Chapter Text
Kingsley Shacklebolt’s voice rang clearly from the bench.
“We now proceed to the vote for Count One: the murder of Antonin Dolohov, in the first-degree.”
He surveyed the room, the weight of the moment pressing down like never before.
“By the laws governing this body, your verdict will be cast by ballot.”
A golden quill, sleek and suspended in midair, hummed quietly above the silver-lined voting parchment.
“You may—”
A single voice rang out from the left wing, crisp as a wand crack: “Objection, procedural.”
A flutter of movement. The quill hovered, unmoving.
Kingsley leaned forward in his seat, gaze slicing through the gallery like tempered steel.
“State your motion.”
A figure rose from the sea of plum-colored robes: ancient, statuesque, and possessed of a presence that did not waver with age. Madam Griselda Marchbanks stood at her full height, her silver hair pulled tight beneath a ceremonial hood, her voice calm but flint-edged.
“The charge is misaligned with the evidence.”
Robards spun around, eyes narrowing. “What—”
“There is no justifiable reason for upholding a first-degree murder charge when memory evidence confirms the presence of reciprocal Unforgivable Curses, emotional provocation, and demonstrable lack of premeditation.”
She let the pause hang. Her voice cut forward again with a scholar’s precision.
“This does not meet the threshold for ‘willful and premeditated’, Minister. The charge, as it stands, is a misapplication of law.”
A silence pulsed.
Kingsley steepled his fingers. “Madam Marchbanks, are you submitting a formal motion to alter the charge? And, solely for the record, on what legal grounds?”
“I am. I submit that Count One be amended from murder in the first degree to voluntary manslaughter, on the basis of compelling emotional distress, provocation, and duress in the moment the killing occurred.”
She looked out at the chamber, voice clear and firm.
“There exists precedent for leniency in war-related killings, particularly where defensive retaliation is involved. The Wizengamot has failed to apply that standard consistently. This shall be the first part of our correction.”
Another voice rang out; deep, rough, and unshakably firm.
“Seconded.” said Lord Ogden.
A third followed instantly. “Supported.” added Lady Takhar.
Robards stood so abruptly his chair scraped back with a shriek. “This is irregular! The Wizengamot is bypassing a formal vote on an existing charge. You are rewriting the law mid-proceeding—!”
Kingsley remained measured and cold. “Mr. Robards, the Wizengamot is correcting its own error. The bypassing is allowed so long as the motion passes.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“You presented your case. The court listened. Now, the court shall come to a decision.”
Kingsley turned, this time toward the defendant; toward Draco Malfoy, who watched the unfolding chaos with the stillness of a man already halfway to somewhere else. His expression betrayed nothing. Not relief. Not shock. Only a patient, heavy sort of quiet.
Kingsley raised his wand.
“Motion to amend Count One to voluntary manslaughter,” he said. “All in favor?”
Wands rose - dozens of them.
“Against?”
Only one, Gawain Robards himself.
The results glimmered midair, numbers pulsing in faint gold: 49 to 1.
Kingsley inclined his head.
“Let the record show: the charge has been amended. Count One now reads, voluntary manslaughter.
Mr. Malfoy, how do you plead to these altered charges?”
The golden quill twitched, once, as if awakening from sleep.
“Guilty, Minister.”
Hermione gulped. Kingsley only nodded, motioning to the plum-robed officials,
“The final ballot vote shall now proceed.”
---
The golden quill glided once more into motion. A soft shimmer passed over the parchment as names and verdicts began to appear one by one, silent as snowfall, each flick of ink a decision that could shape a life.
The courtroom held its breath.
Far above, in the observation tiers, spectators leaned forward. In the wings, robes shifted with restless anticipation. Even the walls, high and ancient and carved with centuries of justice and blood, seemed to be waiting.
Kingsley watched the quill finish its final stroke.
The numbers crystallized midair in pale golden light, glowing against the vast backdrop of the chamber.
Guilty: 39.
Not Guilty: 11.
