ushered her quickly through the media gauntlet, protecting her from the worst of the barrage, looking neither right nor left but going quickly forward and ducking into the shelter of the building.
Albus Dumbledore, not so spry as he once was, but still a vital presence, supported by Severus Snape, who, although his primary allegiance was to Dumbledore, was definitely in bed with Luc Malfoy – literally, some people said. No one really knew which way Dumbledore leant, but he was notoriously protective towards his former students, especially the Slytherins who had managed to escape the stigma of darkness and evil.
And, to those who knew more about the situation than they let on, Blaise Zabini’s presence was also intriguing; even for a House notorious for their fence-sitting, he was very careful not to associate himself with either of the two major parties. The six anti-Malfoy players watched him closely, almost threateningly, Lestrange and Avery eyed him with speculative eyes, but oddly, Luc Malfoy only gave him one long, unreadable look before turning away.
And then they came into the courtroom, took their seats, one party sitting on the right, the other on the left, and there was something sardonic in Luc Malfoy’s eyes as he watched the Aurors and Ministry officials sitting primly and rather uncomfortably on the same side as Crabbe, Goyle and all the other ‘known but unproved’ Death Eaters they had tried so hard to bring down. And the smile grew more crooked as he thought of Molly Weasley, who, twenty-seven years ago, had so publicly – and ultimately fruitlessly – blamed him for his half-brother Caine de Sauvigny’s so-convenient death.
The rules of the Game were by no means static and fixed; Voldemort’s death had brought an end to one era, and conventional wisdom had had to be re-evaluated, old alliances and enmities rethought, a new set of rules and norms created for this new age. The victors would, as always, be the ones who could best adapt to the rapidly changing world. And that was just as true now as it had been ten years ago, and seventeen years before that, and in all the upheavals and changes the world had ever endured, in all the years men had been playing the Game.
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The courtroom was a study of polished wood and leather, of formal portraits of past statesmen and lawmakers staring down upon the public with stern, grave faces, and a suitably imposing judge with a reputation for complete impartiality, strong enough to control such volatile and delicate proceedings.
The prosecuting lawyer, Flavius Aquinas – tall, lean and dark haired, with predatory eyes hungry for the credit a conviction would bring him, utterly unscrupulous in a way that the Slytherins in the room could understand. In fact, yes, Snape recognised him as a former Slytherin, not High Clan, of course…
Draco’s lawyer, a middle aged man with tired, oddly gentle eyes – Jude Worth, his name was, and he had, hard as it was to believe, been Lucius Malfoy’s main counselor, when he had so successfully pleaded Imperius. Of course, back then, he had still been young enough to believe in truth, justice and the Gryffindor way – once the trial had finished, he had been…changed. All the light and the fire had gone, replaced by disillusionment, which was, in its way, worse than cynicism and proper Slytherin skepticism. He had gone on to become a very successful barrister – but the vital spark had vanished.
And that, thought Snape on an oddly wistful note, was a very great pity. Of course as soon as Lucius was acquitted, he had sworn never to have anything to do with the Malfoy again, but in the end, he couldn’t really resist Draco’s request for his services – it had the feeling of inevitability. Perhaps, in some way, it would bring things full circle.
Draco sat, apparently confident and relaxed, trying not to look too often at his new wife who sat with her family and with the other Clan Lords who stood firmly behind the Malfoy; his only sign of tension was his complete and utter impassivity; he was too blank not to be hiding anything. And then, when everyone was settled in, the judge bought his gavel down and began the proceedings.
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“Caius Draconis Malfoy,” came the rich, plummy tones of the judge, “you stand accused of the unlawful slaying of another human being, of the torture-murder of the man known as Gerald Edward Tarrant, and of the use of forbidden Dark Arts hexes and curses…”
Draco held his head high and his face impassive, he resisted looking at his wife and his uncle for support. They could not help him now – for all that Luc had done, for all his careful manipulations, he could not do any more for Draco; he had prepared him, and now he would have to sit back and watch while Draco either pulled this off, or didn’t. It was that simple – and it was probably frustrating as hell, to a man who was used to controlling the situation.
