Image of a Fallen Statue

Chapter 2 —

I pulled myself out of my memories. I was prepared when the Judge asked his first question; I would give them the truth now — living the lie my mother had fabricated for me would no longer keep me alive. Nothing could extend my life beyond the few short years that I might be able to snatch before Voldemort found me, as he inevitably would. It was time for me to live life for myself.

"Draco Malfoy. You stand before us accused of being a Death Eater for Voldemort. Have you anything to say in your own defense?"

I took a deep breath. "I tried to help the Muggles he wanted eliminated. In spite of everything I could do, many died. I was only able to rescue five families, and about fifteen assorted others. I was forced to stop when Voldemort became suspicious.

"I killed the six wizards found dead in their homes. They were Death Eaters, many of them essential to Voldemort for one reason or another; their connections in the Ministry, or strange magical gifts." That was the reason these murders appeared to have been committed by Muggles — so the aurors would believe Death Eaters had killed the six, while it was equally easy for Death Eaters to believe that aurors had done in their accomplices.

"That is by no means the extent of my crimes, however I can say that I have never used the Unforgivable Curses. Several times there was the opportunity to do so, but I used potions instead.

"It was shortly after I was first initiated as a Death Eater, along with several others, that I began passing information to the outside. I was forced to send only small pieces to avoid discovery — enough to warn, and possibly prevent wizards and Muggles alike from becoming victims of Voldemort.

"This was when I was nineteen — my father required me to get a job first, and he arranged for me to become a specialist developing new potions under the same management as the Unspeakables. I worked many hours in their labs, developing and simultaneously passing information about potions to Dumbledore while I sabotaged the efforts of Dark wizards around me.

"After Dumbledore died a year and a half ago, I made contact with Harry Potter. Naturally, he did not believe my source of information until I warned his friends, Ron and Hermione Weasley, of an attempt on their lives." Even so, he had never truly trusted the information I anonymously sent him. That had been surprisingly wise.

"I made no mistakes; however, the accuracy of the aurors’ response and preparation for Voldemort’s attacks led him to believe that someone among those in his inner circle was unfaithful. He became more vicious, testing us at every moment.

"The level of his intensity became so high that he had a hair-trigger ; anything would set him off. It was at this point that I decided it was time to go underground. Eventually, with a lot of planning, I was able to fake my own death."

I didn’t tell them how. While Voldemort used the Cruciatus on me, I ingested a small amount of a potion I had created that would effectively kill me for a short period, and then return me to life. I was lucky — Voldemort and his followers were fooled long enough for me to go underground. It was then that the aurors found me — in hiding, for though I knew Harry Potter was following my movements, suspecting me of being a Death Eater, I didn’t imagine that he was this intimately acquainted with my affairs. A miscalculation on my part.

I continued, "I can’t verify the truth of my tale unless you dose me with veritaserum. However, I let you know now that I am willing to take the potion if you feel it necessary to do so." I stopped speaking, looking straight ahead instead of at the witches and wizards in tiers all around me.

I kept my testimony clinical, emotionless — a characteristic for which I was well known. My features impassive, I listened to the murmur of voices all around me. Pieces fell into place for several people, but there were a few others whose influential voices called for veritaserum, and dementors.

"This is complete rubbish," spat one voice. I looked up. The speaker stood — it was Neville Longbottom, of all people. He had been deeply scarred by the wars, on top of his parents’ unfortunate fate — marks that he wore on the inside, rather than on his skin. The ingrained timidity that he had approached life with had been burned away. He was lean, strong from training in the resistance. "Malfoy, of all people, on the side of good? I say call out the dementors to administer the Kiss."

His open disbelief spread among others, until the Judge, Justin Finch-Fletchy, called out in a magically amplified voice, "Silence."

The room was quiet, except for the faint noises made by the Creevy brothers — the older one took pictures as the younger scribbled down everything that was happening for later publication in the Daily Prophet.

I was saved, in a manner, by Finch-Fletchy’s fairness. "I don’t believe it is just to pronounce judgement without verification. The suspect claims willingness to drink veritaserum in order to prove his innocence. At this point, I ask Mr. Creevy to stop taking pictures," he ordered. Colin put down his camera, removing the film, and Dennis’s paper and quill were taken away.

