Devil's Advocate

It had been shockingly and uncharacteristically optimistic of him to believe that he couldn't possibly sink any lower. He should have known, really, that he'd be condemned to crawl along the ground like his house's mascot for the rest of his life, post-war. Somehow... naively... he'd believed that the wizarding world's savior had put to rest the Malfoy's troubles with Voldemort's corpse though all he'd really managed to do was distract people long enough to celebrate before remembering that the blame still had to rest with someone. Their gratefulness had only made them forget his family long enough to grant them a week's long grace period before their necks were back under the sword.

Strictly speaking, he hadn't spilt a single drop of blood during the war and yet, there were people clamoring to drain his veins dry. He almost wished he'd done something to really deserve it. Almost.

Though the Ministry seemed determined to take everything from him, he was still very much in possession of his schoolboy arrogance. This was why, when they took his parents to Azkaban, he refused to budge from the Manor which had been just as much a prison during the war. Now he was its voluntary hostage, having refused to leave the mansion for a month afterward, and he only ended up leaving in the end when the Aurors had dragged him away in handcuffs. He'd paid his own bail and had returned almost immediately to the place he still called home. He was aware it was probably not healthy, but with the same fate awaiting him as his parents, he figured his health would cease to matter very much at all soon.

He'd taken to refusing food from their house elf, Tink, and had gotten in a few heated discussions with his own reflection in several of the manor's mirrors for lack of anyone else to berate. There were enough mirrors to amuse him for at least a month, because his family could be called a lot of things, but unkempt was not one of them.

It was only when he'd gotten in a fight with a bookcase and lost that he realized he might have a problem. His dad's slightly ironic collection of Muggle books had begun shooting out at him at a rapid pace, and after every volume of Shakespeare had launched themselves at him (more specifically, when A Midsummer Night's Dream had given him a nosebleed) that he'd scurried out of the room. It seemed that Draco Malfoy had lost his mind in the months following the Battle of Hogwarts, and while no one would be shocked to hear the news, he was the least surprised out of all of them. And the least concerned.

He dabbed at the bloodstain left on his shirt uselessly in the bathroom but hadn't taken it off. Instead, he'd taken to looking down at it periodically during the rest of the day with a twisted and humored look on his face.

The only time he ever left the house was to feed his ostentatious family's white peacocks, which he fondly referred to as his 'flamboyant chickens'. It had been weeks since he'd made it past the front gates when Harry Potter came to call and as he opened the door to let him in, the symbolism of the wizarding world's savior and their most wanted criminal standing within three feet of each other made him feel a bit pukey. Not surprisingly, they didn't make it past the foyer before they were bickering. Somehow, it made Draco feel better.

"I don't want a lawyer, Potter." Apparently, the Ministry's Auror department had nothing better to do with their star trainee than to send him on house calls to throw his success in an old school bully's face. He couldn't imagine he'd volunteered, unless there had been an infestation of chizpurfles at the Ministry, in which case, he could see how spreading them to the manor might have sounded appealing...

"Thankfully, I'm not here to check on what you want, Malfoy. I'm here to tell you what you're going to get." Ah, Potter... Malfoy felt a little sense of achievement for being the sole person who could really bring out the worst in the Chosen One. Still, there was a shade of pity in his old rival's eyes and he had the strange urge to throw him into the gilded mirror in the corner to wipe the emotion off his face.

"You look awful," Harry commented after a moment. "When was the last time you ate? Shaved? Malfoy, what-"

"I've got a mother, thanks." The words were out before he could stop them and he was loathe to look at Potter's face. He looked anyway. Pity, as suspected... "As much as I'd like to catch up, I've..." The sentence died in his throat. He had no work to get back to. He had nothing at all that needed doing.

Harry sighed and looked around for the first time at the interior of the house. It was more... much more... than the quality of life he'd ever had before and the differences between the two men became even more starkly apparent. "Last time I was here, you locked me in your basement."

"Mm... well, technically that was darling Aunt Trixie. I'm not feeling all that nostalgic at the moment either Potter, so if you'd just-"

"You tried to help us." Draco stared at the raven-haired man for a moment, who even after going through hell and back, still was far too noble to see anything less than the best in people. "You recognized us... you could have said straight away that it was us..."

"Sorry Potter, but I was just a coward trying to get out of a bad situation." Draco raked a hand through his white-blonde hair absentmindedly though he knew it was already too disheveled for it to make even the slightest bit of difference. He was pale enough that he may as well have been see-through and so thin that it was entirely possible for him to turn sideways and disappear completely. He considered trying it for a moment.

Harry looked at him benignly and Draco again had the urge to wipe the expression off his face, though maybe this time, with a meat cleaver. "I'm not keeping score anymore, Malfoy. Still don't like you, but I'm not keeping score."

"Well that's good of you. But the rest of the world is."

