And You Were Worried About Rodents?

This is our punishment. We came
Here without blame, yet with blame,
Dark blame of others, but our blame also.
This stroke was bound to fall,
Though not to fall so.
(Edwin Muir, The Refugees)

Chapter 6: The Difference Between Truth and Light

Part 2

The trial was scheduled to take place in the Halls of Wizarding Justice, Courtroom Ten, in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement wing of the Ministry. The oppressive atmosphere of the cavernous hall left Arthur immensely grateful that his father's trial had been too minor to have taken place here.

The places reserved for the Wizengamot, distinguished by purple satin upholstery instead of plain wooden seats, occupied the front tier of benches facing the entrance. To the left and right of it, the Defence and Prosecution Benches opposed each other, and between them stood the high-backed prisoner's chair. Chains dangled from the arms, creeping over the hard wood in greedy anticipation.

Arthur shuddered.

Longbottom led him over to the row of seats immediately behind the Prosecution. Alastor Moody's imposing figure was looming there already, his healthy eye focused on Arthur while the artificial one moved in its socket, scanning the rapidly filling rows with deep-seated suspicion.

"Frank, Arthur," he growled. "Welcome to a lousy morning." He nodded at the Defence Bench and the wizard sitting there.

Andrea Zabini was a slender man of medium height, with close-cropped dark hair and full-sleeved blue robes. Unlike Bartemius Crouch, who was talking quietly to his aide and Theobald Wolfe at the Prosecution Bench, he sat alone, but with a composure that suggested he was about to enjoy an evening out at the Magical Opera Hall rather than prepare to defend one of You-Know-Who's most infamous lieutenants.

Behind Zabini, Arthur saw the regal figure of Narcissa Malfoy, dressed in a long, tight grey robe, hair swept up in an elegant coif. Behind that composed front, she appeared almost fragile, and so pale it seemed as if she were to fall into a dead faint at any moment.

Beside her was a witch Arthur recognised - Healer Parkinson from St Mungo's. On her lap, the Mediwitch held a bundled-up baby whose white-blond tuft of hair marked it as an offspring of the Malfoy line. Arthur remembered all too well Parkinson's remark about the dangers inherent in Narcissa Malfoy having a further pregnancy, and suddenly wondered whether there was more to the woman's pallor than simply fear for her husband's fate. He wondered what kind of Dark magic Lucius Malfoy had resorted to, to have an heir after all. For Mrs Malfoy's sake, Arthur hoped that the child was a boy.

Two rows further up, he saw Minerva McGonagall seated next to a sallow-skinned, dark-haired young man who was staring ahead with an inscrutable expression.

Excited whispering resounded in the hall as the audience rows filled almost to the last seat. At long last, the Wizengamot filed in slowly and made their way over to their purple-cushioned benches. Moody gave the audience one last suspicious once-over before flopping down next to Arthur. Bartemius Crouch sat down stiffly upright on the Prosecution Bench.

Wolfe, Arthur noticed, headed for the front row of the Wizengamot, where he perched on the outermost seat like an attack dog on an invisible leash. Two of the other three front seats were filled by Minister of Magic Millicent Bagnold and by a wizard who, judging from the painful green shade of his bowler, must be Cornelius Fudge. Arthur had never met Fudge in person, but knew the man had made a breath-taking move up the career ladder after his handling of the Black affair, from junior minister in the Department of Magical Catastrophes to Bagnold's personal aide. Rumour had it that Fudge's entry into Magical Catastrophes had been sponsored by Lucius Malfoy's late father, which would explain why the man had interceded with the Minister on Malfoy's behalf. The third Interrogator was a formidable-looking older witch in a yellow-and-pink polka-dotted robe that did nothing to make her look even an ounce less stern.

All noise quietened when the large door at the back of the room opened and two black-hooded Dementors entered, leading Lucius Malfoy between them. His hands were manacled behind his back, his face haggard. His posture remained dignified, however, though there was no sign of the trademark arrogance. Arthur felt his hands begin to shake. The mere sight of the man was enough to throw him back to that sunny afternoon on the lawn of the Prewett residence where Mandy bled to death and David twisted in the man's grip. He could still hear that coolly amused voice forming the two words that would kill him...

Get a bloody grip, Arthur, he cursed himself. Really, when the Hat said 'Gryffindor!' at your Sorting, it must have been scrambled.

The Dementors led Malfoy to the prisoner's chair at the centre. They removed his manacles, and he sat down without prompting, whether to preserve his pride or to prevent the creatures from touching him Arthur could only guess. Immediately, the chains sneaked around his arms and legs and fastened him securely to the chair. Nothing in Malfoy's face indicated that he had even noticed.

The Minister rose and called the hall to order with a Sonorus Charm.

"Criminal proceedings are hereby opened against Lucius Sergius Malfoy, of Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire. As Interrogators have been selected Minister of Magic Millicent Magrat Bagnold, Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Undersecretary of Magic, and Griselda Amaryllis Marchbanks, Legiwitch and advisor to the British Branch of the International Office of Magical Law. Theobald Wolfe of the DMLE's Administrative Office will act as court scribe. Prosecutor: Bartemius Andronicus Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Defence Wizard: Andrea Marius Zabini, Legiwizard from the International Bar of Magical Law."

The Minister pulled her notes closer to her bespectacled eyes and waved at Crouch, who rose eagerly.

"The charges brought against the accused read as follows: murder in at least one case, conspiracy to murder in at least five cases, torture and the repeated use of the Unforgivable Curses, and finally, entering into a magically binding contract and serving as a leading follower to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." Crouch's eyes bore down like an eagle owl plummeting to bury its claws into some small, furry prey.

