Adamant and Starlight

Chapter 9: We Can Be Heroes

Harry ate his breakfast - what little of it he could choke down - in silence. He wanted to ask Dumbledore a host of questions, but he could not bring himself to discuss Draco or the trial with Sirius brooding at one end of the table and Mrs. Weasley fussing at the other. After Harry's explosion of the evening before, Mrs. Weasley did not speak directly to him but managed to communicate her motherly concern all the same. She clucked over his unruly hair, threw straightening spells at his robe and made a couple of attempts to adjust his tie which he dodged by the simple expedient of ignoring her.

She made a final stab at breaking through Harry's reserve as he and Dumbledore lingered in the kitchen doorway to assume their disguises. Catching him by the arm, she drew him into a swift, tight hug and whispered, "Be strong, Harry dear, and be careful."

Harry gave her a convulsive smile, his face too taut with strain for anything more natural, and ducked away before she could smooth his hair or straighten his tie. He escaped from Mrs. Weasley only to run straight into his godfather. Sirius leaned bonelessly against the doorjamb, hands thrust in his pockets, dark, troubled eyes fixed on Harry's face.

When he caught Harry's eye, he said in his rasping voice, "Let Dumbledore handle the Wizengamot, Harry. You keep your head down. And hold your temper, no matter what you hear."

Harry nodded.

"I don't know if I'll see you again when it's over, so..." He shrugged slightly and looked away. "Take care of yourself. And Malfoy."

"I will."

Mrs. Weasley sniffed loudly, but whether in disgust or sorrow Harry couldn't tell, and turned to bustle off into the kitchen. Dumbledore flicked his wand at Harry, and suddenly, Harry was looking down at his own feet but seeing the frayed jeans and heavy boots of a teenaged Muggle. His Hogwarts robe and sweeping cloak had turned to a scuffed leather bomber jacket over a few layers of motley t-shirts.

Harry glanced over at Dumbledore and saw a plump, cheerful personage with a vacant smile, reddish side whiskers, a grimy apron tied about his ample middle, and a badly crushed, rather moldy bowler hat on his head. He carried an enormous cardboard box in his hands that looked as though it should contain a cake. What it actually contained, Harry did not know, but he hoped it was a nasty surprise for Fudge and his cronies. Dumbledore being Dumbledore, there was always the possibility that it really did have a cake in it or fresh scones for the Wizengamot's breakfast, but Harry had to trust that even scones would have a purpose in the Headmaster's plan. Because, if Dumbledore didn't have a plan, they were sunk.

Familiar blue eyes twinkled at Harry out of the stranger's face beside him. "Shall we go?"

Harry stared at him for a moment, then blurted out, "Do you always pick disguises that look like the Minister of Magic?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "You're imagining things, Harry. The Minister never wears a dirty apron to work. Come along. We don't want to be late."

With that, the old wizard started up the stairs, Harry close on his heels. Mrs. Black was snoring in her portrait, and the dingy square of Grimmauld Place was empty. Harry and Dumbledore slipped out the front door and down the steps. Behind them, Number 12 withdrew into the shadow of the buildings to either side until it vanished entirely. Harry did not look back. He did not want to think about returning to Sirius' gloomy, depressing home or what it would mean for Draco if he did.

If they succeeded in freeing Draco, surely they would go straight back to Hogwarts. Dumbledore couldn't be planning to keep them in London, exposed to the dangers of Voldemort and the Ministry of Magic. The only possible reason for returning to Grimmauld Place would be that the Wizengamot decided against Draco and had him locked up somewhere in the city. Even if they sent him to Azkaban...

Harry clamped down on that thought and turned to Dumbledore anxiously. "Did you see Draco last night?"

"No. I told you that would not be allowed."

"Then we don't know if he's all right. What if he...?"

"I spoke at length with his healer at St. Mungo's," Dumbledore cut in soothingly, "a most sensible woman by the name of Iphigenia Fox and an old friend of mine, as it happens."

Harry eyed him dubiously. "They gave Draco to a friend of yours? Fudge would never do that."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled more brightly than ever. "I have a lot of friends that Cornelius Fudge knows nothing about. Trust me, Harry. I have everything well in hand, including Draco's welfare."

"I trust you," he said, glumly, drawing a chuckle from Dumbledore. After a moment, he added, very quietly, "I miss Draco. I know he isn't really with me, even when he's with me, but I still miss him. And I worry about him."

"I know you do, my boy."

They had reached the Underground station, and the clatter of their feet on the steps of the broken escalator almost drowned out Harry's next words.

"Today, in that dungeon, could be the last time I ever see him. I can't stand to think about it."

Dumbledore said nothing, and as they boarded the train for central London, Harry felt depression thicken like a dank cloud about him. He found a place to stand in the crowded train and stared at the plastic cherries bobbing in the hat of a middle-aged Muggle seated nearby. The ride felt endless, and the close proximity of all those Muggles made it impossible for Harry to kill the time by talking to Dumbledore about the trial or Draco. What would the lady with the cherries in her hat think, if she heard him discussing the Minister of Magic or Unforgivable Curses with the portly baker beside him?

They reached the appropriate station at last, and Harry followed Dumbledore off the train, through the ticket gate, and up the fully functional escalator to the street. Harry did not remember the way to the Ministry, having only used the visitor's entrance once before and that nearly two years ago, but he recognized the way the buildings got smaller and shabbier with each corner they rounded, and the red phone box was exactly as he remembered it.

Harry felt increasingly as if he were revisiting an old nightmare. He had gone through all of this once before, when threatened with expulsion from Hogwarts and public humiliation as an attention-starved hysteric. The sweeping lobby of the Ministry of Magic, the ill-shaven security wizard who searched him and registered his wand, the clunking and creaking lift that ground slowly down to the dungeon - they had not changed a whit, and they gave Harry a familiar sense of creeping dread.

Finally, they stood outside the grimy door, with its enormous iron lock, and Harry threw a panicked look at Dumbledore. They had both resumed their normal appearance when they stepped out of the phone box, so it was the Headmaster's lined, humorous, bearded face that Harry saw in the dim light of the dungeon.

"Is it time?" Harry asked, his throat so tight that his voice came out as a croak.

Dumbledore shifted the wooden box he carried into the crook of one arm to check his watch. "In another minute or two."

Harry licked his lips and stared very hard at the door. So many emotions careened about inside him - from terror to elation that he would see Draco again in just another few minutes - that he could not make sense of them all. His innards were tied in a hundred knots, his hands shaking, his heart beating much too fast, and his breakfast sitting like lumps of coal in his stomach, burning holes in him. Dumbledore's soft voice made him start violently.

"Remember Snuffles' advice, Harry. You must hold your temper at all costs."

"I will."

"Harry." At the touch of Dumbledore's hand on his arm, he turned to meet the old wizard's kind, somber eyes. "You've had a taste of the bitterness and hostility felt by most of the wizarding community, so what is said during the trial shouldn't come as a surprise to you. Be prepared. And remain calm."

Harry swallowed noisily and asked, "Do they all feel the way Mrs. Weasley does?"

"No." Harry almost allowed himself a sigh of relief, then Dumbledore went on, implacably, "Molly Weasley loves you like a son and will forgive you nearly anything, eventually. I cannot say the same for the members of the Wizengamot."

"I thought they looked up to me as a hero."

"It's more complicated than that, especially with Fudge and his lackeys muddying the waters. No two wizards in that room feel exactly the same way about you, but I can safely say that they all agree on one thing."

"That Malfoy is bad for me."

"Precisely."

"So how do we convince them they're wrong?"

"We can't. The best we can do is convince them that it would be ethically wrong - or in Fudge's case, politically damaging - to punish him for killing his Death Eater father in self defense."

A dull, grinding, rasping noise from inside the door kept Harry from answering. The lock opened with an ominous clunk.