Harry studied him quietly past the circle lenses of his stupid glasses. "Yes. Which is why you'll be at the Ministry tomorrow afternoon, on the fourth floor. To meet your attorney."

"I'm not really one for people who make a living off of other people's mistakes."

"Well you know, some people do have to do that. Make a living, I mean," Harry quipped dryly. "Why wait for us to give you one anyway? You're not exactly skint, are you... you could afford better."

"Glad you hold the Ministry's own in such high esteem. Tell me Potter, do you honestly think I have a chance?"

"I'm not a gambling man."

"Oh for heaven's sake. Is there anything else, Potter? Any questions, concerns... hopes, dreams to share?"

Harry gave him a long-suffering look and glanced down. Something seemed to catch his eye. "Is now really the time to be getting engaged, Malfoy?"

"You're asking me, Potter? I suppose you've already met my family but it's still a bit soon..." Harry simply jerked his head at the goblin-wrought silver ring Draco bore on a chain around his neck. "My mother's," he replied. He'd never been concerned with other people's opinions and he didn't care what Potter made of it.

"Right," Harry said. He'd always lacked finesse when it came to his conversational skills... always a little clumsy and unsure, but after the war, he spoke with the confidence that could only come with experience. Draco had always been jealous of him before and that hadn't changed, but now... it was merely because he seemed so insipidly normal. "I'm sorry, Malfoy... sorry for..." He seemed to be at a loss.

"Sometimes Potter, when you don't know what to say, it's better to not say anything at all. There are silences that aren't meant to be filled." Harry seemed stunned into silence, possibly because this was the most civil conversation the two of them have ever shared, which of course, was not saying much. It still wasn't very civil at all, actually. Draco however, was being passably social. Apparently, he was halfway human now, although Harry suspected it had cost him everything. Almost everything anyway, though the wizarding world still wanted every galleon that he was worth and possibly his soul too if they could swing it.

"Tomorrow, Malfoy. At the Ministry. You don't have a choice."

"Have I ever?" Draco thought that his answer explained a lot actually. The three words were a nice, concise summation of his entire life. Draco realized belatedly that his arm raised to rub the back of his neck exposed his Mark and dropped it far too quickly to be natural. Harry, to his credit, pretended not to notice.

"Get some sleep, Malfoy. Bathe, for Merlin's sake." With those words of wisdom imparted, Harry began to back out of the foyer before turning to make his way back down the lengthy path leading up to Malfoy Manor and tactfully didn't mention the peacocks prancing gaudily across the grounds.

---

As instructed, Draco arrived at the Ministry clean-shaven but just as dismally thin as the day before. He realized almost immediately that his brand of transgressions didn't come without a certain amount of power as everyone seemed to want to look at him, but no one wanted to be seen doing it. Grimly, he also realized he couldn't properly enjoy it with the so-called appointment hovering over his head like a grey cloud.

In fact, as he entered the lift, he realized that there was indeed a grey cloud hovering over his head and probably was due in part to some maintenance spell gone wrong. The blonde swatted at it irritably with his face screwed up in a scowl as the lift lowered itself. A dot of water appeared on the shoulder of his blazer. It had begun to rain. Draco cursed loudly much to the chagrin of his fellow passengers and was relieved to get off on the appropriate floor where he was promptly attacked by a small army of paper airplane memos.

He was a dead man walking but apparently, he still had to run the gauntlet.

He was thinking about the very real possibility of chizpurfles when he heard a voice from behind him, and he whipped around so quickly, that he nearly hit the intruder in the nose with the manila folder he'd carried in with him. He'd brought it with him for no other reason than to have something to hold onto. It takes a minute, as perhaps the storm cloud had addled his senses, but he realized he knows his almost-victim. He recognized their stupid hair, their stupid eyes, their stupid voice...

"Granger. Shouldn't you be polishing the Minister's shoes? Or perhaps Potter's... I know you did so enjoy being beneath him all those years..." His words were biting and caustic, as usual, though without the fervent belief that he was better to back them up. The implication of his phrasing was clear however, even if he had no actual facts to back it up, though she merely arched her eyebrow.

"Sorry, but I thought you'd heard, Malfoy. The war's over, your sort lost, and your parents are in Azkaban." She smiled. Her voice sounded strained. "And I'm the lucky girl who might get to send you there to join them." Despite the implications of her words, it was the way she said your sort that was the real kick in the gut. He tugged one sleeve of his robes down instinctively, though the Mark was well-hidden. She noticed.

Malfoy paused. "Right well... I've got an appointment to make so if you'll just..."

"Right. And you're about five minutes late."

"... Excuse me?"

"Yes."

Draco blinked. "No, how would you-" Belated realization dawns across his pale, pointed face and he stared, thoroughly flummoxed with the witch before him, who was apparently his lawyer. "Never pictured you as devil's advocate, Granger. I thought you'd be playing on the side of the accusers, for sure."

