Hunted

Chapter 24: Trials and Tribulation

Angela paced the lift at the Ministry of Magic in the company of her two brothers. Paul's finger jabbed at the button for the ninth level. Francis bounced on his heels, as if the motion could force the lift to descend more rapidly. Angela's nervous hands tugged at her curls, rearranging those chestnut tresses. Couldn't this blasted lift go any faster?

The lift ground to a halt. The golden grilles parted and Angela leapt through the doorway. She sped down the corridor, turned left, and bounded down the stairs toward the ancient courtrooms with her brothers hot on her heels. She turned the corner and slowed her pace. In front of a grimy door with large iron bolts and keyholes stood the muscled form of Kingsley Shacklebolt, bulging arms folded across his chest.

Angela pulled up short. Her brothers slackened their steps, but not soon enough. They plowed into their sister. The impact sent her sailing headlong into the muscular Auror.

"You all right?" Kingsley's deep voice intoned, as he checked her fall.

Angela straightened up. Her hands smoothed the front of her best dress, a sage green frock with a fitted waist and scooped neckline. She brushed a stray curl from the path of her green eyes. She glanced up and down the empty corridor, then stared up into the Auror's face. Her eyes settled on the square jaw and the single shiny gold earring dangling from his earlobe.

"So sorry, Kingsley," she said, catching her breath. "We aren't too late, are we?"

"No, you haven't been called yet," he explained. "You have to wait here."

"What's happening in there?" Angela inquired, with an anxious stare toward the door.

"They've questioned Remus," Kingsley whispered, his voice low and grave. "Grilled him for more than an hour." He nodded toward the door. "Rodolphus Lestrange is in there now, giving testimony. You're up next."

"And Dumbledore?" Angela inquired. "Did he arrive on time?"

Kingsley nodded. "Dumbledore's heading the defense..."

The iron door handle rattled. Kingsley's voice trailed off. He snapped to attention, an intimidating stare on his face. The rough-hewn door opened, the iron hinges groaning from months of neglect and infrequent use. The gaunt, sullen face of Rodolphus Lestrange appeared in the entrance flanked by two Aurors.

"Step aside," Kingsley barked.

Angela complied and flattened her body against the rough, gray, stone walls of the sepulcher-like hallway. Lestrange strode past, eyeing her with a stare made even more menacing in the flickering torchlight. A wicked grin appeared on his lips. Angela shuddered.

Her gaze flicked to the interior of the courtroom, hoping to catch a glimpse of her husband. The bodies of two large Aurors blocked her view. The door began to close.

"The chair recognizes Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and chief solicitor for the defense," said a booming male voice. "You may call your witness."

"The defense calls Angela Lupin to the stand," Dumbledore said.

"Dawlish, summon the witness," the first voice instructed.

The door creaked back open. The forbidding face of the Auror who had interrogated Angela earlier that day peered out. Dawlish threw the door open wide. He nodded to Angela. She walked forward, her heart pounding in her chest. Her brothers attempted to follow after her, but Kingsley stepped in their path.

"You two will have to wait out here," his deep voice intoned.

Angela heard the heavy door slam shut behind her. The sound echoed in the basement courtroom like some fateful omen. Her gaze flicked to a large wooden chair in the center of the stone floor. Remus sat in the chair, his arms bound to the armrests with chains. He stared straight ahead with a steely gaze, not turning at her approach. Dark circles surrounded his sunken eyes. His unshaven face was tired and pallid. Angela could not remember ever seeing him this ill. Tears of sympathy welled in her eyes.

She fought back her every instinct to run to her husband's side. Instead, she strode with a measured gait to the center of the room. A tufted chintz chair materialized next to the rough wooden seat. She perched herself on the edge of the chair, too nervous to sit back.

Her anxious eyes flitted to her husband's face. Her hand reached for his, their fingers entwining. Although he did not look at her, Angela could read his face, the slight tremor in his jaw. She felt the pressure on her hand as he squeezed her fingers in his grasp.

Angela now gazed up at the dungeon courtroom. Rows of benches surrounded the chair, rising in concentric circles to dizzying heights. In the upper rows of benches shadowy figures sat, their faces obscured in the darkness. Torches in iron brackets, like those that had lined the hallway outside, lit the venue.

Angela stared into the gloom, trying to make out the identities of those present. She could see the faces of only those in the first row of inquisitors. But she counted the bodies, all fifty of them. The full Wizengamot had assembled tonight for her husband's trial.

Sparticus Cornwall, the recently-elected Minister of Magic, sat in front and center. He had replaced his usual uniform with Wizengamot robes, garments of rich plum emblazoned with an embroidered silver W. His salt-and-pepper mustache bristled. The torchlight glinted off of his balding pate, usually protected by a pith helmet. He would chair tonight's session.