A murmur rippled like wind through dry grass. Sterling exhaled, expression unreadable. Robards didn’t move.
“The Wizengamot, by majority vote, finds the defendant Draco Lucius Malfoy guilty on Count One: the voluntary manslaughter of Antonin Dolohov.”
The verdict echoed through the chamber, clear and inescapable. Draco did not flinch.
“Let us move on to the sentencing.”
Parchment rustled against polished oak as Kingsley sorted through a stack of notes before him: case files, precedent summaries, sentencing guidelines. He lifted one, nodded slightly, placed it back atop the others.
He leaned to his right, murmuring something low to the Wizengamot’s spokesperson. Their heads dipped together, a brief exchange too soft for any eavesdropper but long enough to fray every last nerve in the courtroom.
Across the chamber, not a soul moved.
Wands were still. Quills floated motionless. Even the enchanted lights overhead seemed to dim in anticipation.
All waited for the Minister to give out the most-awaited sentence of the decade.
But instead, Kingsley looked up from his bench, met Draco’s eyes across the silence and tilted his head slightly, as if considering something altogether different.
Then, in a voice that was not the measured timbre of the court, but something warmer, something jarringly casual, he asked:
“So, Mr. Malfoy. What do you plan to do after school?”
The question landed like a Confundus Charm.
Draco blinked.
The room blinked with him.
His mouth opened, then closed again. A slow breath passed through his nose. He stared at the Minister as if trying to decipher a trap in the question - but none came. Only silence, waiting.
“…Medical training, Your Honor.” he said at last, the words tentative, cautious.
Kingsley’s brows lifted, not with judgment, but mild surprise. “Really?”
Draco nodded.
“The Healer Institute, or apprenticeship?”
“The Institute.”
Kingsley chuckled quietly, a breath of sound, but sincere. “Ambitious. Do you have the marks for that?”
A beat passed. Draco nodded again.
“Very well done, Mr. Malfoy,” Kingsley said, sitting back a little. “I see now why Headmistress McGonagall advocated so heavily for you to receive the Head Boy badge.”
There was a pause, brief but full. Kingsley studied the boy before him: not the Death Eater, not the Malfoy-Black heir, but the pale, exhausted seventeen-year-old with blood on his hands and ambition still in his chest.
Then Kingsley cleared his throat.
“Ah, right. Sentencing.”
This time, he didn’t read from any papers. He simply looked; at Sterling first, then at Draco, then back to the sea of plum robes before him.
“When the defendant is found guilty of voluntary manslaughter, this court typically imposes a sentence of four years' imprisonment in Azkaban,” he said clearly. Early parole may be considered at the two-year mark, contingent upon conduct and rehabilitation.”
Sterling’s jaw flexed. Draco’s face remained still.
“But,” Kingsley continued, “as Minister for Magic, I reserve the right to exercise clemency in cases where such mercy aligns with justice.”
His gaze swept across the chamber, unflinching.
“This case -though difficult- is not without precedent, as Miss Granger so passionately pointed out.
Mr. Malfoy acted during a time of extreme emotional duress, against a known war criminal, following the abuse of a fellow student. The Wizengamot itself has acknowledged, through this amended charge, that his actions were not premeditated. But more importantly to me, as Minister for Magic, he returned. He testified. He submitted memories with full knowledge they would incriminate him. That matters.”
He turned his attention to Draco fully now; not as a judge, not as a bureaucrat, but as a man who had fought the same war and survived it in a very different way.
“You are far too young, Mr. Malfoy.” Kingsley said, voice lowering just slightly, “I was at Grimmauld that day, when you brought the body. The magic was all over you. It was clear to me, even then, that the spell exploded out of your wand.”
He paused for a breath.
“And I, too, agree with the Wizengamot about your emotional state at the time, about your intentions. You are not the only person who made choices under unbearable pressure. But you’ve faced them, at the mere age of 18, no less. So very publicly, so very painfully.”
The silence in the courtroom was breathless, as if even the walls were listening.
