Casuistry [H/D, R] by taffetablue
Title: Casuistry (Another Man's Treasure Remix)
Author: taffetablue
Rating: R
Summary: 1.Specious or excessively subtle reasoning intended to rationalize or mislead, 2. The determination of right and wrong in questions of conduct or conscience by analyzing cases that illustrate general ethical rules. (Postwar Harry/Draco)
Notes: Original story is Trash, by V, and thanks as always to my wonderful betas, including sheafrotherdon and animegrl247.
The hearings begin April 8th, 1999 and last for five months; the ministry appreciates efficacy and does not like its time wasted. It hadn't taken much time to cull the remaining Death Eaters from the attics of abandoned mansions, cramped and freezing caves set into the cliffs, basements and ditches and barns for former nobility - the birthright of blood and power reduced to a craven inheritance of gravedirt and cobwebs, of blackened fingernails and quivering hands, cupping hunger, fear. It takes less to condemn them to the cold stone and shrieking wind of Azkaban, endless waves and the dripping wet.
Pansy Parkinson stands trial first, her hair grown long and wild, knotted down her brittle back. She seems hollow, filled with echoes, pale lips pursed, and looks at no one as the charges against her are read aloud - innumerable counts of murder, torture, larceny, arson, plotting to overthrow the ministry. When asked to defend herself, she says nothing, biting her tongue until it bleeds, spots of color staining her cheeks while the hall goes silent, waiting, until Percy Weasley clears his throat, until he closes her file and looks up.
She is sentenced to death, and her small intake of breath as she is led away could be a sob.
***
"Potter?" Block four of the Ministry holding cells is dark, stifling. Draco can't see much at all but he can recognize the familiar cadence of pacing footsteps, the sharp slap-slap-slap turn of feet in the scant cell.
The footsteps stop. "Malfoy?"
"It is you," Draco leans back against the rough wall, tucking his feet under him on the uncomfortably sparse pallet. "I wondered."
"How long - how long have you been here?"
"A few days. I think," he tries, but he can't see anything in the absolute, oppressive dark. "You can't really tell down here."
"Oh. Do you know where... Why we're the only ones here?"
Draco shrugs, tired and annoyed, before realizing Potter can't see him. "No. But I think we're the only ones who... Might have a chance."
"Mmm. How'd you get down here?"
"Woke up one morning to a stunning spell and two Aurors. I still don't know how they got past the charms I've got on the flat."
Potter's derisive snort echoes a little. "So much for constant vigilance."
"Potter?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut the fuck up."
***
Theodore Nott is three days after, knees shaking as he clutches at his restraints, knuckles white, eyes wide, frightened. Evidence suggests that news travels fast among the captive, that Pansy's fate has been whispered from cell to cell - he looks hunted, unfolded and scared pale, and stammers at the questions Weasley asks, pushing back the dull hair falling across his watery blue eyes.
"Y-yes," his voice sounds like the quaking of dried grass, scratchy and terrified. "I - Baudelaire. Smith. Adrian. Ingram. Hutchinson." He says it like a schoolchild's recitation, hypnotically rehearsed and measured; his hands leave damp imprints on his knees - he presses them flat to keep them from visibly shaking, but his entire body is trembling. "We were - in the field, in Hertfordshire. They're buried, under a dead oak. I... I held him still, and Adrian held her, and Smith - crucioed him, first. He screamed. Wouldn't tell us anything, but... I kept holding him, and Smith, he kept, and then Ingram, and then, Hutchinson, he... There was. Blood," he looks down, then up again, swallowing. "Lots of blood, even in my hair. I found it, after. She kept screaming, no, no. Please. And I... I was the one who..."
Nott's body jerks, and the sharp smell of his vomit fills the hall.
***
"The fact that you're here bothers me."
"What a surprise. Did you know that the sky is also blue?"
"Fuck you, Potter. I meant, why are you even here? Why the fuck are you on trial?"