To his immediate right sat Dolores Umbridge. Her bulging, toad-like eyes stared down at Angela. A wide, unpleasant grin spread across her face. Next to Umbridge sat Madam Bones, a stern expression on her face. She peered down at Angela through her monocle. Albus Dumbledore sat to Cornwall's left. His eyes twinkled behind the half-moon spectacles. His was the only friendly face that she could see.

Minister Cornwall cleared his throat. "State your full name and relation to the defendant for the court record please."

"Angela Lee Hawkins Lupin," she replied, her voice trembling. "Wife of the defendant."

An audible gasp echoed off the stone walls of the courtroom. Angela heard the rustling of robes and murmuring from the upper echelons of seats. In her nine years as clerk for the Office of Wizengamot Administration Services, she had worked at one time or another with every single one of these witches and wizards. More recognizable faces emerged from the shadows, as Wizengamot members shifted to get a better view of her. Griselda Marchbanks and Tiberius Ogden stared down at her, then bent in hushed conversation. The wispy, white-haired head of Madam Frump now peered out from behind Dumbledore with a quizzical stare.

"Hem, hem." A cough silenced the whispered murmurs.

"The chair recognizes Dolores Jane Umbridge, chief interrogator for the prosecution," Cornwall's voice boomed.

Umbridge trained her large, round eyes on Angela. "Were you present with the accused at twenty minutes past ten on the evening of the fifteenth of June?"

Umbridge's high-pitched girlish voice grated on Angela's ears, like the sound of fingernails raking down a chalkboard. Angela cringed. A lump rose in her throat, choking off her words. Concentrate on the questions. She closed her eyes, mentally returning to the events of that fateful night.

"No," Angela replied, her eyes popping open.

"You were not present with the accused?" Umbridge repeated, her eyes now enormous round orbs.

"Remus was in the Den, a separate structure," Angela explained. "There was a full moon. I was in the cottage."

"Did you see your husband attack Walden Macnair?" Umbridge asked.

"No, but I did see--" Angela began.

"Hem, hem," Umbridge interrupted with that annoying cough. "Just answer the question posed."

Angela felt her anger rise. She had heard the explosion and had witnessed the beginnings of Macnair's attack through the looking glass. Clearly, Umbridge was trying to thwart her testimony.

"But--" Angela protested.

Before she could utter another remark, Umbridge's girlish squeal cut off her off with another question. Umbridge's stubby finger jabbed at mountainous piles of parchment, the interrogation scripts. "You testified that you saw your husband attack Bellatrix Lestrange. Is that not true?"

"Yes, but--"

Umbridge leaned forward on the bench, pressing her advantage. Her eyes bulged out even further. "And you saw your werewolf husband bite Mrs. Lestrange and push her against the pike, causing her instantaneous and excruciating death?"

"Yes, but--"

"She confesses," Umbridge shouted, her voice rising to a high-pitched crescendo. Her wide mouth stretched from ear to ear in an enormous toad-like grin. "What further need do we have for her testimony. Witness dismissed."

Angela's mouth dropped open. Her indignation had reached the breaking point. She would not be dismissed. She blurted out her protests.

"But he was defending me," Angela shouted back, her green eyes flashing. "The Lestrange women broke into our cottage and attacked me. An unprovoked attack. She used the Cruciatus Curse."

"The Cruciatus curse?" Umbridge tittered, a mocking girlish giggle. She turned to address her colleagues. "An obvious fabrication. I would expect as much. Who hasn't heard of the Longbottom case?" Umbridge whipped her head around to face Angela, the bow on her hair bobbing like some monstrous insect. "Surely, you could have come up with a more original excuse."

"It's not a lie," Angela insisted, staring her accuser in the face. Her fist clenched. "It is the truth."

Shuffling and rustling were heard in the benches. Murmurs filtered down from the heights of the room. Dumbledore observed without comment. His blue eyes surveyed her through the half-moon spectacles. She detected the slightest hint of a nod, an unmistakable signal. The gray-haired head of Madam Bones leaned in and spoke to the Minister in whispered undertones.

"The chair recognizes Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Cornwall boomed.

Madam Bones leaned forward over the bench, her stern gaze focused on Angela. Reflections of torchlight glinted off the monocle perched on her cheek. Angela faced the daunting stare with unflinching courage. Although Madam Bones could be intimidating, at least she was fair.

"Bellatrix Lestrange performed the Cruciatus Curse on you?" Madam Bones inquired with a steely gaze.

"Yes, twice." Angela nodded.

"Can you describe the effects of this curse?" Madam Bones asked. Her eyes bored into Angela with a studied look.

"It was the worst pain that I have ever felt." Angela dropped her gaze to her lap. "Worse than childbirth. It's impossible to describe accurately. I...I..." Angela's voice trailed off, uncertain how to proceed. Umbridge snorted. Angela's head shot up with sudden determination. "I...I felt...as if my body were being ripped apart from the inside. As if a stake had been driven through my skull and down through every limb. Such intense pain that I prayed to die...so that it would end." Angela's voice quavered. She turned away, unable to continue.