But perhaps this would finally prove that Draco was the Malfoy in his own right. Perhaps it would prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was more than capable of looking after his own, without any more help or interference. Intellectually, Luc had known that already – but this would finalise it, in Draco’s mind, in his mind, and in the mind of everyone else who counted. He was the Malfoy. Very well then, he would be the Malfoy, in every single way. And no one would ever doubt him again.
“…What do you plead?” the judge finished.
Slowly, in complete silence as the whole courtroom watched and held its breath, he stood up and said, his eyes fixed on the judge’s, “Not guilty, your Honour.”
And then it began.
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Flashes of memory, of awareness…
Aquinas’ smooth, oily voice. “Dr. Weston, could you tell us exactly what caused this man’s death?” An expert medical witness from St. Mungo’s, suitably sober and grave enough to inspire trust in the most skittish of patients, Dr Weston adjusted his glasses and looked at the examiner.
“The subject was subjected to a number of curses normally classified as borderline Dark Arts,” he intoned gravely. “None of them, on their own, was enough to cause death.” He frowned, pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “The subject’s death was actually caused by massive and eventually fatal cardiac arrest…”
Luc Malfoy’s eyes carefully veiled, Draco’s white hair veiling his features from view.
Jude Worth’s mild, soothing voice. “Dr. Weston, will you please tell the court the advice you gave Mr. Tarrant in November of last year, when he came in for his annual check up?”
The doctor’s eyes, vaguely troubled. “I told Mr. Tarrant that he was under a very high risk of heart disease, that he would have to stop drinking and smoking if he didn’t want to provoke a heart attack…”
“So he already had a heart condition?” Worth’s gentle, insistent voice was relentless.
“Yes, he did.” Anticipating the next question, he said, “The curses, while relatively harmless on their own, managed to trigger the cardiac arrest…”
Worth took centre stage. “Your Honour, my client was unaware of Mr Tarrant’s pre-existing medical condition, and in subjecting the victim to a number of relatively harmless curses, in no way intended to cause fatal harm to him. The fact that he did indeed have a pre-existing condition rendering him more susceptible to harm, and that condition caused a massive heart attack, is an intervening act that breaks the chain of causation between my client’s act and the result…”
Aquinas sputtering, “But for Mr. Malfoy’s act, there wouldn’t have been a heart attack! It was the very thing likely to happen…”
Worth’s relentless voice again. “Dr. Weston, could you describe to us the effect of theses curses when used on the human body?”
“The main spell used was an illusion spell, which allows the castor to literally manipulate the victim’s six senses, creating whatever sensations or images they desire…” Worth took a moment to point out that this curse, on its own, was not illegal, although it was of a dubious morality, usually used in the more…esoteric houses of pleasure. “Others were generally sensation curses, which inflict different, not necessarily painful sensations on the castee,” again, another spell used in exotic brothels – the audience was tittering, now – and it was becoming apparent that most of the curses Draco had used were relatively legal, but twisted to cause harm rather than stimulation. And with the amount of power Draco was capable of pouring into his spells, especially when fueled by uncontrolled rage, well, it had gone a little too far.
A new witness, a psychologist who had evaluated Draco in his cell.
“Dr Krantz,” the unctuous voice of the prosecutor continued, “in your professional, expert opinion, would you say that Mr. Malfoy is capable of killing?” Dr Krantz blinked at him wisely and fingered his beard and moustache, murmuring “Hmmm, yes, indeed, I would say he is capable of killing, but that is because he was an Auror, you know; they undergo special training…”
“Yes, but even before he became an Auror, he had killed…”
Draco’s jaw clenched, Luc’s eyes cooled noticeably, and a murmur broke out in the room. Worth drew himself up majestically, his voice almost ringing. “Objection, your Honour! That is not relevant to this trial.”
The judge looked at him, looked at Aquinas and raised an eyebrow. Smiling triumphantly, the prosecutor said, “But it is a significant factor in Mr. Malfoy’s mental state, your Honour.” Staring at him warningly, the judge asked him to rephrase his question.
“Dr. Krantz, taking into account Mr. Malfoy’s past and heritage,” another dig at Draco there, he didn’t react, “do you believe he is capable of torturing and killing the victim?”