Harry's voice goes quieter, flatter. "I'm not sure."
"That was enlightening."
"Fuck, I mean-" And Draco almost feels guilty - that's real anger, real frustration catching in Potter's throat. He can suddenly imagine him, dark hair a perpetual mess, punching a wall somewhere, bloodying his knuckles in broken plaster. Typical. "I know what I've done. And I know why... But I don't understand."
"Yeah?" Draco waits.
"Near the end..." He can hear a thick swallow. "Things were bad. So many people had died, and we found the bodies, every time, like some bizarre fucking scavenger hunt. And it was - it felt like it was my fault. We - Ron and Neville and I - followed the trail for weeks, dead bodies, mutilated, sometimes worse. And finally we caught up with the three of them near Cadwell.
"Orders were to stun and bind - killing curse, last resort. But there was a girl, and they were - she was crying, screaming. And something tore in me, and she - that was all I could see, the three of them bent over her, and I ran at them... All the words came out, and I don't know how long it lasted - Just, when it was over, there was blood - not even blood, them - everywhere. The next day I had bruises where Neville and Ron had tried to hold me back. Ron had a pretty spectacular black eye, too. They didn't say anything about it, and neither did I. But everyone knew, the same."
Draco sits as still as possible, forcing the incredulity into his voice. "And you're on trial for that?"
"Malfoy," Potter says softly, almost a plea. "That was just the first time."
***
Zacharias Smith's trial is scheduled three months later. He hangs himself in his cell, the night before. In the morning, everyone's faces are grim and hardened.
***
"Why did you do it?"
Draco stills. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. Why?"
"I don't know."
"That's bollocks."
"I hated it. I was tired. I hated him. What other answer do you want? That it was what was right?"
Harry is quiet a long time before answering, so long that Draco thinks he's finally dropped the subject. "No."
"Good. Then you won't be disappointed."
"Since when do you care whether or not I'm disappointed, Malfoy?"
"Damn it, Potter," Draco's sick of it. "We're not in school anymore."
"I know."
"Then I would really fucking appreciate it if you would start acting like it."
"I wrote you a note once," Potter says thoughtfully, and Draco wants to bash his head in, because that is so spectacularly not the point, it's not anything, and he's been in this cell for months.
"Oh, really?" he sneers.
"Yes. It was," Potter sounds far away, "nice. It was a nice note."
"That's very kind of you, I'm sure, but why is this in any way important?"
"I still have it."
"Oh." He really wasn't expecting that.
"Here-" Draco hears the tiny crunch of a piece of paper colliding and skittering away in the corner of his cell.
"That was helpful."
"Well," the shrug is evident in Potter's voice. "At least you have it now."
Draco finds it later, crawling on his hands and knees after Potter's fallen asleep, and waits for the door to open - when meals come - to read it by faint light, eyes widening, as things begin to make infinitely more sense:
I have a really big crush on you.
Harry.
He's careful not to laugh, at least audibly, but comes very, very close, and is unwilling to admit that it's far less mocking than he'd like it to be.
***
Eddie Carmichael is questioned a month after they find Zacharias's body. He never stops grinning - wide, white, unfettered - and laughs as the charges against him are read, his back twisted into a heaving question mark. The sound of his laughter fills the chamber, and everyone shifts, uneasy in the face of fervent, unbridled madness; his eyes roll like those of a frightened horse. The chains rattle as he moves, the constant ringing reminder of consequence as he testifies.
"I loved it," he murmurs liltingly. "I never got over the smell of blood. I never got over the screaming. Sometimes," he grins, gaze sliding to Ginny Weasley, sitting tight-lipped behind her brother. "We'd take our time - have a little fun. Gets lonely, you know," and he doesn't look away, doesn't. "Long nights. Always nice to have a little fun. They struggled. It was best if they struggled. But if they didn't behave, well, then - we had to kill them. And then, then it was even better." He licks his lips, and holds her gaze even as he's sentenced and dragged from the room, to the very last second his wicked eyes disappear from view.