"Ah, it is time," Dumbledore said, his eyes beginning to twinkle again. He balanced his box on one hand and reached for the doorknob with the other. "Remember, Harry, stay calm and leave the talking to me." Then he pushed the great door open, and they walked into the Wizengamot dungeon.

Harry risked one glance at the dreadful chair in the center of the floor, just to assure himself that Draco was not seated in it, then he resolutely turned his eyes to the benches above and the veritable army of wizards and witches crowded onto them. He could not see their faces, except in the very lowest bench, where Fudge and his lackeys sat, but he could tell that there were far more than fifty people up there. The Wizengamot sat in the middle, ranged behind Fudge, Madam Bones, Dolores Umbridge, Percy Weasley, and - Harry's stomach clenched afresh at the sight of her - Narcissa Malfoy. Kingsley Shacklebolt and two women Harry had never seen before also sat on the front bench, but with a careful distance between them and Fudge's contingent.

Farther up and to either side, the formal purple robes of the Wizengamot gave way to clothing of every color and description. He felt sure that he knew some of those faceless wizards, but he could not see them clearly enough to be certain. A flare of red in the far corner to the left told him that one or more of the Weasleys had come. Harry hoped it wasn't Mrs. Weasley. He didn't think he could bear to sit and listen to Narcissa Malfoy's foul accusations and reflections on his love life with dear, confused, angry Mrs. Weasley hearing it all.

The crowd broke out in a rustle of murmurs and whispers at Harry and Dumbledore's entrance. Dumbledore put a hand on Harry's arm and drew him over to one side, where Fudge had placed two of the most uninviting chairs Harry had ever seen. They had straight, carved backs, plain wooden seats, and looked to be about three inches too short. Clearly, the Minister was trying to diminish them in the eyes of the Wizengamot and make them as uncomfortable as possible.

Dumbledore eyed the chairs in amusement, pulled out his wand, and gave it a flourish. The chairs grew several inches, and cushions in Dumbledore's favorite Victorian print appeared on their seats. Fudge watched, tight-lipped, as Dumbledore added curved, padded arms for good measure then motioned for Harry to take his seat. Titters and chuckles sounded from various points around the room.

Fudge pursed his lips in disapproval, waited pointedly for the noise to subside, then said, "If Albus is finished playing with the furniture, we can begin."

Dumbledore bowed graciously to him to signal his readiness, then sat down and set the box on the floor beside his chair.

"You and Potter are the only witnesses for the defense?"

"If I think of anyone else, I'll let you know."

The disapproval in Fudge's face deepened at this show of insouciance. Raising his voice, he called, "Bring in the accused!"

The shadows at the back of the dungeon floor stirred and formed themselves into a large wizard in dusty, charcoal grey robes. Harry could now see two other wizards flanking him, standing quietly by the wall. As the wizard strode out the door, Harry felt every muscle in his body tense in anticipation, and he clutched the arms of his chair 'til his knuckles whitened, fighting the urge to leap to his feet and run for the door in the guard's wake.

Dumbledore placed a warning hand on his arm. "Be patient, Harry. And stay calm."

Harry did not answer. He was craning his neck around to watch the door. Two minutes later, the guard returned with Draco Malfoy beside him.

Someone had taken pains with Draco's clothing. He looked precise and elegant in his Hogwarts robe, Slytherin tie, neatly creased trousers and fur-lined winter cloak. His hair was combed back into a queue at the nape of his neck, tied with a black satin ribbon, and it gleamed like polished silver in the dim light of the dungeon. At a casual glance, he appeared perfectly at ease and in control. Only a closer look at his face betrayed his true state of mind.

Harry stared hard at him, trying to determine how far he had retreated from his hostile and unfamiliar surroundings, and was not reassured. Draco looked utterly vacant, his eyes shuttered, his face shadowed with exhaustion and a pain that had nothing to do with physical wounds. He had not slept, Harry knew at a glance, and probably had not eaten. If the guard were not forcing him to move with a ham-like hand on his arm, his legs would collapse and he would turn to a broken marble statue.

The guard led Draco to the chair that stood in the center of the floor. It was large and heavy, its sturdy arms wrapped with chains that clanked and shifted ominously as it quarry approached. A practiced shove by the guard propelled Draco into the chair. Draco obediently sat, but he stayed huddled in the middle of the wide seat, his arms in close to his body and his right hand lying in his lap. The guard grabbed his left arm and pulled it, roughly, into place on the arm of the chair.

The chains sprang fully to life and began coiling themselves about the prisoner's wrist, but they merely rattled against the wood of the chair, finding no limb to bind. A hum of noise rose from the audience, punctuated with some rather sour laughter, and the guard gave the chains an irritated whack with his wand. They stopped moving. He tapped them again, and they slid up the arm of the chair to loop around Draco's forearm, just below the elbow. The guard bound Draco's right arm more conventionally and returned to his place at the back of the dungeon.

Every eye now fixed on Draco Malfoy, and the room fell eerily quiet.

The enormous, rough-hewn chair, meant to intimidate and overawe the prisoners restrained in it, only served to make Draco look smaller and more fragile than ever. The effect was intensified by the fact that he seemed utterly unaware of the chains binding him, unaware of the dungeon, the Wizengamot, and even of his own plight. He sat very still, his bright head tilted slightly to one side, his eyes fixed emptily on a spot somewhere above Fudge's left shoulder, and waited. An almost palpable surprise rippled through the audience, as witches and wizards who had been spoon-fed horror stories about the evil and perverted Draco Malfoy by the Daily Prophet finally saw him in the flesh.

He looked nothing like the demon of their imaginings. His resemblance to his father was pronounced and unfortunate, under the circumstances, but he demonstrated none of Lucius Malfoy's arrogance or silken menace. Indeed, he looked quite young, quite innocent and entirely harmless perched in that great, grim chair. One might even be pardoned for pitying him, given the fate that awaited him in Azkaban.

Fudge sensed the shift in attitude as clearly as Harry did, and he didn't like it. Surging to his feet, he rustled his papers importantly and turned to Percy, asking a bit too loudly, "Do you have the charge sheet, Weasley?"

"Yes, Minister!" Percy blurted out, springing half out of his seat in his eagerness to thrust the parchment at Fudge.

"Very good, very good. You will begin recording now."

"Yes, Minister!"

Fudge harrumphed and began to spout the usual formal phrases that began the trial, naming the various participants - Narcissa Malfoy as the accuser; Harry and Dumbledore as the witnesses for the defense; and himself, Amelia Bones and Dolores Umbridge as the interrogators. Then he brandished the parchment that Percy had given him and read out the charges in a pompous voice that tried and failed to sound authoritative. As Harry listened, the feeling of familiarity intensified, and his stomach dropped another few notches toward his boots.

When he had finished with these preliminaries, Fudge dropped the parchment onto the writing desk in front of him and fixed Draco with eyes so full of loathing that Harry flinched at the sight of them.

"Draco Malfoy, you stand accused, before this court and all the wizarding world, of the foulest crime that any wizard may commit: the use of an Unforgivable Curse upon the person of another wizard. For this crime alone, leaving aside the question of whom you murdered with your curse and why, the Wizengamot would be within its rights to send you to Azkaban prison immediately, without the courtesy of a public trial."

A discontented murmur went through the upper benches at that.

"There is precedent for it!" Fudge snapped. "Did this court not send countless Death Eaters to Azkaban without trials, when the crimes were heinous enough and the proof of guilt incontrovertible? And has Albus Dumbledore himself not proven that those desperate times are upon us again? With the Dark Lord and his minions stalking our streets and threatening our children, we have more than justification, we have the responsibility to take swift action!"

He was working himself into a froth, and some of the Wizengamot began to shift impatiently in their seats. Fudge heard the rustling and abruptly reined himself in.