Dr. Krantz, playing for time because he knew very well something of Malfoy’s mental state and it was not what he had expected, took off his glasses and polished them on his sleeve. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean by ‘his past and heritage’.” he murmured softly. If the man wanted it said, he would have to say it himself.
Here, Aquinas overplayed his hand in his thirst to discredit Malfoy. Or perhaps he did it deliberately, willing to take the consequences of such an act if it achieved the result he wanted. In a dramatic voice, with sweeping gestures, he pointed to Draco and said, “I mean, he killed his own father!” Pandemonium erupted, and his voice rose above the babble. “If he’s capable of killing his own father, then what isn’t he capable of?”
Draco closed his eyes, slowly, as Worth came to his feet with the force of his objection, as the High Clan Lords froze in their seats, impassive masks slamming down, as the rest of the spectators started to speak, to speculate – So it’s really true? He did kill him? No, he couldn’t have…but it was in the papers! In black and white print! It must be true…The judge banged his gavel down again and again and again, demanding order in a loud, penetrating voice, and gradually, slowly, the crowd calmed down, and Aquinas had a small, tight triumphant smile on his face, having achieved exactly what he wanted.
Jude Worth looked down at his client, who was, even allowing for the age and generation difference, noticeably different from his uncle and his father, and felt a small pang of sympathy for his tension, for the…shame…of having such a private thing dragged out for all the world to see. Perhaps he could believe in this Malfoy…and then he looked up, caught Luc Malfoy’s grey eyes, froze – and knew something that he had failed to realize when he had first encountered the Malfoy. If they were cold, if they were ruthless – it was all, all done for a reason, for something they thought completely justified, for the good of the Clan, of their family, of their loved ones; whatever they might demand of others, they demanded no less of themselves.
Finally, it was silent again, and the judge ordered an adjournment.
Draco, Luc, Worth and Ginevra all filed into an anteroom and shut the door, creating an isolated haven of peace that somehow managed to block out the rest of the world. Draco turned away into the middle of the room, his whole body restless and coiled, tense energy too tightly controlled. He looked back to Luc, back to Ginevra – nothing showing, but the mask dangerously thin. Ginevra came over to comfort him, her eyes sympathetic and compassionate – Luc said nothing and showed nothing, but watched him closely.
He didn’t say what he was thinking – I can’t do this, I can’t go through with it – because he was the Lord of Clan Malfoy, and he was above doubts and fears and human error. The Clan Lord was strong enough to handle any problems, to carry the whole Clan on his shoulders. In return, Luc refrained from saying – You must do this, no matter what it costs you, there is no other choice – because he was, when all was said and done, the usurping head of a lesser Clan, and the Malfoy Lord answered to nothing and no one, and because Draco already knew that he had no other choice. He had only to accept and embrace it. They understood each other perfectly.
So here it was – the last choice. Because they could not lose this trial. And nothing else mattered, at least not yet. Calm and centred once again, Draco turned and walked towards the door, ready to go back into the courtroom. He was the Malfoy Lord, and he would not be defeated.
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A/N – I am a lowly law student, not John Grisham. The law in this chapter is _not_ an accurate representation of current Australian criminal law; I have the feeling Draco would be going straight to Azkaban for life without his $200 if it was.
CHAPTER 20 – The Trial Pt 1: Reality Construct
And so the day came. Caius Draconis Malfoy: High Clan Lord, corrupt aristocrat; leader of society, suspected Death Eater; dressed in standard issue blue prison robes with his head held high and his hands and ankles chained, was led through the streets to the courtroom where his future would be decided for him.
Spectators lined the streets on all sides – wizards of all sorts and classes, armed with signs and placards (Down with the Malfoy! Down with the High Clan! Equality for All!) – and watched as the Malfoy Lord passed by, some of them hissing and sneering in derision, in gleeful, vindictive triumph, enjoying the sight of the Malfoy bought so low, some of them watching in silence, perhaps compelled, through a kind of odd respect, to stand witness even though they could do nothing to help.
Others still watched in foreboding, seeing here the end of something that had stood for longer than they could possibly imagine; the end of everything they had fought for, everything they had given up so much to preserve. In their actions to save themselves and their way of life, they had been twisted, corrupted, and the corruption had eventually led back to this. Snape wondered whether they thought it worth it.