***
"Aren't you ever afraid?" Harry's the one to ask - long past midnight, or so he thinks, lying in the dark with eyes wide open.
"Of what?" Draco doesn't want to say yes.
"Of anything."
There's a long silence, save for the slight rustle of their mattresses and the movement of scratchy sheets against skin, intimate noises, for lovers.
"I was. When I first began."
"Yeah?" He can hear Harry sit up, imagines him drawing the sheets around himself, leaning against a wall, looking at Draco, intent.
"I didn't know what I was doing. They wanted me - I was there to be used for things I didn't understand. I just knew that it was expected."
"Oh."
"I didn't know what it would mean. I didn't want to die. And then I didn't care anymore."
"Oh."
There is another pause, quiet. "Well?"
"What?"
"Are you?"
Harry answers without hesitation. "Yes."
"Why?"
"I'm afraid," he swallows, loudly. "I'm scared they'll say it's okay."
"More than you're scared that they'll say it's not?"
"No."
"At least you're not an idiot."
"Yeah."
***
Draco follows three weeks behind Carmichael, pale and calm. Stoic, almost, as Percy reads the charges made against him - several counts of murder, illegal Death Eater activity, arson - and waits for the questioning. At the end of the reading, Percy looks over his glasses, and speaks in the confident, weary voice that has crept up on him in the past year. "Do you deny these charges?"
"No." Draco holds Percy's gaze. The crowd rustles.
"Very well," he shuffles a stack of papers. "There is also the matter of your defense. The Ministry has received testimonies from the following, regarding your alleged involvement as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix, working against Voldemort: Ronald Weasley, Bilius Weasley, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Minerva McGonagall. Are these reports accurate?"
"Yes." The chains scrape against stone as his fists clench and relax.
"Additionally," Percy continues, nodding, "a catalogue of correspondence submitted as evidence indicates that the information you passed along to the Order through Harry Potter was a significant contribution to the attempts to overthrow Voldemort, and perhaps even crucial to his downfall. Is this correct?"
Draco shifts slightly, fingers brushing against his pocket. He can feel the slight resistance of paper beneath his fingers, the presence of simple words written in grave, childish hand. "It is."
Percy nods shortly. "With consideration to evidence, it seems, Mr. Malfoy, that you have perhaps paid your debt to Wizarding society. You are pardoned and released, and your name shall be cleared of transgression. Please collect your things. Court adjourned."
As they unshackle him and lead him away, nodding, Draco feels elated and vaguely sick.
***
Harry stands as Draco is let into the hall, brow furrowed. "You... you're-" Draco holds up his bare wrists. "Oh, that's really - that's fantastic."
"Yeah." Draco bites his lip. "The notes, that you gave them, and Granger and Longbottom - that was enough."
"Yeah." Harry's smiling, but weakly, looking awkward and lost. "That's good. I'm glad, I mean, if that helped."
"It did. They brought me back, to get my things, and then I can - I'm free." He looks at Harry, one hand resting against the thick bars of his cell. Draco hadn't realized how pale he looked, how drawn. The trial is tomorrow, he thinks with a jolt. And he might not...
Swallowing, Draco brings his hand up to gently brush Harry's. His eyes widen, and Draco grins, wryly. "Thank you. I hope... I mean."
Harry laughs a little, harsh and exhausted. "We can't all be the prodigal come home. And besides, I'm not nearly as photogenic as you."
Draco smiles tightly. "More's the pity."
"Yeah," Harry manages, gently tangling the tips of their fingers before a guard calls to Draco: it's time.
***
Disquieted crowds pour into the streets outside the Ministry for Harry's trial. He stands squarely on the platform in the centre of the room, hands shackled behind his back, worn thin and defeated. Weasley looks sick, reading off the charges and testimonies.