Remus' fingers closed around hers in a tight squeeze. Her gaze flicked to his face. He still did not look at her, his head held high. She could see the muscles on his neck constrict. His jaw clenched. His eyes closed, moisture clinging in the corners. She gripped his hand. Muttering voices from high in the Wizengamot benches buzzed in her ears.

"Why would she use this curse on you?" Madam Bones' commanding voice cut across the chatter.

"She threatened to harm my children," Angela replied, her tone soft in contrast to her interrogator's harsh voice. "I would not let her pass."

"Hem, hem." Again Umbridge coughed.

"The chair recognizes...Oh, blast the formalities." Cornwall's mustache twitched. He gave his baton a dismissive wave. "You may proceed, Dolores."

"Children?" Umbridge simpered. "You have children?"

"Yes," Angela said. "Remus and I have two. Twins."

"So you and your whelps--" Umbridge began with a disdainful look.

"Excuse me," Angela said, shooting Umbridge a testy glare. "But they are children, not whelps. Normal children."

"But your husband is a werewolf, is he not?" Umbridge continued in her grating, childish voice.

"Yes, he is." Angela huffed. "Lycanthropy is not genetically transferable to offspring. The only way to become a werewolf is to be bitten. New England Journal of Medicine, Salem edition, February issue, 1992." Angela uttered an exasperated sigh. "Honestly, before you consider yourself an expert on werewolves, you ought to do a little research."

A wizard in the back row guffawed, then quickly covered with a cough. The undercurrent of mutterings from the Wizengamot grew louder. A smile flickered on Dumbledore's face under the cover of the snowy white beard.

"Hem, hem." Umbridge straightened at the affront. Her stubby fingers clutched the bench. Her eyes bulged. "That is what we pay you for. Don't blame me if your department has somewhat lackluster standards."

Umbridge cleared her throat. She cast a nervous glance at her colleagues. Her fingers fiddled with the clasp on her robes. But then a slow smile crept across her face, a most unpleasant leer.

"Aren't you concerned that your husband might eat your children?" Umbridge remarked.

"Oh no, he would never do anything like that." Angela's eyes grew wide, her face the picture of sincerity. "When he's a werewolf, we take precautions. Wolfsbane Potion. A secured structure for transformations. And he's the kindest, gentlest person that I've ever met."

Umbridge tittered. Scoffing laughter rang throughout the room. Umbridge turned to face her colleagues. A triumphant smile that almost reached to her ears stretched across her face.

"A gentle werewolf?" Umbridge simpered. An accusing finger jabbed toward Remus. "He just murdered two people. You admitted as much yourself." She turned back to her colleagues. A self-congratulatory look appeared on her toad-like face. "Why believe the testimony of an obviously deluded woman? I have nothing further for this witness."

A look of alarm flashed over Angela's face. She cast her husband an apologetic stare. Had her testimony actually harmed his case? Still, Remus stared straight ahead, courageous and immovable. He squeezed his wife's hand, a gentle, reassuring touch.

"The chair recognizes Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Chief Warlock...and so on and so forth." Cornwall blustered with another impatient wave of his baton. "Let's get on with the defense, shall we? Any questions for this witness?"

Dumbledore's startling blue eyes peered at Angela over the half-moon spectacles. An encouraging smile appeared on his lips.

"You mentioned Wolfsbane Potion," he said. "Did you administer this potion before you husband's transformation on the evening of the fifteenth of June?"

"Yes, I made it myself." Angela nodded. "He drank one goblet of potion every night for a full week before the transformation."

"And what are the medical effects of this potion?" Dumbledore inquired.

"Hem, hem." Umbridge interrupted. She glared at Dumbledore. "I object. She is no Healer. She is not qualified to answer that question."

"Very well," Dumbledore replied. He appeared serene, undisturbed by the objection. "Mrs. Lupin, can you attest to your husband's mental state on the evening in question?"

"Yes, I observed him first hand," Angela replied. She surveyed the Wizengamot with her confidence somewhat restored. "He was calm, in control of the lycanthropy."

"Hem, hem." Umbridge coughed again, that annoying mannerism. "Can anyone else verify this? Were there other witnesses?"

"No," Angela admitted, dropping her gaze in defeat.

"I have no further questions for this witness," Dumbledore said.

Angela's head whipped up in surprise. That was it? No other questions. She stared in disbelief. This can't be the end.

"Very well, Mrs. Lupin," Cornwall said. "You may go."

"If I may," Angela cast the Minister a beseeching look, "I ask...no, I beg the court's permission to be allowed to stay."

"Highly irregular." Cornwall's mustache twitched. He shook his head. "Against the rules. I cannot allow it."

"I may be wrong, Sparticus," Dumbledore said with a mild glance at the Minister, "but I seem to recall a clause under paragraph seventeen of the Wizengamot Charter of Rights which states that immediate family members of the accused are indeed allowed at the trials of their loved ones, being that they have a personal and vested interest in the outcome." He turned to a diminutive witch seated behind him. "Is that not true, Madam Frump?"