Clearing his throat again, he resumed in his cold, lofty tone, "This court, however, is not in the business of summary punishment, but of reasoned and even-handed justice. In the interests of justice, we cannot condemn a young man of good family and... proven ability to a life sentence in Azkaban without a hearing. Therefore, we have chosen to hold this public trial, so that you may explain to us why you struck down your own father with the Avada Kedavra curse."

Fudge paused, and not so much as a whisper broke the charged silence. Draco sat utterly still, his face empty, his eyes fixed on nothing, while the audience waited for him to react.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself, before we begin?"

Another pause followed, in which many of the purple-robed wizards began to frown and mutter, and Harry felt his annoyance grow. It was Narcissa who finally spoke.

"Of course he doesn't, Minister. Look at him. He hasn't got a rational thought in his head, thanks to that precious pair." She flicked a contemptuous hand at Harry and Dumbledore.

Fudge looked rather put out that she had interrupted his grand opening move and disturbed the atmosphere he had worked so hard to create. The Wizengamot were no longer looking at the small, pale boy in chains as a victim, but as a lurking evil, veiled behind the face of innocence. Or they had been drifting in that direction, until Narcissa ruined the effect of his words. Now they were throwing her speculative, faintly hostile looks, remembering that she was the wife of a known Death Eater and suspected of complicity with You-Know-Who.

"Very well, very well," Fudge said, and shuffled his papers importantly. "Let us start with the eyewitness..."

"Wait a moment, Cornelius," Madam Bones cut in. She was frowning down at Draco, her monocle glinting in the torchlight, but Harry thought she looked more thoughtful than angry. "What's this about the boy not being in his right mind?"

"We don't know that he isn't," Fudge said, testily. "That is one of the details we have to clear up today."

Her frown deepened. "This is in clear violation of the Wizengamot Charter of Rights. The accused must be allowed to speak for himself."

"The International Ban on Unforgivable Curses supersedes the Charter, as you know perfectly well, Amelia. There is nothing in the Ban to prevent us passing judgment on Malfoy, no matter what his mental state. We don't even have to let him watch! Now, may we please get on with this?"

Madam Bones subsided, but she was still frowning. "Go on, then. But I want it on record that I was not previously informed of Malfoy's incapacity, and that I strenuously object to these proceedings." She glared extra hard at Percy. "Write it down, Weasley, in nice, neat script, so everyone can read it."

Percy ducked his head and scribbled furiously.

Fudge tried to look as though he found Madam Bones' quibbles amusing, but he failed. His lips were tight with annoyance and his cheeks flushed when he said, "Since you're so concerned with Malfoy's mental state, we'll begin there. Iphigenia, if you would stand, please."

One of the witches seated next to Kingsley Shacklebolt rose to her feet and turned a piercing gaze on Fudge. She looked like a cross between Professor McGonagall and Aunt Petunia, with her angular features, pinched nostrils and stern expression, and Harry would have found her positively alarming had Dumbledore not told him that she was a friend. She wore a lime green robe, with the emblem of St. Mungo's embroidered on the chest.

Fudge turned to Percy and said, "Expert witness Iphigenia Fox, Healer, head of the Spell Damage ward at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries." Addressing himself to Madam Fox, he went on, "Draco Malfoy was placed your care at approximately five o'clock yesterday afternoon, was he not?"

"If you mean that you locked him up on my ward, yes." Her voice was dry, her words crisp, and her manner tinged with an ironic humor that seemed to instantly nettle Fudge.

He pressed his lips together for a moment, then asked, "Were you able to examine the boy and determine if this... this breakdown of his is genuine?"

"Of course it is."

"He isn't physically injured..." Fudge began to protest, but Madam Fox cut him off with a contemptuous gesture.

"Mr. Malfoy is suffering the effects of a severe trauma. He is withdrawn; disoriented; detached mentally and emotionally from his environment; and slipping in and out of contact with reality. These symptoms should be familiar to all of you. We've seen them often enough." Her eyes swept the room, challenging any of them to deny it. "The boy is spell-shocked."

An uncomfortable silence met her words, which Fudge interrupted by clearing his throat. "Can you treat him?"

"Given time, probably. He hasn't completely detached. He still responds to some stimuli and recognizes certain people." Her eyes flicked briefly to Harry, and her face softened. "These are positive signs." Then her face hardened again, and she added, "Of course, if you plan to pack him off to Azkaban, it's a moot point."

"Thank you, Iphigenia. Amelia? Any questions?"

"Just one," Madam Bones said, gruffly. "Can you tell what caused his breakdown?"

"Only Malfoy can tell us that."

"On the contrary." Narcissa rose to her feet and looked down her aristocratic nose at the much shorter Madam Fox. "I can tell you what overset my son's mind. I was there; I saw it happen."

"Do you think she really was there," Harry whispered to Dumbledore, "under one of those hoods?"

"It's possible, certainly, but that is not the story we are about to hear."

"What should we do?"

"Be quiet, listen, and answer the questions put to us honestly."

Harry sighed inwardly but did not argue. Knotting his fingers together in his lap, he fixed his eyes steadily on Mrs. Malfoy's face and willed himself not to react, no matter what sort of lies came out of her mouth.

"Very well, Narcissa," Fudge said, raising his voice to quell the mutters from the audience, "please give us your eyewitness account of Lucius' death."

"That is easily done, but it will not answer Madam Bones' question. To grasp the full extent of my son's illness, you must hear the entire sordid tale, going all the way back to the so-called Siege of Hogwarts."

"Let's stick to the murder, shall we?" Madam Bones said, dryly. "We all know about the siege."

"You do not know Draco's role in it."

"One thing at a time."

Narcissa nodded her acceptance, but her face had turned colder and haughtier than ever. "On the evening of March the 21^st, Lucius and I were preparing to leave the Manor, when we heard a disturbance in the forecourt. Someone was attempting to break down the main doors, which are charmed to open only to members of our family, and the doors were protesting.

"Lucius immediately went to investigate. I remained in my dressing room until I heard voices raised in the entryway. I recognized them as belonging to my husband and my son."

"Ah, one moment, my dear," Dumbledore called, lifting a hand to signal for attention. "If I might ask a question...?"

"You are a witness, Albus, not an interrogator," Fudge said. "It is not your place to ask questions."

"But, as you have so rightly pointed out, this is not a proper trial and not subject to the restrictions of the Charter. So where's the harm?"

Fudge was about to protest, but Amelia Bones cut in, "You can't have it both ways, Cornelius. Either this is a formal trial, bound by the Charter, or it's a..." She broke off, grimaced, and continued in a growling voice, "I am an interrogator, and I cede to Dumbledore my right to question the witness. Go on, Albus. Ask."

Fudge sat down with a thump and nodded curtly at Dumbledore.

"Thank you, Minister. Madam Bones. Just a brief clarification, if you please, Narcissa. Was it your son, Draco, who was attempting to break down the doors?"

"Yes."

"Doors charmed to open only for members of the Malfoy family?"

"Yes."

"Then how is it that they did not open for him?"

Narcissa's face tightened, but whether in pain or fury Harry could not tell. "After the incidents at Hogwarts, Lucius instructed them not to admit Draco. When it became clear to him that his son could not be trusted."

"When Draco was no longer fit to be called a Malfoy," Dumbledore added, gently.

Narcissa bared her teeth in a swift, pained grimace. "I have you to thank for that."

"Go on, Narcissa," Madam Bones interjected. "Stick to the facts."

"As I came down the stairs, I heard Draco screaming insults and threats at his father. There was an edge of hysteria to his voice, of madness, and I feared that he might do harm to Lucius or to himself, so I prepared to disarm him. But when I reached the entryway, I saw that Draco had no wand."

Dumbledore's head came up sharply. "You searched him?"