"-brutal torture and unnecessary force." He clears his throat and looks up at Harry, officious tone faltering, as if he hopes that this is all some terrible joke. "Do you deny these charges, Har-Mr. Potter?"
Harry only shakes his head, and the crowd murmurs brokenly. He notices that neither Ron nor Hermione is in the courtroom - all the faces are only distantly familiar, leaning towards him over ledges and balconies, staring at him like a specimen on display.
"Yes, well. Is there anything you would like to say in your defense?"
Harry shakes his head again.
"There are several pieces of evidence against you, Mr. Potter, including testimonies from witnesses present at the various times and locations of the alleged crimes, all indicating your guilt. The Ministry is greatly conflicted on this matter."
Clearing his throat, Harry nods, managing to speak. "I understand."
"However," Percy's voice wavers as he continues. "It must also be taken into account that not only were the alleged victims criminals themselves - often caught in criminal acts - but also that your contribution, Mr. Potter, to security of the Wizarding world is unparalleled."
The atmosphere shifts with a tremendous intake of breath that the Prophet will later describe as time itself coming to a standstill.
"It has therefore been decided that, due to the enormous debt owed to you by the Ministry and all those it protects," Percy licked his lips. "That you shall be pardoned and released. You will be escorted back to the Ministry holding cells to collect your things. Court adjourned."
Harry turns his back on thousands of flashbulbs as he is led away, unchained.
***
It's a week past when Draco opens the door and there's Harry, looking cleaner and taller but just as exhausted, one hand on the doorframe, smiling a little nervous smile. Draco steps back and nods him in; his gaze wanders around the small, simply furnished flat before resting on a bit of floor about two inches in front of his toes.
"I got," he clears his throat. "Cleared. They let me go."
"So I read," Draco agrees, guardedly neutral. "It's in the papers."
"Oh. Yeah, I guess it would be." Harry looks up through his fringe like he's fifteen, not this twenty-year-old who's seen more than most people do in their entire lifetimes, more of loss and hatred and fear and blood, more of hope. "I just wanted to see - how you were. Come by, and see - and say, thank you, I guess." He's on edge about something, and Draco almost reaches out to touch him, lightly, but not quite.
"All right. Do you want to-" He stops, uncertain, at the look on Harry's face.
"I -" Harry begins quickly, taking a deep breath and finally, finally looking up to meet Draco's eyes. "I actually wanted to..." He trails off, gently bringing a hand up to cup Draco's elbow, light and questioning, slowly shifting until their knees bump.
Draco nods, once, and closes his eyes as Harry kisses him: his lips desperately soft, a quiet keen of relief in the back of his throat as he eases Draco's lips apart, tentatively licking the full curve of bottom lip. Draco moves to clutch Harry's hips, carefully thumbing the jutting bones that rise above the waist of his trousers, drinking in Harry's sharp inhale, smiling against his lips. They part, finally, panting, flushed - Harry tugs Draco's bottom lip between his teeth as he pulls away, leaving it deep red and newly-bruised.
He swallows heavily, still tracing circles on Harry's hipbones. "Finally, Potter. Took you long enough."
"I wasn't-" Harry's jaw works. "I wasn't sure."
"And you're sure now?" Draco raises and eyebrow, and Harry nods. "How sure?"
Grinning, Harry tightens his grip on Draco, stepping forward once, twice, three times until Draco's back hits the wall with a soft thump, and again, pressing their hips together - tight, so Draco can feel that he's hard, just from that one kiss, so that Harry can feel Draco, too. "This sure."
"Oh," Draco manages, rucking up Harry's shirtfront to smooth his hands down his taut, determined back. "Works for me."
They kiss and touch, hungry, desperate, until they're leaning against each other, half-undone, bellies spattered with come. Draco laughs softly against Harry's skin, like this is where he's always been.
"You know," he huffs lightly against Harry's neck. "If you'd given that note to me when we were fifteen, I would have thrown it away."