Cornwall's mouth melted open. The mustache twitched again. Then the Minister's mouth snapped shut with military alacrity.

"The chair recognizes Iphigenia Gertrude Frump, Wizengamot Parliamentarian," he groused.

The elderly witch rose to her feet, slow and shaky. When standing erect, she barely cleared the top of Dumbledore's snowy head. Her own wispy, white hair framed her wizened face like a halo in the torchlight.

"True." Madam Frump nodded her head with an unhurried up and down motion. "Quite true."

Madam Frump sank back into her seat. Cornwall waited. His impatient fingers drummed on his baton. His head whipped back toward Angela, a look of annoyance on his face.

"Well then," Cornwall barked, "it appears that you may stay."

"Thank you, sir," Angela said. A sigh of relief escaped her lips.

"Well now." Cornwall cast Dumbledore a quizzical stare. "If there are no further witnesses, shall we proceed to the verdict?"

"I beg your pardon, Sparticus," Dumbledore replied. He leaned back in his chair, put his hands together, and gazed at the Minister over the tops of his fingertips. His eyes twinkled behind the half-moon spectacles. "But I have two more witnesses to call for the defense."

Umbridge's eyes flew open with surprise. Her stubby fingers shuffled through the pile of parchments on her lap. "But I have no record of depositions for additional witnesses," she protested in that girlish voice.

"Please excuse me." Dumbledore gave her a deferential nod and smiled. "I may have neglected to mention that I took the next deposition myself."

Dumbledore's hand reached into the folds of his robes and removed a parchment scroll. He passed the document to Cornwall. The Minister's eyes scanned the papers. He issued a hurrumpf. An aggravated Umbridge snatched the parchment from his hands. She surveyed the contents, then tossed the scroll on the pile with an angry glare.

"And where is this witness?" Cornwall blustered. His eyes swept the courtroom.

"I believe he's standing just outside the door." Dumbledore gestured toward the courtroom entrance. He nodded to Dawlish. "If you will kindly summon Mr. Brown."

Murmurs rose from the Wizengamot ranks. Dawlish hesitated. He stared from Dumbledore to Cornwall, looking for some measure of agreement between the two Titans.

"Do as he says," Cornwall ordered, with an impatient wave of his baton.

Dawlish opened the door to the courtroom and peered out into the hallway. He seemed genuinely surprised to find an elderly man waiting just on the other side. Angela's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Then a smile overcame her face. She squeezed her husband's hand and shot him an encouraging look. Hope swelled in her breast.

The old man dressed in dusty trousers and an ill-fitting dinner jacket walked into the courtroom. His face, framed with a mop of silver curls and long mutton chops, turned to take in his surroundings. He approached Angela, nodded a greeting, and took a seat on a chair next to her. He fidgeted, put his hands in the pockets of his coat, then took them out again.

"Your full name and relation to the accused?" Cornwall's voice boomed across the courtroom, making the old man jump.

"Emmett Augustus Brown, sir," the old man said. "I live down the road a piece from the Lupins. Nice neighbors. Been invited to tea lots of times. Mrs. Lupin bakes a lovely pie."

Mr. Brown's gaze flicked from one person to the next, not knowing whom to address. His hands gripped the fabric of his trousers, causing little clouds of dust to rise from the folds. Umbridge's large eyes had narrowed, regarding him with suspicion. Dumbledore greeted the man with an encouraging smile.

"Yes, I am certain that she does," Dumbledore replied with a nod. "And Mr. Brown, can you kindly tell us what you were doing on the evening of the fifteenth of June?"

"Of course." Mr. Brown nodded. "I ate dinner about seven with Bessie. That's my dog. A Bassett hound. Wonderful companion--"

"Hem, hem," Umbridge's cough interrupted his ramblings. She forced a smile that appeared more disturbing than reassuring. The high-pitched voice spoke in honeyed tones. "What were you doing later in the evening that would be relevant to this case?"

"Oh, yes." Mr. Brown appeared even more flustered. He did not seem to know what to do with his hands. He stuffed them back in his pockets. "Well, you see, Bessie had to go out for a walk. So we headed up the road toward the Lupin place. That's when we heard the gun shots." His took his hands out of his pockets and gestured over his shoulder. "Me and Bessie, we thought to turn round, but then we thought of poor Mrs. Lupin and those little ones, so we went up the road apiece to see." He folded his hands in his lap. He glanced up at Dumbledore with a questioning stare.

Angela looked down into her own lap. Could it be that Mr. Brown had witnessed the attack? She glanced over at him, optimism alight in those green eyes.

"Well, what did you see?" Cornwall barked with an irritated wave of his baton.

"The house was dark," Mr. Brown continued. His hands gripped his trousers again. "All the lights out. But we could see outside on account of the moon being so bright. And we heard a great hullabaloo in the Lupin's shed. Something growling and a man's voice yelling. Not Mr. Lupin's voice, mind you. Some other man."