Certainly, it looked as if this trial would be the end of the High Clan’s almost mystical influence on society – if Draco were found guilty, and it looked very likely, the myth of High Clan immunity would be shattered forever, heralding what people like Arthur Weasley would call a new golden age of liberty, fraternity and equality. And the price? Why, only one man’s life. Only a torn, shattered Covenant that would tear the Great Binding apart. Only a magical backlash that would unleash consequences Voldemort had never even dreamed of…
Such a small price, really, for a social revolution.
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Walking through the streets, hampered by his chains and by the Aurors ostensibly supporting him, Draco could actually feel the crowd, feel their emotions – the vicious, almost mindless prejudice intensified by the odd shared consciousness of a mob, the odd, rare moments of empathy, of sympathy, and something more, something deeper. Sheer, vindictive hatred, and a dark, feral triumph that would dearly love to see him utterly crushed and destroyed, begging helplessly and hopelessly at their feet…
He looked up, at an overhanging balcony four stories up, and saw them.
Pansy, not so beautiful now, if she ever was – she had just
buried husband number four, and had taken him for all that she could possibly get. Vincent and Gregory, their faces still deceptively vacuous, the merest hint of intelligence glinting in their eyes. They worked together, as they always had, even when they had been his, well, his minders, really. Voldemort never really trusted Lucius, who had joined him so reluctantly. Eugene Wilkes, lean and lithe and far too sleek for Draco’s liking, with his smooth empty charm and his blank, soulless eyes, stood beside William Rosier, bluff and hearty, forthright and amiable, with an insatiable lust for power and a voracious appetite for young boys.
Marcus Flint had no real vices that he knew of, but his family had hated Clan Malfoy ever since Kaylan Malfoy had played both ends against the middle, ensuring the failure of the rebellion in 1746, and the prosecution of any who had been foolish enough to commit themselves too far. The Malfoy had earned quite a few enemies with that spectacular coup, and what was two hundred years, in the grand scheme of things? They had earned many enemies over the centuries. Unfortunately, it had all come back upon them with a vengeance now.
They watched him with feral, fanatical eyes, and he could feel their hatred beating against him with almost tangible force, turning his stomach, causing him to stumble, just for a moment, as he was taken off balance…
And then he dragged his eyes away, looked desperately into the crowd, vulnerable now to the emotion and the feeling he had allowed in when his defenses dropped, battered and bruised by the hatred and the rising scent of violence that could, with the drop of a hat, turn into a full-blown riot. He couldn’t run in these chains, and there was no way that he could defend himself against the whole crowd – although he could probably kill quite a few of them before they tore him apart through sheer weight of numbers.
The shouting grew louder, rowdier, the scent of violence rose even higher into the still, midday air, and he was surrounded on all sides by rage and hatred and prejudice, with the six instigators of this whole situation watching on in detached interest, in the knowledge of their invulnerability and their safety from the seething mass of humanity below. He turned his head and stretched his battered senses out, searching for a friendly face, for help, for something, anything, that would allow him to centre himself again, to regain his equanimity.
And then he saw her. Ginevra, standing on another balcony, watching. The only truth in a world gone horribly mad. He looked deep into her dark velvet eyes, looked into the calm centre of her soul, the other half of his, now – and she smiled. And everything came back into focus.
He was the Malfoy. And he would not be defeated – not by six renegade Clans, not by a vicious media campaign, not by a biased jury, and most certainly not by this crowd. He straightened himself, walked proudly once again – and faced the crowd with head high, with calm, cool eyes, with the charisma he had inherited through his blood and the confidence he had gained through hard experience, and dared them to attack. Dared them to take him on.
