"Don't worry. How I act around you with sharp, pointy objects will depend largely on how Hermione reacts when she finally sees you again. Until then, I'm neutral," she assured, smiling sweetly. The scissors gleamed in the moonlight.
Looking only slightly apprehensive, he obediently took his seat in said chair, with his back to her. "Somehow I don't think Potter will approve of this," he warned.
Ginny had already gathered his thankfully clean hair into a ponytail.
"I suppose I could always do a bad job of it," she offered.
"That you could."
She didn't bother asking him if he preferred one style to another. She got the impression he didn't really care, so she ended up giving him the Weasley standard, which consisted of trying to cut the hair as evenly as possible without leaving any bald patches.
Years of practice on Ron had made her rather proficient, she thought.
Yesterday, if you'd told Ginny she'd be standing in Harry's cavernous kitchen at four in the morning, cutting Draco Malfoy's hair, she'd have patted you on the head and called you a name her mother would have rapped her over the knuckles for.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The Wizengamot was hung-over. Or at least the younger half of it was. The older half ('older' usually meant a century or more) had a noticeable spring in their step and wore their plum coloured hats at a jaunty angle.
Zacharias Smith was the exception to the revelry, but only because his job as Courtroom Scribe specifically entailed paying attention and writing everything down. Being mentally present was pretty much written into his job description. They had experimented with a Dictoquill in the previous year, but that hadn't gone down too well, what with the Quill's penchant for over-description resulting in some very colourful sentencing.
There had been a mass retirement of senior Ministry officials the day after Bellatrix had been taken into custody. Those who had remained to serve out their contracts were in a decidedly celebratory mood, or rather post-celebratory. If the current mood of the Ministry could be colour-coded, it would be a warm and barmy yellow, having been a tense and brittle red for a number of years.
There was a new, hopeful breeze blowing through the ministry and it was blowing right up the Dark Lord's skirts.
Harry emerged from Court Room Eight where an Inquiry Committee was convening and resumed sitting on a bench outside, beside Draco. It had been a very long morning.
"They' re only on page ninety-seven of your statement," said Harry, in a slightly accusing tone.
Draco made a noncommittal sound and turned the page on the Daily Prophet he was reading. He had made a point of catching up on current events since his return.
"I suppose it was too much to ask that you could have given them the abridged version?"
"That is the abridged version," Draco replied, still not looking up.
There was a short silence, during which Harry stared down at Draco's black leather lace-up shoes. They were Harry's shoes, as was the (admittedly cheap), dark grey Muggle business suit that Draco was wearing that morning. He hadn't bothered to use any pressing charms on it either. What was slightly irksome was the fact that even bargain basement micro-fibre looked like runway couture on Draco's lanky frame.
Instead of looking unkempt and disrespectful before the Winzengamot, Draco merely looked calm and at ease. Not so Harry, who had spent a sleepless night before the Hearing tossing and turning in bed. So much so that Ginny had kicked him out of the bedroom so she could get some sleep before work that morning.
A distracted Harry had wandered into the dining room, once again leafing through Draco's hundred and seventy-five page statement as if the secrets to a restful sleep lay within the pages.
It felt wrong that such harrowing, disturbing experiences could be put to paper in such precise, elegant and decidedly neat handwriting. It was a lot like watching someone get robbed and bashed to Tchaikovsky.
Draco didn't seem to be at all worried about the prospect of the Committee finding his activities over the past five years suspect enough to order further investigation or require temporary custody at Azkaban while they deliberated.
It was now six weeks since his return and the Ministry Investigators had just turned in their report on whether Draco's lengthy account was fact or fiction.
The statement contained more than a few eye-brow raising incidents. Harry was surprised that some of Draco's more