"He had no wand in his hand," she amended. "I foolishly assumed that he could not hurt Lucius without a wand, and I dropped my guard." Her face contorted with grief. "I never dreamed that my son would turn on his own father in such a way. I thought that we could persuade him to seek help, to place himself in our care. After all, he had fled Hogwarts and come home to us! That must signal some vestige of sanity or filial duty left in him, somewhere beneath the layers of filth and treachery and sickness that smothered him!"

Narcissa paused to collect herself, and Harry half expected Dumbledore to break in on the eager silence, to use his guileless manner and needle-sharp wit to destroy the mood she had conjured with her words. But Dumbledore sat as still as the rest of them - as still as Draco, lost and broken, huddled so far within himself that his mother's eloquent lies did not even touch him - waiting for her to continue.

"I was a fool!" Narcissa rasped out, at last. "I forgot who my true enemy was. I thought that my child was strong enough to resist Dumbledore's sorcery and Potter's seduction, but I underestimated them."

Madam Bones raised her eyebrows at that. "You witnessed, er, 'Dumbledore's sorcery and Potter's seduction' there in your foyer?"

"I did! It was right there in front of my eyes - in Draco's madness, in his abuse of his father, in that abominable hand!"

Madam Bones looked pointedly at Draco's empty sleeve, then at Dumbledore. "I'd like to see that hand. I've heard the rumors, right enough, but I'd like to examine it for myself."

Fudge waved in Kingsley Shacklebolt's general direction and said, "The hand has been checked by Ministry wizards, and we'll all get to see it later. For the moment, let's..."

"Did you find any Dark spells in it, Kingsley? Any sign that it was used to subdue Malfoy or affect his mind?" Madam Bones demanded, ignoring Fudge's attempts to hurry her along.

"None," Shacklebolt answered, firmly.

"Hmph." Her stern eyes shifted to Mrs. Malfoy, and she almost growled, "No more tarradiddles, Narcissa. Tell us how Lucius died and be done with it."

Mrs. Malfoy's back stiffened alarmingly, and she spoke through her teeth, as though she couldn't trust herself to unclench her jaw. "When he could not calm or restrain Draco, Lucius ordered him from the house. Draco ran out the door, down the steps and into the court. Lucius followed, to see him through the gate, and I stepped into the doorway. I saw Draco turn just before he reached the gate. I heard him scream Potter's name - pleading with him, cursing him, I do not know - then he flung out his hand, pointed at Lucius, and... There was a flash of green light. Lucius fell. Draco stood there in the middle of the court, staring at his father's body, with tears on his face, then he turned and ran. When I... thought to look for him, he was gone."

A long, uncomfortable silence met her final words. The glances cast at Draco were no longer pitying or thoughtful; they were cold and grim. And Harry felt more than one hostile glance on his own neck as well. Finally, the Minister shuffled the papers lying on his desk, making them rustle loudly, and cleared his throat.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt accompanied investigators from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to inspect the body for signs of illegal magic. Kingsley, do your findings agree with Mrs. Malfoy's testimony?"

Kingsley Shacklebolt, looking tall and impressive in his sweeping scarlet robes, rose to his feet. "As to the manner of Lucius' death, they do."

"He was killed by an Unforgivable Curse?"

"Yes. I found unmistakable traces of the Avada Kedavra curse in his body."

"Were you able to determine when he died?"

"I would say two or three days before my examination. As you know, spell traces fade when the tissue begins to decompose, and all of the magic in his body was rapidly dissipating."

"Wait a moment," Madam Bones muttered, reaching for the sheaf of parchment on Fudge's desk. She shuffled through the pages until she found what she was looking for. "Here it is. My department was informed of Lucius Malfoy's death on March the 25^th. Narcissa claims he died on March the 21^st."

"Four days," Fudge said, impatiently. "It could still fit."

She shot Narcissa a fierce look from beneath her eyebrows and snapped, "Four days? What were you doing for the four days before you reported Lucius' death to the Ministry?"

Narcissa's chin lifted another notch. "Looking for my son."

"I can vouch for that," Dumbledore said, mildly.

"Alone?" Madam Bones demanded. "Knowing that he was unhinged and dangerous? After watching him murder his father on the front stoop? That strikes me as a singularly foolish thing to do, Narcissa."

"He is my son," Mrs. Malfoy stated, coldly, "and my responsibility."

"According to you, he's a homicidal lunatic." Madam Bones' hard gaze shifted to Draco for a moment, and something resembling a smile quirked one corner of her mouth. "If half of what you say is true, I wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley."

"Enough," Fudge spluttered. "That's enough, Amelia! Mrs. Malfoy is not on trial, here."

"Oh, do spare us that one, Cornelius, please. You're asking us to send a sixteen-year-old boy to Azkaban, based on her word. Of course she's on trial. So are Potter and Dumbledore, for that matter. The whole lot of them have some serious explaining to do, and I, for one, am sick of you pussy-footing around the issue!"

"I!" gasped Fudge.

"You." Turning to Kingsley, she said, brusquely, "You said that you could verify the manner of Lucius' death. What about the rest of her story? And don't tart it up, Kingsley. Just tell it."

Shacklebolt gave her a glinting smile and bowed. "Very well. I found that Lucius Malfoy was killed by an Avada Kedavra curse, somewhere on or about March the 22^nd. He was moved from the spot where he died and placed in his own bed by his wife, Narcissa Black Malfoy. He still had traces of the curse in his body, but when I examined the spot on the stairs where he apparently died, I could find no such traces."

"Residual magic generally doesn't fade more quickly from stone than from decaying flesh, does it?"

"No. Stone doesn't break down the way tissue does and tends to hold the magic much longer."

"How do you account for the fact that you found no traces of the spell?"

"I expect she mistook the exact spot where it happened... in the heat of the moment, as it were."

Madam Bones harrumphed loudly but offered no further comment. "What about this adamant hand of Malfoy's?"

"I have it right here."

Extending a hand down to the witch seated next to him, he took a small chest from her and flipped it open. A moment later, a ripple of awe went through the room, and the benches shook as every single witch and wizard leaned forward for a better look. Kingsley held up Draco's adamant hand across his palms, turning it slowly so that its facets glittered and shone in the torchlight.

"Dumbledore surrender it to the Ministry last night, after Malfoy's arrest. I spent much of last night studying it. As you can see, it is an artificial hand made entirely of adamant - a beautiful piece of work, I must say. Unfortunately, it's been damaged. The two outer fingers are gone - blown off, from the looks of them. The essential structure is intact, however, and I'm sure that the hand is still functional, when attached."

Madam Bones whistled appreciatively through her teeth. "Imagine. A crystalline hand that moves like flesh and blood... Is it a wand?"

"Yes, certainly it could act as one."

"Did you find traces of the Avada Kedavra curse in it?"

Shacklebolt nodded. "I did."

"Here, wait a minute." A bulky, square-jawed wizard with a thatch of straw-colored hair, dressed in the purple robes of the Wizengamot, rose to his feet, drawing all eyes to him. "Are you telling us Draco Malfoy used that pretty thing, there, to kill Lucius?"

"So it would appear," Kingsley answered, calmly.

"How d'you know Malfoy did it? You're standing there, holding the thing, couldn't you have used it as a wand and killed that old bug... uh, Lucius?"

"No. Once the adamant is attuned to one wizard's power, no one else can use it. I could not light a candle with this, but Draco Malfoy could burn the Ministry to the ground."

"Right, then. How d'you know it's attuned to young Malfoy?"

Once again, Madam Bones cut in with her dry, ironic voice. "Oh, come, Sturgis. How many adamant hands do you imagine we have lying around?" A hum of amusement from the upper benches met her words. "And how many one-handed wizards to use them?"

Dumbledore stood up and nodded toward the square-faced wizard, whom Harry now recognized as Sturgis Podmore, a member of the Order and another of Dumbledore's secret supporters. "I can assure you that the hand belongs to Draco Malfoy. I, with the help of Minerva McGonagall, made it for him; I attached it in place of his missing hand; and I removed it."

