Shards of Nuance

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tonks. She isn’t going to stand trial.”

“Like hell she’s not.”

“She attacked the Minister of Magic while the Wizengamot was in session. No one will take the case.”

“Bullshit. Everyone knows she didn’t attack the Minister. She didn’t throw so much as a single offensive spell. And she surrendered. She literally threw down her wand.”

“But she was clearly making the point that she could – “

“Of course she was! She’s my bloody sister. The fuck you think she’d do?”

“Andromeda, I can’t help it. We couldn’t pay anyone enough to represent her. Even with the new system.”

“You can stick to Mrs. Tonks.” The voice dripped with scorn. “You find her a defense attorney, Parkinson. I’ll even fund it if they give it a real try. That or you can be sure I will use every means at my disposal to destroy this new judicial system. You said you’d give all the Death Eaters a ‘fair’ trial and now you get to show that you meant it.”

Hermione was visiting Harry and Ron in a lull of their auror competency exams. They hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but a belligerent Andromeda Tonks was hard to ignore.

“I cannot figure her out.” Ron shook his head. “Half the time she seems like the picture of benevolence. The other half the time she’s bloody mental.”

“I guess she’s still a Black at heart,” Hermione mused.

Harry frowned and rushed to defend his godfather. “Hey! Not all the Blacks are crazy.”

“Yes, they are, mate. Sirius was off his rocker. Just because he was on the Good Side doesn’t mean he wasn’t bonkers.” Ron was defending Hermione all too frequently these days, especially when there was nothing to defend.

She worried the rumors about their relationship were going to his head and didn’t look forward to having to nip that in the bud. “Do you think they’ll find her an attorney?”

“I don’t know,” Harry reflected. “Lee Jordan mentioned a new guy from the United States who’s real keen on developing new defense strategies. He said the guy is kinda a loose cannon. Said he met him in the Cauldron months ago; he was plastered and bragging about how he could win a case even for Lestrange.”

“I guess we’ll find out. It’s almost time for you two to get back. Get out of here. Good luck.” She shooed them away and started back toward the floos, trying to politely ignore all the attention she was getting.

**

It turned out that Lee Jordan was right, and the American – Sam Salinger – took the case. Salinger apparently had been a decent quidditch player for a budding club in the States until he returned to university for law and peace conflict studies. At first, his fascination with the rise and fall of Lord Voldemort appeared no different than any other American wizarding law student, but when the news of Voldemort’s second and final death reached Cincinnati, he was on a plane to London within six hours, eager to drink in every second of the war’s aftermath and the British Ministry’s adjudication of the remaining, miserable Death Eaters. He was present at every riot and every open trial and spent his free time lurking in all sorts of establishments to learn everything there was to know about the political and social realities of wizarding Britain until there was a pretty good chance that he knew more about its climate and impacts of the war than did most British witches and wizards. In the Leaky Cauldron, he became known for his drunken rants, wit, charm, and authenticity. Not many days after Lestrange’s reappearance, he marched straight from the Cauldron after a rowdy quidditch match into the Ministry of Magic and demanded to represent the most infamous Death Eater in court. Parkinson thought him quite the American, manifesting his own, unquestioned destiny wherever he went and probably at everyone else’s expense, though the British pureblood couldn’t articulate the last part. Neither Parkinson nor Salinger elected to contact Andromeda Tonks about the defense other than to inform her that her sister would indeed stand trial before the Wizengamot.

By now, the other trials were ended. People had grown tired of reading about ex-Death Eaters being studied and rehabilitated, so the Daily Prophet had to make up other topics to report on again. Salinger’s preparation slinked on long enough for Harry, Ron, and Hermione to get used to doing other things besides attending court. Hermione finished her seventh-year studies and moved fully into the Burrow while continuing Flitwick’s research. Ron and Harry were commissioned as full-blown aurors of surprisingly high rank. Life was absolutely not normal, but at least now normal events happened.

They received their invitations for attendance (which came across more like summons) at the trial of Bellatrix Lestrange one week hence. They made the necessary arrangements, pulled out their dress robes once again, and hoped upon hope that this was the last of the misery they had to face in the public eye. Excitement and dread bore down on them. None of them would admit it, but the night before the trial they each ruminated longer than they felt they should on the mental image of dark, curly hair askew, framing a deeply satisfying, red puddle of blood on the floor trickling from full, delectable lips.