“I believe you should finish school,” Kingsley went on gently. “Play some Quidditch. Get your marks. Take the NEWTs. Study healing, if that’s what you want.
I do not wish for you to carry this with you forever, Mr. Malfoy.”
Then, the Minister straightened once more. The warmth did not vanish, but it folded itself back into the robes of power and procedure.
He lifted his voice again, crisp and official.
“As Minister for Magic, I hereby move to commute the custodial sentence of four years' imprisonment in Azkaban Prison to a suspended sentence of equal length. If approved, Mr. Malfoy will serve this time under strict Ministry probation.”
He raised his wand slightly, signaling to the scribes.
“The proposed terms are as follows: four years’ suspended sentence, contingent upon monthly sign-ins with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; no travel permitted outside of the United Kingdom without formal Ministry approval, random wand audits at any time during the probationary period: and a monetary fine, the amount of which will be determined following a formal assessment of the Malfoy Vaults by the President of Gringotts Wizarding Bank.”
His voice did not waver.
“This motion requires a consensus vote to pass. We will proceed with a wand vote.
All in favor?”
49 wands lifted silently into the air.
“Opposed?”
None.
“One abstention,” Kingsley noted, the entire courtroom now stilled in genuine disbelief.
Becuase the silver-tongued prosecutor had gone silent. No one had expected him to fold.
“Let the record show: the commuted sentence has been approved by a consensus vote of 49 joining members.” Kingsley's voice boomed.
He paused one last time.
Then he looked at Draco, the boy standing alone in the eye of the storm.
“Mr. Malfoy,” he said, a small smile returning to the corners of his mouth. “I wish you well.”
He took a deep breath.
“This trial has concluded. Court is adjourned.”
The moment Kingsley’s gavel struck wood, sealing the final verdict, the glowing restraints around Draco’s wrists shimmered once, then vanished with a faint crackle.
And the moment they did, Draco crumpled.
He hunched forward in his chair, elbows digging into his knees as he dropped his face into his hands. There was no time to register relief. No sense of victory. Just a collapse, sudden and all-consuming, like the last shaky beam of a burning house finally giving out.
Sobs wracked his frame; silent at first, then sharp and guttural, torn from the pit of him after too many months of holding everything in.
He had spent the trial carved out and cold. Had measured every breath, every answer, every glance like a man walking a minefield. He had built his mask so carefully he’d almost forgotten what lived underneath it.
Now that mask was in pieces.
His shoulders shook. He gasped against his palms, desperate to swallow the sound, to gather himself; but it was too late. He was weeping, openly, bitterly. He hadn’t even cried when the Dark Mark seared itself into his arm. Not when Hermione screamed in that cellar. Not when he thought he'd die for killing Dolohov.
But now, when they’d spared him—
Now, when it was done—
Now it broke him.
Sterling, startled but not unprepared, placed a steady hand on his back.
“A job very well done, Mr. Malfoy. Truly. We could not have asked for a better sentence than this.”
But Draco couldn’t speak.
He shook his head into his palms, overwhelmed, breath hitching like he couldn’t catch it. His whole body trembled, curled inward, like he was trying to disappear into himself.
Somewhere far off, the courtroom was stirring. Robes rustled. Chairs scraped. People filed out or leaned in to whisper. A sea of distant eyes flickered over him but Draco didn’t care.
For the first time in years, he didn’t care who saw.
Let them watch. Let them see what it meant to survive.
---
There was a rustle of silk and wool.
Soft footsteps on stone.
Then someone was crouching in front of him.
A cool, elegant hand reached up to smooth back his hair; tender, familiar fingers combing gently through the mess of it. The scent of wild rose hit him like a memory.
His mother.
Narcissa Malfoy hadn’t moved through the entire verdict. Not a breath, not a blink. She had watched him break from across the room and now, with all her grace and steel, she came.
She hadn’t run. Narcissa Malfoy never ran.
But she came with purpose. With love.
“My sweet, sweet boy…” she whispered.
Draco lifted his head slowly.
