Subpoena

“When a wife loses their husband we call her a widow. The reverse, a widower. There is no term for someone who loses a child. There are no words for when you lose both mother and son.”

The October chill arrived prematurely that year. The dawn air was crisp enough to make even the most shattered soul sit with rapt attention. Luna’s loved ones had gathered in the east grove of Peverell Manor. It was a small clearing surrounded by aromatic honeysuckle bushes and loquat trees. At Ron's request everyone in attendance had transfigured their robes to match the fruit of the plants- the grove appeared to be invaded by a bright yellow mob. The congregation sat on the forest floor in a half circle; at the front stood Ginny, fiery hair plaited back tightly. On her right were two willow saplings, one clearly years ahead in growth than the other. 

“Luna was the single most benevolent person I’ve ever known,” Ginny spoke, eyes swimming with tears. “She gave her love freely where most hide it away. She shared her work willingly where many hoard it for their own gain.” She placed a pale hand on the taller of the two trees, looking at it lovingly and pausing to steady herself. 

“Angus would have grown to be just like her.”

Ginny looked to her youngest brother. Ronald was clutching his sleeping child to his chest, as though she were the last thing holding him together. 

“Adalyn will grow to be just like her. We will do everything we can to ensure she knows her mother through us. It is our duty to carry on her name. It is our responsibility to honor Angus’.” 

Ginny inhaled deeply, letting the scent of woods fill her veins. She looked at Harry and nodded. He stood from his spot on the mossy forest floor and walked to her- Arthur, George, Bill, Charlie, Percy, and Xenophilius joining them at the head of the crescent. Ron stood last, handing his daughter to his mother beside him, and wordlessly raised his wand. The other pallbearers followed suit. 

The two willow saplings floated into the air, golden strands of magic spiraling from the ends of their roots. For any other occasion, such a show would have been beautiful. The trees remained suspended for a moment, the brilliantly colored magic traveling into their roots, up their trunks, and into the leaves of the trees. Silently they descended into holes that had been dug for them. The seven wizards and a single witch moved their wands in a unanimous, smooth line covering the roots with earth. The cry of several thestrals could be heard in the forest beyond the clearing. Within the grove, a deafening silence laid Luna and Angus Weasley to rest for the final time.

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The days following the funeral, specifically days spent at Foreheart place, gave reticent a new meaning.

The trial was due in just over a week, and with it came a new set of problems. Draco and Harry had been visiting Sirius less as the weeks progressed, no doubt in accordance with Luna’s passing and mourning. Sirius was suddenly friendless once more, as Remus still had not checked in with the gang. This, along with a new cause for overwhelming guilt, required Tooley to cast a full body-binding curse on Black every night. Truly, his progress had come to a screeching halt. Dark circles gave an encore under his eyes and what weight he had gained since his departure from Azkaban slipped off of his frame. The only person looking worse than Sirius Black was Hermione Granger.

For days after the funeral Hermione refused to leave her room. Sirius had a sneaking suspicion the witch had cast silencing charms at her door; the house was far too quiet for what he knew she was going through. He found himself weeping into his pillow and screaming himself out of nightmares often enough to know that his host couldn’t be faring much better than he.

It was for that reason that on the sixth straight day of solitude Sirius all but broke down the door to Hermione’s bedroom. The scene he stepped into was not a pleasant one. There were books strewn across the floor, some appearing to have been thrown off the shelves. The drapes were drawn tightly, the bed unmade. On the floor next to the bookshelf laid Hermione, hair wildly knotted and still wearing the canary robes from the funeral. Sirius sighed, running his palms over his scruffy cheeks, and crossed the room to meet her. She was snoring lightly, he realized, causing him a twinge of guilt. Judging by the state of her room the girl had not been sleeping well as of late. He pressed his back to the bookshelf and slid down its length, joining Hermione on the floor. 

“Hermione,” he muttered, placing a hand cautiously on her back and shaking her softly, “Hermione, ‘s time to get up. Have something to eat. Maybe a bath.” Sirius added after a moment.

Hermione stirred, lifting her head slowly. She recoiled at the sight of her uninvited guest, crouching defensively as she pushed herself onto her knees. From beneath her unkempt mane, a pair of bloodshot eyes glared at Sirius.

“Get out.”

“Hermione, it’s been nearly a week. It’s time-“

“I don’t think,” she cut in coldly, “you get to tell me what it’s time for, Mister Black. You didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry when Luna was helping you. I’ll take my time mourning her, if you don’t mind.”

Sirius stared at her, for once in his life at a loss for words. This was nothing like the vehement outbursts he’d grown to expect, nor like their occasional heated arguments. This was a calculated, rehearsed statement. Her icy disdain reminded him of her tone when she answered his question in the kitchen on his first day at Foreheart place. It reprised before them now, ringing unspoken in the air.

