Happily Ever After?

Chapter 14- The Trial

A gasp. "Ron!"

"How could you even think that?"

"It's impossible!"

"No."

"No!"

"No."

"Not Hermione, Ron!"

"She may be cursed, but -"

"Never!"

The girls rambled on and on. Draco looked highly amused. Harry point-blank stared at Ron, who held his gaze steadily.

"Honestly," Harry said loudly, silencing the females without breaking eye contact with Ron. "It makes sense. You're all making fools of yourself, really. I'm very sorry, but that's all there is to it. Hermione's cursed. We all know it's not her fault, but - "

"Harry," Padma said briskly, squinting. "You can't possibly..."

"I am," he said briskly. "I agree with Ron."

All it took was a slight nod from Ron and another nod in reply. And it was done. Peace was made.

"This is getting ridiculous," Draco said loudly. "We're letting that girl get away with anything. There's got to be some way to stop her - at least from killing anybody else!"

"What can we do?" Parvati snapped. "It's not her fault!"

"Well, it's not my fault it's not her fault, so you don't have to yell at me!" Draco said, glaring.

"Oh, you giant - bloody - prats!" Harry said loudly, throwing his hands up at the females in the room. "How can you be so bloody stupid? Hermione hates herself. She can't help what she's doing, but she is doing it, and that has to stop. So what do we do?"

"Lock her in the brig?" Padma suggested in a flat voice.

"We help her," Harry said softly.

"That's only what we've been trying to do for the past month," Parvati said in a defensive tone.

"Well, we haven't tried hard enough!" Ron said suddenly, his face going red with anger. "Hermione's dying, dammit! We haven't been trying hard enough!" His voice softened slightly. "We - we let her go to soon. We let her slip away. We didn't try hard enough. We didn't - we couldn't - we haven't - we're not - " He broke off and looked down.

Harry sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. "We failed her, you mean."

"If you want to summarize it, yes."

Harry sighed. "Look, there's nothing more we can -"

The door opened. They all looked up, startled. Their eyes met with Professor Dumbledore's.

"Harry." His voice was flat. "I know you've met Minister Fudge before."

Harry stood. Fudge moved into the light.

"Take him away," Fudge said, staring at Harry (though without really looking at him).

Two burly wizards strutted into the room. They pulled out a pair of handcuffs and, while Harry was staring at them with his mouth wide open, secured them tightly onto his wrists, putting them behind his back.

Although Harry was still gaping, others had sprung into action.

"You can't do this," Hannah said loudly, her eyes flaring. "Under the Wizards' Trial Act of 1763, article one, section five, clause three, and I quote -"

Draco jumped in. "Relatives of the accused shall not, under any circumstances, be put in trial for the crimes of their relations, close or distant. And in article three, section one, clause six - "

"Those in question of crime shall be treated as innocent civilians if or until they are proven guilty on the court of appeals, should they so wish to do so," Hannah snarled.

"Minister Fudge, you are breaching the laws set down by the wizards of old and thereby overstepping your power as a single person in the judicial system -"

"Mr. Malfoy," Fudge snapped, his expression irate. "I know the law perfectly well. If you and your little friend would stop and think for a moment, you would realize that I am perfectly within my own law, for under the Act for the Treatment of the Accused of 1843, article two, section two, clause four, those accused of murder or other serious bodily harm to another witch and/or wizard shall be restrained appropriately until and up to the trial which shall sentence them."

"Murder?" Harry yelped. "I think there must be some mistake - "

"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Weasley," Fudge said emotionlessly. "You will accompany us."

"But - we - Dumbledore!"

"The Minster's actions, however ridiculous they may be, are beyond my control, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore said softly. "You will go."

"Harry didn't murder anyone!" Parvati shouted.

"You've got the wrong wizard!"

"Let him go!"

"Harry!" Hannah shouted, just as they were pulling him away. "Harry, they can't make you say anything, you don't have to testify, they can't convict you!"

"Miss," said Fudge sharply, "I am devastated to cut short your communication, but the Wizengamot is waiting. Good day."

The Minister followed his cronies down the hall, dragging Ron and Draco behind him.

The next hour or so was a blur to Harry. The next thing he clearly remembered was being seated on a hard wooden chair and having his hands chained to the arms. He looked around and drew his breath.

