July 27th, 1996
Torches flickered in brackets along the black walls, sending eerie shadows dancing over stout wooden doors. Red cloaks billowed around him; the heavy footsteps of their escort echoed over the smooth stone stretching into the bottomless dark.
"Courtroom twelve," a dark-skinned auror said in his deep voice, stopping by a door with Roman numerals scorched into the wood. "Your son must wait in the gallery with the other spectators, Mr. Peverell."
Unease coiled in the pit of Tristan's stomach.
"Give us a moment, Auror Shacklebolt," his father replied.
Shacklebolt watched them with sharp brown eyes. "Very well. You have three minutes until the trial begins." He gave his fellow aurors a nod; they stepped back to either side, their wands drawn.
Tristan stared at the thick iron bolts of the door. "I feel like I should remain with you. What if... what if they try something the second I'm gone?"
His father's hand came resting down on his shoulder. "Even if they took my wand and locked me away without a trial, there's no cell in Britain that could hold me. I'd simply break out and come back to you. We have nothing to worry about, son."
Tristan shot him a pointed look, dropping his voice to a whisper. "If we truly had nothing to worry about, Mother would be here with you. You both stand accused on trial..."
His father sighed. "Your mother and I learned the hard way it's best to avoid risks, no matter how slim the chances." A sharp glint crept into his green eyes. "She'll stay at home with your siblings. Just in case."
'Just in case.' The unease swelled, creeping up toward his heart like the cold dark water of the lake spilling over its shores. 'In case the Musketeers try something...'
"It's not by chance that this all boils up now," his father whispered. "All their traps failed them; now they drag our name through the mud and try to weaken our position in society after it was strengthened by your win in the tournament."
"Will they succeed?"
His father shook his head. "No, we've prepared well for this day. There's nothing unexpected they could throw at us in there."
'And what if they reveal something new? Something they haven't mentioned in the papers yet?' Tristan studied the confident gleam in his father's green eyes, but the anxiety kept slithering through his stomach like a cold snake. 'Surely they'd save their trump card until the trial, no?'
"Your time is up now, Mr. Peverell," Auror Shacklebolt called, tapping the dense iron lock with the tip of his wand.
His father pulled Tristan into a tight hug. "Stay up in the gallery with your aunt and uncle; nothing will happen to you with them around and I'll find you once this is all over."
"Don't worry about me." A low chuckle slipped through the tense nerves. "All of Britain would take to the barricades if anyone dared harm a single hair on their champion's head."
"Exactly." His father flashed him a fleeting grin, then turned and followed Shacklebolt, flanked by the majority of aurors.
Tristan watched them disappear into the dark, his heartbeat quickening.
One of the two remaining aurors cleared his throat. "This way, lad." He nudged his head, leading Tristan further down the corridor to a slim flight of stairs. "Up you go and don't sneak around."
Tristan swallowed the lump in his throat and followed the noise upward, slipping through a narrow door by the top.
Wizards and witches in colorful robes bustled around five ascending wooden-carved benches. Opposite them, in the second gallery, a mass of reporters stirred like a grumble of maggots, cameras flashing like spellfire.
Tristan stared up into the grand black ceiling looming above him; rusty chains hung from it like weeds from branches in the Forbidden Forest and shadows stirred deep in the gloom, ragged torn cloaks swirling and bouncing off a veil of pale magic.
'Dementors...'
A strange prickle crawled down the nape of his neck and slid along his spine as the noise around him died.
'Uh oh.' Tristan glanced around.
Stares bored into him from all over the gallery and the whispers swelled to the buzzing of a beehive.
"Look! It's Tristan Peverell!"
The first camera flashed and Tristan flinched back, shielding his eyes and blinking through the dizzying white spots in his vision.
"Move!" Someone burst through the crowd. "Get out of the way!"
Uncle Sirius took him by the arm, shielding him from the cameras and leading him along the wooden railing to a furious-looking, full-figured ginger witch with her wand drawn.
"If I see one more flash, I'll stuff the cameras down your throats, you worthless pile of bat droppings!"
Tristan strained his facial muscles into a smile. "Hey, Aunt Amelia."