Time seemed to slow down as his heartbeat sped up and his adrenaline raced, and he could see individual details with startling clarity – see the worry that Ginny tried so hard to conceal behind her smile and her eyes, see the quivering excitement in Wilkes’ damp hand-washing, see the cool control in Luc’s grey eyes contrasting with the tension in his stance, in the pulse that raced under his skin. He could see the warring impulses in the spectators’ eyes, the normal, everyday reasoning of civilized life fighting with the deeper, darker instincts that were banished to the deepest depths of the mind by reason, and logic, and social conditioning in childhood. All it needed was a match…
Above him, he could almost feel the anticipation. But, as they stood frozen in a bizarre tableau, barely daring to breathe, he slowly realized that there was no provocation from above, no match lit to start the conflagration, and he raised his eyes again to see the six renegades almost frozen, staring in almost horror at…Ginny? His fierce, protective wife who nevertheless knew nothing of the Dark Arts beyond what she had learned in Defence? She was holding them silent and still with the power of her gaze and her will alone, hypnotizing them with her eyes. And that was very powerful dark magic. Wherever she had learned it, she held it long enough to allow the crowd to calm down, to let them all return back to sanity, to break the hold the six renegades had had over them that had so influenced their minds, and save his life.
And he felt a fierce rush of gratitude and love, felt it run through the bond towards her – and he knew, when she finally relinquished her hold on them and looked down to him again, a slight triumphant grin on her lips, that she felt it too, and returned it in full measure. Oh, Lady, he loved her, loved her so much it felt as if his heart would burst with it. With his Ginevra beside him, there was nothing, nothing that he couldn’t do.
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Ginny watched everything with eyes that wanted, desperately, to open wide in astonishment – but she knew well enough by now that she had to control her reactions and her emotions, to show nothing to the enemy who watched with detached amusement, to the Ministry who watched with avid eagerness, and to the crowd, who watched in titillation, all of them looking to see how she reacted and what she was feeling.
There were paparazzi at the entry to the Ministry building, crowding and clamouring, all of them eager for a word with Draco as he went in, shouting questions at him (Why did you do it, Mr. Malfoy? Did he know the truth about you? Mr. Malfoy, did you kill him because he was having an affair with your wife? Mr. Malfoy, why did you marry Ginny Weasley? Did you hope to gain her father’s support? Mr. Malfoy, is this some plot orchestrated by your uncle?) and shoving magical recording machines in his face, hoping for an answer, for any kind of response.
One, bolder than the rest, shouted out “Mr. Malfoy, is it true that you killed your father?”
The rest of the reporters went still, as Draco turned, slowly, to face him. He didn’t say anything, just stood there in his chains and his stained and ill-fitting robes, his whole body somehow coiled, giving the impression of something very, very dangerous only just held under control – and he lifted his eyes to the reporter’s, who paled, and took an involuntary step back. Ginny knew the power of that gaze, knew the shock of eye contact – knew that the reporter had just been given a very brief glimpse of the true nature of the Malfoy. It was a terrifying truth, the first time one saw beneath the surface.
She didn’t like to think of what the six renegades might have seen, when she had held them still with her eyes earlier. She didn’t like to think of what that particular use of her magic might have cost her, or what it might have revealed about her. She didn’t really want to know what lengths she was capable of going to, to keep the people she loved safe.
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Intimidated by that little show of force and personality, the paparazzi let Draco through, and then focused on all the other people who were going in after him, who had come to witness the proceedings, searching for anything else that could possibly be used as a story. And there was a veritable gold mine of material – this was the trial of the century, the Malfoy Lord himself! And unlike his father’s one and only brush with the justice system, this wasn’t hushed and hurried, held in a secret location deep in the bowels of the Ministry building where society’s darker past could be concealed. This was taking place in the full light of day, fully covered by the media who intended to milk this for all it was worth.
The Ministry officials – the Aurors, the expert witnesses (a psychiatrist from St. Mungo’s, a scholar known for his expertise in High Clan matters) and other, miscellaneous, necessary personnel arrived, and entered relatively freely, left alone because no one really knew who they were and no one really cared anyway.
The Lords of the High Clan had come out in full force, to watch this trial that would most certainly decide their place in society. Luc Malfoy’s other nephew, the late Caine de Sauvigny’s son, Marc de Sauvigny, who was the true, if relatively powerless Lord, supported by the most powerful of the House’s executives, Dominic and Michel de Sauvigny, all of whom stood firmly behind Malfoy. Dane Harcourt, who, even if he was an Auror, was still a High Clan Lord of some influence – he wasn’t known for his support of the Malfoy, but he was scrupulously fair in his dealings, and he had a cautious, wary friendship with the Luc. Rayden Lestrange, Brandon Avery, Shan Andahni, and Dirk Courtney were all members of the Thirteen, all solidly pro-Malfoy.
