The Witness for the Defense

The Witness for the Defense

In my official capacity as Potions Master at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I am often called to testify as an expert witness in criminal trials before the Wizengamot. Most of the time it is a crashing bore. This case, however, held certain interesting features. Not just because of the highly unusual plea, and not just because the onlookers in the corridor had been treated to the nauseating spectacle of the prosecution's principal witness sobbing on the prisoner's shoulder, and the prisoner making ineffectual attempts to comfort him, just before the trial began. No, this trial interested me because I had a long personal history with several of the parties involved.

The proceedings of the Wizengamot used to be anarchic in the extreme, with no official representative for the accused and no attempt at judicial impartiality. Minister Weasley has made an attempt to reform our justice system along Muggle lines, with somewhat mixed results. Nowadays, there are usually a couple of young, idealistic Ministry officials playing the parts of prosecutor and defense counsel and trying to enforce some semblance of order, and three veteran judges who are used to doing exactly what they like whenever they feel like it. Naturally, the judges always win. The three presiding over this particular case were all old-timers: Amelia Bones, who would be stern but fair; Hortensia Edgecombe, who was notoriously hostile to prisoners; and Julian Delaney-Podmore, aloof and aristocratic in his elegantly tailored robes. He was looking askance at the prisoner, whose clothing was not only patched and shabby but a size too big for him. No doubt his counsel, young Hermione Granger, had dressed him that way on purpose to emphasize his poverty and physical frailty, but she reckoned without the Delaney-Podmores of the world. I wondered what had possessed him to choose someone so inexperienced, but perhaps he was afflicted with a death wish in addition to his other infirmity.

Percy Weasley, who had been appointed prosecutor less on his own merits than by virtue of being the Minister of Magic's son, asked his first witness to state his name, age, and profession.

"Mortimer Murtlap, age fifty-two. I work for the Scotland office of the Ministry Committee for the Control of Dangerous Creatures."

"You were called out to a remote village called Coward's Bluff on the 7^th of February to examine the body of the deceased, John McIlhenny, is that correct?"

"Yes, it is."

"Based on your inspection of Mr. McIlhenny's injuries, were you able to form an opinion about the probable cause of death?"

"There is only one cause of death that could have resulted in those injuries. He had his throat torn out by a werewolf."

Hermione Granger cross-examined the witness. "Mr. Murtlap, you are considered an expert on werewolves, are you not?"

"I know more about werewolves than anybody else in Europe." No false modesty there, I thought. Murtlap's chin was held high and his whole stance reminded me of a peacock. As much as I generally dislike Miss Granger's know-it-all attitude, I could not help thinking I would enjoy seeing her take this witness down a peg.

"The Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where the defendant is employed as Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts and where he was seen by several people on the afternoon of February 6^th and the morning of the 7th, is more than thirty miles from Coward's Bluff. How fast can a werewolf run?"

"Nobody knows. The only people who have been in a position to measure this have not survived the experience." (I began to warm up to Murtlap.) "In any case, he could easily have flown or Apparated to Coward's Bluff in his human form that afternoon."

"I am asking you whether it is possible for him to have traveled from Hogwarts to Coward's Bluff in his wolf form, without making any conscious decision to do so as a human."

Murtlap cleared his throat. "As to the matter of whether he made a conscious decision - "

"Yes or no, Mr. Murtlap. I will address the other issue later."

"Yes, it is possible." Murtlap clearly made this admission reluctantly.

"Excuse me, Miss Granger" said Madame Edgecombe sharply, "but are you asking us to believe that your client ran thirty miles as a werewolf without being spotted, leaving any visible traces, or encountering other prey?"

Miss Granger produced a map of the countryside around Hogwarts with a single red line drawn through it in a more or less straight course. Knowing the area as I do, I saw at once that the line ran directly through the Forbidden Forest and over Dead Man's Moor, and ended on the outskirts of Coward's Bluff, the nearest outpost of human civilization. "Do werewolves usually run in a straight line, Mr. Murtlap?"

"They do."

"And how would you describe the weather on the 6^th and 7^th of February?"

"On the 6^th it was very cold. The ground had frozen. Snow began to fall early on the morning of the 7^th and continued all day."

"Thank you, Mr. Murtlap. I have no further questions."

Percy Weasley called his second witness, who rose slowly from his seat beside the prisoner. His face was dead white. The prisoner's mother, of all people, placed a steadying hand on his arm and gave him a smile that was the image of the prisoner's own. Perhaps lunacy runs in the family, or perhaps she was as heartily sick of her son as I am.