Her eyes were rimmed red but still shining with pride. His own face was blotchy, nose running, his breath still trembling between quiet sobs, but she didn’t care. She wiped it all away with a lace handkerchief and a mother’s love.
“I never did get to tell you,” she said softly, brushing a tear from his cheek, “How proud I was that you hunted him down that day.”
Draco let out a broken breath and reached for her hand. He couldn’t speak -not yet- not with the lump in his throat like a boulder. Her fingers didn’t flinch in his. They squeezed gently, reassuring, real.
She leaned in and kissed his temple.
“It’s all over now, darling,” she whispered into his hair. “You’re done. You did so good, and you’re done. No more.”
His shoulders shuddered again. But the sobs had softened. His face crumpled, but there was relief now; thin and ragged, but unmistakable. He nodded, eyes squeezed shut, tears still streaking down.
She pressed her forehead to his. They stayed like that a long time; silent, breathing the same air, a mother and son who had survived too much.
Then Narcissa stood.
She smoothed the front of her robes with trembling hands, recomposing herself like a ritual. When Draco rose too, she pulled him into a full embrace. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, holding her close. Kissed her cheek. Didn’t let go for several seconds. He murmured something only she could hear.
She nodded once in reply, brushing his hair back again with quiet affection.
“My dear, I must go now, back to the Loire Valley. Come visit as soon as you can get Ministry approval, alright? Any time you want.”
He gave her a nod, voice still trapped somewhere behind his ribs.
And just before she stepped away, Narcissa reached up and cupped his face one last time.
“Get it together and thank her, Draco,” she said quietly. “As soon as possible.”
Then she turned, composed and elegant, and let herself be escorted toward the Apparition checkpoint - her head held high, her eyes full, and her heart, finally, a little lighter.
---
Hermione hadn’t moved.
Not when the verdict was announced.
Not when the gavel struck.
Not even when Draco broke.
The moment the restraints vanished with a crackle of light and the gavel echoed through the chamber, something inside her cracked, too. But she kept still, half-hidden behind one of the marble columns by the front benches, hands clenched tight around the railing in front of her.
And she watched.
Watched as he collapsed.
Draco hunched forward in his chair, hands over his face, shoulders shaking violently as his sobs finally broke free: raw, gasping, years in the making. The sound of it hit her like a curse, sharp and cracking, like something splintering inside her ribcage.
She had never seen him cry. Not like this.
Not even when he was twitching from all those Cruciatuses in front of her. Not even when he thought she might die.
Her first instinct was to run to him.
Her legs almost moved of their own accord -half a step, heart pounding- but she stopped herself. Froze, chest heaving, her fingers digging into the rail so hard it hurt.
This wasn’t her moment.
Or maybe it was, and she was too afraid to take it.
Her mind spun: What would she even say if she went to him?
She had seen so much now; more than she’d wanted, more than she’d asked for. She had seen the Killing Curses, the Unbreakable Vow, the Inner Circle meeting...
And still. Still, she wanted to go to him.
That scared her more than anything.
Not because she doubted the truth of what she saw.
But because she could no longer lie to herself about what it meant.
She had forgiven him, long ago, even without the Occlumency.
Tears burned behind her eyes at the truth, now out in the open, but she didn’t let them fall. She kept her chin high, breathing shallowly, heart twisting in her chest like a blade. She couldn’t move. Not yet.
But every second she stood there felt like a betrayal of something soft and fragile between them.
And that was when she heard movement.
The rustle of silk. The quiet click of heels on stone.
Hermione turned just slightly, and saw Narcissa rising from her bench.
Her steps were deliberate. Inevitable.
Hermione’s heart sank as the older woman crossed the room: poised, graceful, maternal.
And she could do nothing but watch, stomach knotted and soul aching, as someone else gave Draco the comfort she hadn’t been brave enough to offer.
---
“Hermione.”
Harry's voice was low, warm, steady; the only voice in the world she might’ve trusted enough to answer just then.