Upon arrival they were seated in a single row spanning the distance between the defense table and the Wizengamot seats. Neville joined them, looking grim, and that didn’t make any of them feel better. Opposite them were Andromeda and her grandson separated from the Malfoys by a single empty chair. All rose for the Minister and sat unceremoniously when Salinger appeared, strutting in a muggle business suit. Lestrange shuffled in behind him all the way to the defense table; though she did not bow her head, she managed to avoid all eye contact or acknowledgment of anyone. Aurors doubled, then tripled, at every entrance.

Salinger was milking the American: he shucked his jacket, draped it over the back of his seat, and absorbed himself in rolling up his sleeves and loosening his collar. Lestrange’s signature black skirt and corset had been replaced by new robes, which Hermione thought made her look like an actress doing a rather poor job of playing the role of Voldemort’s most notorious follower. She locked her charcoal eyes on a faraway spot on the floor and leaned with a false defiance against the arm of the chair.

One member of the Wizengamot timidly raised her voice, “Objection, Minister. The prisoner is – she is not restrained.”

Indeed, Lestrange was not bound at all.

“Not a worry, Minister.” Salinger cut in before directing his smooth brown eyes at the woman who spoke. His face already held a hint of glee. “I think it is clear to this audience that the defendant can perform magic restrained as well as she can unrestrained. Extra aurors have been placed around the room to assuage concerns. They will, however, not be necessary since Mrs. Lestrange will be seeking a lenient agreement with the Wizengamot, which she does not intend to jeopardize now or in the future.”

Lestrange remained still, legs and arms crossed, eyes still on the floor despite her raised chin.

Incredulous looks plastered everyone’s faces. Shacklebolt gathered himself first and began the proceedings. The prosecution went as expected. A laundry list of grotesque crimes made Hermione try to shrink away into her mind to avoid them. The Malfoys and the Tonks’ were unreadable with their set jaws, rigid backs, and impassible eyes. So it was with Lestrange as well. For his part, Salinger looked bored, going so far as to a well-timed yawn halfway through the prosecutor’s presentation. He enlivened only when prompted to take the floor. His cunning and charisma rolled from his relaxed shoulders almost immediately, and the audience stirred with curiosity.

First, Salinger charged the prosecution rightly with providing no evidence for the vast majority of the crimes of which Lestrange was accused. The accusations just presented were soliloquies on the dark witch’s character and elaboration on rumors circulated before, during, and after the war. Only two witnesses had been produced: Ms. Figg from Privet Drive and an old friend of Frank Longbottom’s, neither of whom either gave any new information to the court. Salinger also produced documentation of the patronus of a recently retired auror stating that his department had no concrete evidence to aid the prosecution but that none would be needed to convict Lestrange. It assured the listener that the witch’s reputation alone was enough for the Wizengamot to re-sentence her to Azkaban or perhaps even finally the Dementor’s Kiss. The prosecutor shifted uncomfortably in his seat and suddenly became very engrossed in organizing his notes. Most of the Ministry officials present maintained composure, but a sense of self-conscious uneasiness spread throughout the room.

Second, Salinger argued she could not be criminally charged for escaping Azkaban since criminal charges for the break-out had been struck down as irrelevant in each previous Death Eater trial. The prosecution had been hoping that this argument would be forgotten amidst the sensationalism of the trial. However, Shacklebolt and the Chief Warlock accepted this immediately, nodding as they each made a notation with a quill in front of them.

A small smile crept onto the young American’s lips when he announced his third argument. “As to the death of Sirius Black, proven member of the Order of the Phoenix, Bellatrix Lestrange is innocent.”

A murmur of outrage rippled through the audience. Hermione resisted replaying the event in her head, but unfortunately Salinger required them all to remember.

“I can, in fact, prove the defendant’s innocence. I have procured two memories from that fateful night. One from Mrs. Lestrange. One from Mr. Yaxley, who was also present in the Department of Mysteries.”

Lestrange stiffened and pressed three fingers to her temple by her closed eyes. Everyone else watched nervously as Salinger poured the memories in to a pensieve brought to him from a courtroom page, stirred the liquid with his wand, and whipped the liquid into the air. Two memories, clearly from different points of view, stitched themselves together in a seamless story in the middle of the floor.

It was, in fact, exactly how Hermione remembered it. It was exactly what happened.

A Death Eater throwing a fruitless killing curse before being disarmed. Lestrange throwing a stupefy. Sirius floating unconscious backwards through the Veil. Harry screaming.