The first crack began to appear in Weasley's ultra-professional demeanor as he carefully avoided meeting the witness' eyes. "Please state your name, age, and profession."

"My name is Harry Potter. I am twenty-three years old. I am an Auror." (As a matter of general interest, he is only an Auror because Minerva McGonagall virtually blackmailed me into letting him into my N.E.W.T.-level Potions class seven years ago. I was certain both of them regretted that now.)

"In the course of your work, did you become aware of the true identity of the man who, for the last five years, has been living in Coward's Bluff posing as a Muggle farmer named John McIlhenny?"

"Yes, I did. His real name was Peter Pettigrew. He was a wizard and, in the last two wars, a spy for Lord Voldemort."

The Wizengamot collectively drew in its breath.

"Peter Pettigrew was also a childhood friend of the accused, wasn't he?" Weasley continued. "Wouldn't he have been in a unique position to pass on information about the defendant's family and friends?"

"I object!" said Hermione Granger. "The prosecutor is leading the witness."

"This is the Wizengamot, Miss Granger," drawled Julian Delaney-Podmore. "We lead witnesses through the nose around here. Answer the question, Mr. Potter."

"Yes, he was."

Weasley removed a piece of parchment from his briefcase. "I have in my hand a list of people believed to have been killed by Peter Pettigrew or by other Death Eaters who were acting on his information. It is a long list, but I would like to direct your attention to five names in particular. René Jean Lupin, father of the accused, found murdered in his backyard Potions laboratory on December 31, 1980. Caroline Roper, grandmother of the accused - and a Muggle, incidentally - found dead in her home on April 2, 1981. James and Lily Potter, intimate friends of the accused, murdered at Godric's Hollow on October 31, 1981." Weasley paused, and for the first time that day, began to look human. His freckles stood out like mud spattered on snow. "Ronald Bilius Weasley, former student and friend of the accused, killed in battle on June 28, 1998. Is all of this information accurate, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, it is," Potter almost whispered.

"What is your own relationship with the defendant, Remus Lupin?"

"He was my Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, and my legal guardian for a year before I came of age. And he is my friend." (Well, no wonder Potter was looking so pale. Being Lupin's friend is not exactly a good-luck omen.)

"And did you share this information about Peter Pettigrew's whereabouts with your friend?"

"I did," said Potter miserably.

"Did you tell him of your own accord, or did he ask you?"

"I don't remember. He invited me to dinner a couple of months ago and ... somehow it came up. We had both drunk a lot of wine by then. Yes, I think I told him of my own accord."

I could picture the scene: the refilled glass, the gentle touch on the arm, the casual question that inevitably led to another, less casual, line of discussion. The prisoner wouldn't have needed to ask. He was an expert at steering conversations to suit his own purposes. I was sure now that he had also engineered our argument in the staff room on that fateful afternoon. I had offered him plenty of bait, as I must confess I usually do, but I had never known him to take it so readily.

"No further questions," said Weasley. "Do you have any questions for the witness, Miss Granger?"

"No." That was just as well, because the famous Mr. Potter looked like he was about to faint or throw up all over the judges. One might almost be forgiven for thinking he was the prisoner's son instead of James Potter's. At twenty-three he already had a few grey hairs.

"I have no more witnesses." Percy Weasley was also looking shaky on his feet. I was certain now that the prosecutor was entirely on the prisoner's side. I was surprised he didn't read off the names of Pettigrew's other victims while he was at it.

Hortensia Edgecombe's sharp voice cut in. "Before we proceed, Miss Granger, I would like to review a very peculiar feature of your client's defense. I believe he has pleaded not guilty by reason of lycanthropy."

"That is correct." A murmur ran through the room, and even Delaney-Podmore, who had been sitting with his eyes closed, looked up sharply.

"Is that still considered a valid defense?" demanded Madame Edgecombe.

"It is still on the books," said Amelia Bones, "but I am very interested in seeing where you are going with this, Miss Granger. Nobody has entered this plea since the development of the Wolfsbane potion in 1989. Werewolves, as we all know, keep their human intellect under the influence of the potion and can therefore be prosecuted for crimes they commit in their wolf form, as well as for reckless negligence if they deliberately go without taking the potion. Furthermore, I believe it is a condition of your client's employment at Hogwarts that he take his potion in front of a witness."

"Yes," said Miss Granger smoothly. "I will now produce that witness."