The six renegade Clan leaders – in a tight-knit group with their supporters, the minor bit-players of the Death Eater years, such as McNair, Bulstrode, Pritchard, Baddock; they didn’t have the sheer political influence of their opponents, but their malice hung over them like a dark, oppressive cloud whenever they watched Draco.
Then came the other, non-High Clan spectators – the Weasleys first among them, the six brothers, lanky, freckled and red haired, the homely and comfortable mother, the harmless father, a good natured eccentric, and behind them, the daughter – sophisticated, cool and supremely composed (“There she is!” the shout went up) walking beside and almost under the patronage of Luc Malfoy himself.
The paparazzi rushed towards them, madly snapping pictures, Ginny hesitated just a little but Luc put a respectful hand on her back and ushered her quickly through the media gauntlet, protecting her from the worst of the barrage, looking neither right nor left but going quickly forward and ducking into the shelter of the building.
Albus Dumbledore, not so spry as he once was, but still a vital presence, supported by Severus Snape, who, although his primary allegiance was to Dumbledore, was definitely in bed with Luc Malfoy – literally, some people said. No one really knew which way Dumbledore leant, but he was notoriously protective towards his former students, especially the Slytherins who had managed to escape the stigma of darkness and evil.
And, to those who knew more about the situation than they let on, Blaise Zabini’s presence was also intriguing; even for a House notorious for their fence-sitting, he was very careful not to associate himself with either of the two major parties. The six anti-Malfoy players watched him closely, almost threateningly, Lestrange and Avery eyed him with speculative eyes, but oddly, Luc Malfoy only gave him one long, unreadable look before turning away.
And then they came into the courtroom, took their seats, one party sitting on the right, the other on the left, and there was something sardonic in Luc Malfoy’s eyes as he watched the Aurors and Ministry officials sitting primly and rather uncomfortably on the same side as Crabbe, Goyle and all the other ‘known but unproved’ Death Eaters they had tried so hard to bring down. And the smile grew more crooked as he thought of Molly Weasley, who, twenty-seven years ago, had so publicly – and ultimately fruitlessly – blamed him for his half-brother Caine de Sauvigny’s so-convenient death.
The rules of the Game were by no means static and fixed; Voldemort’s death had brought an end to one era, and conventional wisdom had had to be re-evaluated, old alliances and enmities rethought, a new set of rules and norms created for this new age. The victors would, as always, be the ones who could best adapt to the rapidly changing world. And that was just as true now as it had been ten years ago, and seventeen years before that, and in all the upheavals and changes the world had ever endured, in all the years men had been playing the Game.
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The courtroom was a study of polished wood and leather, of formal portraits of past statesmen and lawmakers staring down upon the public with stern, grave faces, and a suitably imposing judge with a reputation for complete impartiality, strong enough to control such volatile and delicate proceedings.
The prosecuting lawyer, Flavius Aquinas – tall, lean and dark haired, with predatory eyes hungry for the credit a conviction would bring him, utterly unscrupulous in a way that the Slytherins in the room could understand. In fact, yes, Snape recognised him as a former Slytherin, not High Clan, of course…
Draco’s lawyer, a middle aged man with tired, oddly gentle eyes – Jude Worth, his name was, and he had, hard as it was to believe, been Lucius Malfoy’s main counselor, when he had so successfully pleaded Imperius. Of course, back then, he had still been young enough to believe in truth, justice and the Gryffindor way – once the trial had finished, he had been…changed. All the light and the fire had gone, replaced by disillusionment, which was, in its way, worse than cynicism and proper Slytherin skepticism. He had gone on to become a very successful barrister – but the vital spark had vanished.
And that, thought Snape on an oddly wistful note, was a very great pity. Of course as soon as Lucius was acquitted, he had sworn never to have anything to do with the Malfoy again, but in the end, he couldn’t really resist Draco’s request for his services – it had the feeling of inevitability. Perhaps, in some way, it would bring things full circle.
