Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 41: XLI

February 22nd, 1999

Draco Malfoy is rather determined to die.

That much is clear not even five minutes into the proceedings. He shifts around in his cage as the extensive list of charges is read, snorting and scoffing at times and drawing shrewd eyes. The way his body sways each time he pushes off one side of the bars in favor of the other leads Hermione to believe he's somehow managed to get drunk. Which seems both impossibly stupid and impossibly Malfoy.

And if Theo could bribe a guard for the Prophet, then it's hardly unthinkable.

Hermione only realizes she's digging her fingernails into her palms when Harry's hand falls into her lap, covering her gathered fists.

"Breathe," he says, lips barely moving. "And remember you have eyes on you."

She goes stiff instantly, turning another fraction away from the swarms of press and trying to focus solely on one bar of the cage. Trying not to look past it.

Very quickly, it becomes clear that this trial is going to go a lot like Pansy's. It's hours. Hours and hours of charges against him. Evidence. Witness accounts - all against, nothing for.

They bring out the necklace he cursed in Sixth Year - not destroyed, apparently - and Hermione has to disguise her sharp intake of breath as a cough.

They remind him that his father is in Azkaban, and that his mother might as well be, and that 'the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, you know.'

They wheel in that bloody Vanishing Cabinet, and Hermione feels sick to her stomach.

All the while, Malfoy stares at his accusers dully. Eyes glazed. Almost like he might fall asleep, which is the last thing she needs from him right now.

Without Harry's hand twisted into hers, she doesn't think she'd still be upright - and as they make their massive case against him, she just keeps reminding herself that this is manageable. This is debatable. Defensible. She can bring them around. She can take the reins and steer them away from all this damning rhetoric.

She repeats it like a mantra in her head, until the moment everything gets turned upside down.

"As I understand it, this year has also been quite turbulent for you, Mr. Malfoy," says Burbage.

Hermione makes the mistake of looking at him. She keeps doing it - doesn't think she'll be able to stop doing it.

Malfoy's expression remains flat.

"We've received a rather compelling piece of evidence from a peer of yours - one they would like to share with us all now." And Burbage tips her head sideways to look upon the newcomer, taking their place in the witness stand.

Hermione feels like the floor drops out from under her. Squeezes Harry's hand until he grunts at the pain.

"Please state your name for the record."

"Zacharias Smith."

"Fuck," she whispers under breath. Because she knew. She knew. She was so sure this would come back to haunt her, and then she'd had the absolutely moronic nerve to forget about it. To think it'd all blown over, as nothing ever does.

And now here he is. Ready to do more damage than she can possibly imagine.

"And what evidence do you have for us today?"

"A diary," says Zacharias, and she can literally feel the blood drain out of her face. "One that belonged to Malfoy." He holds up that unmistakably purple journal for the whole of the courtroom to see.