"Could you hear what this man was saying?" Umbridge inquired. Her wide eyes narrowed in a calculating look.

"Not really." Mr. Brown shook his head. "On account of all the other noise."

"What other noise?" Umbridge jerked forward in her seat. The bow on her hair pitched forward as if about to launch into flight.

"There was something going on in the Lupin's house too," Mr. Brown explained. "A woman yelling and great crashing noises, like the house was smashing up inside."

Witches and wizards in the upper echelons of the stands bent in excited whispers. Several craned their necks to stare at the old man, then turned to converse with those around them. One warlock gestured in a lively debate with his neighbor. Several others joined in the impromptu caucus. Remus sat straight and tall, facing his accusers. Angela glanced over at him, hope in her eyes. Dear old Emmett had witnessed the attack after all.

"Order in the ranks," Cornwall commanded. His hand gave the baton an irritated wave.

All conversation ceased. Cornwall nodded to the old man. Mr. Brown ploughed on with his story.

"Bessie and me were about to turn back for help," Mr. Brown said. "I know that the Lupins are magic folk. I'm a Squib. I wouldn't be much help if there was magic involved."

"A Squib, eh?" Cornwall remarked, his bushy brows rocketed up. "And did you go for help then?"

"We were about to," Mr. Brown said. He leaned forward in his seat, now gesturing as if he were telling a tale to his mates down at the local pub. "Then we heard this great unnatural howl, like a beast that's been hurt bad. You know, old Bessie, she wanted to run right in, but I held her back. And then we heard a scream coming from the house. An awful scream. Sounded like Mrs. Lupin. And the little ones crying. And then we saw a werewolf come running out of the shed and into the house."

"And what happened next?" Cornwall leaned forward in his seat, his full attention focused on Mr. Brown. His baton lay quiet in his grasp.

"Well, I'm no coward, but I'm not going in after a werewolf."

"No, indeed," Cornwall shook his head in vigorous agreement.

"So I grabbed Bessie and ran back to my house," Mr. Brown explained. "I tried my brother. He's the only wizard in the family, but he wasn't home. Must've been down at the pub. Then I called the town constable, but he just laughed and told me to sleep it off. Thought I'd been drinking."

"And had you been drinking?" Umbridge inquired in her most honeyed voice.

"Well, only a pint or two," Mr. Brown admitted with a sheepish look. "But I wasn't muddled. I know what I saw."

"Why didn't you contact the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?" Madam Bones eyed Mr. Brown with a stern look, the monocle on her face digging deep grooves into her cheekbones.

"I told you, I'm a Squib," Mr. Brown replied. He raised both hands in a helpless gesture. "What could I do? The constable didn't believe me. So I went looking for my brother. When we returned, we ran into Mr. Dumbledore here. He said that the Aurors were already at the Lupin place. I told him what I just told you. And that's what happened."

"Very well, Mr. Brown," Cornwall said. "You may go."

Cornwall fixed a commanding eye on the old man. Emmett Brown rose to his feet. He stared up at the faces of the Wizengamot for a moment or two, a look of confusion on his face. Then he stuffed his hands back in his pockets and shuffled toward the door. Angela heard the door slam in his wake.

"Imagine witnessing all that and not going for help." Cornwall shook his head. "The Muggle constable indeed."

"That assumes, Sparticus, that he actually did witness it." Umbridge simpered. "I think it more likely that he imagined it. Obviously, he must have had a bit too much to drink that night." She tittered and winked at her other colleagues. "I did not find him very convincing."

"Oh, I don't know," Madam Frump replied, rising to her feet. She raised a gnarled finger. "His story seems to confirm the Lupin's. I find it harder to believe that they all could fabricate the same identical tale."

"Perhaps he had been coached," Umbridge rejoined in her sweetest voice. She shot a meaningful look at Dumbledore.

"Witness tampering is a very serious allegation, Dolores," Dumbledore replied. He put his fingertips together. His piercing blue eyes stared at Umbridge over the half-moon spectacles. "Not one that should he made without proof."

"Of course." An unconvincing smile played upon Umbridge's toad-like face. "I wasn't suggesting you, Albus."

Dumbledore turned back to Cornwall, a tranquil expression on his face. Umbridge shot him a look of purest loathing. Madam Frump sank back into her seat. Whispered conversations began anew among the members of the Wizengamot. Angela's anger began to rise once more. How she hated that awful Umbridge woman.

Minister Cornwall cleared his throat. "Any more witnesses, Albus?"

"Yes, just one," Dumbledore said. "The defense calls Mr. Dawlish to the stand."

The Auror's eyes opened wide. His mouth hung agape. He cast a quizzical stare from Dumbledore to the Minister.

"Well, move sharp," Cornwall barked with an impatient stare. He motioned toward the witness chair with a swift swipe of his baton.