That was where I came in.

"My name is Severus Snape and I teach Potions at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am forty-four years old."

"That makes you exactly the same age as Professor Lupin, correct?" She placed a slight emphasis on the "Professor," which I thought over-optimistic on her part. While our Headmistress has cut the prisoner an extraordinary amount of slack in the past, she can hardly re-hire a staff member who makes a practice of ripping out people's windpipes, regardless of whether he is in full possession of his faculties at the time.

"I believe so. He has never invited me to his birthday parties."

The prisoner smiled. I assumed that he was merely having one of his usual fits of inappropriate amusement, probably at the image of me in a ridiculous hat playing Pin-the-Beak-on-the-Hippogriff or whatever it is people do at birthday parties, but the next line of questioning made it clear that I had played directly into Miss Granger's hands.

"I have here a signed statement from Minerva McGonagall, headmistress of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and Remus Lupin's former Head of House. She states that the two of you have been enemies since boyhood, and although you are now colleagues, you are still not on good terms. She also testifies that you and Professor Lupin had a heated argument in the staff room on the afternoon before Mr. Pettigrew's death, which began with a question about how a particular student should be disciplined and ended with a spate of personal accusations that went back to your school days. Do you contest any part of this statement?"

"I do not."

Her next question took me by surprise. "Did Remus Lupin and his friends ever play practical jokes on you when you were students at Hogwarts?"

Madame Edgecombe interrupted. "Miss Granger, I fail to see how this is relevant."

"Oh come on, Hortensia, since when are you so concerned about points of order?" said Julian Delaney-Podmore lazily. "I don't see how it's relevant either, but it sounds amusing. Please answer the question, Professor Snape."

"Yes, they did. Very often." Miss Granger had better have a very good reason for asking me to relive that part of my childhood. I was not here to supply Delaney-Podmore with entertainment.

"And did you take that lying down, or did you retaliate in kind?"

"I retaliated - on many occasions," I said, feeling my pride wounded by the implication that I would have done anything else. A moment too late, I saw where these questions were going, but it would have made no difference in my reply. I had, after all, sworn to tell the truth.

"Would you tell the Wizengamot what passed between you and Professor Lupin on the afternoon of the 6^th of February, after you prepared his dose of the Wolfsbane potion?"

"I came into his office with a goblet of potion. We were still arguing. He picked up the potion as if he were about to take a sip, and then suddenly he set the goblet down on the desk and sprang to his feet. He took a bowl of sugar from the top of his file cabinet, added about six heaping spoonfuls to the goblet, and drank the whole thing off."

"Had you previously told him sugar made the potion useless?"

"Yes, I told him that many times."

Madame Bones asked the next question. "Did Professor Lupin offer any explanation for his extraordinary conduct?"

"Yes, he did. He said he believed I had been lying my head off about the sugar for years and he wasn't going to choke down any more of the vile stuff without proof that I was telling the truth. He also said he was going to lock himself in his office so he wouldn't put anyone or anything except his own books in harm's way. He was," I conceded, "rather attached to his books."

"Did he, in fact, lock himself in his office?" asked Miss Granger.

"Yes. I heard him turn the key after he left."

Miss Granger handed another piece of parchment to the judges. "I have a statement here from the captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, who confirms that they were having a practice which continued until after moonrise and ended when they lost one of the Bludgers. Would you please describe the condition of Professor Lupin's office when you forced the door open on the following morning, Professor Snape."

"Books were lying all over the place with pages torn out, one leg of the desk had been gnawed off, and the missing Bludger was lying in the middle of a pile of glass from the window, which was broken. Lupin was not in the office, although the door was still locked from the inside."

"Just a minute, Miss Granger!" Madame Edgecombe broke in. "Are you asking us to believe that, by an extraordinary coincidence, on the one day your client was induced, through no fault of his own, to take his potion in a useless form, his office window just happened to be broken by a rogue Bludger, and by another extraordinary coincidence, he jumped out the window and started running through the Forbidden Forest in a straight line that just happened to end up at the home of his worst enemy?"

"Yes," said Miss Granger defiantly. "That is exactly what I do ask you to believe."

"Or, alternately," said Delaney-Podmore, looking at the ceiling, "we can just believe Peter Pettigrew needed killing. That's easier, and it comes down to the same verdict."

Mortimer Murtlap, who had been waving his hand in the air for several minutes, jumped up and started rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Excuse me! ExCUSE me! May I say something?"

"You've already given your evidence," said Miss Granger. "This is totally out of line."