"I don't care."
"Neither do I."
Author: taffetablue
Rating: R
Summary: 1.Specious or excessively subtle reasoning intended to rationalize or mislead, 2. The determination of right and wrong in questions of conduct or conscience by analyzing cases that illustrate general ethical rules. (Postwar Harry/Draco)
Notes: Original story is Trash, by V, and thanks as always to my wonderful betas, including sheafrotherdon and animegrl247.
The hearings begin April 8th, 1999 and last for five months; the ministry appreciates efficacy and does not like its time wasted. It hadn't taken much time to cull the remaining Death Eaters from the attics of abandoned mansions, cramped and freezing caves set into the cliffs, basements and ditches and barns for former nobility - the birthright of blood and power reduced to a craven inheritance of gravedirt and cobwebs, of blackened fingernails and quivering hands, cupping hunger, fear. It takes less to condemn them to the cold stone and shrieking wind of Azkaban, endless waves and the dripping wet.
Pansy Parkinson stands trial first, her hair grown long and wild, knotted down her brittle back. She seems hollow, filled with echoes, pale lips pursed, and looks at no one as the charges against her are read aloud - innumerable counts of murder, torture, larceny, arson, plotting to overthrow the ministry. When asked to defend herself, she says nothing, biting her tongue until it bleeds, spots of color staining her cheeks while the hall goes silent, waiting, until Percy Weasley clears his throat, until he closes her file and looks up.
She is sentenced to death, and her small intake of breath as she is led away could be a sob.
***
"Potter?" Block four of the Ministry holding cells is dark, stifling. Draco can't see much at all but he can recognize the familiar cadence of pacing footsteps, the sharp slap-slap-slap turn of feet in the scant cell.
The footsteps stop. "Malfoy?"
"It is you," Draco leans back against the rough wall, tucking his feet under him on the uncomfortably sparse pallet. "I wondered."
"How long - how long have you been here?"
"A few days. I think," he tries, but he can't see anything in the absolute, oppressive dark. "You can't really tell down here."
"Oh. Do you know where... Why we're the only ones here?"
Draco shrugs, tired and annoyed, before realizing Potter can't see him. "No. But I think we're the only ones who... Might have a chance."
"Mmm. How'd you get down here?"
"Woke up one morning to a stunning spell and two Aurors. I still don't know how they got past the charms I've got on the flat."
Potter's derisive snort echoes a little. "So much for constant vigilance."
"Potter?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut the fuck up."
***
Theodore Nott is three days after, knees shaking as he clutches at his restraints, knuckles white, eyes wide, frightened. Evidence suggests that news travels fast among the captive, that Pansy's fate has been whispered from cell to cell - he looks hunted, unfolded and scared pale, and stammers at the questions Weasley asks, pushing back the dull hair falling across his watery blue eyes.
"Y-yes," his voice sounds like the quaking of dried grass, scratchy and terrified. "I - Baudelaire. Smith. Adrian. Ingram. Hutchinson." He says it like a schoolchild's recitation, hypnotically rehearsed and measured; his hands leave damp imprints on his knees - he presses them flat to keep them from visibly shaking, but his entire body is trembling. "We were - in the field, in Hertfordshire. They're buried, under a dead oak. I... I held him still, and Adrian held her, and Smith - crucioed him, first. He screamed. Wouldn't tell us anything, but... I kept holding him, and Smith, he kept, and then Ingram, and then, Hutchinson, he... There was. Blood," he looks down, then up again, swallowing. "Lots of blood, even in my hair. I found it, after. She kept screaming, no, no. Please. And I... I was the one who..."
Nott's body jerks, and the sharp smell of his vomit fills the hall.
***
"The fact that you're here bothers me."
"What a surprise. Did you know that the sky is also blue?"
"Fuck you, Potter. I meant, why are you even here? Why the fuck are you on trial?"
Harry's voice goes quieter, flatter. "I'm not sure."