"Why did you remove it?" Madam Bones asked.

"In his current state, I thought it unwise to leave him, er, armed."

Podmore gave a bark of laughter and sat down.

Madam Bones frowned. "Did he attack someone with it? Cast a spell?"

"He made a Patronus with it."

"A Patronus! I thought Potter was the only student at Hogwarts who could generate a true Patronus."

"So did we, until Mr. Malfoy set one on Mr. Potter."

"Hmph. Why would he do that?"

"He was not thinking clearly," Dumbledore said, gently, "and mistook his friend for a dementor."

"Or he was thinking more clearly than you care to admit," Narcissa sneered, "and was trying to protect himself from Potter."

Dumbledore eyed her coldly for a moment, then asked, "Was he thinking clearly when he tried to jump to his death from a window to escape a group of students in black robes?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"No. You weren't there to save his life, but Harry was. Just as Harry saved his life during the siege. Just as he saved it when Lucius tried to take Draco from Hogwarts by force. I should think, as his mother, that you would be grateful to have Harry so close to him."

"As his mother, I would rather see him dead than in Harry Potter's bed!"

A grim, charged silence met this outburst, broken at last when Dumbledore turned to smile reassuringly at Harry. "That's the crux of matter, isn't it?" He looked up at Narcissa again, still smiling, but with no warmth in his face. "You don't approve of your son's choices, so you blame his... shall we say, lapse on Harry. The truth is, Narcissa, that you will never forgive Draco for choosing me over the Dark Lord, for choosing loyalty to Harry over loyalty to Lucius, and so you must find someone to blame. Someone to hate. It's either that or admit that your son loves another more than he does you."

"Potter?" she said, her lip lifting with contempt.

"No, himself. His own honor and sense of rightness. His own life." Amazingly, Dumbledore looked at her with genuine sympathy in his eyes. "He does love you, Narcissa, as he loved Lucius. That is why he suffers. But he does not love Voldemort." The entire room flinched at the sound of that name. "You raised him to be proud and strong, but you ask him to bow before a master he does not love, to sacrifice both strength and pride to please his father."

"And what do you ask of him, Dumbledore? To prostitute himself? To do murder at your behest? To sacrifice his sanity to your lust for revenge?"

"You know that isn't true."

"I was there! I saw what he did to his own father! I saw the madness and pain in his eyes..."

"So did I," Dumbledore said, very quietly.

She drew herself up in triumph and stared down her aristocratic nose at him. "You lie. Only Lucius and I were there, only Lucius and I know what happened, and Lucius is dead."

"What of Draco? He was there, and he remembers," Dumbledore gestured to the boy sitting so quietly in the enormous chair, "with shattering clarity."

Many of the Wizengamot wizards were now muttering together, speculating as to what Dumbledore had up his sleeve. Others were frowning at Draco, unhappy with the turn the hearing had taken, while yet others were smiling and nodding, anticipating a good show from the wily old wizard who never let them down. Fudge looked decidedly unsettled.

"What are you getting at, Dumbledore?" the Minister asked, querulously. "You're not going to pretend the boy told you anything useful!"

"Not directly, no."

"Then it still comes down to Narcissa's sworn testimony against a lot of fine words from you that don't mean a thing in a court of law!"

"It comes down to the truth," Dumbledore said, his voice suddenly hard and uncompromising. "And the truth is that Draco Malfoy killed his father in self defense, while trying to escape a fate worse than death at the hands of Voldemort and the dementors. Whether or not Narcissa witnessed this, I don't know. The participants were hooded and unrecognizable. But I witnessed it, and Harry witnessed it, exactly as Draco did. From within his memories."

"Preposterous!" Fudge spluttered.

"Come now, Cornelius, you know better than that. You have all been inside a Pensieve at one point or another, and you know how clear and accurate the memories are when viewed that way."

"A Pensieve... a Pensieve?... but the boy is mad..." The whispers and questions ran about the walls and up into the shadowed ceiling. "It's ridiculous to think he could... only Dumbledore would come up with a dodge like this... is it possible we could see the boy's own memories? But he is mad... mad... only look at him..."

"Order! Order!" Fudge bellowed, until the voices died down. "The boy is mad, Dumbledore. His memories are meaningless."

"His mind is fragmented now, shattered by the horrors his own father inflicted upon him, but it was sound enough when he faced Voldemort."

Fresh babble broke out, and Fudge shouted for order until his face turned red. Before he could catch his breath, Amos Diggory was on his feet, calling to Dumbledore, "Can you show us what's in the Pensieve, so we can judge for ourselves?"

"Certainly." Gesturing toward the ornate box that sat beside his chair, Dumbledore said, "I brought it with me and am prepared to summon the memories for all of you to witness."

"No!" Narcissa Malfoy leapt to her feet, dignity forgotten in rage. "I will not allow it! He is using my son for his own ends, and this is but another manipulation, another violation of Draco's mind!" Whirling on Dumbledore, she hissed, "Is it not enough that you have reduced him to this?! Must you parade his delusions in front of the entire wizarding world, as well?"

"Please, Narcissa," Fudge began, only to be shouted down by another wizard seated a few rows above.

"A Pensieve can't lie! If Dumbledore's taken those memories straight from Malfoy's head, they must tell us the truth!"

"The truth as he remembers it," a portly witch, whose flaming red curls clashed abominably with her purple robe, interjected. "Who's to say his madness hasn't warped his memory?"

"Look at the memories and decide for yourself," Dumbledore suggested, mildly.

"It's the only way we'll get at the truth," Sturgis insisted.

"The truth, certainly... If those truly are Draco Malfoy's memories in the Pensieve." As she spoke, Dolores Umbridge leaned forward in her seat to gaze down at Dumbledore, her malevolent toad's face creased in a thoroughly unpleasant smile. This was the first time Umbridge had spoken or drawn attention to herself since the start of the hearing, and Harry had almost forgotten her presence. But the sound of her poisonously-sweet voice went down his spine like a dementor's finger and made him shudder. "Then again," she cooed, "perhaps they are not."

Several of the listeners straightened up at that and started glancing around, curiously, as if looking for a clue as to how the other members of the court were leaning. Fudge smiled smugly. Dumbledore merely raised his eyebrows at Umbridge and waited for her to elaborate on her theme.

"The Widow Malfoy has made some serious accusations against the Headmaster - accusations that could land both Professor Dumbledore and young Mr. Potter in a deal of trouble." She offered her rapt audience a simpering smile and added, at her most caressing, "What is to stop Albus Dumbledore - the most powerful wizard of our age - from tampering with Mr. Malfoy's memories to suit his own ends?"

Dumbledore's face did not change, even when murmurs from the Wizengamot proved that some of them, at least, agreed with Umbridge. "What ends might those be?"

"Why, to protect Harry Potter from the consequences of his actions. Surely that much is obvious."

"Indeed." Dumbledore smiled, but his eyes were cold. "You leave me with no recourse, Dolores. If the memories of Draco Malfoy himself are not to be trusted as evidence..."

"Gracious, Professor, did I say that? No, no, you misunderstand me. Draco Malfoy is the only surviving witness to the crime, other than Narcissa, and his memories are key to our understanding of events."

"Thank you for that clarification."

"It is not the boy's memories that I question, but the manner in which they have been obtained. I would suggest, with all due respect to our esteemed Headmaster, that memories taken from the accused without Ministry wizards present and placed in a Pensieve over which the Ministry has had no control are tainted as evidence. They are, in fact, quite useless."

"Because I have tampered with them," Dumbledore said.

"May have tampered with them," Umbridge corrected, dulcetly.

Harry opened his mouth to interrupt, his face flushed with anger, but Amos Diggory got in before him. "What are you suggesting, Dolores? That we use our own Pensieve to take memories from him?"