"How do you plead?"

Lucius Malfoy looked straight ahead.

"Guilty to the first four charges." His voice rang clearly through the hall, and the statement provoked an outburst of angry hisses from the audience. As they died down, he added, "Not guilty of entering into a contract with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

Crouch's neck craned forward. "You admit the crimes and deny being a Death Eater?"

"To my understanding," Malfoy answered calmly, "it is impossible to enter a magically binding contract while under the influence of the Imperius Curse."

"Silence!" Crouch thundered at the renewed din of voices. "You claim to have committed these crimes under the Imperius - at whose command?"

"Under the control of Lord Voldemort." The mere mention of the name was enough to stifle any sound in the room.

Crouch's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"We have ample proof of your hatred for Muggles - membership of the Society for the Reclassification of Muggles, annual donations to the Araminta Black Foundation, defence of Muggle-baiting and opposition to Ministry policies. Your adhere to the same misguided delusions as the late Lord Voldemort!"

Malfoy's composure never faltered.

"I never made a secret of the fact that I do not consider Muggleborns an asset to wizarding society," he stated.

Oh, how diplomatic, Arthur sneered to himself.

"That is, however, a view held by a considerable number of wizarding families. It does not predestine me as a Death Eater. The Malfoy family has been a pillar of British wizarding society for hundreds of years and I would not have voluntarily compromised that heritage. And neither would I have willingly submitted to the Dark Lord. I am Malfoy. We do not serve."

Crouch turned to face the Wizengamot on the upper tier.

"The Prosecution rejects this obvious ploy to absolve the accused. If the Imperius excuse was allowed to take precedent, we wouldn't be able to convict any of the Death Eaters. The accused has confessed to horrific crimes of murder and torture, so I see no reason to further take up your time. I therefore ask that the accused be sentenced to life in Azkaban prison."

A pregnant silence followed Crouch's words, interrupted after a moment by Andrea Zabini's calm voice.

"In accordance with the Defence's established right to call on witnesses, I would like to call on Healer Parkinson from the Spell Damage Unit of St Mungo's Hospital to testify on Mr Malfoy's behalf."

Minister Bagnold peered down at him owlishly, exchanged some whispered comments with her fellow Inquisitors, and then nodded. Wolfe was scowling at her furiously.

"Granted."

Zabini inclined his head to the witch next to Narcissa Malfoy, who handed the tiny baby back to its mother and made her way over to the chair Summoned for her by the Legiwizard.

"Would you please state your name and credentials?" Zabini asked.

"Moire Parkinson, Senior Healer at St Mungo's Spell Damage Ward," she said.

Wolfe suddenly looked up and fiddled with his papers.

"Resident at Baddock Place, Elegant Alley, London, with Ciaran Baddock, also St Mungo's Healer?" Wolfe inquired, eyes fixed on the files spread out before him.

Arthur felt more than heard the collective inhale of the audience, followed by barely hushed chatter.

He'd followed the scandal - how Jonathan Parkinson's young wife had left him and their two children to move in with an attractive colleague - in a gleefully exultant Daily Prophet. Almost everybody had, including Molly, who had been brought up by very strict parents and therefore had strong feelings about the issue of marital fidelity. Not that Arthur was complaining, of course, but having grown up among brothers and a scattering of unmarried uncles, he was harder to scandalise. And Slytherin marriages were not always made in heaven, but more often at the Galleon Exchange.

Parkinson's face was a black-and-white contrast study, dark hair clashing with deadly pallor. Zabini half-rose to make a scathing reply, but it was elderly Griselda Marchbanks who banged a small, age-spotted fist on the table in front of Wolfe's nose. He jumped.

"If such flimsy attempts at undermining the credibility of a witness are the extent of Mr Crouch's case, he might as well consider dropping his charges," the woman hissed, ignoring Wolfe completely. Two small red spots appeared over Crouch's cheekbones, but he replied coolly.

"Verifying a witness's place of residence is standard procedure, Madam Marchbanks."

"Commenting on others who might reside there is not, Mr Crouch," she countered acidly.

"Idiots!" Moody muttered into Arthur's ear. Arthur turned and gave him a questioning look. "Should have done their bloody research - the woman's an infamous femiwitch - got off those nutty bints who burned their pettirobes in the Ministry Foyer a few years back."

"The Prosecution," Crouch continued forcefully, "does not object to Healer Parkinson's choice of residence - it objects to her testimony on the grounds that she is a confidante of Mrs Lucius Malfoy."

A tiny smile played around Zabini's lips.

"Healer Parkinson has been asked to testify on the findings of a St Mungo's Research Team on Imperius because - unlike her colleagues - her schedule allows her to be present today. The Defence is prepared, however, to agree to a rescheduling of the proceedings should the Prosecution insist on another spokesperson." He shrugged and looked up at the top bench where the Wizengamot were shuffling in their seats.

Millicent Bagnold crunched up her nose. "What good would that do, if they just told us the same thing?" she croaked. "Would they, girl?" She peered down at the Healer, who nodded.

"Yes, Madam Minister. Our results have already been published in The Mungo, the hospital's research periodical."

Arthur had to admit that for someone who'd just been publicly exposed as a Scarlet Woman, her voice was quite steady.

"All right, then," the ageing Minister pronounced. "You can speak, girl."

Zabini nodded at Parkinson. "You have done extensive research on Imperius?"