Amelia's expression softened and she pocketed her wand, hugging him tight. "It's good to see you again, nephew." She drew back and cupped his cheek. "Are you feeling alright? Do you need any-"
"Let us begin!" The blunt voice of Bartemius Crouch boomed through the courtroom. "Aurors, bring in the accused."
A heavy set of doors opened and fell shut below them. Tristan swallowed hard and took a seat between Sirius and Amelia, his heart beating fast as the whispers died.
Five aurors followed the billowing cloak of a single figure toward the pair of stools at the center of the courtroom, their footsteps echoing across the stone floor into the ominous silence.
The torches along the walls flared to life, revealing the vague silhouettes of fifty figures on the lofty courts, each wearing plum-colored robes with a silver W pinned to their chest. Minister Crouch sat up front, flanked by a squat witch dressed in pink to his right and Percy Weasley's thick-rimmed glasses to his left.
"Where is your wife, Mr. Peverell?" Crouch asked. "She'll be found guilty if she refuses-"
"My wife apologizes for her absence." His father came to a stop beside the two iron stools and fished a folded piece of parchment from within his robes, sending it floating up to the panel with a twist of his wrist. "She's pregnant and not feeling well today. Here's the assessment from her healer."
The witch next to Crouch caught the note in fleshy fingers and skimmed it. "Hrmm, Hrmm." She cleared her throat. "Mr. Peverell, do you wish to purposefully waste this court's time?" she asked in a fluttery, girlish voice, sending a cold shiver down Tristan's spine.
His father blinked. "I wouldn't dream of it, Madam Umbridge."
A sick broad smile spread over Umbridge's flabby face. "Yet still you present us with this-" she flopped the piece of parchment at him, a shriek burst of giggles ringing through the courtroom like nails drawn down a blackboard, "-a note signed by Narcissa Prewett, born a Black, and thereby the daughter of a family known to be associated with you."
"Hold your damn tongue, Umbridge," a gray-haired, crooked figure snarled from the highest bench. "My granddaughter's track record speaks for itself, as does yours for you."
Uncle Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose. "I knew I should be sitting there instead of him…"
Tristan snorted as Umbridge's eyes bulged like that of a toad.
"Enough of this!" Crouch slamming his gavel. "We will hold court and judge you and your wife, regardless of her absence. Sit down, Mr. Peverell."
Tristan's father spared the iron stool and its rattling chains a brief glance. "I'll stand. Thank you."
Crouch's jaw twitched. "I order you to sit, Peverell."
The aurors took a step forward and Tristan's stomach knotted.
"This stool is for those guilty awaiting their sentence," his father retorted. "I am innocent until proven otherwise; something you must've forgotten in your haste to share this hearing with the press. Now, I suggest we stop wasting everyone's time and begin with the charges."
"You know the charges damn well, Peverell, you've known them for eighteen years," Crouch said. "You and your wife stand accused of murder."
Tristan held his breath; the scrape of Weasley's quill sounded loud as war drums through the thick, empty silence in the courtroom.
"You have me at a loss, Minister," his father said, raising an eyebrow. "You yourself acquitted my wife and I of all charges following the attack on Hogsmeade. Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange died-"
"I'm not talking about Hogsmeade and the Lestrange brothers," Crouch snapped.
"Then please enlighten me. Who are you talking about?"
Crouch accepted a pink note from Umbridge. "I am talking about Arthur Gibbon and Gregor Higgs. You murdered them in cold blood, Peverell, do you deny it?"
"I-"
"I'm talking about Eric Silverthorn and John Urquhart!" Crouch's voice rose in volume. "Do you deny it?"
"Yes." Tristan's father straightened. "I deny it."
"Maria... Reginald... Elladora... and Markus Flint Senior." Crouch fired, his eyes narrowing with each name. "Marissa... Tobias... and Edward Bletchley! Do you deny it, Peverell?"
His father shot an unimpressed look up at the panel, folding his arms. "You might as well finish with your… note before I respond, Minister."
"Thomas Avery... Elena Rosier... Richard Wilkins... and Bar-," Crouch's voice caught, "-Bartemius Crouch... Junior." He took a deep breath and raised his head, black eyes full of fire and shoulders trembling. "Do. You. Deny it, Peverell?!"