She didn’t turn toward him. Not yet. Her eyes were still locked on the scene unfolding across the courtroom: Narcissa kneeling gracefully in front of her son, fingers combing through his hair as he wept into his hands.
Hermione stood frozen, her heart straining in her chest like it was caught between beats.
Harry stepped closer, close enough that his arm brushed hers. He didn’t ask her to speak.
“You did more than anyone could’ve asked,” he said gently. “You gave him everything.”
Hermione’s throat tightened. She blinked fast, but a tear slipped down anyway.
“I don’t know why I can’t move.” she whispered.
Harry let that sit in the air between them for a moment before he answered.
“Because it’s real now,” he said. “Because it’s not just locked in your head anymore. It’s out there for the world to see, and yet you’re both still standing.”
Another tear slid down.
“You’re not hiding from him,” Harry continued. “You’re just not sure what happens next. And that’s okay.”
She turned slightly to face him then - eyes glassy, jaw clenched.
“He looked at me,” she murmured. “Right before the final vote. Just for a second. Like he didn’t know if I’d come to him.”
“He does know,” Harry said. “But he’s scared too. You think he expected you to do what you did today? Let them see what he meant to you? What you felt?”
She gave the tiniest shake of her head.
“You saved him, Hermione. You gave him back his entire life. And I think… maybe you scared the hell out of him while you did it.”
That pulled a small, trembling laugh from her lips. “Good.”
Harry smiled softly. Then, after a pause:
“You don’t have to go to him right now. Not here. Not with everyone watching.”
“But you will,” he added, squeezing her hand. “Because I know you. And I think I’ve come to know him well enough too.”
Hermione let out a shaky breath. Her eyes drifted back to Draco - still seated, head bowed, his mother’s hand in his, holding tight.
“Will you…?” she started, then stopped.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’ll talk to him.”
---
Hermione barely had time to process the swirling emotions within her when another familiar figure approached.
“Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall’s voice was calm but firm, carrying that unmistakable authority and warmth. “I am here to escort you back to Hogwarts.”
Hermione blinked, startled.
“Hogwarts?” she asked quietly, still trying to grasp the moment. “I thought… we were supposed to go to St. Mungo’s for the final scans.”
Before McGonagall could respond, Harry stepped up beside them, his expression gentle.
“As your medical proxy, I signed your discharge papers last night,” Harry said softly. “The healers cleared you 2 days ago. Your magic’s officially stable and strong, ‘Mione.”
Hermione looked between them, surprise coloring her cheeks, but she said nothing, just absorbed the reality settling around her.
McGonagall gave a small, knowing smile.
“Come along now, dear. Your room is just as you left it. Though the house-elves insisted on adding a few extra blankets.” she added with a faint twinkle.
Hermione let out a tearful laugh, swiping at her eyes. “I… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, it’s been so long...”
“Whatever you need to,” McGonagall replied. “But perhaps some sleep first.”
Hermione gave a small nod. Her gaze flicked once more to the courtroom floor where Draco now let himself sink back into the high-backed court chair as his mother left, hands still shaking.
She didn’t move toward him.
Hermione linked her arm with the professor’s instead, taking a final glance toward Harry.
“He’ll come.” He whispered, nodding gently.
And together with the professor, they stepped toward the exit; toward healing, toward home.
---
The last person Draco expected to see was Harry Potter standing in front of him.
But there he was: tie askew, hair a mess, expression gentler than Draco had ever seen it. There was no smugness in his stance, no judgment. Just tired relief.
He extended a hand.
Draco blinked at it, unsure. His instincts screamed to recoil, to be proud, to pretend he didn’t need it. But that was the boy he used to be.
This -now- was different.
He took the hand.
Harry pulled him to his feet and, without hesitation, into a short, one-armed hug. Firm. Real.
“Thanks,” Harry said, voice low and a bit rough, “for taking one off my body count.”
Draco huffed a shaky laugh, letting it tumble out of him as Harry stepped back.
“You did the right thing,” Harry added, quieter now.
Draco could only nod.