"Our research was funded by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in preparation for the Emergency Wizarding Protection Act, Sub-clause Nine, permitting the use of the Unforgivable Curses by Aurors."

Crouch gestured impatiently. "Said report can be looked up in the Ministry's Annual Research Papyri by any interested authorised specialist," he interjected. "It is of no relevance here."

"It specifies," Parkinson said, not looking in his direction, "that there are different varieties of the Imperius Curse. It can range from forcing the victim to perform one single act, to an unconscious compulsion that will activate at the caster's discretion - like that cast by Augustus Rookwood on a number of Ministry officials - to a deep-seated, long-term control." She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Our findings show that it becomes harder to trace and break the curse when the caster has been a particularly powerful wizard, or when the curse has been in effect for a long time. And the curse we detected on Mr Malfoy was among the strongest my team has ever been asked to investigate."

"So you're saying that you definitely detected the residue of an Imperius Curse on the accused?" Cornelius Fudge spoke up for the first time.

"Beyond any doubt," Parkinson replied. Fudge pressed a knuckle against his lower lip and leaned back with a frown.

"We do not deny that the accused has been under Imperius at some point," Crouch interjected coldly. "We merely point out that it cannot be traced back to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named - it could have its origins in an obscure family tradition, or the accused could easily have asked any of his fellow conspirators for the favour - or even his wife." He looked pointedly at the slender woman in the first row of the audience, who returned the probing stare with an angry spot of colour in her cheeks.

"If there is doubt about whether Malfoy has acted voluntarily or not, why hasn't a truth potion been used?" Marchbanks inquired.

"Truth serums do not break through the Imperius Curse, Madam," Parkinson pointed out with a frown, as if the fact were a personal insult to her. "Even the newest experimental version, Veritas Serum, won't conclusively detect whether a statement under Imperius is truth, outright lie, modified memory or wishful thinking, even if it's administered in a near-lethal dose."

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur watched the lanky-haired young man next to Minerva McGonagall sneer before he leaned over to whisper something in her ear. She frowned, and nodded.

Crouch brushed off the debate in a sweeping gesture. "The fact remains that the accused bears the Dark Mark and has committed - as he has admitted himself under interrogation - the crimes specified in the charges." He paused and a tiny smile appeared on his lips. "We are, moreover, able to offer proof that he has indeed done so at his own initiative, not under the Imperius Curse. I would like to call on Mr Arthur Weasley as a witness."

Bagnold yawned and nodded, head tilted slightly as if she were contemplating a nap she was unlikely to get. Andrea Zabini rested the tip of his index finger against his bottom lip as he observed Arthur's way over to the witness chair Parkinson had vacated.

Arthur's insides lurched as he felt all eyes in the room focussed on him, and colour rose in his cheeks. He hated being at the centre of attention - it made him blush, and stutter, and generally make a fool of himself. And he could not afford that - not today.

Lucius Malfoy made no move to look at Arthur, and yet to Arthur it seemed as if some kind of shadow had fallen over those expressionless features, something that hadn't been there before. Something deadly.

Nerves, Arthur! he scolded himself. And, deadly or not, today you'll help to make sure that he'll never harm anyone else again in his life.

He sat down on the chair, back held determinedly straight.

"Arthur Weasley, resident at The Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole, employed with the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office?" Wolfe glared at him.

"Yes, sir," Arthur answered softly.

Andrea Zabini interrupted with a quick gesture. "Mr Weasley, is it correct that you have been investigated by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in connection with the Rookwood affair?"

Arthur flinched at the name as if it were a whip.

"Yes - everybody recommended by Rookwood for employment at the Ministry was investigated."

"And let me add that Mr Weasley has been vindicated by Senior Auror Moody and myself, personally," Bartemius Crouch threw in. "While his record may not be spotless, his loyalty to the Ministry is above suspicion."

He wouldn't speak like that if he knew, Arthur thought bitterly.

"Mr Weasley, you were a personal friend of the Prewett family, and a guest at their wedding reception?" Crouch asked. Arthur nodded, feeling the familiar shiver that travelled through his whole being whenever that fateful day was mentioned. "And it was you who identified the accused among the Death Eaters that day?"

"Yes," Arthur repeated, trying to keep his expression as blank as Crouch's, and failing where the other man managed effortlessly.

"Would you please tell the esteemed witches and wizards of the Wizengamot what you saw?"

Arthur swallowed, tasting bitterness. Calm! he told himself yet again.

"There were about twenty Death Eaters who attacked the wedding party," he recalled, voice quivering. "Five of them singled out the Prewetts directly." He paused for a moment as the scene began to replay itself in front of his inner eye. "They stunned two of the attackers, but one caught Daniel Prewett with the Cruciatus, and another cast a Dark curse on Mandy. They-" he felt a tear sliding down his cheek, and brushed it away forcibly.

"They were hurt terribly. When David - Senior Auror Prewett - tried to help them, he was ambushed from behind by the leader of the Death Eaters. I was... I tried to stun him and to disarm him, but he blocked my spells. Finally I cast Accio on his mask - I hoped he'd run to protect his anonymity. I... I recognised Lucius Malfoy. But he didn't run. He didn't care. He just broke David's spine with his spell. I saw his face while he did it. He smiled."

"You accuse Mr Malfoy of leading the Death Eaters, Mr Weasley?" Andrea Zabini's interruption came in a far softer tone of voice than Arthur had expected, which confused him. He bit his lip and nodded.

"When the Aurors appeared, he gave the order for retreat, and..."

"Yes, Mr Weasley?" Zabini prodded.

