Prologue: Condemned

A single tear is dropping

Through the valleys of an aging face

That this world has forgotten

-Savior, Rise Against

In the end, the most unbearable part of the whole thing was simply the waiting. He didn't show it, of course, but he was scared. Absolutely-bloody-terrified. The end was so close. He could taste it, feel it, watch it shove beneath his skin and make him feel like a puddle of mud. He knew how it would end. He had years of those demented, soul-sucking Azkaban guards to live with. They would probably kill him quickly, make him insane with the amount of darkness he held within his memories. It would have been better just to Obliviate himself, but he couldn't even do that—they had taken his wand.

He had already thought about all of this more times than he could count. Perhaps they thought that if they left him with enough time to think about it againagainagain, he would confess to some other horrid crimes that he had never committed. Like being a former Death Eater wasn't enough.

Waiting. He hated this. Every moment without human contact brought him closer to the inevitable doom that the forsaken prison would cause. Maybe certainty is even worse than uncertainty, he thought. At least with uncertainty, he would have hope. There was no hope for Draco Malfoy.

xXdMHpXx

The door to his cell creaked open. It sounded rusty, like it needed a good oiling. The doors at the Manor would never be allowed to fall into such disrepair. But this is the Ministry, and he is nothing but a lowly criminal. At least they gave him a pillow. He doubted he would have as much if he went to Azkaban. When, his mind corrected automatically. He sighed and looked up into the first human face he had seen in days.

"Come get cleaned up. Your trial starts in half an hour." The burly man's voice was rough and unforgiving. Draco got up and followed him, limbs creaky with disuse. It felt good to be able to walk farther than ten feet in one direction. Possibly one of my last freedoms, he thought bitterly. There was no anger, however. Anger had no place in this resigned, sinful version of Draco.

He relished his (lastever) shower, watching as all of the cell grit washed down the drain. His former self would have cringed horribly at the thought of the grime, left by years of prisoners from ages past. His current self was past caring. He dried off with a flimsy, greying towel and dressed in the sweater and trousers that had been brought for him. He inhaled the scent of the shirt. It smelled like home. More Manor raids, he supposed. But at least he could smell home.

No one would speak for him, he knew. His parents were dead. Well, not technically—his father was dead. His mother was currently in a St. Mungo's ward for mental insanity, and there were no signs that she would ever leave… not that he blamed her. Her illness had hit like lightning, fast and completely debilitating; it was nothing like the insanity he was preparing to suffer from. He missed his mother, though he doubted she would have been able to defend him very well. He had no friends left; he hadn't heard a word from any of them since he was captured. The world thought he was evil, and it wasn't like the power-hungry Ministry would pay attention to a few barely-credible witnesses who spoke on his nature.

He deserved this, anyway. He had been a Death Eater. He had Crucio'd multiple people, tried to kill Dumbledore, and injured countless others. He had caused scars and pain and horror and he deserved nothing less than a pitiful life in Azkaban.

His eyes were a dull grey as a Ministry official led him towards the courtrooms. It was cold. It reminded him of the old Hogwarts dungeons. His life as a student seemed eons away.

There were no body guards, at least. He wasn't much of a menace, he supposed, without a wand. Physically, he had grown underfed and thin during the last few months of the war, after his mother had snapped. When no one had cared enough to provide him with enough food. At least he still had some muscle from the days when he used to play Quidditch. It wasn't much.

His hair was wet. He hated having wet hair. His hands itched to grab for his wand and cast the quick drying spell that he had practiced to perfection. But he resisted. His wand wasn't there, and it wasn't in his pocket or lying on the desk. It was in the hands of some grubby Wizarding official. They had probably snapped it already, he thought miserably.

Maybe he could ask his escort to dry his hair. But his voice would crack from disuse, and he doubted that the bored-looking Ministry man would agree. He wanted to avoid as much humiliation as possible.

More waiting. He wasn't allowed to go in the courtroom yet, for reasons unknown. The escort stood beside him, looking bored. The man glanced at his charge, then pulled out his wand, pointing it at Draco. He tensed abruptly, hand flying to his pocket so he could cast a Shield Charm—no, he couldn't. He settled for just cringing, and was pleasantly surprised when he realized the man had just dried his hair.

"Calm down, mate. I'm not here to torture ya or anything." Draco attempted to smile at the man. It turned out more like a grimace, he supposed. The man shrugged and went back to being bored.

The doors opened. Draco was led in, forcibly keeping his eyes from the gathered Wizengamot. He obediently sat in the stark wooden chair, then held still as the chains wrapped around his wrists.

Now that he wasn't waiting, everything was going by in a blur. He caught himself watching the small woman who was recording the proceedings. He idly wondered why she didn't just use a quick notes quill—her hand must hurt bloody horribly after all of that writing. He heard his name many times, then a list of his wrongdoings. Someone called for him to testify. He said nothing.