He knew where he was.

"The court will come to order."

This place -- this courtroom -- this was from the Pensieve --

"Order!"

Cornelius Fudge sat in the place of the judge, looking quite peeved. The mumblings of the people in the room quieted, and Fudge cleared his throat.

"Now, are we ready to begin?"

There was a general mumble of assent. A quirky little man in a top hat stood with his quill poised, ready to record the proceedings. Looking up at the stonehearted Minister and the bitter faces around him suddenly made Harry feel that he was going to be ill.

"Harry Potter, you have been brought before the Wizengamot charged with the murder of Millicent Bulstrode."

"What?"

"Miss Hermione Granger has testified that you murdered Millicent Bulstrode around seven o'clock this evening. Do you deny it?"

It took Harry a few moments to become capable of comprehendible speech. "Yes, I deny it! I - I want to know the grounds upon which this accusation has been made."

"Indeed. Miss Granger...?"

Wheeling his head around, Harry only just noticed that Hermione was sitting hardly three meters away. Hermione cleared her throat.

"You see, Minister, sir, I was on my way to the library when I heard some scuffling a little ahead. Not thinking much of it, I kept walking - until I heard a scream that was stifled very quickly. I hid behind a statue. I heard a slight laugh - a laugh I would know anywhere, sir, I've heard it so many times before - and heard a voice say, 'Sweet dreams, Bulstrode.' Potter's voice. I wanted to run or cry or scream or something, but I knew there was a murderer right in front of me and I knew I could be next. So I held my breath. Potter must have done something to the entrance, because when I tried to get through to Millicent, I couldn't open the door. So I ran off to find a teacher, and then -" Hermione's sightless eyes filled with tears. "M-Minister, I was never good friends with Millicent, but - but -"

"That is enough, Miss Granger. Thanks you for stepping forward so bravely." Fudge spoke kindly and smiled slightly. Hermione swallowed. Turning to Harry, he said, "There is blood on your robes, Mr. Potter. Or did you not notice it?"

Harry, looking down in what can only be described as sheer terror, saw a slightly dried bloodstain on the sleeve of his robe.

"Sir, I had a nosebleed earlier -"

"And didn't think to change your robes?"

"Well, I--"

"Mr. Potter, I will be blunt," said a woman who remarkably resembled a toad and was sitting by Fudge. "Millicent Bulstrode's parents are known as traitors against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Your parents, suspiciously resurrected, are known to be Death Eaters. Surely you can admit that this is suspicious even without Miss Granger's testament and the blood on your hands?"

Harry's face flushed. "I - my parents - there was a Quidditch game today, and I spent the rest of the evening in the common room! I couldn't have done it!"

"On asking a Miss Lavender Brown of your whereabouts, it was revealed that you left the Gryffindor common room shortly after the Quidditch match and had not returned since," said an old warlock calmly.

"Since you seem to be acquainted with Miss Bulstrode, Mr. Potter, I don't suppose you have any idea who the killer (whom you claim adamantly is not yourself) may be?" said a kindly-looking old witch.

Harry froze on the spot and did some of the fastest thinking of his relatively short life.

Merlin's bowels. Can't tell them it's Hermione. Can't tell them, can't tell them - but I can't go to Azkaban, people need my help! Oh Merlin, help me. Someone, something, anything - this can't be happening. I could say it was Hermione, but who'd believe me? No one. If I say I'm innocent, no one would believe me. If I say I'm guilty -

And really, who'd miss me? Mum and Dad are headed for the hills, Sirius and Remus are too wrapped up in their own love affairs, and the Order have each other, Draco - well. Draco. Merlin, Draco. What the hell am I supposed to do?

"Will you answer, boy?" barked Fudge.

I have to do something. A quick glance at Hermione, who was sniffling. Hermione can't go to jail, she's sick, she can't -

It was slowly dawning on Harry what would be The Right Thing To Do. And it was scaring the hell - and sense - out of him.

Maybe, someday, once Hermione's better, the truth will come out... they can't put her in jail if it wasn't her fault... can they?

"Mr. Potter!"

"I did it. I killed Millicent."

*

"He did WHAT?"

"Confessed?"

"What?"

"How?"

"When?"