“You...you believe I’m innocent?”

The answer was obvious. He may not have been directly responsible for the fall of the Potters, but Sirius undoubtedly had the blood of a formidable woman and an innocent child on his hands. 

He was irreversibly, unequivocally to blame for the death of Luna and Angus Weasley.

He withdrew his hand from her back, stood silently, and hurried from the bedroom without so much as a glance behind him. He failed to notice tears streaming steadily down Hermione’s puffy face as he walked away. 

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October 30th

9:27 am

The kitchen of Foreheart place had been rearranged to mimic the Wizengamot courtroom. The table had been pushed to the opposite end of the room and placed by the windows. Mismatching footstools, armchairs, and benches from around the house were placed in a circle; in the middle was a transfigured podium (it had previously been a tattered copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them) and a wooden dining chair. It was behind the podium Hermione stood with note cards in hand, chewing on the inside of her cheek and pacing the circle’s small perimeter. She kept a pencil tucked behind her ear and another in the pocket of her grey jumper, alternating between them as one thought or another passed through her mind. A burst of green flames and the arrival of her department head interrupted her rehearsal. 

“Still doing this bit, are we?” Draco smiled, dusting off his coat and gesturing to the stage Hermione had set. She set her notecards on the podium and turned to Draco, shrugging with a tilt of her head.

“It helps me fine tune it. I’ve got everything- time table, agenda, statements…” she trailed off, mentally thumbing through the rest of her list.

“No judgment. I’m fairly certain Tooley caught me monologuing in the shower yesterday,” Draco said, earning a tired half smile from Hermione. He placed his hands in his pockets and crossed to the podium, exhaling audibly as he glanced over the notecards. Hermione crossed her arms and looked at him. Ten years' interaction with Draco allowed for Hermione to recognize his tells. He was more rigid than normal, aristocratic posture shining through as it did when he felt out of place. She cleared her throat with a shrill “eh-hem.” Draco started at the echo of their former professor, nearly dropping the cards.

“Why are you here, Draco?”

“What?”

“You know I’ve got everything in order, you typically don’t hover like this. Particularly not at….” she trailed off, checking her wristwatch, “...9:34 the morning before a trial. Out with it.” 

The blonde wizard sighed, straightening the notecards to have something to do with his hands. Hermione pretended not to notice the several steps he took away from her.

“I am concerned about your relationship with our client, Miss Gran- Hermione,” He corrected when he noticed her glower. “I appreciate the work you’ve done for this case, but I am worried-“

“I’m still going to represent him fairly, Malfoy,” she interjected crossly, “No matter what he’s done. This case is about changing laws that are bigger than him. I won’t jeopardize that.”

“That’s not what I mean ‘Mione.” Draco said quietly. She bristled at the change in formality; he had not called her by her nickname before. She adopted the wizard’s posture now, squaring her shoulders and clenching her jaw. He walked to her slowly, lifting a hand as though to touch her arm, but instead dropped it.

“Harry brought it to my attention, and he’s about as observant as a stack of bricks,” Malfoy continued in his hurried, hushed way. “We’re concerned your feelings for Black will compromise your ability-“

“That’s bull!” Hermione cried, slapping one hand on the armchair she’d been leaning against, “You know I would never let my opinion of-“

“Feelings for, Hermione.”

Her hair seemed to deflate with her anger.

“I- what?”

Draco sighed and raised his hands once more, cautiously taking her small hands in his large ones. She slowly raised two brown eyes to lock with his green. Forest meeting earth. His brow furrowed as he looked down, refusing to watch her face for what he was about to say next.

“You’re off the case Hermione. I’ll need your help for the spell and the pensive, but once that’s finished you’re done.” 

“I don’t know just what you’re accusing me of but I can assure you-“

“Give it a rest Granger!” the wizard nearly yelled

She pulled away from him, mouth hanging half open. Draco began collecting her note cards and with a wave of his wand, several feet of parchment floated through the hall and into his hands from the upstairs study.

“You’re done,” he repeated briskly, still avoiding her gaze as he moved to gather everything. “It’s a conflict of interest and a liability we can’t afford to have.” He shoved the papers in the inside pocket of his coat and looked past Hermione’s shoulder. Sirius stood in the kitchen entry, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe with a frown etched on his lips. 

“I’ll be representing you for the duration of the trial, Mister Black,” Draco said cooly, straightening his collar. Without so much as another glance to Hermione he turned on his heel and stepped into the fireplace, leaving a fuming witch and a dumbfounded wizard behind.

End of Part I