"No, I do not."
Tristan's stomach dropped; an angry buzzing rose from the benches as the scrape of Weasley's quill paused.
"I do not-," his father raised his voice, drowning the swell of furious whispers. "I do not deny killing Elena Rosier and Richard Wilkins!"
Umbridge leaned forward, wettening her fat lips with the tip of her tongue. "So you admit your guilt in two cases of murder already, yes?" A girlish, gleeful excitement colored her voice. "You can make this easier for everyone by admitting the rest as well. Lying is a terrible habit, Mr. Peverell."
A shadow flickered through his father's green eyes, cold and dark and bottomless as the black water of the lake in deepest winter. "Oh, I know, Madam Umbridge. I must not tell lies, especially not in court..."
Umbridge's broad grin froze and she swallowed, squirming back in her seat.
"Elena Rosier and Richard Wilkins aided Voldemort during his attack on Hogwarts," Tristan's father continued. "We stopped them before they could kill any more innocent students within the Castle. Several people can witness that."
Crouch banged the gavel against the hardwood. "We have our own witnesses, Mr. Peverell. Aurors, bring in the first witness!"
A tall, black-haired witch in emerald-green robes strode towards the witness podium, flanked by aurors. A murmur passed through the courtroom as she passed by the torches.
"Wait," Sirius leaned forward in his seat beside him, "is that-"
"Please state your name and occupation," Crouch requested.
"Minerva Isobel McGonagall, Headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
'What in Merlin's name is she doing here?' Tristan frowned.
"Headmistress McGonagall," Crouch's voice cut through the murmurs like a scythe. "Please share with the panel the results of the Ministry's inquiry from June 1st, 1996."
McGonagall's eyes flickered towards Tristan's father, but his features remained stoic. "From the moment they're sorted, all students at Hogwarts are protected by a multitude of wards, some of which inform the acting Headmaster or Headmistress of students' whereabouts and absences. The Ministry-" McGonagall's lips thinned, "-recently requested information on the wards' activities on the exact days some students went missing during the war."
Whispers of curiosity washed through the courtroom; spectators and Wizengamot members alike shifted on the benches.
"On October 1st, 1977, Arthur Gibbon and Gregor Higgs were reported missing; their bodies were never found," Crouch read from a second pink note. "Did the wards register any other students absent the night before?"
"Yes," McGonagall said. "There were two more students absent; Marlene McKinnon and Harry Peverell."
Tristan's gut clenched tight as the whispers rose like a wave around him and countless stares prickled on his skin.
"Silence!" Crouch banged his gavel. "Headmistress, on November 24th, 1977, the bodies of Eric Silverthorn and John Urquhart were recovered. Which other students were absent that night?"
McGonagall swallowed. "Two students, Minister. Marlene McKinnon and Harry Peverell. However-"
"April 28th, 1978," Crouch shouted, drowning the murmurs. "The day my son was taken from me." He stared at Tristan's father, black eyes burning with fire. "Which students were absent that night, Headmistress?"
"Marlene McKinnon and Harry Peverell."
The noise from the stands prospered into shouts.
'This isn't looking too good.' Tristan cast a worried glance down at his father, digging his fingernails deep into his thighs; anxiety chewed away at his stomach like a little caterpillar.
"Well, there we have it." Madam Umbridge clapped her fat-fingered hands together. "Five missing students over three different occasions and each time the wards coincidentally show the Peverells missing too." Her voice was laced with bright hot triumph and she smiled sweetly at McGonagall. "Thank you, Headmistress, for your honesty, even if your reports paint a most shocking picture. The Ministry will very soon rectify this lack of responsibility that seems to have infested our school. For now, you may-"
"Excuse me, Madam Undersecretary, but I have another question for the witness."
Tristan's head snapped around and he smothered a flash of relief as Uncle Matthew rose from the stands, the silver Wizengamot sign gleaming on his purple robes.
"As the annoying and ever-protective older brother, I'd like to ask Headmistress McGonagall if these three occasions were the only times my sister and Mr. Peverell sneaked out of the castle. I remember doing the occasional write-up myself whenever I've caught couples trying anything alike back in my days as Headboy."