"That was enlightening."
"Fuck, I mean-" And Draco almost feels guilty - that's real anger, real frustration catching in Potter's throat. He can suddenly imagine him, dark hair a perpetual mess, punching a wall somewhere, bloodying his knuckles in broken plaster. Typical. "I know what I've done. And I know why... But I don't understand."
"Yeah?" Draco waits.
"Near the end..." He can hear a thick swallow. "Things were bad. So many people had died, and we found the bodies, every time, like some bizarre fucking scavenger hunt. And it was - it felt like it was my fault. We - Ron and Neville and I - followed the trail for weeks, dead bodies, mutilated, sometimes worse. And finally we caught up with the three of them near Cadwell.
"Orders were to stun and bind - killing curse, last resort. But there was a girl, and they were - she was crying, screaming. And something tore in me, and she - that was all I could see, the three of them bent over her, and I ran at them... All the words came out, and I don't know how long it lasted - Just, when it was over, there was blood - not even blood, them - everywhere. The next day I had bruises where Neville and Ron had tried to hold me back. Ron had a pretty spectacular black eye, too. They didn't say anything about it, and neither did I. But everyone knew, the same."
Draco sits as still as possible, forcing the incredulity into his voice. "And you're on trial for that?"
"Malfoy," Potter says softly, almost a plea. "That was just the first time."
***
Zacharias Smith's trial is scheduled three months later. He hangs himself in his cell, the night before. In the morning, everyone's faces are grim and hardened.
***
"Why did you do it?"
Draco stills. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. Why?"
"I don't know."
"That's bollocks."
"I hated it. I was tired. I hated him. What other answer do you want? That it was what was right?"
Harry is quiet a long time before answering, so long that Draco thinks he's finally dropped the subject. "No."
"Good. Then you won't be disappointed."
"Since when do you care whether or not I'm disappointed, Malfoy?"
"Damn it, Potter," Draco's sick of it. "We're not in school anymore."
"I know."
"Then I would really fucking appreciate it if you would start acting like it."
"I wrote you a note once," Potter says thoughtfully, and Draco wants to bash his head in, because that is so spectacularly not the point, it's not anything, and he's been in this cell for months.
"Oh, really?" he sneers.
"Yes. It was," Potter sounds far away, "nice. It was a nice note."
"That's very kind of you, I'm sure, but why is this in any way important?"
"I still have it."
"Oh." He really wasn't expecting that.
"Here-" Draco hears the tiny crunch of a piece of paper colliding and skittering away in the corner of his cell.
"That was helpful."
"Well," the shrug is evident in Potter's voice. "At least you have it now."
Draco finds it later, crawling on his hands and knees after Potter's fallen asleep, and waits for the door to open - when meals come - to read it by faint light, eyes widening, as things begin to make infinitely more sense:
I have a really big crush on you.
Harry.
He's careful not to laugh, at least audibly, but comes very, very close, and is unwilling to admit that it's far less mocking than he'd like it to be.
***
Eddie Carmichael is questioned a month after they find Zacharias's body. He never stops grinning - wide, white, unfettered - and laughs as the charges against him are read, his back twisted into a heaving question mark. The sound of his laughter fills the chamber, and everyone shifts, uneasy in the face of fervent, unbridled madness; his eyes roll like those of a frightened horse. The chains rattle as he moves, the constant ringing reminder of consequence as he testifies.
"I loved it," he murmurs liltingly. "I never got over the smell of blood. I never got over the screaming. Sometimes," he grins, gaze sliding to Ginny Weasley, sitting tight-lipped behind her brother. "We'd take our time - have a little fun. Gets lonely, you know," and he doesn't look away, doesn't. "Long nights. Always nice to have a little fun. They struggled. It was best if they struggled. But if they didn't behave, well, then - we had to kill them. And then, then it was even better." He licks his lips, and holds her gaze even as he's sentenced and dragged from the room, to the very last second his wicked eyes disappear from view.