Her eyelids drooped to hide the gleam of malice in her eyes. "If only we could. But as Dumbledore has already taken them for his Pensieve..."

"I thought you said those weren't Malfoy's memories in there."

She shrugged helplessly. "Who's to say? Perhaps they are, or perhaps Dumbledore started with genuine memories and altered them to hide his own guilt."

"Guilt over what?" Sturgis Podmore demanded. "Just what, exactly, is Dumbledore supposed to have done that would require him to... to plunder Malfoy's mind and warp his memories?"

Narcissa surged to her feet again and flung out an accusatory finger to point at Dumbledore. "He sent my son to kill his own father!"

"Oh, come now, Narcissa," Diggory protested, "this is Dumbledore we're talking about."

"Oh, yes! The most respected and powerful wizard of our age!" she jeered. "Bow and scrape to him if you like, Amos Diggory, but I know him for what he is. It is true that Draco used an Unforgivable Curse on his father, but Dumbledore is to blame for it! Dumbledore and that... that..."

"Potter the Poofter," someone muttered, just loud enough to be heard by all. Ugly laughter exploded from several places in the room, and even Fudge allowed himself a tight smile.

Harry clenched his teeth together and gripped the arms of his chair, but he did not need Dumbledore's warning hand on his arm to keep him in his seat. He knew perfectly well that he must not allow the contempt gathering like a visible miasma in the room to goad him into a show of temper. It was just a name. A name and a few snickers could not hurt him.

Fudge, still wearing his nasty little smile, said, "I think, in light of Dolores' concerns about the, er, authenticity of the contents of the Pensieve, that we should consider another means of examining Malfoy's memories."

"There is no other way," Amos Diggory snapped.

"There's Veritaserum," Madam Bones offered, a bit reluctantly Harry thought.

Narcissa reacted as violently to that suggestion as she had to the use of the Pensieve. The color drained from her face, and she jerked around in her seat to stare at Madam Bones in outrage. "No! You cannot!"

"This court can order the use of Veritaserum, if we choose," Fudge retorted in irritation.

"You cannot hold a sick child's mind up to public ridicule!"

"May I remind you that he is not a sick child; he is a wizard accused of the foulest of crimes. Accused out of your own mouth, my dear."

Diggory scowled at Madam Bones, mentally chewing over her suggestion, refusing to be distracted by Fudge's exchange with Narcissa. "If Dumbledore has put his memories in the Pensieve, how will we learn anything with Veritaserum?"

"Memories in the Pensieve are single mental threads, coherent in themselves but not the entire past experience. Emotions remain, bits and pieces not part of the central thread, other memories from the same moment not captured with the first. Any given memory is a very complex web of perceptions and responses. If you ask the right question..."

"Even if we couldn't learn the truth about Lucius' death," the flame-haired witch cut in, impatiently, "we could get to the bottom of this business with Potter."

"This is not a peep show," Madam Bones growled.

"The true nature of Potter's relationship with Malfoy is pertinent to the case, if Potter is responsible for Malfoy's attack on his father!" the witch protested.

Amos nodded agreement. "I find it hard to believe that Lucius Malfoy's son would take up with Harry Potter all on his own, and if there was some kind of force involved..."

"Force?" Harry hissed under his breath to Dumbledore. "What are they doing? Trying to prove that I raped Draco?"

"Calm down, Harry."

"They're going to give Draco Veritaserum and make him tell them all about our... about us. Do you expect me to just sit here and listen?"

"I expect you to hold your temper and let me handle it."

Harry made a furious, strangled noise deep in his throat and bounded to his feet, gasping, "No!"

The Wizengamot paid him no mind, as they were all intent on the odious Dolores Umbridge and her latest poisonous utterance. "Under the influence of Veritaserum, Draco Malfoy cannot lie. Nor can he be swayed by others. It is the only way to be sure we're hearing his version of events."

"I'm not comfortable with administering Veritaserum to someone in Malfoy's condition," Madam Bones protested.

"You're the one who suggested it," Fudge cried in exasperation. "If not Veritaserum then what? What will satisfy your delicate conscience, Amelia?"

"End this farce and send the boy back to St. Mungo's, where he belongs," Amelia retorted, crossing her arms in a gesture of defiance.

"That is not an option. We must determine the truth and make a final judgment..."

"And expose any wrongdoing on the part of Mr. Potter or Albus Dumbledore," Umbridge added, sweetly.

"Stop it!" Harry shouted, bringing a shocked silence down on the squabbling wizards. "Stop it, all of you!"

Fudge fixed him with a cold, disdainful eye and snapped, "Be quiet, Mr. Potter, or you will be removed."

"You can't remove me! I'm a witness for the defense, and I have the right to speak! Or has Draco's right to have anyone else speak for him been waived along with his right to speak for himself?"

"That is quite enough."

Madam Bones threw Fudge a startled look. "On the contrary, Mr. Potter has an excellent point. I think you should let him talk."

"So he can spin more lies?"

"I wasn't aware that we'd decided Potter's testimony was to be jettisoned, along with Dumbledore's testimony and Malfoy's own memories. It seems to me that you're arbitrarily doing away with the entire defense, simply because you find it inconvenient."

Fudge sighed in his best longsuffering manner, and Harry could almost see him scrambling to salvage his advantage. "This entire discussion is about Malfoy's defense. We are trying to establish a fair, even-handed way to determine what really happened..."

"You don't want to know what really happened!" Harry blurted out, heedless of the disrespect he showed to this august body with his outburst. "You didn't bring us here to learn the truth at all! You brought us here to dig up dirt on Lucius Malfoy's son!"

"We did not bring you here at all, Mr. Potter," Fudge retorted, severely. "You chose to come, and now you must abide by the rules of this court."

"I tried. I sat here, quietly, while you discussed my personal life, accused me of everything you could think of, and humiliated someone I love very much. But now you're refusing to look at the real evidence - the evidence that would explain everything and tell you exactly what happened the night Mr. Malfoy died - because you'd rather mess with Draco's mind and find reasons to separate us."

Fudge's face hardened, his weak, pudgy features turning the closest thing to haughty that they could manage. "This is not about your schoolboy romances, Potter."

"No, it's about saving The Boy Who Lived from a Death Eater's son! Isn't it, Minister? The least you could do, when you're about to violate a sick person's mind, is admit what you're really doing!"

"That's enough!"

As Fudge made to stand, his hand coming up to signal the guards, a new voice spoke up from the shadows of the upper tiers. "Wait, Cornelius."

Heads swiveled to look up at the source of that voice, and, to Harry's surprise, Alastor Moody lumbered to his mismatched feet.

"Mr. Potter is right on several counts. He came here as a witness for Malfoy's defense, which gives him the right to speak out on the boy's behalf. He has been accused of several crimes, all of them relating to Malfoy and to the charges at hand, which puts him in the dock as well. He and Dumbledore have offered evidence to this court that we have yet to see. Why are we even discussing such a drastic and violent step as forcing Veritaserum on a mentally incapacitated boy, when we have evidence in front of us that could condemn or clear him without it?"

Moody glared at Fudge with both his eyes, making the Minister blanch, and added, fiercely, "It does begin to sound as though our esteemed Minister of Magic is more interested in degrading Malfoy than in trying him for his supposed crime."

Before Fudge could answer, Narcissa rose majestically to her feet and declared, "I will not allow the administering of Veritaserum to my son, but neither will I condone the use of the Pensieve."

"You are not being asked to condone anything, my dear Narcissa," Dumbledore said, at his mildest and most dangerous. "This is a courtroom. The court will decide what measures are taken."

"The court is letting itself be nose-led by a senile old man and an arrogant child!"