Draco sat, apparently confident and relaxed, trying not to look too often at his new wife who sat with her family and with the other Clan Lords who stood firmly behind the Malfoy; his only sign of tension was his complete and utter impassivity; he was too blank not to be hiding anything. And then, when everyone was settled in, the judge bought his gavel down and began the proceedings.
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“Caius Draconis Malfoy,” came the rich, plummy tones of the judge, “you stand accused of the unlawful slaying of another human being, of the torture-murder of the man known as Gerald Edward Tarrant, and of the use of forbidden Dark Arts hexes and curses…”
Draco held his head high and his face impassive, he resisted looking at his wife and his uncle for support. They could not help him now – for all that Luc had done, for all his careful manipulations, he could not do any more for Draco; he had prepared him, and now he would have to sit back and watch while Draco either pulled this off, or didn’t. It was that simple – and it was probably frustrating as hell, to a man who was used to controlling the situation.
But perhaps this would finally prove that Draco was the Malfoy in his own right. Perhaps it would prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was more than capable of looking after his own, without any more help or interference. Intellectually, Luc had known that already – but this would finalise it, in Draco’s mind, in his mind, and in the mind of everyone else who counted. He was the Malfoy. Very well then, he would be the Malfoy, in every single way. And no one would ever doubt him again.
“…What do you plead?” the judge finished.
Slowly, in complete silence as the whole courtroom watched and held its breath, he stood up and said, his eyes fixed on the judge’s, “Not guilty, your Honour.”
And then it began.
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Flashes of memory, of awareness…
Aquinas’ smooth, oily voice. “Dr. Weston, could you tell us exactly what caused this man’s death?” An expert medical witness from St. Mungo’s, suitably sober and grave enough to inspire trust in the most skittish of patients, Dr Weston adjusted his glasses and looked at the examiner.
“The subject was subjected to a number of curses normally classified as borderline Dark Arts,” he intoned gravely. “None of them, on their own, was enough to cause death.” He frowned, pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “The subject’s death was actually caused by massive and eventually fatal cardiac arrest…”
Luc Malfoy’s eyes carefully veiled, Draco’s white hair veiling his features from view.
Jude Worth’s mild, soothing voice. “Dr. Weston, will you please tell the court the advice you gave Mr. Tarrant in November of last year, when he came in for his annual check up?”
The doctor’s eyes, vaguely troubled. “I told Mr. Tarrant that he was under a very high risk of heart disease, that he would have to stop drinking and smoking if he didn’t want to provoke a heart attack…”
“So he already had a heart condition?” Worth’s gentle, insistent voice was relentless.
“Yes, he did.” Anticipating the next question, he said, “The curses, while relatively harmless on their own, managed to trigger the cardiac arrest…”
Worth took centre stage. “Your Honour, my client was unaware of Mr Tarrant’s pre-existing medical condition, and in subjecting the victim to a number of relatively harmless curses, in no way intended to cause fatal harm to him. The fact that he did indeed have a pre-existing condition rendering him more susceptible to harm, and that condition caused a massive heart attack, is an intervening act that breaks the chain of causation between my client’s act and the result…”
Aquinas sputtering, “But for Mr. Malfoy’s act, there wouldn’t have been a heart attack! It was the very thing likely to happen…”
Worth’s relentless voice again. “Dr. Weston, could you describe to us the effect of theses curses when used on the human body?”
“The main spell used was an illusion spell, which allows the castor to literally manipulate the victim’s six senses, creating whatever sensations or images they desire…” Worth took a moment to point out that this curse, on its own, was not illegal, although it was of a dubious morality, usually used in the more…esoteric houses of pleasure. “Others were generally sensation curses, which inflict different, not necessarily painful sensations on the castee,” again, another spell used in exotic brothels – the audience was tittering, now – and it was becoming apparent that most of the curses Draco had used were relatively legal, but twisted to cause harm rather than stimulation. And with the amount of power Draco was capable of pouring into his spells, especially when fueled by uncontrolled rage, well, it had gone a little too far.
A new witness, a psychologist who had evaluated Draco in his cell.