This was it. His verdict. The final pronouncement of his guilt.

"All in favor of guilt: raise your hands," came the decree.

And then it wasn't.

"Why didn't you call for witnesses?" a furious voice called out. Draco snapped his gaze to the direction of the oh-so-familiar voice. And then was dumbfounded at the sight.

The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, had just interrupted the proceedings of a Death Eater trial.

Harry Potter.

"No witnesses were listed on the—" came the voice of an old blustering official.

"I don't care, it's protocol! Err, at least, Hermione says so. And she's always right. So call for them!" He was standing in his seat, looking extremely intimidating (even though his hair was as chaotic as ever and he was wearing rugged Muggle clothes).

The Wizengamot obligingly called for witnesses. Harry responded.

"I am Harry James Potter, here to testify on the behalf of Draco… erm, Draco Malfoy." Despite faltering on Draco's name, Harry stood strong before the officials. "I know we didn't get on well in school, and that he was a Death Eater. He can't hide from that. But he's just a kid. Just like me, and Ron, and Hermione, and any of the other teenagers who got dragged into the war." He exhaled, presumably collecting his thoughts. Draco unclenched fists that he didn't recall tensing.

"I know he may have done awful things, but he doesn't deserve Azkaban. He didn't kill Dumbledore. Snape did. He doesn't deserve that foul place," Harry continued, and with that, seemed to run out of steam. "That is all," he concluded feebly. Draco's newfounded hope deflated. The man should have made Granger write him a speech or something.

"Is that all of the witnesses," called a slightly disgruntled voice from those assembled. No one spoke, and so the same voice rang out again.

"All those in favor of guilt: raise your hands."

Almost every hand in the room went up. His fate was sealed.

"No! That's not right!" Harry bellowed, infuriated once again.

"I understand your concern, Mr. Potter. But despite your vouching, his young age is not enough. We might have considered it if he had the possibility of house arrest, but his only living relative is in St. Mungo's for an indeterminable amount of time. I apologize." The official made as if to turn away, but Harry shouted again.

"Wait! Why does it have to be a relative? Couldn't some other family take him in?" he protested. Draco almost wished that the man would stop fighting so that he wouldn't have to wait anymore. But, he supposed, he was allowed the ability to watch Potter trip over himself once again, so he did nothing. He decided to enjoy it while it lasted.

"There is no one willing, much less trustworthy, to take Mr. Malfoy in," the official said simply. In other words, Draco thought sourly, he had no friends.

"But… that can't be… He…" For once, the hero of the Wizarding world was speechless.

"If that is all interruptions, the Wizengamot now pronounces Draco—"

"I'll do it."

Draco looked back in surprise at Potter. The Wizengamot Leader did the same.

"Pardon, Mr. Potter?" He sounded extremely affronted, as if he would take no more of Harry's nonsense.

"I'll do it. I'll watch him. I mean, in my house. On house arrest. You know. That." Potter sounded confused at his own outburst, yet still determined. Somehow. Draco's mouth fell open in shock.

Voices broke out over the courtroom as the courtroom discussed the decision. Draco was unable to keep his eyes from Potter, who was resolutely not even glancing at him. Finally, the room quieted down.

"Mr. Potter. The court seems willing to allow this; however, you do realize that this is not a venture of a few months? Mr. Malfoy will need to be restrained for at least five years, most likely more," the leader enumerated. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

Potter nodded grimly.

"All right." The leader turned to discuss something quickly with his neighbor while Draco tried to process what was happening. Because this certainly wasn't. It was probably a dream, and he'd wake up, any moment now, in a miserable Azkaban cell.

"All those in favor… raise your hands."

Draco scanned the room quickly. It wasn't a lot, but it was more than half. It was enough.

"The Wizengamot decrees that the charged will be subjected to seven years under house arrest, under the care of Harry James Potter. No magic shall be used by the accused. Should the accused violate said decree more than thrice…" The words ran together in Draco's mind. Seven years with Harry Potter. He wasn't going to Azkaban. He wasn't going to go insane in the depths of his own mind. His mind registered the quiet look on Potter's face. The man was finally looking at him. Not with pity, or disgust. Just looking. Draco struggled to pay attention to the voice again—it was probably vital information, but he only managed to catch the end of it.

"This trial is now adjourned," rang the voice of the Wizengamot leader.

Draco was free.

A/N: These characters are the property of Rowling, not me.

I really enjoy writing the concept of this fic, but it is very slow going updatewise. I will try to keep up with it (though no promises), but hopefully it will turn into something grand. It would be lovely if you would continue reading. Leave a review if you wish!

~alexa;xoxo