A small voice escaping Lestrange’s quivering lips. “I - I killed Sirius? I killed Sirius Black. I –“

And then she was running. Green lights flashing all around her. Harry’s voice screaming and screaming.

The memory swirled away.

“So you see, ladies and gentleman. My client did not intend to kill Sirius Black; in fact, she experienced shock and despair at his accidental death – feelings which later made her question her allegiance to Lord Voldemort. In the event which we just observed, she used only a spell learned by all Hogwarts students in their fourth year. She used no unforgivable curses or any dark magic at all. In fact, the only person in this event who used an unforgivable curse is Harry Potter.”

The room sat stunned. Harry was gritting his teeth, muscles clenched like a deer about to flee.

Salinger’s careful next words were very soft. “And that is an important thing to remember. The mere usage of an unforgivable curse has not warranted a penalized conviction in this courtroom since the war – for anyone. Don’t worry. We are not here to accuse Harry Potter for something he did out of love for his family and for the greater good. We are here to acquit Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Lestrange shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her head conspicuously turned away from her sisters. Something was wrong, Hermione thought. Magic was draining from the dark-haired woman down into the place where her eyes were boring holes into the floor. She showed no joy, no hope, at the prospect of being acquitted. She only seemed to sink beneath the weight of an invisible thing. Something was happening that should not be.

“I will now address the crime for which Mrs. Lestrange was incarcerated in Azkaban, a crime of which she is also innocent.”'

Frank Longbottom’s friend who had taken the prosecution’s witness stand screeched in rage, and Neville shook in his seat next to Hermione. Even the Wizengamot erupted in outrage.

“This is enough, attorney! You speak of things you know nothing about,” a man holding the Prewett seat spat.

Shacklebolt called for silence and begrudgingly indicated for Salinger to continue.

“You see, I have also procured memories of this event again from Yaxley, Mrs. Lestrange, and from Charles Abbott, head auror at the time. I will now share these with you.” There were a few groans and exclamations, but most present were hooked and leaned in to watch as Salinger again brought memories up from the pensieve with a flourish.

A young Narcissa Malfoy stood in front of the Dark Lord. Severus Snape, thinner but already brooding, guarded the door. The Dark Lord flicked his wand and green sparks struck the young woman in the forehead.

“You will do anything and everything you can to get that information for me. You’ll receive instructions as you go. Go, now!” he hissed. “Severus! I am going to the Potters. Find Bellatrix and send her to me.”

Narcissa’s glazed eyes slid over a very pale Snape as she stepped past him into the hallway. He followed her, calling for Bellatrix.

A figure appeared at the end of the hallway, sporting an uncorked bottle of firewhiskey in one lazy hand. “What now, Severus? I am totally uninterested in dealing with you today.” She sloshed the liquor with a vigorous gesture. “Oh, hello, Cissy.”

The young woman neither answered nor looked at her. The bottle crashed to the floor as Bellatrix noticed something amiss and snatched at her sister’s robe.

“Cissy? Cissy, look at me. What’s he done? Cissy, answer me!” There was still no response, and the blonde young woman shrugged her off and stalked away.

“What’s he done?” Bellatrix whirled on Snape as he reached her.

“Bellatrix, he’s asked for you to meet him at the Potters’.” Pain poured from the man’s voice.

“What?”

“It’s happening tonight. We are attacking the Order members tonight. He wants you to kill Lily and James. Bellatrix, remember her. Please. I’m begging you for help - I don’t know how, but please.”

“Severus, what did he do to Cissy!”

He’s sent her to the Longbottoms. For information. But Lily - ”

“He imperius’d her for that?” Her face filled with fear, completely ignoring Snape’s pleas. “Fuck no no no. Cissy, come back! CISSY!”

Bellatrix tripped over the bottle on the floor, stumbled into the wall, and finally sprinted in the direction Narcissa had gone.

The memory fell to the floor like sand, which rose back up to form a new one in its place. Salinger was positively glowing.

Bellatrix landed in front of the Longbottom house with her wand out. She paused, listening for something. When a muffled scream broke the silence, she barreled up the steps and into the house, unaware of the aurors apparating onto the street behind her. She followed the screams until she burst into a room with a single lightbulb on, illuminating Narcissa’s platinum hair and the wand she was twirling repeatedly between crucios. Frank and Alice Longbottom writhed on the floor in puddles of sweat, spit, and urine.