"And Evan Rosier died so he could get away," Arthur added shakily. "A Death Eater would do that only for one of You-Know-Who's closest allies." But Arthur, remembering the madly-elated look on Rosier's face that day, wasn't half as sure of that as he sounded. His eyes slipped to Malfoy in his chained chair, and noticed a muscle twitching on the pale cheek, the first emotional reaction the Death Eater had betrayed so far. Plainly, Arthur wasn't the only one affected by the memory.

Crouch sharply interrupted his thoughts.

"Now that we've established the accused's leading role among the Death Eaters, will you please continue, Mr Weasley?" Arthur flushed slightly at the reprimand.

"After he murdered David Prewett, he turned his wand on me," Arthur said around a heavy lump constricting his throat. Cold sweat still trickled down his neck at the memory of the hissing finality of the Killing Curse speeding towards him, and the smiling finality on the face of its caster. "He cast Avada Kevadra at me. If Auror Moody hadn't pulled me out of the way, I... I would have died." He paused before repeating, "And he smiled, all the time - he enjoyed himself doing it, torturing David. The Imperius Curse might make him do it, but it wouldn't make him enjoy it."

Zabini gave Arthur a penetrating look, but didn't comment as Crouch nodded at Arthur.

"Thank you, Mr Weasley. You may return to your seat."

Gratefully, Arthur slid out of the witness chair and made his way back to Moody.

Crouch fixed Malfoy with the expression of a man discovering Bundimun spawn in his robe pocket. He clapped a possessive hand on the thick folder in front of him.

"It is obvious that the accused served Voldemort because it allowed him to act out his sadistic impulses against his fellow wizards and helpless Muggles," he snapped, disgust written all over his face. "And we also have proof that he used his position as You-Know-Who's lieutenant for a campaign of personal vengeance against the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, specifically against the Aurors and Hit Wizards involved in the raid on Malfoy Manor." Heads perked up all over the audience, and even among the Wizengamot.

Crouch opened the cover of the folder, took out the top sheet of paper, and placed it on the desk.

"Auror Louise McKinnon, her brother and her younger sister."

A second sheet.

"Auror Caradoc Dearborn, vanished from his cottage under the sign of the Dark Mark, while his bed-ridden father was left dead."

A third paper joined the other two.

"Hit Wizard Edgar Bones, his wife and two of his three children. And finally," Crouch leaned back, enunciating very clearly, "James Potter, hit wizard, and his wife Lily, at Godric's Hollow."

The words provoked a titter of outrage among the audience, and an incredulous but delicate snort from the Defence Bench.

"Every witch and wizard in magical Britain and beyond knows that the attack on Godric's Hollow was led by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself, and resulted in his downfall at the hands of little Harry Potter." Zabini's voice cut across the courtroom, and Arthur wondered with a sliver of anger whether You-Know-Who's demise outweighed the fact that the poor child was now an orphan, and his parents dead.

"My client has already admitted, during his interview with the Ministry, that he was ordered by You-Know-Who to... subvert the Potters' Secret Keeper," Zabini pointed out. "We know that, for whatever reason, You-Know-Who saw the Potters as a threat to his power - and rightly so, as recent events have shown. To claim that he was manoeuvred into the attack by Mr Malfoy is simply ridiculous." He paused. "All of the victims Mr Crouch has cited were Aurors and Hit Wizards, and therefore natural targets for You-Know-Who. To infer a specific initiative on Mr Malfoy's part is therefore not only a pure speculation, but a highly illogical one at that."

"There is nothing speculative about the accused's actions," Crouch pointed out, voice tainted with anger. "The accused devised those attacks, led them personally apart from the last one, participated in the murders, and gloried in it."

"Under the Imperius Curse," Zabini emphasised.

"There is no proof for the Imperius Curse!"

Crouch was still glaring at the Legiwizard when a nervous wizard Arthur recognised as Crouch's assistant entered through one of the side doors. A younger man, almost still a boy, slipped in behind Crouch's assistant. He hovered just inside the door, eyes sliding nervously over the room. When they fell on the Dementors flanking Malfoy, he shuddered.

As soon as Crouch noticed the pair, his face coloured. His assistant reached the Prosecution Bench and bent down to whisper something in his ear, only, from what Arthur could see, to receive a tongue-lashing for his interruption. At last Crouch rose to address the Wizengamot.

"Gentlewitches and wizards, the Prosecution has presented its case and will not require the call of further witnesses. If the Defence has no objections, I'd ask for a few minutes' break before the final pleadings."

Zabini looked up from his papers with faint curiosity, but nodded. "No objections."

"All right, then," Millicent Bagnold called down. "Fifteen minutes, Mr Crouch."

"Thank you, Madam Minister." Crouch got up quickly and walked over to the boy at the door, while both audience and Wizengamot broke out in excited whispers. The two Dementor guards drew closer to Malfoy's chair, and Arthur noted how the man's fingers dug painfully into the armrests he was chained to, even though his face betrayed no reaction.

"What's going on?" Arthur leaned over to Moody and inclined his head at Crouch, who was now engaged in a furious debate with the boy. Seeing them next to each other, a certain resemblance was evident - similar sharp features, the same slender build, though where the Head of Magical Law Enforcement exuded authority, the youth's posture reflected only angry unease.

"The boy is Barty's son, Barty Junior," Moody growled. "Hope it isn't a ploy to disrupt the trial - there's still Death Eaters at large. Stop at nothing, those." He paused and considered. "Though it's probably Barty's wife ailing again. Poor girl's been in and out of St Mungo's for years, and every time leaves her worse."