McGonagall nodded. "During the Ministry's inquiry, it was found that the School's wards marked your sister and Mr. Peverell absent twenty-six times between their sixth year and graduation."
"Twenty-six, you say?" Uncle Matthew let out a low whistle. "I need to talk to my dear sister. That has to be a record, no?"
Laughter spilled from the occasional silhouette among the judges; Tristan recognized Arcturus, Uncle James, Lord Bones, Lord Greengrass, Lord Prewett, and even Lady Longbottom.
"Get to the point, McKinnon," Crouch growled.
"My point is already made, Minister." Uncle Matthew retook his seat. "Three out of twenty-six nights is hardly an overlap. As an Auror myself, I wouldn't even bother looking deeper into it."
The Wizengamot members muttered among themselves as McGonagall strolled out of the witness stand; a few nodded, but most frowned and shook their heads.
"The only overlap I see is one between the nights those students went missing and what else happened within those nights in our country." Lord Bones rose from his seat. "Why did Arthur Gibbon and Gregor Higgs vanish the same night a muggle village near York was raided by Death Eaters?"
"Too right," Arcturus chimed in with a cackle. "How come I'm the oldest here, yet seemingly the only one who remembers that the Silverthorn and Urquhart brats were found with Death Eater masks the same night Ottery St. Catchpole was attacked?" He pointed an accusing wrinkled finger down at Crouch. "These boys you try to paint as victims are merely cowards who bit off more than they could chew, Minister. They paid the price for betraying our country."
Angry shouts and balled fists were raised against Arcturus from all over the benches.
Aunt Amelia snorted. "Your grandfather just can't help poking the bear, can he, Sirius?"
Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose with a long sigh.
"Who betrayed this country is not for you or Mr. Peverell to decide, Lord Black, only the Ministry has that authority." Umbridge's high voice rang through the courtroom. "The evidence we've gathered speaks volumes; Mr. Peverell and his wife must finally be brought to justice for the dangerous vigilantism they executed."
"The evidence we've seen so far is a bunch of dragon dung." Augusta Longbottom stood up and folded her arms. "Why was I called in today only to reprimand foolish love-struck teenagers for sneaking out of school twenty years ago?" She peered down the length of her nose at Umbridge like the other witch was a particularly fat slug. "This trial is nothing but a laughable attempt at constructing a pattern out of random coincidences."
"Coincidences?" Crouch's head snapped around. "How many more coincidences do you need, Dowager Longbottom? Is it a coincidence that entire well-respected families like the Flints and Bletchleys just disappear overnight because Peverell harbors an ill will against them? Do you think the accident in our Department of Mysteries just coincidentally happened right when Peverell and his wife interned there?"
'The Department of Mysteries.' Tristan studied his father's reaction in the thick silence that followed; all eyes back on him again. 'Mother and him never talk about their time there...'
His father made a helpless gesture. "I'm forbidden from publicly speaking about anything I've seen during my internship. But I'm dying to hear your evidence as to how I was involved this time, Minister."
"You want to hear our evidence?" Crouch barked. "Our evidence are four dead Unspeakables and a fifth in Janus Thickey Ward at Saint Mungo's, who will never recover from whatever you did to them down there!"
A flicker of surprise spasmed over the faces of the members of the Wizengamot and hushed whispers made the rounds of the benches.
'That's new.' Tristan turned to Uncle Sirius. "Did you know about that?"
"No, I didn't." Sirius shook his head with a deep frown. "Lily and your parents just stopped going to the Ministry one day that summer. They said their internship ended prematurely, but they never told us why."
Umbridge cleared her throat. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Peverell?" she demanded in her sugar-sweet voice.
"Only that you're spitting baseless accusations again." Tristan's father let out a long tired breath. "My wife and I dreamt of working with the Unspeakables ever since we first heard about them; we were overjoyed when presented with the opportunity of an internship. Why the hell would we kill them and sabotage our chances?"
Umbridge aligned a few pink notes on her desk. "Mr. Peverell, how are honest, ordinary citizens like us supposed to comprehend the twisted mind of a criminal? Everyone here, everyone in all of Britain, knows that you and your wife are murderers; many saw it with their own eyes during the Battle of Hogwarts."