"Hermione Weasley," said Justin Finch-Fletchy. She stood, Ron Weasley , Harry and Ginny Potter sitting to one side of her on the stone bench.

"Sir," replied Hermione.

"You have the skill to brew veritaserum. Many in here have witnessed the process. All the ingredients are available. It will take two hours. We will watch you brew it, and then it will be administered. Commence."

Hermione left the levels of seats and came down into the center of the amphitheater, and a cauldron and ingredients were brought out for her. She conjured a portable fire under the cauldron and consulted Most Potente Potions for the amounts.

I stopped her once, when she reversed the sequence of two herbs that needed to be added in specific order. She glared at me and I shrugged. "Check the book," I suggested quietly. She did so, and reddened slightly. I said nothing, staring straight ahead.

The potion had to simmer for seventy-two minutes exactly, and the courtroom was filled with the quiet muttering of the assembled witches and wizards. Many watched in silence as Hermione carefully checked the potion time after time.

With forty minutes to go, I felt a searing, relentless burn on my left forearm. I sucked in a breath quickly, felt a sweat break out on my skin from the pain and the knowledge that came with it.

"What is it?" asked Hermione abruptly. The room went completely silent.

She was looking at me, and slowly, carefully, I let my breath out, ignoring the damp, sweaty strands of hair hanging in my face. "There’s been another killing," I managed, my voice soft.

"How do you know?" demanded a voice. Ron Weasley.

"The mark," I gritted out. It burned with a fiery agony. I closed my eyes briefly, willing the pain away as I had done so many times before, and then opened them. "Attend your potion, Mrs. Weasley," I said dispassionately, uncurling my fingers from their death grip on the arms of the chair.

There were footsteps coming steadily towards me. I looked to my right, and saw Ron Weasley and Harry Potter walking toward me. Ron jerked the sleeve of my robes up and said, "Show us."

I turned my left arm over, maneuvering my wrist within the manacles binding me to the chair, and the mark glared from my skin at the watchers, glowing a livid bloodred.

"What does that mean," Harry Potter demanded, his eyes on the mark. It was not a question. Hermione spared a long look, then returned to her potion.

"It was faintly visible when I first received it. As Voldemort’s power grew, it became darker, a gray in color. When he touched the mark of any Death Eater, all marks would turn black. It was a signal for us to Disapparate, then Apparate at his side. Whenever he kills, it glows bloodred."

Ron hissed out a breath between his teeth, then glanced up at Harry. "What d’you figure?" he asked quietly.

"Have you any idea who might have been killed? Could this be just a trick?" asked Harry.

I spoke to the waiting witches and wizards. "If it’s a fake, it’s exceptionally good. The mark is. . . a measure of Voldemort’s power level. The red, indicates that he’s high off a kill. It could be a trap, as you say; Voldemort has the ability to fake such power surges. The mark is directly locked into him, connected to him. It’s a monitoring device, of sorts."

"So this could be fake," said Ron. His face was not hostile, his features revealing nothing. I kept my own face impassive.

"Yes. It could be."

"But if it is real, have you any idea who the target is?"

"There were several on Voldemort’s list. I warned everyone I knew of, but I know Voldemort was watching at least twenty other assorted individuals and their families. He never revealed any specific details."

After several minutes of quiet conversation with his aurors, the Minister dispatched a small team to discover who, if anyone, had been killed. I waited in silence, unable to move my arm because the manacle, with the revealing of the Dark Mark, had clamped firmly on my wrist, not allowing for any movement. My sleeve slipped partially down, the abrasion of cloth against the mark causing burning torment. I clenched my teeth and leant my head back, closing my eyes as I felt the warm trickle of blood across my skin.

"It’s done," came Hermione’s voice. I opened my eyes and turned my head to the left, seeing that the potion, after seventy-two minutes of a light simmer, was completely clear. Hermione immediately bottled it , and extinguished her fire.

"Administer it," said Finch-Fletchy. The room was as silent as a tomb, as silent as death.