"So he'll postpone the trial then?" Arthur asked.

"You don't know him if you think that," Moody replied with a snort. "He loves her dearly, but he won't let her come between him and his duty." His magical eye moved at a disconcerting angle to peer at Crouch and his son, while the ordinary one remained focussed on Arthur. "She understands it, but the boy..."

'The boy' was now being steered over to them by his father, who urged him down on the bench next to Moody. One of Crouch's hands rested heavily on his son's shoulder.

"... will see your mother this afternoon, after the trial," Arthur heard Crouch say, his free hand sweeping to indicate the court room. "We are about to remove one of the most dangerous Dark wizards of our time from the magical community. I cannot just abandon my duties now for personal reasons."

"What about your duty to mother?" the boy inquired, in a voice that oscillated between hope and anger.

"Your mother would not want me to risk Malfoy's acquittal, Bartemius." The stern voice softened a little. "There is nothing I could do at St Mungo's right now."

"You could be there. She's always better when you're there." It came with a distinctly bitter undertone.

Crouch straightened. "I gave you my reasons, Bartemius. Now sit down and be quiet. I will permit no further disruptions from you!" He went back to his bench.

"I'm sure your mother will be all right, boy," Moody rumbled soothingly at the tense figure of the young man, who seemed not to hear.

"And if not it'll at least make for a great anecdote about how dedicated he is to his duty, and how great a Minister of Magic he would make, right?" young Crouch snarled. "Sometimes I think he would sacrifice both me and mother if it meant being able to drag another Death Eater into that favourite hellhole of his," he added spitefully.

His father had already resumed his seat. Minister Bagnold drummed her fingers on the railing and Crouch inclined his head in response.

"Are we ready to continue?" she called down waspishly.

"Yes, Madam Minister," Crouch replied.

"Good! I'll ask for the concluding statements then. Mr Crouch?"

Crouch rose, his robes falling in sharp creases around his body. He looked quite intimidating, Arthur thought. The audience quietened under his daunting presence.

Barty Crouch Junior stood up. Moody put a hand on his arm, but he shook it off and walked to the main exit in the hushed silence. The click with which the double doors closed behind him had an eerie ring of finality. Arthur shivered. He caught the hooded, thoughtful look with which Malfoy followed the boy's exit, and shivered again.

For a moment sheer fury contorted Crouch's expression as he stared after his son, then he tore his gaze away from the door and addressed the Wizengamot.

"Despite the Defence's attempts at convincing us, we have heard no conclusive proof that the accused was put under Imperius by You-Know-Who, or that he was ever forced to commit his atrocities. On the contrary, we have heard from a reliable witness how much he enjoyed murdering his victims." Crouch's eyes swept up to focus on the packed rows occupied by the Wizengamot. "Gentlewitches and wizards, if this man is freed on a flimsy excuse, you would release a deadly menace back into the magical community, someone who has proven his contempt for the lives of his fellow wizards, and who will stop at nothing to use all his influence and wealth to bring back his vile master and prepare for a second reign of terror over the wizarding world!"

Arthur felt a shiver running down his back. The almost palpable sense of dread in the hall suggested that the wizards and witches in the audience felt the same. Arthur glanced at the Defence Bench. Andrea Zabini looked vaguely thoughtful, and Arthur thought he could see Malfoy's mouth twist for a moment, whether in contempt, anger, or cynical humour.

Zabini's pensive expression did not change as he rose and put slender fingers on his wand on the table, as if the wood would imbue him with energy, or inspiration.

"As the recent trial of Mr Ludovic Bagman has showed," he stated, "Mr Crouch is single-minded in his determination to rid the magical community of Dark wizards, even if he overshoots the mark occasionally. Not even he, however, is able to deny that Mr Malfoy has been under the Imperius Curse. And we know from the Rookwood affair that the Dark Lord and his minions indeed made frequent use of that Unforgivable. The heir of one of the most distinguished wizarding families was a perfect target for their designs." He paused for a moment - to let his words sink in, Arthur thought angrily.

"As for Mr Malfoy's alleged intentions to revenge himself on the Aurors responsible for the incarceration of his wife-" the Legiwizard inclined his head towards Narcissa Malfoy, whose unwavering eyes were fixed on him while her thin hands clutched at the blankets that swaddled her infant, "-he would have had far more reason to launch an attack on senior Auror Moody or Mr Wolfe, or, if they proved too well-protected, on Mr Weasley, who exposed him."

Zabini's gaze came to rest on Arthur directly, and he fidgeted nervously.

"Mr Weasley, I understand the terrible pressure you have been under, and please accept my condolences for the loss of our friends." He turned to look at the Wizengamot. "But the testimony of a single witness, in a situation of supreme agitation and emotional uproar, and without any familiarity with the workings of the Imperius Curse, is not sufficient to condemn a man to a fate worse than death in Azkaban." The Legiwizard set both palms on the table and leaned forwards slightly.

"What speaks in Mr Malfoy's favour most of all, however, is that he gave himself up to the Ministry voluntarily, immediately after You-Know-Who's hold over him had broken, to face the judgement of the wizarding world. I believe that nothing demonstrates more clearly than this Mr Malfoy's good faith and his regret for having been so used against his fellow wizards."

Like hell! Arthur thought angrily. He just wants to hang on to his fortune, and is a lot more brazen about it than any of the others.

Millicent Bagnold stared ahead, rubbing the back of her nose absent-mindedly, until the audience began to shuffle and Fudge lightly patted her arm. She hemmed.