"I'm not a child," Harry snarled, "and neither is Draco! He's sixteen years old, old enough to make his own decisions and choose his own loyalties. He chose to stand and fight with Dumbledore and with me, against Voldemort. And whether or not you like it, Mrs. Malfoy, it was his choice - not mine, not Dumbledore's, and not yours!"

"How dare you speak to me in such a way?"

"How dare you - how dare any of you," he added, glaring around at the stony faces of the wizards confronting him, "try to take Draco away from Professor Dumbledore, when Dumbledore is the only person in the wizarding world with the courage to stand up to Voldemort? He promised every student at Hogwarts his protection, if they chose to stay with him. Dumbledore doesn't discriminate between Death Eaters' sons and your children. He protects everybody. And you're all plenty happy that he's got your children safe at the castle. You'd never think of taking one of your own sons away, handing him over to the Dark Lord, because you didn't like who he was sleeping with! But you'll do it to Draco, because he's a Malfoy, and we all know that Malfoys aren't worth protecting!"

A hand fell on Harry's shoulder, and Dumbledore's voice sounded softly in his ear. "All right, Harry, sit down."

But Harry wasn't finished. "You're all hypocrites. You pretend to do what's right - offering the poor, sick junior Death Eater a trial instead of just tossing him in Azkaban - but all you really want is to humiliate both of us so much that I'll slink off and hide at Hogwarts, leaving Draco with no one to fight for him. Then you'll get your hero back, a little dirty but still usable, and the world will be rid of one more Malfoy. The only problem is, it won't work. I'm not going anywhere, and I'm not letting you take Draco anywhere until you know what really happened!"

"We are trying to determine what happened, Potter," Amos Diggory interjected, his face twisted with a mixture of embarrassment, distaste and kindness. "If you'd let us get on with it..."

Harry faced him squarely and made a heroic effort to keep the disdain from his voice. "How, Mr. Diggory? By drugging Draco and asking him about his love life?"

"You will admit that Malfoy's, er, state of mind at the time of the killing is important."

"Yes, I admit that, but Dumbledore's given you a better way to find that out. Better than drugging him, when he's in no condition to give his permission."

"We don't need his permission," Fudge said.

Harry turned a cold look on him and asked, stiffly, "What would you do, Minister, if this court tried to force your wife to drink Veritaserum, so they could ask her how she really feels about you?" A gasp of outrage and amusement rippled through the audience. "Would you just sit there and let it happen? Listen to her describe what a night with you is like?"

Fudge's mouth dropped open and his eyes nearly popped from his head. "The impertinence..." he spluttered. "How dare you? The gall!"

"Yes, that's what I thought. It does take a lot of gall to do that to someone, especially someone who can't speak up for himself."

Fudge was rapidly turning a violent shade of purple, as his lips worked in an effort to frame the most cutting, devastating, shattering reprimand ever heard within these walls. But before he could deliver this killing blow, Kingsley Shacklebolt rose to his feet and cleared his throat. Once again, every head swiveled to look at the speaker.

He nodded pleasantly to all the staring faces and fixed a mild, questioning eye on Fudge. "Can anyone suggest a method by which the contents of the Pensieve might be falsified?"

An uncomfortable silence answered him.

"I thought not. We are basing all of this on the supposition that Dumbledore has, somehow, falsified evidence and placed it in the Pensieve, but it seems to me that this is a patently foolish idea. Leaving aside the question of whether or not we honestly believe Albus Dumbledore would torment a child into madness and force him to commit murder, the fact is that no one ever has tampered with memories in a Pensieve. No one can suggest how it might be done."

Turning to sweep the upper tiers with his gaze, he said, "I respectfully suggest that we watch the memories in the Pensieve before we decide what other measures are needed. If, when that is done, you still feel that Malfoy's actions are suspect, you can then do as you see fit."

"Aye," Diggory growled, "let's have done with arguing and see what Dumbledore's got."

A low murmur answered him, growing in volume until it was a shouted chorus of assent. Fudge sat rigidly in his chair, eyes straight ahead and face flushed. After a long minute, during which the calls from the Wizengamot grew steadily louder, he raised his hand for quiet. The sound died quickly.

"Very well. Show us your evidence, Dumbledore."

Harry stepped hurriedly forward, cutting off the mutters of approval from the audience. "Please, Minister, wait!"

Fudge's eyes glittered coldly at him. "What now, Potter?"

"Please don't make Draco watch this."

"Mr. Malfoy will see the evidence along with this court."

Harry swallowed his anger and kept his voice reasonable, polite, undemanding. "What happened to him," he waved toward the Pensieve, "in there is what did this to him in the first place. Made him... the way he is. I don't think he could stand to watch it all again."

"Potter's right," Madam Fox cut in. "You could do the boy irreparable harm."

Fudge stared at Harry, eyes narrowed, searching for some trick in his request. Finally, he nodded. Waving a hand at the guards, he said, "Take Malfoy to the holding room. Put a binding hex on him, if he so much as twitches."

"May I go with him?" Harry asked. "I'd rather not watch it, either."

Another long, burning stare, then Fudge flung out his hand and snapped, "Your wand, Potter."

Harry pulled his wand from his robes and laid it on Fudge's outstretched palm.

"You may not hold private conversation with Malfoy. You may not touch him." Fudge's lip lifted in disgust. "And you will have three armed wizards with you at all times. Now, get out and let us get on with our business."

Harry stood quietly beside Draco's chair, his hands pointedly shoved in his pockets, while the guards tapped the chains that held Draco to loosen them and hauled him to his feet. Draco moved as dully and obediently as always, but as they turned him toward the back of the pit and the door, his blank gaze passed over Harry's face and he hesitated. Awareness flashed in his eyes for a moment.

"Are we going home, now?"

Harry exerted all his self control to keep his face neutral under all those hostile glares. "Not yet, Draco." He tried to smile for the other boy's benefit and moved toward the door, motioning for Draco to follow him. "Come on. We'll go someplace quiet to wait."

"Wait for what?" Draco asked, as he fell into step between his guards.

"Dumbledore."

Draco accepted this without a blink. In a moment, they were outside the courtroom and moving down the dark, underground passage. Harry did not speak to Draco again, until one of the guards opened a heavy door and ushered them into a small, dreary, rather threadbare room with a couple of candles on the table that looked as though they'd been chewed by rats. The first guard through the door lit them with his wand, while the second steered Draco over to a chair and pushed him into it and the third bolted the door behind them.

Harry pulled another chair up close to Draco's, ignoring the sideways looks of the guards, and plunked into it. A cloud of dust rose from the frayed upholstery, making him sneeze.

Draco looked around dazedly for a moment, then said, "There are no windows."

"No. We're underground."

His pale face, which had remained completely placid through so much unpleasantness, now tightened in distress. "Not underground." His arms came up to rest on the arms of the chair, and his right hand fastened around the wood with sudden force. "I don't like it here."

"I'm sorry, but we can't leave yet. We have to wait for Dumbledore."

"No!" Harry saw that his hand was shaking in spite of its grip on the chair arm. "Not here!"

"Calm down, Draco. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Harry!"

"It's all right." Sliding out of the chair, Harry landed on his knees directly in front of Draco. The grey eyes, which had remained vacant and unknowing for so many days, were now startlingly alert but so stricken with fear that their gaze wrenched at Harry. They fixed on Harry's face, and Harry moved instinctively to answer the pleading in them. He reached up to cover Draco's hand with his own.

"Potter..." one of the guards said, warningly.

At the sound of his voice, Draco retreated visibly, his eyes clouding and the life draining from his face. Harry shot the guard a furious glare, then turned away without bothering to speak to him. He caught Draco's eyes again and held them with his own, and very subtly, so the guards wouldn't notice, he sent out a thread of power through their joined hands toward the damaged boy.

"It's all right," he said, again. "Don't go away, Draco, please. Don't leave me here alone."

Draco said nothing, but the traces of golden fire in his eyes seemed to melt the ice, bring them into clearer focus, and deepen the fear in them at the same time.