***
"Aren't you ever afraid?" Harry's the one to ask - long past midnight, or so he thinks, lying in the dark with eyes wide open.
"Of what?" Draco doesn't want to say yes.
"Of anything."
There's a long silence, save for the slight rustle of their mattresses and the movement of scratchy sheets against skin, intimate noises, for lovers.
"I was. When I first began."
"Yeah?" He can hear Harry sit up, imagines him drawing the sheets around himself, leaning against a wall, looking at Draco, intent.
"I didn't know what I was doing. They wanted me - I was there to be used for things I didn't understand. I just knew that it was expected."
"Oh."
"I didn't know what it would mean. I didn't want to die. And then I didn't care anymore."
"Oh."
There is another pause, quiet. "Well?"
"What?"
"Are you?"
Harry answers without hesitation. "Yes."
"Why?"
"I'm afraid," he swallows, loudly. "I'm scared they'll say it's okay."
"More than you're scared that they'll say it's not?"
"No."
"At least you're not an idiot."
"Yeah."
***
Draco follows three weeks behind Carmichael, pale and calm. Stoic, almost, as Percy reads the charges made against him - several counts of murder, illegal Death Eater activity, arson - and waits for the questioning. At the end of the reading, Percy looks over his glasses, and speaks in the confident, weary voice that has crept up on him in the past year. "Do you deny these charges?"
"No." Draco holds Percy's gaze. The crowd rustles.
"Very well," he shuffles a stack of papers. "There is also the matter of your defense. The Ministry has received testimonies from the following, regarding your alleged involvement as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix, working against Voldemort: Ronald Weasley, Bilius Weasley, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Minerva McGonagall. Are these reports accurate?"
"Yes." The chains scrape against stone as his fists clench and relax.
"Additionally," Percy continues, nodding, "a catalogue of correspondence submitted as evidence indicates that the information you passed along to the Order through Harry Potter was a significant contribution to the attempts to overthrow Voldemort, and perhaps even crucial to his downfall. Is this correct?"
Draco shifts slightly, fingers brushing against his pocket. He can feel the slight resistance of paper beneath his fingers, the presence of simple words written in grave, childish hand. "It is."
Percy nods shortly. "With consideration to evidence, it seems, Mr. Malfoy, that you have perhaps paid your debt to Wizarding society. You are pardoned and released, and your name shall be cleared of transgression. Please collect your things. Court adjourned."
As they unshackle him and lead him away, nodding, Draco feels elated and vaguely sick.
***
Harry stands as Draco is let into the hall, brow furrowed. "You... you're-" Draco holds up his bare wrists. "Oh, that's really - that's fantastic."
"Yeah." Draco bites his lip. "The notes, that you gave them, and Granger and Longbottom - that was enough."
"Yeah." Harry's smiling, but weakly, looking awkward and lost. "That's good. I'm glad, I mean, if that helped."
"It did. They brought me back, to get my things, and then I can - I'm free." He looks at Harry, one hand resting against the thick bars of his cell. Draco hadn't realized how pale he looked, how drawn. The trial is tomorrow, he thinks with a jolt. And he might not...
Swallowing, Draco brings his hand up to gently brush Harry's. His eyes widen, and Draco grins, wryly. "Thank you. I hope... I mean."
Harry laughs a little, harsh and exhausted. "We can't all be the prodigal come home. And besides, I'm not nearly as photogenic as you."
Draco smiles tightly. "More's the pity."
"Yeah," Harry manages, gently tangling the tips of their fingers before a guard calls to Draco: it's time.
***
Disquieted crowds pour into the streets outside the Ministry for Harry's trial. He stands squarely on the platform in the centre of the room, hands shackled behind his back, worn thin and defeated. Weasley looks sick, reading off the charges and testimonies.