A beat passed. Then—
“Where is she?” he asked, voice rasped with nerves he couldn’t quite hide.
Harry smiled faintly. “Professor McGonagall came in a bit ago. Took her back to Hogwarts.”
“Hogwarts?” Draco echoed, swallowing hard.
Harry nodded. “I signed her discharge last night. It was always the plan, if today went well, to have both of you back at the same time.” He paused. “Her things have already been moved to your dorm.”
Draco’s breath caught in his throat.
He hadn’t dared to hope.
“She… she went back to our..?” he asked, like saying it aloud might make it disappear.
“She did,” Harry confirmed, softer now.
Draco’s hands twitched at his sides. “I should give her time—”
“No,” Harry cut in, firm but kind. “You should go. Now."
Draco looked up, startled.
Harry continued, “She’s just been through hell for you. Again. And she’s probably sitting up there overthinking everything, wondering if you’ll come, or if she should go to you, or if she crossed some line by doing what she did today. Don’t let her spiral.”
Draco swallowed hard, throat tight.
“I don’t want to hurt her even more.”
“Then show her that you won’t,” Harry said. “Now’s not the time to hide behind guilt. You’ve done enough of that. Go.”
Draco looked down at his feet, then at the now-empty courtroom. His eyes were still rimmed red, his clothes rumpled, but the weight on his chest had lifted, just slightly.
He looked back at Harry.
“Thanks,” he said. And meant it.
Harry clapped him on the back, smiling crookedly. “Don’t take too long. I miss her too, I’ll be pounding on the portrait in half an hour.”
Draco, after a slight shake of the head, turned and headed for the elevators with a pace that quickened with every step.
Because she was finally at home. She was safe. And she had saved him.
Now, it was his turn.
---
The lift doors on the ground floor opened.
And Draco stepped straight into a floodlighted hell.
The Ministry Atrium exploded with noise; reporters shouting, quills scratching furiously in midair. The golden fountain shimmered behind the crowd like a sick joke. At least twenty journalists were waiting, wands clipped to their belts, every eye trained on him. Flashes burst like fireworks in every direction.
Draco squinted, recoiling instinctively. His hands twitched toward his wand.
Not yet. Don’t lose it here.
“MR. MALFOY! DO YOU CONSIDER THIS VERDICT A FULL EXONERATION—?”
“HOW LONG HAVE YOU AND MISS GRANGER BEEN INVOLVED—?”
“WAS THE KISS MEMORY STAGED FOR SYMPATHY?”
“DO YOU STILL BELIEVE VOLDEMORT DESERVED YOUR LOYALTY?”
“DO YOU THINK YOUR SENTENCE WAS TOO LENIENT—?”
“IS THIS THE MINISTRY PROTECTING WAR CRIMINALS AGAIN—?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
They surged closer.
“DRACO, WAS IT LOVE OR GUILT?”
“HOW LONG WERE YOU HIDING THE RELATIONSHIP?”
“WAS SHE IN ON IT FROM THE START—?”
Someone grabbed his arm - not a reporter, thank Merlin.
“You did very well, Mr. Malfoy. I hope you didn’t take my examination personally, you see, all in a prosecutor’s day’s work." Robards muttered at his side.
“Keep walking. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t speak. Head straight to Headmistress’ Tower, Floo will be open there. Good luck, and see you next month at the sign-in.”
Draco didn’t argue.
More questions came at him from all sides. He didn’t answer any. Didn’t look up.
The only voice that mattered wasn’t here anyway.
He pushed forward, head ducked, the crush of voices chasing him across the polished marble floor. The noise rang in his ears, even as the edge of the Floo Network came into sight.
“Draco! Just one word for Witch Weekly! Do you think Miss Granger forgave you?” one last voice shouted, cutting through all the others.
Draco stopped, just barely, his jaw clenched tight.
Then he stepped into the hearth, shoulders drawn taut, heart hammering.
“Hogwarts, Headmistress’ Tower.” he said through gritted teeth, barely above a whisper.
And green flames whooshed around him as he vanished into silence.