Hermione tapped the end of her wand on her palm with an obvious repulsion stemming from seven years of disgust on her face. "Six minutes."

"I'm sorry?"

"Late. Six minutes late."

Draco stared. Hermione turned on her heeled shoes and marched toward her office with the same determination in her step as he'd observed whenever he'd spotted her fleeing to the library after class. He didn't have a choice but to follow, so he caught up with her in two long-legged strides with the storm cloud billowing overhead. It had begun to thunder.

Once inside her cramped little office (no doubt a converted storage closet) Draco sat on the lone chair across from her desk, still feeling quite stunned.

"You seem surprised."

He considered telling her that she had just uttered the understatement of the century but thought better of it. "That's one word for it, yes." He leaned back and stared idly upward at the hovering cloud above his head, which crackled with astoundingly convenient timing. Flat grey eyes flicked back toward Hermione.

"Your aunt-"

"Yes, yes I know. Pleasant woman, god rest her soul." Truth be told, he'd always been both fascinated and repulsed by Bellatrix and her unerring devotion to the Dark Lord. She could kill without remorse, torture with relish, and knew how to scare into submission. He thought she was only Malfoy with such talent. From the looks of his bright future, it seemed like she'd also be the last.

Whatever comment she'd been about to make on the witch seemed to be lost and Hermione simply resumed flipping through the pages in what Draco assumed was his file. "Why you?"

"According to the Decree for Reasonable Judicial Accommodations, every citizen has a right to a lawyer."

"I know that. But... why you?"

Hermione looked at him like he's the most pathetic human being she's ever had the misfortune of being in the same room with. Given the quality of the scum that usually scuffled through this hall, Draco bristled for what he felt was good reason. "This is the case I was assigned, Malfoy. Some of us aren't under the mistaken impression that we don't have to obey a higher authority."

"I don't take orders from anyone, Granger."

Her mouth moved upward in a funny little quirk as her eyes settled on his forearm where the pushed up sleeve of his robes revealed the Dark Mark.

"Clearly."

Draco looked down and ran a hand down the back of his neck. Hermione, having apparently shuffled his papers until she could no longer ignore the man across from her, got straight to the point. Her voice still had that strained quality to it. "Look, Malfoy... I'm no more happy about this than you are. But I've earned the right to be here and I intend to do my best because remember, the outcome of this case reflects my effectiveness. Harry tells me that you haven't been taking care of yourself. Start. A client has to look presentable and if you can age yourself down-"

"Excuse me?"

Hermione sighed. She appeared to be holding herself together by mere threads and even those seemed to be frayed. "We're not school children anymore, and you won't get under my skin. This isn't how this is going to work." Draco felt strangely validated by the fact that he had managed it to begin with. "You've got to look young... child-like... we need their sympathy. Now, we have to decide how you're going to plead. Guilty, obviously, but..."

"Not guilty, Granger." The words were out before he can really consider them properly, because she was right of course. Guilty was the obvious choice and in fact, he'd been convinced that he was up until about a second ago. The only thing he can picture in his mind is the painting of his Aunt Bellatrix that has somehow been attached to one of the Manor's walls with a permanent sticking charm, and the verbal abuse it hurls at him on his way best. Every. Time. The rain cloud above his head spits sparks vehemently.

Hermione flinched. "I had to survive," Draco said dismissively. "And now, I have to be free." She pressed her fingertips into her temples and frowned. The smell of mildew filled his senses. "I have an opinion. It may only be worth five knuts, but I still have one, and I haven't done anything wrong other than have a surname that stars with an 'M' and ends with a 'y'-"

"Well, the blonde hair doesn't help either. Nor the fact that you've always been such a poncy ferrety little-"

Draco counter-interrupted. "And you're the lucky lady who's going to make sure that I don't end up like my parents."

Hermione stood and took a few slow steps around her desk. She leaned against it and looked down at him, just as he suspected she'd wanted to do for the majority of her short life. "I suppose it's pointless to make a man who's always gotten everything he's wanted believe that he's not going to get it this time."

"I'm not paying you to argue with me."

"No, you're not paying me at all."

He paused. "Well, now it's obvious why not, isn't it? I could go down to Wireson & Gambots for the best lawyer in the country, and yet..." he waved one pale hand around the tiny office, "here we are."

"Then go."

"They'd get all the publicity. The publicity that you need to start your career - am I right? - and you can't tell me that Hermione Granger is any less ambitious than she was as a snippy little first year." He didn't know why he was bothering to state the obvious for her biased ears. He was better off going to Wireson & Gambots but for some reason, he needed to take this one last win from her... even if it meant that he ultimately lost. Draco looked down at the front page of his file, with a picture attached and his grey eyes staring intensely back at him.

There was a long moment of silence before... "Alright. Not guilty." Draco smiled. They were now the only two people in the world who would claim that he wasn't. And neither of them actually believed it.