"-brutal torture and unnecessary force." He clears his throat and looks up at Harry, officious tone faltering, as if he hopes that this is all some terrible joke. "Do you deny these charges, Har-Mr. Potter?"
Harry only shakes his head, and the crowd murmurs brokenly. He notices that neither Ron nor Hermione is in the courtroom - all the faces are only distantly familiar, leaning towards him over ledges and balconies, staring at him like a specimen on display.
"Yes, well. Is there anything you would like to say in your defense?"
Harry shakes his head again.
"There are several pieces of evidence against you, Mr. Potter, including testimonies from witnesses present at the various times and locations of the alleged crimes, all indicating your guilt. The Ministry is greatly conflicted on this matter."
Clearing his throat, Harry nods, managing to speak. "I understand."
"However," Percy's voice wavers as he continues. "It must also be taken into account that not only were the alleged victims criminals themselves - often caught in criminal acts - but also that your contribution, Mr. Potter, to security of the Wizarding world is unparalleled."
The atmosphere shifts with a tremendous intake of breath that the Prophet will later describe as time itself coming to a standstill.
"It has therefore been decided that, due to the enormous debt owed to you by the Ministry and all those it protects," Percy licked his lips. "That you shall be pardoned and released. You will be escorted back to the Ministry holding cells to collect your things. Court adjourned."
Harry turns his back on thousands of flashbulbs as he is led away, unchained.
***
It's a week past when Draco opens the door and there's Harry, looking cleaner and taller but just as exhausted, one hand on the doorframe, smiling a little nervous smile. Draco steps back and nods him in; his gaze wanders around the small, simply furnished flat before resting on a bit of floor about two inches in front of his toes.
"I got," he clears his throat. "Cleared. They let me go."
"So I read," Draco agrees, guardedly neutral. "It's in the papers."
"Oh. Yeah, I guess it would be." Harry looks up through his fringe like he's fifteen, not this twenty-year-old who's seen more than most people do in their entire lifetimes, more of loss and hatred and fear and blood, more of hope. "I just wanted to see - how you were. Come by, and see - and say, thank you, I guess." He's on edge about something, and Draco almost reaches out to touch him, lightly, but not quite.
"All right. Do you want to-" He stops, uncertain, at the look on Harry's face.
"I -" Harry begins quickly, taking a deep breath and finally, finally looking up to meet Draco's eyes. "I actually wanted to..." He trails off, gently bringing a hand up to cup Draco's elbow, light and questioning, slowly shifting until their knees bump.
Draco nods, once, and closes his eyes as Harry kisses him: his lips desperately soft, a quiet keen of relief in the back of his throat as he eases Draco's lips apart, tentatively licking the full curve of bottom lip. Draco moves to clutch Harry's hips, carefully thumbing the jutting bones that rise above the waist of his trousers, drinking in Harry's sharp inhale, smiling against his lips. They part, finally, panting, flushed - Harry tugs Draco's bottom lip between his teeth as he pulls away, leaving it deep red and newly-bruised.
He swallows heavily, still tracing circles on Harry's hipbones. "Finally, Potter. Took you long enough."
"I wasn't-" Harry's jaw works. "I wasn't sure."
"And you're sure now?" Draco raises and eyebrow, and Harry nods. "How sure?"
Grinning, Harry tightens his grip on Draco, stepping forward once, twice, three times until Draco's back hits the wall with a soft thump, and again, pressing their hips together - tight, so Draco can feel that he's hard, just from that one kiss, so that Harry can feel Draco, too. "This sure."
"Oh," Draco manages, rucking up Harry's shirtfront to smooth his hands down his taut, determined back. "Works for me."
They kiss and touch, hungry, desperate, until they're leaning against each other, half-undone, bellies spattered with come. Draco laughs softly against Harry's skin, like this is where he's always been.
"You know," he huffs lightly against Harry's neck. "If you'd given that note to me when we were fifteen, I would have thrown it away."
"I don't care."
"Neither do I."