"I don't remember seeing you between the rubble, Madam Umbridge, and I doubt I would've missed you in your usual attire," his father remarked.
Umbridge shook her head with a tut. "No wonder your son shows the same streaks of violence as his parents, Mr. Peverell; he should've never been allowed to participate in an international competition between schools," she tutted. "Did you know he single handedly ruined the last two hundred years of diplomatic relations we've had with Bulgaria by murdering Viktor Krum?"
Fury boiled in Tristan's blood and he moved to stand.
"Easy, nephew." Amelia's hand came resting on chest, pushing him back with gentle force. "That vile woman has a talent for riling people up; don't let her get to you."
"My son is not the subject today," Tristan's father said. "Keep your absurd accusation to me, Umbridge."
"There's little absurdity left in them, Peverell," Crouch called. "You and your wife have blood on your hands. The blood of our children that you murdered at Hogwarts. The blood of the families that dared to slight you. The blood of our Unspeakables. The blood of anyone who forfeited their right to live in the eyes of you and your wife."
Murmurs of approval rippled over the benches, echoing from the courtroom's black walls and ringing in its endless ceiling beneath the swirling cloaks of dementors.
"You're rambling again, Crouch." Tristan's father shook his head, the gleam in his green eyes swelled like the storm and his voice turned cold as ice. "You're so full of bitterness and hatred and denial about the loss of your son, but deep down you know it yourself."
"What did you say?" Utter contempt crept deep into every last one of Crouch's wrinkles. "I know what, Peverell?!"
"You know that if you had spent the occasional evening at home with your family instead of at the office, that you might not have pushed your son into Voldemort's welcoming arms." Tristan's father let his gaze roam over the benches. "If you're done presenting your... evidence, as you called it, I suggest you now hold your vote so we can all finally go home."
"You're not going anywhere, Peverell," Crouch spat, drumming the gavel into the hardwood. "We have further evidence; evidence that no one in this courtroom can brush off as coincidental."
'This is it.' A cold shock jolted through Tristan's veins as the courtroom froze in silence. 'This is their trump card.'
"Aurors, bring in the next witness!"
The door creaked open again; four aurors accompanied a limping man with a mane of grizzled, dark gray hair. A dull clunk echoed through the courtroom on his every other step and the flickering torches revealed a face carved out of weathered wood with a blunt knife; every inch of skin was scarred, the mouth was but a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose was missing.
One electric blue eye, large and round as a galleon, spun in its socket without blinking once, skimming over every visitor in the galleries and lingering on Tristan.
'Mad-Eye Moody.' A faint red ominous chill fell upon him. 'Father said he was one of the few competent Aurors the Ministry had during the war.'
"State your name and occupation," Crouch said. "Then present the memory you agreed to share."
"Alastor Moody, Auror for 50 years," Moody muttered, bringing his wand to his temple. "This is what I remember of the night Albus Dumbledore died. Took the healers quite some time to recover it."
'Dumbledore?' Tristan studied his father as the mosaic floor below Crouch's podium split open and a marble-carved pensieve rose on a pyramid of black rock.
His father stood still as stone; the faintest flicker of apprehension flashed in those green eyes as his gaze followed the tiny vial of memories passed from Moody to the Minister.
'Why is he worried?' A horrible sick feeling settled in Tristan's stomach. 'He promised there was nothing to worry about...'
Crouch poured the vial's silvery contents onto the flat surface and tapped the runes at the side of the pensive with the tip of his wand; they flared to life and ethereal white smoke billowed upward, spreading and parting into a hologram of a cloudless, open night sky and sparkling stars.
The breeze whispered through tall blades of grass, sending the leaves on the trees close by spinning in a slow, graceful dance. A small village lay by the bottom of the slope, sparse light shining from a few houses.
'Godric's Hollow. Father said our family used to live there centuries ago.' Tristan's eyes shifted from the muggle war memorial illuminated by street lanterns to the tall, silver-bearded, and spectacled wizard fading into view before them. 'And there's Dumbledore...'