Dawlish strode toward the chair. He glanced uneasily from Madam Bones to the Minister. Angela noticed that he didn't look nearly so intimidating when he was the one being questioned.

"Dawlish, please state your full name for the court record," Cornwall ordered.

"John William Dawlish, Auror and chief investigator on this case."

"Proceed with your questions, Albus," Cornwall instructed, his mustache twitching.

Dumbledore leaned back in his seat. He gazed at the Auror over his joined fingertips with an air of absolute ease. In contrast, Dawlish looked quite uncomfortable. He sat bolt upright, his large, muscular frame spilling over the witness chair.

"Mr. Dawlish, you were the first Auror to arrive at the Lupin residence after the attack, were you not?" Dumbledore fixed a piercing stare on the Auror over his half-moon spectacles.

"Yes, sir." Dawlish's head covered in short, wiry hair nodded.

"Can you describe for me the state of the Lupin's shed or Den, as Mrs. Lupin referred to it?"

"Yes, sir," Dawlish replied. "It was torn apart. Door ripped from the hinges, glass shattered, and the like."

"Can you tell me how a werewolf can rip a door from its hinges?" Dumbledore asked, training those blue eyes on the Auror with a studied look. "Especially one that had been enchanted to contain a werewolf?"

"I don't know, sir," Dawlish replied. He cast a nervous glance at Madam Bones.

"Yes, of course." Dumbledore stoked his snowy beard and appeared deep in thought.

A wave of murmurs swept over the Wizengamot.

"Hem, hem," Umbridge coughed.

"Do you have a theory, Dolores?" Dumbledore inquired, casting Umbridge a quizzical look.

"How do we know that the room had been enchanted?" Umbridge said in her high-pitched girlish voice. "That is mere conjecture."

"You may recall Mrs. Lupin's testimony," Dumbledore said. "A secured structure was the term she used, I believe. And she is still here." Dumbledore gestured toward Angela. "You are free to ask her yourself."

Angela nodded her head in agreement. Umbridge's eyes bulged wide. Her face screwed up with displeasure as if she had just swallowed something most unpleasant. Dumbledore turned to address the Auror.

"Mr. Dawlish, what sort of weapons did you find in the shed?"

"A revolver, a knife, and, of course, Mr. Macnair's wand," Dawlish replied.

"And, to your knowledge, could a werewolf use any of these weapons?" Dumbledore inquired.

Dawlish shifted his weight, unable to find a comfortable position in the chair. He edged to the front of the seat and sat upright, his shoulders erect, his feet flat on the floor, his knees almost to his chest, and his hands folded in his lap.

"No, sir, not to my knowledge," he said.

"Mr. Brown testified that he heard gun shots," Dumbledore continued. "Did you by any chance find ammunition in the shed?"

"Yes, sir, spent bullet casings," Dawlish said. "Most of them in the one corner of the room."

"And what kind of bullets were they?"

"Silver bullets, sir."

Dumbledore trained a steely gaze on the Auror and drummed his fingertips. "And are you aware of the only known method for killing a werewolf in its transformed state?"

"Yes, sir." Dawlish nodded.

"And can you kindly enlighten the court?"

"A silver bullet or blade through the heart."

"Indeed." Dumbledore's hand stroked the snowy white beard. "So it seems clear that these items would not likely belong to Mr. Lupin. How do you suppose they appeared in his shed?"

"Well, I...er...I assume that Mr. Macnair brought them to defend himself," Dawlish stammered. His large body shifted in his chair. He cast an uneasy glance at his supervisor.

Cornwall huffed. He turned to Dumbledore with an icy stare. His fist clenched his baton. "Are you insinuating that Mr. Macnair, a highly respected employee of the Ministry, came with the express intent of killing Mr. Lupin?"

"It is not my place to second guess Mr. Macnair's motives," Dumbledore replied, with a deferential nod to the Minister. "I only wish to point out that I think it odd that a man with a professed mission of merely tracking a creature should be carrying weapons intended for its destruction."

"Mr. Macnair has had years of experience dealing with dangerous creatures," Cornwall growled. "I prefer to trust his judgment." Cornwall gave the baton a testy wave. "Please move on."

Several heads in the back of the room nodded in agreement. More murmuring ensued. Angela gritted her teeth. How could Minister Cornwall stand up there and defend Macnair? How could they all continue to turn a blind eye to the evidence that he had been a Death Eater? She could just imagine the gold galleons jingling in Malfoy's deep pockets, the money that had bought freedom for both Macnair and the Malfoys. The injustice of it all set her teeth on edge.

Angela glanced over at her husband. Remus faced the Wizengamot with a bravery that she could not fathom, his jaw set with determination, his blue-gray eyes steely. But his complexion waxed paler now and beads of sweat broke out on his brow. Anxiety returned to her green eyes.

Dumbledore turned back to Dawlish and continued his line of questioning. "Speaking of Mr. Macnair, can you describe his state when you found him?"