Madame Edgecombe silenced her with a look. "I'll allow it. What is it, Mr. Murtlap?"

"I've read hundreds of articles on the Wolfsbane potion, and none of them said sugar made it useless. That's utter nonsense."

The prisoner was watching Murtlap and the judges with the same air of detached amusement he usually wears at our staff meetings. He must have an exceptionally tenacious sense of humor if it had survived three weeks in Azkaban. He and his mother exchanged a look, and I thought back to the first time I had ever seen him...

Like most people I have met later in life, my parents preferred to spend as little time in my company as possible. They had hurried away and left me standing on Platform 9 3/4, trying to figure out how to get my enormous school trunk aboard the train.

Another family walked by without paying the slightest attention to me: the mother and son who were sitting in the courtroom now, and a tall, bearded father with a slight foreign accent and the air of an absent-minded professor. "I expect you to study hard and do well in all your classes," he was saying. "And that includes Potions."

"Yes, Remus," said the mother coolly, "and you must take care only to spill only the most interesting potions on your robes, ones that will turn them into Swiss cheese - and speak French when people talk to you in English, and the other way around - and don't bother to eat or sleep unless someone reminds you, and maybe you'll grow up to be a great scholar like your father."

"You forgot about the socks, Mum," said the boy. Mother and son shared a quick, warm smile.

"Oh yes. You must always study so hard you forget to wear matching socks."

The man chuckled and bent down to kiss the child goodbye. It took me a moment to grasp that this small woman and this sickly-looking boy had actually dared to poke fun at their lord and master, and that he not only tolerated it, but seemed to enjoy it. I stood rooted to the platform as disbelief turned to a fierce envy.

From some of the things the prisoner has said during his occasional attempts at reconciliation, I know that he still believes I hate him on his friends' account. The truth is that it was the other way around. I hated him before I laid eyes on them.

I thought about that child, and I thought about Azkaban ...

"Excuse me," I said, "but I have some questions for Mr. Murtlap."

"Witnesses aren't allowed to question each other!" Percy Weasley protested. "This is turning into a complete shambles."

"Welcome to the Wizengamot, Mr. Weasley," said Madame Bones. "What's fair for one side is fair for the other, and I didn't hear you objecting to Mr. Murtlap's interruption a minute ago. Professor Snape, proceed with your questions."

"Mr. Murtlap," I began, "if you dissolve a cake of dried amaranth in the sap of the Whomping Willow, what color is the resulting mixture and what are its properties?"

"Er..."

"Oh, so you don't like that one? My third-years could have answered it, but here is an easier one. What is the correct ratio of infusion of feverfew to comfrey essence in a Pepper-Up Potion?"

"Three to one ... ?"

"Congratulations, Mr. Murtlap, you've just succeeded in killing somebody who probably only had a cold. The correct answer is two hundred to one. What would happen if you left the powdered nautilus shell out of an Aging Potion?"

"I'd ... I'd kill somebody else?"

"Your victim would not be half so lucky. You would end up with what is known as the Draught of Tithonius, which causes the drinker to become permanently frozen in a state of advanced old age and debility, without the hope of death to release him. You may be Europe's foremost authority on werewolves, Mr. Murtlap, but your grasp of potion-making is abysmal. I, on the other hand, am Potions Master at Hogwarts, and I have said sugar makes the Wolfsbane potion useless."

"Silence!" shouted Madame Bones, and after a few minutes people began to listen. "All those in favor of conviction, please raise your hands."

Quite a lot of the members of the Wizengamot raised their hands, including Madame Edgecombe and a whole crowd of diehard anti-werewolf appointees from the Umbridge era.

"All those in favor of clearing the defendant of all charges, raise your hands."

Half the hands went up. No, more than half. Madame Bones raised hers, and so did Minister Weasley and her husband and a great many other people with personal reasons to think Peter Pettigrew needed killing. And so did Julian Delaney-Podmore, who had obviously found the trial entertaining beyond his wildest dreams. There was silence for a moment as Madame Bones counted the votes, and then a sudden burst of cheering. The prisoner nearly disappeared as Potter and Miss Granger and the entire Weasley family, including the prosecutor, rushed to embrace him.

His defense, I reflected, still rested on a most improbable story. But then, the new reforms only went skin deep, and the proceedings of the Wizengamot have never had much to do with truth or justice.