"Ah, yes, thank you, Mr Crouch, Mr Zabini. Does Mr... the accused wish to add a final statement?"

Crouch gave Malfoy a venomous glare, while Bagnold anchored her look somewhere above his shoulder. Malfoy, whose eyes had been lowered during both statements, looked up, and the two Dementors leaned in closer so that their tattered coverings almost touched his bound arms. For the first time, strain showed in the pinched expression of his face.

"Thank you Madam Minister." He inclined his head to Bagnold. "But I won't defend myself. Even if the guardians of the wizarding world decide to acquit me today, I don't think I'll ever be able to forget what the Dark Lord forced me to do - or forgive myself for it." His lips thinned. "I am Malfoy - I should have been able to resist him."

On the front bench of the audience, Narcissa Malfoy gave a quiet, strangled sob and hid her face against the white-blond tufts on her child's head. It was a picture of perfect grief, or, Arthur couldn't help thinking, of perfect artifice. Moody's soft snort showed him that the Auror's thoughts were moving in the same direction.

Malfoy glanced at his distraught wife, then tore his eyes away with visible - or intentional - effort.

"I do not care what happens to me," Malfoy added with a tremor in his voice that made Arthur want to jump up and yell 'Can't you see he's trying to manipulate you!'.

"But the Dark Lord not only controlled me, he also forced me to cast the Imperius Curse on my closest friends - wizards I grew up with, went to school with. They are not responsible for the crimes I forced them to commit. If anyone should take responsibility," he emphasised, eyes firmly fixed on the Wizengamot, "it should be me."

"Bloody arrogant fraud!" Arthur heard Moody growl viciously. The old Auror gripped his wand so tightly that Arthur was afraid it might snap. "The nerve of him, trying to sell us the martyr act!"

Again, Cornelius Fudge patted the Minister's arm. She came out of what looked like a half-doze, and frowned at the hall. Behind her, the members of the Wizengamot whispered among themselves. Arthur saw the tall pointed hat of Albus Dumbledore stand out among them as Hogwarts' headmaster conversed with an angry-looking witch and a bald, elderly wizard with a pince-nez seated next to him.

"Well then." When it became clear that Fudge was determined not to let her slip off into yet another nap, Bagnold called the room to order. "We have heard all the witnesses and statements. Those in favour of sentencing the accused Lucius Sergius Malfoy to life in Azkaban - please raise your hands now."

Arthur saw hands go up all over the top tiers - though not, as he had expected, a clear majority. He noticed that quite a few hands hesitated, and then rose when Albus Dumbledore signalled his agreement. Lucius Malfoy's cold eyes were fixed on the top benches, and Arthur could imagine him filing away the identities of his enemies for further use.

"Hold it," the Minister called, clearly irritated that the result wasn't immediately obvious. Griselda Marchbanks rose, and a bright orange thread of light coiled itself into numbers at the tip of her wand as she counted the raised hands. At last, the glowing numbers came to a standstill at seventeen.

Mad-Eye Moody cursed under his breath. "That's not even half! Let's just hope that not enough of them have the nerve to actually acquit that piece of filth!"

"All right," Bagnold called over the renewed din of voices. "Those in favour of acquittal?"

Arthur frowned when he noticed that all three Inquisitors - Bagnold, and then both Marchbanks and Fudge - raised their hands. He wondered whether Bagnold would have voted differently if her two rivals Crouch and Dumbledore had not been avowed opponents of Malfoy.

The flashing of numbers atop Marchbanks' wand began to scroll again. When it settled, Arthur could only stare at it in disbelief, barely registering Moody's moan of horror.

Nineteen.

"The court dismisses the case against Lucius Sergius Malfoy with nineteen against seventeen votes, counting fourteen abstentions." Bagnold concluded with a satisfied look down at Crouch. "His wand is to be returned to him forthwith."

"Impossible," Arthur whispered in a strangled voice he found hard to recognise. Dread coursed through his bloodstream. He couldn't, just couldn't believe that the most highly esteemed body of wizards had just brushed off the Prewetts' deaths like that. Moody grabbed his arm with bruising force, and the Auror's artificial eye rotated wildly in its socket.

"Should have known!" Moody snarled. "Too many cowardly idiots, and he has dozens of them in his pocket, I'm sure. A travesty, that's what it is!"

Tears pricked Arthur's lids, and he struggled against them, glad for a moment's distraction from the acute feeling of defeat. He would not blubber in public, on top of everything!

His slightly blurred gaze fell on Minerva McGonagall, who had her hands balled into fists in her lap and looked hardly less shocked and furious than Moody. The eyes of the dark young man next to her rested on Lucius Malfoy, whose restraints were now being unspelled by a court assistant. Minerva's companion was not smiling, but if Arthur weren't certain that none of Hogwarts' staff would ever approve of the release of a Death Eater, he'd almost have thought those unfriendly black eyes were shining with relief.

Narcissa Malfoy still perched on her seat, her face buried against the shoulder of the baby, and Arthur suddenly wondered if the sobs that shook her frame really came from relief at having her husband returned to her, or weren't rather an expression of dread for being returned into the clutches of a Dark wizard. He wondered what that frail child would turn into in the hands of that monster. They did not deserve it, he thought with a surge of angry protectiveness. Neither one of them.

Bartemius Crouch left the Hall, exchanging only the curtest of words and nods with the members of the Wizengamot who had come down to express their sympathy and outrage. Arthur rose to follow when Malfoy stepped free from the prisoner's chair and met his eyes across the courtroom. Malfoy's expression was dispassionate, but Arthur could read it clearly enough.