"Yes, he was unconscious on the floor of the shed," Dawlish said. "He had a contusion on the back of his head and scratches on his face and chest. His right hand and arm had been severely bitten."

"The only bites were on his right arm and hand?" Dumbledore inquired. "His wand hand?"

"Yes, sir." Dawlish nodded.

"If Mr. Lupin had intended to kill Mr. Macnair, don't you think he would have gone for the jugular or chewed up the unconscious body?" Dumbledore stared at the Auror over the half-moon spectacles.

"I don't know, sir," Dawlish replied, shaking his head.

"Hem, hem," Umbridge protested. She shook her head causing the little black bow perched in her short hair to vibrate like an oversized fly in flight. "He is not a werewolf. How can you expect him to understand the twisted workings of a dangerous beast's mind?"

"On the contrary, that is the very crux of the matter," Dumbledore replied, his expression calm and composed. "Your whole case against Mr. Lupin rests on the contention that these were premeditated, intentional murders. But yet the physical evidence suggests otherwise. Mr. Macnair sustained bites only to his arms. Yet even an attack dog lunges for the throat."

"This is absurd," Cornwall blustered. "Macnair was a skilled combatant. I'm certain that he knew how to defend himself." He gave the baton another impatient wave. "Enough of this nonsense! Have you any more questions, Albus, or can we just move on to the verdict?"

"I beg your patience, Sparticus." Dumbledore smiled and nodded to the Minister. "I have but a few more questions." Then he turned back to Mr. Dawlish. "And what did you do for Mr. Macnair after you discovered him?"

"We took him to St.Mungo's for treatment, of course."

"And did he recover?"

"For a short time, yes." Dawlish nodded. "Then he took a downward turn and died."

"And did you interview the Healer that treated Mr. Macnair?" Dumbledore inquired.

"Yes, sir. Bernard Browning."

"And what was Healer Browning's assessment of Mr. Macnair's chances for full recovery?"

"Initially, he thought they were very good," Dawlish replied. Then he grimaced. "Except that Mr. Macnair had contracted lycanthropy and would likely live out the rest of his days as a werewolf."

Angela could not suppress a wry grin. She dropped her head and hid it behind her hand. Macnair had spent his life killing creatures, most of them innocent. It was a fitting punishment that he should be forced to become one of them. There was some justice, after all.

"And did he give you a hypothesis for Mr. Macnair's sudden failing health?" Dumbledore asked.

"He was puzzled by it, sir," Dawlish replied. "He insisted that Mr. Macnair's injuries were not life threatening and could not understand how they could have lead to his death."

"I see." Dumbledore's hand stroked the snowy beard. "I have no further questions for this witness." Dumbledore turned to Umbridge. "Have you anything further, Dolores?"

"No," Umbridge sniped. She cast Dumbledore a hateful glare.

"Thank you, Dawlish," Cornwall said. "You may step down."

A look of relief washed over the Auror's face. He rose to his feet and returned to his post guarding the door. The Minister cast an impatient glance at Dumbledore.

"Any more witnesses, Albus?" Cornwall barked.

"The defense rests," Dumbledore replied with another nod. He leaned back in his chair, his expression serene. "We await your verdict."

"Well, yes." Cornwall glanced down at his pocket watch. "Seems a very straight-forward case and it's getting late. Let's wrap this up, shall we?"

"Yes, I quite agree," Umbridge rejoined, rising and turning to address her colleagues. "Why take up any more of the court's time with this matter? What we have here is a case of cold-blood murder. Plain and simple." She tapped the pile of parchments at her side. "At great personal risk, Mr. Lestrange gave testimony to the power struggles within You-Know-Who's inner circle, providing motive for the murders. We have heard the statement of Walden Macnair, a long-time and faithful employee of the Ministry. How he sacrificed his life in the line of duty to this savage monster." She jabbed a stubby finger at Remus, then she gave a dismissive wave. "And the defense wastes our time with the testimony of an untrustworthy half-breed, his obviously unbalanced wife, and an old drunk." Umbridge fixed her bulging eyes on Remus with a disdainful glare. "There is only one possible conclusion. Conviction!"

Remus met his accuser's stare with an unflinching gaze. Umbridge sat down, a most unpleasant smile plastered across her wide face. Several heads in the Wizengamot nodded and muttered their approval. Angela shuddered and clutched her husband's hand.

Then Madam Frump stirred from her seat. She rose to her feet, standing with stooped shoulders. Even standing, her face was barely visible above the heads of the other wizards. She raised an ancient shaky hand and motioned for order.

"The chair recognizes Iphigenia Gertrude Frump." Cornwall sighed with an audible puff that betrayed his frustration. "What is it now Madam Frump?"

"It is simply that I disagree, Sparticus," Madam Frump replied. "This is not a simple case." She shook her head. "The only fact that has been established without dispute is that Mr. Lupin's actions caused the deaths of Mrs. Lestrange and Mr. Macnair. Intent, however, has not been proven." She wagged a gnarled finger at the Minister. "Was this a premeditated assault as the prosecution contends or a matter of self-defense? There is much to debate here."