“Cissy! CISSY! Stop. Stop!” She spun her sister around to see those still milky eyes.

“Bella, I’m busy. Come back later.” The woman’s voice and affect were flat.

“No, no, Cissy. Stop, this is madness. This is not you. This is him! Stop it.”

Narcissa shoved her away and turned back to send another arc of green light at the figures on the floor. Bellatrix pointed her wand at her sister, but her spell died on her lips because they were both hit with stupefys from aurors at the door.

The memory dissolved again and spun up into yet another. Hermione was horrified at the memories but moreso at what she was seeing in the people around her. Salinger was beaming. The Wizengamot, her friends, and others in the audience leaned forward in sick fascination. Their jaws hung open the way people gaped at monsters in muggle films, and she could already hear their prattle after the show obsessing with glee over the thing they had observed.

In a room with no windows, Bellatrix sat on a rickety chair, hands bound to the goblin-forged desk in front of her. A greying man with an auror symbol embroidered on his robe and an Abbot crest on his conspicuously visible shirt sleeves reclined opposite her with his crossed ankles propped up on the same desk.

“Look here, Lestrange. The Dark Lord is dead, and I am tasked with adjudicating you petulant Death Eaters. You’re mostly rabble, though I admit you’ve caused a handful of problems. The trouble you’re causing me now is that you’ve made it so complicated. There are nuances that render an easy solution to this problem impossible, but the plebeians will not understand them. I have to give them a sign of victory.”

“Tell them the truth. He’s dead and we are ruined. What more could they want?” She growled.

“They need to see that their government is trustworthy and just. They need it to be inspiring – something they can believe in.”

“Well their government isn’t trustworthy, and they shouldn’t believe in it.”

He waved her off. “Someone has to go to Azkaban, Bellatrix. As it stands, the Longbottoms’ torture is the crime makes the most sense to the masses, so it has to be publicly punished.”

“She was under the imperius curse, Abbott! You fucking know that! The aurors can attest to it.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t change that she was visibly witnessed crucio’ing them into oblivion. And think of what their son will have to bear all his life.”

“Sending her to Azkaban for a crime she didn’t know she was committing will not make their family feel better. And think of what her son would have to bear all his life.”

“Perhaps not. But sending someone more powerful, someone with a higher profile might…” He lifted his eyebrows at her.

She trembled as realization dawned on her.

“Bella, you’ve been clever enough to not get caught. You’re audacious and beautiful enough that you’ve become the public’s favorite villain. You’re also loyal to your family – loyal to a fault, so I’ve heard. You don’t want your sister to go to Azkaban. I don’t want you causing any more trouble. The people want a perpetrator punished, and they want to be able to romanticize it. It seems like there’s a fairly logical compromise to meet all our needs.” He cocked his head at her.

She exhaled. “You are despicable. You are a hypocrite.”

“Sure. But you can’t deny that I’m right.” He chuckled. His good nature was grating.

“What would you need me to do?”

He leaned forward, emboldened. “Stand trial for the crime. Confess to it publicly. Proclaim your devotion to the Dark Lord.”

She paused for a long time, looking pained. “Only if you’ll never pursue any action against her. You’ll erase it from all ministry records. You’ll wipe her memory and the memory of the aurors who arrested us.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll do it all in front of me.”

He smiled. “I’d hoped you say that. The Black family is always so reliable.” He snapped his fingers. A house elf appeared and disappeared again to retrieve the things he summoned.

The aurors from the Longbottoms’ ushered an utterly downtrodden Narcissa into the room. The elf reappeared with a heavy records book. Abbott opened it, flipping nonchalantly until he found the right page. “Ah yes, here it is. ‘On October 31, 1993, Narcissa Malfoy tortured the Longbottoms to insanity with the cruciatus curse.’ But that’s not exactly how it went, is it?”

The aurors wrinkled their foreheads in confusion, and Narcissa raised alarmed eyes at her sister who took a deep breath to say, “No. On October 31, 1993, I, Bellatrix Lestrange, tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom to insanity with the cruciatus curse.”

“Pretty good,” Abbott mused to himself. He drew his wand over a line to erase it and carefully rewrote it. “See here, we agree.” He showed it to Bellatrix to read. “Again. Convince me.”

“On October 31, 1993, I tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom to insanity with the cruciatus curse.” She raised her voice.

“Ah yes.” He flicked his wrist to obliviate the aurors. “Again!”

“Bella – “ Narcissa squeaked.