Harry stared intently at him, trying to understand what it was about this room that frightened him so much. What had Draco noticed first? That it had no windows? Then he had panicked when Harry told him they were underground... Of course, Harry thought. His prison beneath the Giants' Dance was underground and had no windows. No windows meant no view of the sky. He wanted stars.

"Draco, you told me something once," he said gently, evenly, his fingers tightening about the other boy's. "You told me that I always make you see stars. Do you remember that?"

Draco stiffened, his gaze sliding away from Harry's.

"No, look at me. Look at me, Draco."

Very slowly, as if some terrible force were trying to hold him back, Draco obeyed the firm command in Harry's voice. His eyes tracked to Harry's face again and rested there.

"You can remember. It's safe to remember, I promise. Just think about us, together, on the Quidditch pitch. You and me. All alone. It's dark, and the stars are coming out. You like the stars; you want to look at them, be close to them. We climb on my broom and fly up to the top of the North Tower, where you can almost touch them they're so big and so bright. We lie there together and look at them - just you and me and all those stars. And you're happy, Draco. We're both happy."

His voice faded gradually to a lilting murmur, filling the air with subtle power and warmth. "All of that happened. It's real. And what you said to me is real. I can't take you up to the Tower now, but I can make you see stars, if you'll just look at me and not be afraid. Look at me. We're flying under the stars, and they're shining like adamant on velvet. Just for you."

Harry had no idea how long he knelt there. The guards did not make a sound, and Draco had fallen utterly still, his face relaxed and his eyes dreamy. Harry himself, exerting all his powers of persuasion and a bit of wizarding power into the bargain, was so absorbed in what he was doing that he might have stayed there all day without noticing. Then a rap sounded on the door, and the nearest guard moved to answer it, breaking the spell that held them all.

Harry climbed stiffly to his feet, as the guard threw the bolt and swung the heavy door open. He kept one hand on Draco's wrist, in open defiance of Fudge's orders, and a trickle of power flowing between them to strengthen Draco. Percy Weasley stood outside the door, looking straight at the nearest guard and studiously ignoring the two boys.

"Mr. Malfoy is needed in the dungeon," he said, stiffly.

Harry's stomach contracted painfully. "It's over?"

Percy did not acknowledge him but kept his eyes fixed on the guard. "Smartly, now. The Minister is waiting."

The guards closed in around Draco, forcing Harry to fall back, and marched him out of the room between them. They walked down the musty corridor in silence until they reached the last turning. There, Dumbledore stood with his shoulders propped against the wall, his head down and his eyes hooded.

Percy threw him one hostile glance and waved the guards on toward the lower door. Then he continued up the curving passage, headed for his place on the Minister's bench.

Harry waited until Percy had moved out of earshot, then he leaned close to Dumbledore and hissed, "What's going to happen? What did they decide?"

"I don't know," Dumbledore answered, calmly. "I was asked to step out while they deliberated."

"But they saw what was in the Pensieve?"

"They saw all of it. And they believed it, Harry." He squeezed Harry's shoulder, comfortingly. "They believed it."

Harry closed his eyes for a moment against a sickening wave of relief. "No Veritaserum?" he gasped.

"We shall see."

Harry had to be content with that. They had arrived at the door to the dungeon, and a guard held it open for them.

They filed through the door in silence. As he stepped into the dungeon, Harry scanned the tiers of benches above him, hoping to find some indication of what he could expect in the massed faces, but the only ones he could see very clearly were in the first row of benches, and they were all Fudge's minions. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Iphigenia Fox and the other nameless witch were gone. So was Narcissa Malfoy, Harry noticed, and he wondered what that meant for Draco.

Unwilling to let the Ministry wizards separate him from Draco again, he followed the guards over to the great chair in the center of the floor and stationed himself just behind it. The guards pushed Draco into the chair. One of them raised his wand to summon the chains, but Fudge forestalled him with a wave of his hand.

Rising to his feet with the air of one about to do something highly regrettable but unavoidable, Fudge struck a pose and cleared his throat. "Draco Malfoy, after viewing the evidence provided by Albus Dumbledore, this court finds that you are guilty of using an Unforgivable Curse and of taking the life of another wizard."

Harry gaped at Fudge, too shocked even to protest, and for a sickening moment he feared his heart had forgotten how to beat. Then Madam Bones' exasperated voice reached him, and his heart started again with a painful lurch.

"Oh, give over, Cornelius. You're going to send Potter off in an apoplexy if you keep this up. Just tell him what we've decided and put the poor boy out of his misery."

Fudge turned an unattractive shade of purple that clashed with his robe. "It is the opinion of this court that Draco Malfoy was not in his right mind when he committed the crimes in question. There is no doubt that he did use the Avada Kedavra curse to murder his father..."

A rumble of discontent sounded from the benches behind him, and Fudge ground out from between clenched teeth, "But the evidence of Malfoy's own memories confirms that it was a plain case of self-defense, and that the boy was in no condition to understand the gravity of his actions. He is therefore cleared of all charges."

Harry gave cry of relief and took a hasty step toward Draco, only to be pulled up short by Fudge's cold voice.

"However." Harry stopped and turned dark, challenging eyes on the Minister. Fudge pretended to ignore him. "The boy's condition makes him a danger to himself and to others. That much is clear. He cannot be turned loose to attack any innocent person he sees as a threat."

"You're not going to give him to his mother!" Harry blurted out.

Fudge glared at him and said, icily, "If you please, Mr. Potter. I am presiding over this court and I will deliver the court's verdict."

"Then why don't you do it?" Madam Bones snapped. She then turned a mild gaze on Harry and said, "No, we aren't going to hand him over to Narcissa. What we saw in the Pensieve proves that she's been lying through her teeth and is probably in cahoots with You-Know-Who into the bargain. We're not all of us quite as shortsighted as the Minister, here, and we wouldn't hand a sick boy over to that lot, even if his name is Malfoy."

"Amelia! Do you mind!"

She smiled wickedly at Fudge and nodded, as if granting her permission for him to continue.

"As I was saying," Fudge went on, stiffly, "Malfoy cannot be allowed to run amuck in his current state."

Every eye in the room turned instinctively to look at Draco, weighing Fudge's words against the reality of that small, still, blank-faced boy. Someone, high up in the shadows, gave a derisive snort.

The mood in the room obviously nettled Fudge, and he snapped, with all vestiges of formal dignity gone, "Oh, very well! Since you all seem to think this is some sort of parlor game, instead of a criminal trial! The boy is your responsibility, Albus. They've appointed you his guardian, which means it's on your head if he cracks up and kills someone else!"

Dumbledore smiled widely up at the Minister. "A very wise decision, Cornelius. I knew I could rely on you to keep your head." Amelia guffawed loudly at that, and Dumbledore gave her a twinkling look. "Now, if that's all, Minister..."

Fudge turned away, preparing to leave, and flipped a contemptuous hand at the group on the floor. "Get him out of here."

Harry did not wait for more. Springing forward, he elbowed one of the guards out of his way and bent over Draco. At the touch of Harry's hand on his shoulder, Draco looked up at him, and Harry smiled through a sudden sheen of tears.

"Come on, Draco. We're going home."

"Home?"

"Yes, to Hogwarts."

Harry pulled gently on his arm, and he stood up. His face wore its closed, vacant look, but he had not completely withdrawn. There was recognition in his eyes when he looked at Harry. Above them, the members of the Wizengamot were rising from their seats, milling about, muttering among themselves as they made for the upper exits, and Harry could feel their curious gazes on him, but he didn't care. He looped an arm behind Draco's shoulders and pulled the smaller boy close to his side. Then he bent his head and rested his cheek against Draco's hair for a blissful moment.

"We're going home."

Together, they walked out of the dungeon.

To be continued...