"What a beautiful calm night," Dumbledore whispered, staring up at the bright moon. "Ideal to pursue that flighty temptress adventure."
A younger Moody limbed through the grass on one wooden leg, his magical eye spinning at the same dizzying speed. "If your plan works, it won't stay calm for long."
'If this is the night Dumbledore died, then Voldemort will attack soon.' A little curiosity twisted in Tristan's breast. 'Father's never shown me what he looked like...'
"It must be done, my friend. They gave us little choice in the matter." Dumbledore's gaze turned toward the nearby village, a small melancholy smile playing on his lips. "How ironic… Alas, I think they have arrived."
He vanished in a whirl of his cloak.
'They?' Tristan's gaze dipped to his father; he stared at the memory with a faint frown, fiddling with the golden wedding band around his ring finger. 'Who is Dumbledore talking about?'
"Bloody hell." Memory Moody snatched his wand from his waist and limped up the slope to where the Headmaster's tall figure stared into the dark. "You've heard something, Albus?"
"I'm not sure," Dumbledore replied with a hint of amusement. "Something has entered the wards over here, but for all I know, it could've been just a mouse seeking a midnight snack in the grass. You don't see anything either, do you?"
"Aye, nothing to see over here," Moody muttered. "You're certain he'll come tonight?"
"I'm sure of it." The Headmaster nodded, glancing over his half-moon glasses up into the night sky. "He has yet to pass upon an opportunity to take followers from Lord Voldemort."
The scene drowned as the memory blurred, clouding into thin fog that rained back down onto the pensieve.
'He...?'
Tristan stared up into the gloom, his thoughts spinning in time with the slow swirl of the dementors. 'Dumbledore mentioned a 'he', someone third, not Voldemort. Someone who takes followers from Voldemort.' Clarity struck like lightning and a cold jolt pierced through his veins. 'But if they were waiting for Father, does Crouch imply that he...?'
"As we have now witnessed-" Crouch stifled his fingers; his dark eyes full of cold triumph bored into Tristan's father, "-contrary to popular belief, Albus Dumbledore laid a trap the night he died. A trap for the self-appointed judge, jury, and executioner; the vigilantist Harry Peverell!"
"No," Uncle Sirius whispered, shaking his head. "That- that makes no sense."
The Minister's cold, cruel twisted smile broadened in the thick silence that followed. "And now we know that the Dark Lord never killed Albus Dumbledore; Harry Peverell did!"
'What?' A faint lightheadedness took hold of Tristanas the world erupted in a roar and half the Wizengamot leapt to their feet; indignant shouts bounced off the ceiling, reverberating through the courtroom like a thunderstorm. 'Why? Why would he do that?'
"How dare you make such baseless accusations!" Lord Bones growled. "Never before has a Minister stepped so low for a personal vendetta."
"We present nothing but evidence, Lord Bones; the accused is free to take a stand on it!" Crouch banged his gavel. "Interestingly enough, Peverell seems to have swallowed his tongue just now."
'Did Father do it? Did he really kill Dumbledore?' Tristan crushed the niggling doubts down into the dark. 'No. It'll all make sense, somehow.'
"If I had known what absurdities your fever-dream tortured mind came up with, I would've tried harder to convince my wife to attend today," his father said. "Dumbledore and I didn't see eye-to-eye on many issues; I won't deny that. But this memory merely confirms that Dumbledore expected me and Voldemort the night he died."
"We know that the Dark Lord was never there, Mr. Peverell," Umbridge simpered. "Not a single Death Eater we questioned under Veritaserum witnessed the Dark Lord's supposed victory over Albus Dumbledore. There's no point in lying any further. Just admit that you fell into Dumbledore's trap and killed him."
Tristan's father rolled his eyes. "There are no witnesses to Dumbledore's defeat because my wife and I along with Alastor Moody avenged the Headmaster thoroughly that night."
"Me?" Moody scoffed from the witness stand, both eyes fixed on Tristan's father. "And why don't I remember any of that, lad?"
"Because when the last Death Eater fell and Voldemort had long fled after tiring out against Dumbledore, you yourself proposed it was smarter to act as if neither of us had ever been there by the time the Aurors finally arrive," Tristan's father explained. "You remember the legal debacle after we rightfully defended ourselves in Hogsmeade, don't you? We weren't very keen on a repeat of that."