"Why?"

"I cannot answer your questions," Snape snapped. "I can only tell you what I have heard, and it is this - Harry Potter confessed to the murder of Millicent Bulstrode two hours ago, and is currently being escorted to Azkaban prison."

"AZKABAN!"

"Professor, you've got to -"

"We've got to--"

"They can't - they wouldn't!"

"Please calm down, Mr. Weasley. Damaging the hearing of all those in a twenty-kilometer radius is not the answer."

"There has to be something we can do!" Hannah said helplessly. "Harry's too young, I didn't even know it was legal!"

"Only in severe cases, Miss Abbott. Only severe cases."

"Professor, sir - you don't think he--?"

"For all of his faults, Miss Patil, I do not believe Harry Potter is a murderer. Yet." The last bit was muttered under his breath. "I must ask you not to panic."

"Sir, Harry's going to Azkaban," Draco said quietly. "I don't think I've had such a good reason to panic for a good while. Well, a few hours, at least."

"...we've got to tell Dumbledore."

Snape sighed. Juveniles. "Professor Dumbledore is on his way to the school at this very moment. He should be arriving -"

"Now. Good evening, Severus. Mr. Weasley, the Miss Patils, Miss Abbott, Mr. Malfoy."

Sometimes the patience of the old man scared Draco.

"Professor Dumbledore, you can't let them-"

"This isn't justice, Professor-"

"They just can't-"

"You won't let them, Professor, will you...?"

Dumbledore held up a hand and the room went silent. "There is," he began slowly, "absolutely nothing we can do."

"Professor!"

"Harry pleaded guilty, Mr. Weasley. He admitted to murder. There is nothing we can do."

"But he didn't do it!"

"I believe you, Miss Patil. However..."

"He did it to protect Hermione."

For a moment, Draco felt as if fish gasping for air surrounded him. It was an odd and not entirely pleasant feeling.

"Wha - what?"

"I could hear him," Draco said softly. "I wasn't quite sure what it was, but I understand now. He thought - knew, perhaps - that the only way to keep Hermione from going to Azkaban was to plead guilty. And he - he thought no one would miss him." Draco paused for a moment. "Except - well. Whatever. He - he thought maybe once we - well, once we found a cure for Hermione, the truth would come out."

The room was completely silent for a moment. Draco felt like putting his head in his hands, but his arms felt like lead.

"People need to know about this."

*

It was cold.

Harry shivered and curled up into a corner. He tried to warm himself with his hands. It didn't work very well. Harry, covered in goose bumps, rocked back and forth slowly, trying to remember what the blazes had gotten him here.

When it all came back, Harry suddenly wished he could forget.

Draco. Hermione. Millicent.

Forgetting would be oh so pleasant.

For a fleeting second, he wished he could faint. At least if he was unconscious he could forget.

Harry looked around him for the first time. It was dark and damp. His cell was perhaps the size of his bedroom at Privet Drive - a little smaller, perhaps. There was a bench and a bowl full of something that looked disturbingly like vomit. There was a tiny window - rather, a small hole in the wall with bars. Peeking outside, Harry saw... water. Lots and lots of water.

There was another small window on the door. Harry stood on his tiptoes and tried to see through, but all he could see was darkness and a rather large crack in his glasses. Cursing softly, Harry pulled himself into the corner again, desperate for warmth. He was clothed in a rather thin prison uniform, with patches sewn on here and there.

Oh, Merlin, Hermione. How could she? How could she murder in cold blood? Murder Millicent, who only wanted to help people and be a good person. Bloody hell, Millicent.

With Millicent inevitably came thoughts of Draco.

What if he was wrong? What if people - what if people missed him? Draco. Draco surely missed him. And Hannah - Hannah might miss him, too. And Ginny. And Mum and Dad and Sirius and Remus and Arabella and Ron, oh Merlin, Ron, and Arabella and bloody hell, what had he gotten himself into?

Hardly aware that he had been tired, Harry fell asleep uneasily.

*

Miles and miles away, Draco Malfoy rolled over in his bed.

It was past one in the morning. Almost two, maybe? About an hour since Hannah had threatened to use physical force to make him go to bed. It had worked, mainly because Draco was too shaken to stand up for himself.