* * *

I stopped by Lupin's office to watch him pack. (I suppose I cannot call him "the prisoner" any more, although it had a very nice ring to it. "The murderer," however, will do nicely, and he will be that for the rest of his life.)

I stood in the doorway and contemplated the murderer as he collected the fragments of his books. "Sacked again, of course," he said cheerfully. "Story of my life. I expect my job's yours if you want it. I put in a good word for you with Minerva - about the least I could do."

The dead Bludger was sitting on top of the three-legged desk, which was propped up with packing cases. He had been using it as a paperweight.

"Did you enchant that yourself," I asked, "or did you talk one of the members of your teenage fan club into becoming your accomplice?"

"Of course I did it myself," he said, his pale cheeks flushing. "What kind of person do you think I am?"

"Just as a guess, Lupin, I'd say you're the kind of person who rips out his best friend's throat in cold blood and comes up with an extremely clever and elaborate plan to escape justice."

From the look on his face, I could tell he didn't like this view of himself much. He gazed steadily at me for a moment. At last he said something so absurdly Lupin-like that I was sure he was deliberately mocking himself. "Please come in and have some tea."

One does not often get invited to tea with a murderer, and when one does, it is a somewhat hazardous proposition. This thought must have occurred to Lupin as well, because he poured the tea into two cups and carefully set them at an equal distance between himself and me. "Take your pick," he said with a small smile. "I haven't poisoned either of them. In spite of what Agatha Christie says, I don't feel the slightest urge to kill anyone else - ever."

I walked around to the file cabinet, reached for the sugar bowl, and stirred a spoonful into my tea. The murderer started, as if remembering something. "Er, Severus, I don't think you want to - "

Too late. I spat a mouthful of tea all over the desk.

The murderer leaned against the wall of his office, almost doubled over with laughter. "S-sorry, Severus. I forgot, really I did. But," he added, still chortling, "if you think salt in tea is bad, you ought to try it in Wolfsbane."

I glared at him.

"Let me get you a fresh cup," he said. "Sorry about that, but I couldn't afford to take any chances - although I was almost certain you were lying about the sugar. You were, weren't you?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"Then we're even," he said with an absurdly boyish smile. He leaned forward confidentially.

Unbelievable, I thought. He's going to try to make friends with me again. Does he ever give up? But then I noticed that the amused sparkle had gone out of the blue eyes looking at me over the rim of the teacup. There was something very intelligent and very steely about those eyes...

"Why did you do it, Severus?" he asked quietly.

"Why did I do what?"

"Lie to the Wizengamot."

"I never lied to the Wizengamot," I said. "I only testified that I'd said sugar made the potion useless - not that it did."

"Well, you deceived them, anyway. And you did it on my behalf when you've hated me since we were eleven. Why?"

The simple answer first, I thought. "I don't like you very much, but I hated Pettigrew more."

The murderer didn't take his eyes off me. It was unnerving. "Nice try, but it won't do. Peter Pettigrew is dead. I made good and sure of that. You would have been free of all of us if you had thrown me to the dementors. I thought you would have enjoyed that."

"All right," I said. "I wanted you to get away with it because it was very well played. It took brains, nerve, and a level of ruthlessness I didn't think you possessed. Beautiful job, start to finish. I congratulate you."

For a moment I thought he was going to accept this, but I could still see doubt in his face.

"And because I would miss my old sparring partner," I added.

I'd hit just the right note this time. He swallowed the last of the tea and smiled. "I thought it might be something like that. Well, good day, Severus. I won't say goodbye, because I think we'll meet again."

"Good day." I turned to go.

"Wait," he said a little breathlessly as I stepped out into the corridor. "There's one other thing I want you to know. You said just now that I came up with an elaborate plan to escape justice ... I didn't. I expected to be sentenced to life in Azkaban. I didn't confess for another reason - because there are certain people in my life who have the right to a shadow of a doubt. If they chose to have faith in my innocence ... I wanted them to have a story to believe in."

Spoken like a true Gryffindor, I thought as I walked away. Courageous, warm, compassionate, and dishonest to the core.

Gryffindors are not so different from Slytherins under the skin. I congratulated myself on having figured out how Remus Lupin's mind works at last. I had given him exactly the kind of story he wanted to believe in.

The truth is that I did it because I got away with murder once myself. I remember the immediate rush of euphoria and also what happens after it subsides. As the months and years pass, one becomes aware that some dementors do not wear hoods and are not confined to Azkaban. These do their work more subtly and thoroughly than the other kind.

I do not think he will be so quick to smile in the future.