"You obliviated me." Moody's brows furred deep and the diagonal slash that was of his mouth remained half-open, his electric blue eye rolling to the back of his skull. "I knew there was something wrong when the Healers told me I was stunned... something was missing. It just didn't-"
"Enough!" Crouch hammered the gavel against the hardwood. "We've heard enough of this fabricated lie. It's time we hold a vote on the matter." He leveled the gavel at Tristan's father and the courtroom fell silent. "The moment you stepped foot into our country, you spilled magical blood; a third of the Lords and Ladies in here had family that was slaughtered by you."
"And I say to them vae victis," Tristan's father called. "Now imagine how empty this chamber would be had I not stopped Voldemort..."
"You are not our hero, Peverell," Crouch growled. "You are nothing but a vigilantist outlaw, who recognizes no statute but his own will. In the end, it hardly matters whether you or the Dark Lord murdered Albus Dumbledore. You're no different; you are a plague to this society all the same."
A collective gasp rang through the spectators in the gallery, then a hushed silence fell and all the hairs along Tristan's arms and neck began prickling.
Faint, low laughter bubbled from his father's lips. It dragged a foreign coldness with it that drowned all noise, dimming the torches as it spread into every last corner of the courtroom.
Tristan felt its chill as it crept deep to the bone, misting the breaths of the Wizengamot members as if the barrier between them and the dementors had suddenly vanished.
"No different, you say?"
The chuckle died; Tristan's father's whisper slithered over the walls and ceiling like ice, smooth and high and cold. "The difference, dear Minister, is that I even bother standing here, arguing with you, back and forth and back and forth. Do you know what Voldemort would do, Crouch?"
Crouch swallowed hard, the veins along his neck stood stark from his pale skin and his eyes twitched with bare loathing.
"He'd slaughter you," Tristan's father hissed into the still silence. "He'd slaughter every last one of you who dares judge over him."
The aurors wilted back and exchanged glances, drawing their wands.
'No.' Tristan leaped to his feet, a warning at the tip of his tongue, but Sirius dragged him back from the railing.
"Please, don't bother, gentlemen." His father spared the aurors a pitying glimpse over his shoulder. "I didn't come here to fight you; I came to listen to your evidence. Now I've heard it all. And I'm not impressed."
The Wizengamot members sat frozen as stone on their benches, staring down at him.
"You call me a murderer and want me to sit on this stool, yes?" He strode to the iron chair at the courtroom's center, trailing his fingers along the dark chains. "With every Death Eater my wife and I killed, we brought this country one step closer to the end of the war. And how did you all thank me for it?"
Tristan's father glanced back up at the Wizengamot, running his eyes from row to row, lips curling into a wry grin as they avoided his gaze. "By locking me in a bubble of wards when I finally faced the monster for you, hoping your two problems might just kill each other, instead of coming to my aid..."
Guilt twisted the expressions of some lords and ladies and they squirmed back in their seats.
"You said I'm not your hero, Crouch." Tristan's father pointed up at the minister. "And I fully agree. I never wanted to be your next Albus Dumbledore, someone you could parade around in the ICW chambers. You don't control me the way you could him. You don't understand me the way you did him, and so, as is your nature, you fear me…"
He shook his head with a long sigh; the torches brightened and the cold drained away, like rays of warm summer sun piercing through the clouds. "But I'm also not Voldemort, which is why I'm offering you to make your vote now; your final vote, so we can let the matter rest for good."
Crouch jerked himself out of his frozen state and coughed, clutching his throat, his dark eyes burning with a fierce hatred. "Those in favor of clearing the accused of all charges?"
Tristan's head jerked to the rows; the Wizengamot members exchanged themselves with silent glances. Familiar faces raised their hands first, many more followed, albeit hesitantly, until a third of the panel had their limb in the air.
"And those in favor of conviction?"
The Minister himself raised his arm, as did Umbridge along with a dozen others; the rest remained still.
Crouch glanced around himself, his glower deepening into a glare and his shoulders trembling with deep breaths.
"Cleared of all charges."