"What, pray tell, is there to debate?" Cornwall blustered, his face turning red.

"For instance, what was Mr. Macnair doing in the shed?" She shook her hoary head. "According to his statement, Macnair witnessed the encounter between the werewolf and Mrs. Lestrange in the cottage, but the physical evidence presented by your own Auror suggests that his battle to apprehend the werewolf clearly took place in the shed. This would seem to confirm Mr. Brown's version of events which you are so quick to dismiss. And if Macnair was acting on behalf of the Ministry where are the orders authorizing his action?"

"Where indeed?" Dumbledore rejoined, his blue eyes twinkling.

"I don't know," Cornwall barked through clenched teeth. His face grew purple. "And unfortunately, Mr. Macnair is dead, murdered, so it would be pointless to ask him."

"Precisely." Madam Frump faced the Minister with a calm, unwavering gaze. "We can never know the answers to these questions with any certainty. Now if the charges were reduced to involuntary manslaughter, I think we could agree."

Madam Frump cast the Minister a resolute look. She remained standing, awaiting his response. A group of wizards behind her nodded their heads in vigorous agreement. Cornwall's bushy eyebrows shot up. His mustache twitched. His hand clenched his baton, his knuckles white.

"Balderdash!" he blustered. "Involuntary manslaughter, indeed." His arm shot out, brandishing the baton at Remus. "May I remind you that this wild beast is an accused Death Eater. Because of him, a witch and a wizard are dead! Most beasts would be executed for less."

Angela could take no more. She released Remus' hand and leapt to her feet. She stared at the Minister. Her green eyes flashed with a defiant glare.

"Have you no mercy?" she shouted. Her slender finger pointed to her husband. "This is no monster. Look at him. He is a man. A man."

Cornwall's head spun around to face Angela. His eyes narrowed under the bushy brows. His lips quivered with suppressed fury.

"Take her away!" he blustered, thrusting his baton toward the door with a sharp sweep of his arm.

"Noooo!" she screamed.

She reached for her husband. Remus' eyes stared back at his wife, filled with horror. His body twisted and writhed against the chains that secured his arms to the chair. His fingers convulsed in a useless attempt to reach her.

Two large Aurors seized Angela's arms and dragged her struggling body toward the door. She flailed her fists at them, kicked, and cried out in protest. The lights flickered.

"Let her alone!" commanded a booming voice.

Angela's head turned to see Dumbledore standing, his arms raised and his wand in his grasp. Rage flashed in his eyes like lightning. His usually kind face was terrible to behold. The Aurors released their hold on Angela. She fled to her husband's side, crumbled into the chintz chair, and clasped his hand in both of hers. His fingers clenched around her hand, holding it fast in his grip. Angela dropped her head and dissolved into a torrent of sobs. Arguing voices echoed all around her in the cavernous dungeon courtroom. Furious debate erupted among the members of the Wizengamot.

"Order in the ranks," Cornwall bellowed.

The clamor died away into a solemn silence. The gentle swish of robes and Angela's stifled sobs were the only sounds that could be heard. Angela stared into her own lap, not daring to look up.

"The original charges stand." Cornwall barked. "My decision is final. Madam Bones, proceed with the verdict."

"All those in favor of conviction?" Madam Bones' stern voice boomed over the court.

Angela swiped the tears from her eyes. Her head whipped up to survey the hands in the air. She tried to count, but there many. The tally was completed before she could finish. A lump rose in throat, threatening to cut off all her breath.

"All those in favor of clearing the accused of all charges?" Madam Bones' voice rang over the courtroom once again.

Hands shot into the air. Again there were many. A sharp intake of breath rushed into Angela's lungs. The verdict would be close.

Angela's green eyes locked on the Minister's face as he received the final count from the hand of Madam Bones. The mustache quaked. His face turned a violent shade of purple that Angela had never seen before. His hands gripped the baton with fury and snapped it in two. He tossed down the broken pieces with a look of disgust.

"So be it," he groused through clenched teeth. "Cleared of all charges." Then he turned to face Dumbledore. He drew himself up to his full height and thrust his chest out. He wagged a furious finger in Dumbledore's face. "But Albus, if I hear that...that creature...that criminal is being sheltered at Hogwarts. I, Sparticus Wilfred Cornwall III, shall personally see to it that you are permanently removed from your post as Headmaster of Hogwarts."

"Naturally," Dumbledore rejoined with a deferential nod, his face serene.

Angela threw her arms around her husband. Tears of joy flowed down her cheeks. The chains that bound his wrists rattled and shook loose. He freed his hand and caressed her cheek with a trembling touch. She watched as his shoulders, once held so straight and proud, sank. His face was now pallid and waxy. Beads of sweat glistened on the fevered brow. His sunken eyes clouded over. He collapsed into her waiting arms.