You shouldn't have tried to destroy me, it said. But most of all, you should not have failed.

Perhaps Malfoy saw the comprehension dawn on Arthur's face, because he inclined his head and one corner of his mouth twisted. Arthur turned on his heel and walked out, unable to face Malfoy's triumphant smile.

In the corridor outside the courtroom, Moody had caught up with Crouch and laid a heavy hand on his arm.

"It's not your fault, Barty," Moody said quietly. "If Bagnold had supported you..."

"Damn that woman and her paranoia!" Crouch hissed under his breath, with more venom than Arthur had ever seen him express, and he had certainly seen him raging before. "We should have had Malfoy and all his damnable associates Kissed in Azkaban, and to hell with a trial!"

Arthur hung two steps behind. Crouch did not need another one telling him how sorry he was, and he was probably intent on seeing his ill wife. He nodded his good-byes to Moody's rotating eye, and left.

He made his way up the staircase, and decided he felt too tired to walk up the remaining nine floors. As he turned towards the lifts, he found himself eye-to-eye with Healer Moire Parkinson. Hot rage surged through his veins as he stared at her.

"How could you lie for him like that?" he snapped, before the words had time to actually register in his brain.

She glared back at him, bristling like a wet Kneazle. "How dare you call me a liar, Weasley!"

Arthur shook his head. "Do you really think that helping to free that sadistic killer is a fitting revenge for Narcissa Malfoy's loss?"

Her hands curled into fists. Arthur had seen her temper flare before, and realised he was lucky she hadn't gone for her wand instead.

"You know nothing about me!" she spat, and stalked off towards the staircase, lifts forgotten.

Arthur stared after her in confusion and rage.

~ * * * ~

"So, do you expect congratulations?" Arthur inquired harshly, when his mind had returned from vivid memory to present adversity. "For getting Zabini and Parkinson to lie for you in court? For your talent at play-acting?"

Malfoy just eyed him darkly.

"It was a supremely stupid move, calling Parkinson a liar in public," he commented. "In keeping with your usual level of Gryffindor stupidity, of course, but you seem to be singularly effective in damaging your career opportunities. Crouch, Parkinson and Baddock, house Malfoy..." He grinned sardonically. "And you wonder how you ended up being overlooked for every promotion and stuck in a position that would make the Centaur Liaison Office shine in comparison?"

"Was it worth it?" he asked, making a sweeping gesture that included, but was not limited to, Arthur's prison. "Was a clear conscience and a pat on the head from the great Albus Dumbledore worth ending up here?" The aristocratic mouth curled in contempt. "But I forgot that Dumbledore's favour has never yet involved any kind of practical support."

Arthur's head snapped up in rage. "That's not-"

"It's the plain truth," Malfoy said coldly. "That's why you're dirt poor, why that oaf Hagrid can be dragged off to Azkaban at anybody's whim, and why that little bastard Potter can't wait to exchange his relatives for your hovel every summer."

"And what has crawling before You-Know-Who ever brought you, except the opportunity to participate in the occasional massacre and to be hauled off to Azkaban when things go wrong?" Arthur shot back, inwardly cursing his own reckless stupidity but unwilling to let the Death Eater get away with badmouthing Dumbledore. He saw the angry pinch in Malfoy's sharp face, but couldn't stop himself.

"So aren't you going to tell me how you strung Parkinson and Zabini along? Did you fake the Imperius, or did you just beg them to lie outright for your wife's sake?"

Malfoy flushed, and Arthur hadn't seen him so angry since the day he'd punched the bastard in the face at Flourish & Blotts. Arthur knew he'd gone too far, and the lingering ache of the Cruciatus sang through his bones in remembrance. He flinched as Malfoy raised his wand.

"Why don't I just show you?" he snarled. "Imperio!"

For one brief moment all Arthur could feel was a shocked, irrational sense of betrayal. Then the insidious pull took over, and the sting was just smoothed away, dissolving into bubbles of happiness and soothing mental caresses.

*You will do anything for me, won't you?* the Voice asked in his head, and - sharp, contemptuous and laced with anger as it was - Arthur had never felt a more siren-sweet compulsion. He would - oh, of course he would!

*Say it!*

"Yes, I will do any-" he started, and shuddered, body and mind alike, at the wrongness of it. There had been no room at all to crawl away from Voldemort's compulsion, but this... wrong, just wrong. He had no right to do this!

Arthur bit down, tasted liquid iron blossoming on his tongue, and tried to squirm away from the Curse like one of Ginny's kittens trying to flatten itself out from under his petting hand. But it was so hard, and he so wanted to lie there basking under the benign fingers.

*Say that you serve me!* the Voice insisted, and Arthur protested "I do!", which was at least not complete compliance.

*Prove it!* the Voice wheedled. *Potter's Muggle kin - where do they live? You want to tell me, don't you?*

Oh nonono, Arthur's mind protested, oh so very sluggishly.

*I know you know, Arthur, you went there last summer, didn't you? So tell me!*

"Number Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey."

*Very nice.*

Did I just tell him that, Arthur wondered, but then understood that there was no one more to be trusted with that information, and that there was nothing, nothing at all, to worry about.

*So - now that we've become friends,* the Voice sidled closer, *I'm sure you want to do something else to help me, don't you?*

Arthur nodded happily, feeling a ring of pressure tightening around his chest as if he were a trembling mouse in the embrace of Devil's Snare.

"Yes," he assured the Voice.

*You will help me against my enemies, then?*

Again, Arthur nodded, outraged that such a kind Voice should have any enemies at all. It was just not right!

