"He doesn't deserve Azkaban."
The courtroom erupted in whispers, but Harry's voice cut through them, sharp and clear after minutes of sitting in silence, listening to people making accusations.
"He was a boy," Harry continued, gaze fixed on Draco—pale, chained, trying and failing to meet his eyes. "He was a boy, and he was scared. He did what his family told him to, what Voldemort told him to."
Everyone flinched, as if he would come back from the dead at the mention of his name. As if Harry hadn't walked to his own death to kill him.
"I know what it's like to be told who you have to be. To have no choice. Didn't all of you choose to hide behind me when it came to war? Weren't you printing wanted posters of my face when I was out there, searching for a way to end this? This trial might about Draco, but it was not he that chased after me with wands at the ready, it was the Ministry itself."
The Wizengamot shifted uneasily.
Harry's hands curled into fists. "If you punish him, then you punish me by extension. I stand here alive because he chose to come to my aid when it mattered. Right in front of Voldemort's eyes, knowing his own life could end in return."
Silence fell in the courtroom. Draco finally looked at him, something in his eyes Harry could not name from where he was. Gratitude. Anger. Maybe both.
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When you can't say "I'll kms if you throw my boyfriend in jail" so you go for a rational defense instead 😔✌