But he couldn't sleep. He tried to imagine Harry in Azkaban. It was not a pleasant place. His father had brought him there once, when he was eight. It was cold and dark and overall unpleasant. It had taken three weeks and a new broomstick to cheer him up after going there. His father had laughed and said he needed to toughen up.

Harry. Harry was there with his father. Close, maybe. Closer than Draco was, at least. Terrifyingly close, really. His father and the Lestranges and Merlin knew who else. Not the safest place for the Boy Who Lived, Draco thought bitterly. Rather, the Boy Who Once Had a Life Before He Was Stupid and Got Thrown Into Azkaban, the Bloody Idiot.

Draco turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. It was staring at him. It was rather rude. Hadn't it ever been taught manners? Ceilings shouldn't stare, especially not at mentally unstable teenage boys in the middle of the night (morning?) when they were trying to feel sorry for themselves. Especially when someone they loved was under one of their brother ceilings in the one place that could perhaps be described as hell on earth. And most especially when said teenage boy was trying to deny that losing Harry hurt him more than losing Hermione would.

Because he's in love with Hermione. The true Hermione. Really. She's smart and pretty and witty and wonderful. She's an orphan, but you'd never know from how she acts. His father hates her. She's everything he could ever want in a girl and more.

And yet...

Frustrated, Draco threw his sock at the ceiling and buried his head in his pillow.

This isn't fair.

*

This was an important Azkaban -

Parvati blinked twice. The alarm left her face quickly and she resumed reading.

This was an important aspect of the founding of Harry.

Parvati, startled, stared at her book until she finally made sense of the sentence.

This was an important aspect of the founding of Hogwarts. Helga Hufflepuff later met with Millicent Bulstrode, the leading architect of the age.

Parvati slammed her book shut and shoved it away from her.

"Why me?"

*

Hannah sat in the Hufflepuff common room quite alone. The fire was starting to die and the cup of tea in her hand had long ceased to warm her fingers. She stared at the glowing embers and inhaled deeply.

Harry. Harry was in Azkaban. Cold and alone. Without her. Without any of them. Without hope. And here she was, drinking a cup of tea and sitting quite comfortably in her tartan robe and slippers.

Sighing, Hannah wondered if Draco had fallen asleep yet. Then she snorted and wondered why she was so gullible.

Standing up and leaving her tea behind, Hannah left the common room quietly and slipped off into the night.

*

Draco heard knocking on the door and moans. "I'm asleep," he said loudly. "Sleeping quite soundly. Yes. I would snore, but I actually wouldn't."

"Let me in."

Recognizing Hannah's voice, Draco sat up. "Password's 'Tweedledum.'"

The door opened. Hannah slipped in, wearing a robe and slippers. Draco blinked.

"Er. I'm sleeping?"

"I figured you couldn't sleep, either."

"Smart one, you. You can sit, the chair doesn't bite. Well, not that one, anyway."

Hannah sat down tediously. "Well, that's reassuring, coming from you."

There was silence for a moment. Draco was still pondering the oddness of the situation, trying to imagine what his reaction to this would have been a year and a half ago. Deciding that was a depressing thought, he contented himself with the present.

"I'm worried," Hannah says softly.

Draco wasn't worried. No. Worrying was Not A Malfoy Thing To Do. Malfoys didn't worry. Not even when their best friends were in Azkaban for crimes they didn't commit. Not even when they confessed their nonexistent guilt to save a dear friend. Not even when that dear friend was dying. Not even when the cure for that dear friend was simply not showing itself, if it existed at all. It was simply Not the Malfoy Way. It was dishonor to the Malfoy name to worry; such trifles were far below them.

"Me, too."

Hannah was silent for a moment. Then she got out of her chair and sat on the edge of the bed. This was Alarmingly Close for Draco, whose philosophy on the opposite sex was Stay Away or Die.

"I-"

Before Draco could make any sense of the situation, Hannah kissed him.

It was a quick and potentially harmless kiss, and it was over before Draco's mind could process it. He gaped at her for a few seconds, his thumb rubbing his bottom lip.

Hannah watched him silently for a moment. "I love him, too. But neither of us can have him."

And she left.

Draco decided that women were definitely overrated and thought way too much. Then he buried his head in his pillow and wished it were morning.