*Your own family, Arthur. They wronged me terribly,* the Voice elucidated, setting Arthur's heart aflutter with irrational panic. *I think they should be punished. Would you take care of that?*

"Y-" Arthur broke off with a groan, part of him flailing wildly against the terrible compulsion. He nodded, but didn't speak again.

"Imperio!"

The warmth washed over him once more, this time liquefying the last icicles of resistance.

*Will you destroy them for me - your fussy wife, all those boorish sons, that interfering little daughter?*

For some reason Arthur was shuddering like a leaf, but this time his "Yes." rang clear. He embraced the Voice's sardonic approval, and slumped back on his cot, hands limply at his sides. Gloved fingers tilted up Arthur's chin and eyes studied his face while the Voice studied his mind.

*If I hand you a Portkey now, and send you off to that hovel of yours, will you crush the life out of them - all of them - for my sake?*

"Yes."

*Say it, Arthur.*

Something inside him howled like a lost soul under the jaws of a werewolf. It did not weaken the curse. It just made the impact infinitely more terrible.

"I will go and - and crush the - them for you," he swore mechanically, staring right through that inquisitive face before him.

*And now tell me why,* the Voice commanded, almost gently now.

This, finally, was simple, and rolled from Arthur's tongue without the pangs that had made his earlier words agony.

"Because you're my Master."

"Oh, very, very good, Arthur," the Voice praised, syrupy-smug enough to make even Dumbledore sick. "Finite Incantatem!"

The veil of comfortable obedience was yanked off, and Arthur jolted to his feet, trembling. He stared at Malfoy's coolly entertained expression, insides churning with an icy, bitter rage.

"Don't you ever dare to do that to me again!"

Malfoy's mouth curled up with his usual punchworthy smugness.

"Aren't you forgetting your place?" he drawled. "And here I thought you'd finally acknowledged your position."

"You had no right to do that," Arthur yelled, red with anger. "I let you cast the fucking Cruciatus on me because you swore that would do!" He hurled the profanity he'd berate his children for with vicious satisfaction.

"And you put your trust into the word of a Death Eater?" Malfoy shook his head. "And they wonder why we use 'Gryffindor' as an invective."

Arthur stifled a gasp as he realised that he'd done exactly that. He wouldn't believe for a split second that Malfoy had so much as a shred of honour, but he really hadn't expected him to lie, not when he held all the cards.

"And of course, I gave you that choice yesterday," Malfoy added. "I was quite interested to see what you would choose today, after you've had the time to... savour... the consequences of your decision."

He couldn't! Arthur thought, feeling as if his insides were shrivelling up. Nobody could be expected to bring that agony upon himself twice, knowing... But then this was a man who had cheerfully forced him to volunteer to wipe out his own family - believing him incapable of any kind of atrocity would indeed mark Arthur as the kind of naive fool Malfoy had accused him of being.

He lowered his eyes in despair, which Malfoy obviously took for an answer.

"Yes, I think you'd be well-advised to tread carefully, because I'm sure I could come up with one or two stray Muggles for you to dismember if you were unwilling to face Cruciatus again." He frowned. "And you did ask about Imperius, didn't you? So don't dare to label me dishonourable for showing you what you wanted to know."

"I did not-" Arthur protested, and fell silent, eyes wide. "Are you saying that... that... You-Know-Who really...?"

He broke off, and just stared. It couldn't be - not he! Not Malfoy.

"Am I to conclude that strokes of insight so rarely come to you that they disable your capacity for speech when it happens?" Malfoy sneered. "But no, you needn't set about re-examining your hard-won prejudices just yet. The Dark Lord did not need Imperius to force me into killing Mudbloods and Muggles. He did not need it to make me lead the attack on the Prewetts, and-" he stared at Arthur in malicious satisfaction, "he did not need it to persuade me to squash David Prewett like the arrogant, Gryffindor Ministry-lackey he was. No, Arthur - I did that because I enjoyed it."

"So what did he need it for, then?" Arthur asked quietly, although he already felt the answer quivering under his fingertips.

Malfoy's face contorted in an expression that made Arthur want to flinch, but deep down he didn't think a curse would be coming. Not yet.

"Think, Arthur," Malfoy sneered. "I would support the Dark Lord, fight his battles, kill his enemies, but I would not bear his Mark. Because I'm Malfoy."

"You do not serve," Arthur finished softly, quoting back the man's words from his trial.

Malfoy straightened, throwing aloofness over his face like a shielding cloak.

"Have you learned what you wanted to know?" he asked.

"I don't know," Arthur replied honestly, realising that whatever insights he had won today, they would not help him in the end. Not to escape. Not to survive.

"You still have a week, Arthur," Malfoy said evenly. "A week until All Hallow's Eve, when your son will throw your beloved Harry Potter at my Lord's feet because he thinks it will save your life."

Arthur schooled his face into rigid calm. Receiving a death sentence like that was nearly enough to make his heart stand still, but he would not let Malfoy see him tremble.

The Death Eater waved his wand to disable the wards on the door, and paused in the doorway one last time to look back over his shoulder.

"I will be busy with the preparations for the grand event, but I think I'll have to pay you one last visit, Arthur." He smiled, with an unguarded malice that told Arthur - more eloquently than any amount of words or threats could have - that he would not be allowed to die before he had paid the full price for seeing behind Lucius Malfoy's iron façade.

Malfoy's eyebrow rose when he saw realisation dawn on Arthur's face.

"Because you still owe me some answers."

~ tbc. ~