A/N: Urk. This first chapter is written for the 'Vocabulary Book' Competition. My word was 'vindicate', to clear from blame. Reviews are appreciated, especially seeing as I'm having so much trouble writing these days. /sniffle
Disclaimer: Harry Potter? Stolen? Why, you can't suspect… who, me? Heh heh…
Special thanks to my wonderful beta, Dragons in the Orchard!
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There's a boy sitting in a dying tree – only, he's not a boy. Not really. Those eyes are too dark, too jaded – tired, as if he's lived far too long.
He's ethereal, almost, with his whitened skin and black-mussed hair and eyes so brightly defined behind thick rims. Like an elf, or fey; one of those mystical creatures grown and bred and killed in the shadows of the Forbidden Forest. Delicate fingers, fine-boned and small – is he human?
No. He isn't human, and that much is sure. He's an automaton, bred to grant the wishes of the world to which he's bound. He's a slave to their desires.
He serves one in particular, this time by choice – one as pale as him, one with gold-spun hair and silver eyes and pleading lips –
"Vindicate me, Potter."
He remembers it like it was yesterday – or was it? How quickly does time flow?
The cheers, the yells, watching as the monster who'd reigned over his life was destroyed – burning, evaporating into the misty air. Harry Potter gazed on and wondered why, exactly, it felt as if a part of him had been snatched away. Noting a disturbance as the seat adjacent to his was claimed, he couldn't be bothered to look.
Until, of course, the newcomer spoke.
"What are you going to do now, Potter?"
Against his will, Harry glanced upwards, recognizing the cultured voice and haughty tone. He marvelled briefly at the way Malfoy's inherent poise had survived the war and shame and utter disgrace now brought upon his name.
"Dunno." What use were petty schoolyard rivalries now? It was all… it was all over. Gone. Done with.
Should he really be so sad?
"What do you want, Mal – Draco?" His surname held no weight now – not here in this brave new world.
To his credit, Draco didn't show an ounce of surprise at the address. Pureblood composure – hard and glassy and cold as ice. Harry longed to pull it off, melt it, maybe, and expose the jagged boy beneath.
He did nothing, though, only waiting for an answer.
"I'll be blunt, Potter." Harry wondered vaguely if the refusal to use his given name was a snub or mark of respect. It was impossible to tell. "I want you to vindicate my family."
A laugh, harsh and not amused. "And why should I do that?"
"Because you can."
"Your father was a bastard. He nearly got us killed."
"I don't care a jot about my father," Draco said impatiently, scrubbing one hand on his robes. "He can rot in Azkaban for all I care – but my mother and I, our trial's in four days. She saved your life."
Slytherin, through and through. "She did it for herself."
He didn't respond, only looked at Harry with those silver-bright eyes.
"Vindicate us, Potter. Please."
And now Harry sits in that tree – he's avoiding the Weasleys and his friends and their families and the loving crowds because really, what is there to say? What can make years of war and death and hate better?
What can let them start to heal?
"Vindicate me, Potter."
He's not sure when, in his mind, the request switched to a solitary one, but really, it makes sense. Narcissa Malfoy's motives may have been selfish but the truth is that she saved their lives – she was instrumental in Voldemort's defeat – and semantics cannot change that. She will be all right.
Draco Malfoy is a different story. He's grey as he's always been, useless and yet valuable to both sides of the war. No single act important enough to be remembered.
He'll be sentenced to death, most likely, by those who are cleaning the wizarding world of its filth, scrubbing out corners and starting anew. His fate is hinged on Harry's decision – because, of course, no wizard will dare oppose him now.
"Vindicate me, Potter."
Should he clear him from blame?
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