Irresistible Fate

Prologue: January 1999, eight months after the Battle of Hogwarts

Harry sat in the ominous black shadows of the Wizengamot Court. The buzz of people entering the room bore the essence of restless expectation: the situation had changed suddenly and people were eager to find out why today's trial had been moved from a single to a joint hearing. His heart thumped in his chest and he wished he could quell the feeling of unease of what he was about to do. He knew he risked his career. His boss, Head Auror Gawain Robards, and the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, had stared at him in disbelief in the private meeting when he declared his intention to them and asked them to change the circumstances of the trial. Robards had warned the scandal could be unredeemable. Kingsley had simply asked if he was certain. Harry told them he wished for fairness, not a quick and easy conviction that would make good headlines for the Ministry in The Daily Prophet. He wished to speak on behalf of two of the defendants. He wished to tell the truth, but he only wanted to tell his story once. And he wished to do so under a Binding Spell.

His heart beat faster than was comfortable as he watched both familiar and unfamiliar faces settle themselves on the rows of raked black benches that lined the edges of the dark circular courtroom. Anxiety seemed to quash all rational thought as he wondered about the sanity of the situation he had created. Robards had warned him again that his future as an Auror was over if the Wizengamot voted against him, his credibility would be in tatters and his fast-track training would be over quicker than a knight-bus ride to Azkaban. And then what would he do? He hadn't had it in him to retake his seventh year at Hogwarts, the war had caused too much pain, too many memories, too many deaths. Kingsley had offered him the chance to become an Auror without his N.E.W.T.s so he had moved to London and thrown himself into his training, excelling as he had never done at school and, well fuck it, he knew more, had dealt with more, than half the Aurors in that bloody office put together. He was teaching them a thing or two about the Dark Arts.

His brief flash of anger didn't help to swallow down the lump in his throat or still the nerves that burned like molten fire beneath his skin. He licked his dry lips and wished he had a bottle of water with him.

'Please bring in the accused.' A hush filled the room as Shacklebolt's deep voice soothed the jittery room like a velvet covering.

He kept his face in the shadows as he watched the family being brought in by guards and seated into the three tall-backed accusation chairs in the centre of the room. All three faces looked sunken, hollowed and pale: the father by his time in Azkaban, mother and son from being on the run until they were caught two weeks earlier. Lucius Malfoy looked broken, tainted by the edges of insanity; his face no longer taut and proud, his gaze no longer arrogant and condescending; instead his blue eyes flickered around the room as he desperately sought out a familiar face to silently plead with them. He radiated uncertainty and lost hope. Narcissa's eyes never left her son's face, desperately searching for contact with Draco, worry etched in every line of her face. He, in turn, seemed only concerned with a spot on the floor directly in front of him, his eyes broken shadows of empty greyness. His face slightly puzzled, as if he saw a small flaw in the perfect black marble and was trying to work it out why it was there. The wall lights illuminated his features with an unnatural pale light and cast oblique circles beneath his eyes. He studied Draco as intently as his mother. He had lost weight, too much for his slender frame. A vulnerability showed, the side of Draco that he had come to know all to briefly. It still felt like yesterday. Even after all this time and all they had been through since. He hadn't seen Draco since the Battle of Hogwarts, and seeing him again, here, stirred up the helpless aching sensation from the past. Today he would have to share those difficult memories from their past.

'Before we proceed,' Kingsley continued. 'I wish to explain the new circumstances that have arisen'.

The collective of wizards, as one, watched the Minister of Magic, only the Malfoys were distracted, Lucius by his search for a sympathetic face, Narcissa by her son, and Draco by the spot on the floor. He wondered what pain those grey eyes knew now. He felt it keenly. The connection was still there for him. Perhaps eight months apart and two weeks in Azkaban had taken it away from Draco. He was certain Draco hadn't registered his presence in the room. He wanted to cross the room to him, to stand in front of him and to lift his chin so their eyes made contact, to tell him things would be alright.