“Dr Krantz,” the unctuous voice of the prosecutor continued, “in your professional, expert opinion, would you say that Mr. Malfoy is capable of killing?” Dr Krantz blinked at him wisely and fingered his beard and moustache, murmuring “Hmmm, yes, indeed, I would say he is capable of killing, but that is because he was an Auror, you know; they undergo special training…”
“Yes, but even before he became an Auror, he had killed…”
Draco’s jaw clenched, Luc’s eyes cooled noticeably, and a murmur broke out in the room. Worth drew himself up majestically, his voice almost ringing. “Objection, your Honour! That is not relevant to this trial.”
The judge looked at him, looked at Aquinas and raised an eyebrow. Smiling triumphantly, the prosecutor said, “But it is a significant factor in Mr. Malfoy’s mental state, your Honour.” Staring at him warningly, the judge asked him to rephrase his question.
“Dr. Krantz, taking into account Mr. Malfoy’s past and heritage,” another dig at Draco there, he didn’t react, “do you believe he is capable of torturing and killing the victim?”
Dr. Krantz, playing for time because he knew very well something of Malfoy’s mental state and it was not what he had expected, took off his glasses and polished them on his sleeve. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean by ‘his past and heritage’.” he murmured softly. If the man wanted it said, he would have to say it himself.
Here, Aquinas overplayed his hand in his thirst to discredit Malfoy. Or perhaps he did it deliberately, willing to take the consequences of such an act if it achieved the result he wanted. In a dramatic voice, with sweeping gestures, he pointed to Draco and said, “I mean, he killed his own father!” Pandemonium erupted, and his voice rose above the babble. “If he’s capable of killing his own father, then what isn’t he capable of?”
Draco closed his eyes, slowly, as Worth came to his feet with the force of his objection, as the High Clan Lords froze in their seats, impassive masks slamming down, as the rest of the spectators started to speak, to speculate – So it’s really true? He did kill him? No, he couldn’t have…but it was in the papers! In black and white print! It must be true…The judge banged his gavel down again and again and again, demanding order in a loud, penetrating voice, and gradually, slowly, the crowd calmed down, and Aquinas had a small, tight triumphant smile on his face, having achieved exactly what he wanted.
Jude Worth looked down at his client, who was, even allowing for the age and generation difference, noticeably different from his uncle and his father, and felt a small pang of sympathy for his tension, for the…shame…of having such a private thing dragged out for all the world to see. Perhaps he could believe in this Malfoy…and then he looked up, caught Luc Malfoy’s grey eyes, froze – and knew something that he had failed to realize when he had first encountered the Malfoy. If they were cold, if they were ruthless – it was all, all done for a reason, for something they thought completely justified, for the good of the Clan, of their family, of their loved ones; whatever they might demand of others, they demanded no less of themselves.
Finally, it was silent again, and the judge ordered an adjournment.
Draco, Luc, Worth and Ginevra all filed into an anteroom and shut the door, creating an isolated haven of peace that somehow managed to block out the rest of the world. Draco turned away into the middle of the room, his whole body restless and coiled, tense energy too tightly controlled. He looked back to Luc, back to Ginevra – nothing showing, but the mask dangerously thin. Ginevra came over to comfort him, her eyes sympathetic and compassionate – Luc said nothing and showed nothing, but watched him closely.
He didn’t say what he was thinking – I can’t do this, I can’t go through with it – because he was the Lord of Clan Malfoy, and he was above doubts and fears and human error. The Clan Lord was strong enough to handle any problems, to carry the whole Clan on his shoulders. In return, Luc refrained from saying – You must do this, no matter what it costs you, there is no other choice – because he was, when all was said and done, the usurping head of a lesser Clan, and the Malfoy Lord answered to nothing and no one, and because Draco already knew that he had no other choice. He had only to accept and embrace it. They understood each other perfectly.
So here it was – the last choice. Because they could not lose this trial. And nothing else mattered, at least not yet. Calm and centred once again, Draco turned and walked towards the door, ready to go back into the courtroom. He was the Malfoy Lord, and he would not be defeated.
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A/N – I am a lowly law student, not John Grisham. The law in this chapter is _not_ an accurate representation of current Australian criminal law; I have the feeling Draco would be going straight to Azkaban for life without his $200 if it was.
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