“On October 31, 1993, I tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom to insanity with the cruciatus curse!!”

Abbott smiled and obliviated Narcissa who blinked several times before settling haunted, blue eyes on her sister. He called the elf again, who escorted Narcissa and the aurors out of the room.

He stood as he said, “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Lestrange. Make sure I believe you in your trial tomorrow. I will not take more than I need, but your family’s interests are best served by making good on your end of the deal.” Then he was gone.

Salinger took his time collecting the memories back into their vials and sending the pensieve away with the page. Hermione’s heart pounded wildly in her chest as she stared across the room at the Black sisters. Narcissa looked close to death. Andromeda had flushed and was staring at Bellatrix, willing the woman to look at her, but the dark-haired witch still refused to look anywhere but the spot on the floor where her magic continued to drain in silver, red, and blue. After about a minute, Salinger turned back to the Wizengamot as though just remembering that they were there.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you must see that the Ministry’s new judiciary method has so many more advantages over the old one. It allows nuance. It helps us to be better to each other than we were before. It allows us to rightly acquit Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy since being under the imperius curses renders actions committed under it unable to be prosecuted and the use of the cruciatus curse alone does not require conviction. But this system also helps us bring to light forces that were unjustly enacted against my client by the ministry itself. Mrs. Bellatrix Lestrange spent 14 years in Azkaban for a crime she did not commit and for a confession she was forced to make in order to protect her family from another injustice – an action with many similarities to Mr. Potter’s zeal for his godfather. The Wizengamot has a chance to restore justice today. I implore you to truly face the implications of what’s been presented today as you vote on Mrs. Lestrange’s charges and sentencing.”

It was Shacklebolt who put voice to something that Hermione only just remembered concerned her. “Mr. Salinger. How did you come by these memories?”

“I exercised my full legal right as a defense attorney appointed by the Ministry of Magic to use any reasonable means to amass evidence in favor of my client’s case. I can provide documentation and permits from ministry labs, law enforcement, and the Department of Mysteries if necessary."

“Was this an agreement you made with your client?”

“She had to be convinced that this was a viable method, but I think she is now.” Salinger was smug and did not look at his client.

Shacklebolt looked unconvinced. “Mrs. Lestrange, do you have anything to say?”

The first words that Hermione had heard the woman say since the battle at Hogwarts broke a long silence. “No.”

That was all. Lestrange had not consented. Her memories had been taken and her magic usurped by the Ministry defense against her will for the sake of Justice, capital J; for “the greater good;” for Salinger’s benefit. Multiple Ministry departments had allowed it, maybe even encouraged it. They were not so dissimilar to Abbott, manipulating justice to achieve some idyllic Good behind which the wizarding community would rally. Andromeda had been right. it was hardly about Voldemort. It was so much bigger. He had made people do horrible things, but people already wanted to do things that weren’t good, with or without dark magic. With a justice system that committed crimes against the people it protected, how could they know the difference between who wanted to do evil and who was coerced into evil except when knowing was convenient to them? Hermione felt ugly. She wanted to vomit to expel whatever thing inside her that she had in common with this.

When the day was over, she rushed from the courtroom. Back at the Burrow, she had a late-night drink with Harry, Ron, and Ginny. They avoided discussing the trial, but it was hanging over their heads and dampening the mood.

“All of that was awful,” Ginny finally said.

Harry looked in his cup. “None of it should have happened. But what can we do now?”

“It’ll work itself out,” Ron shrugged. “It has to.”

Her friends’ words made Hermione furious, but she didn’t know how to explain why to herself, much less to them. She settled for, “I can’t stand it anymore. I’m not going to the sentencing tomorrow. I need a break from it all.”

Her friends could tell she didn’t just mean a break from the trials so when they found her bed empty and belongings gone the next morning, they weren’t surprised. The note she left asked them not to look for her and that she’d owl them. It was tucked into Dumbledore’s old copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

News of Lestrange’s sentencing travelled as far as the little wizarding community nestled near the muggle fishing port in which Hermione rented a flat. The dark witch’s wand had been snapped, her magic “pruned” in the new research station, and a heavy trace placed on her. She would spend a year in a special rehabilitation facility before being released to an approved sponsor. Her travel and spending would be regulated for the rest of her life. Otherwise, she could pursue whatever she wanted - which Hermione found laughable.

After the trial, Narcissa Malfoy was not seen in public for a long time. Draco worked and socialized in secrecy so as not draw attention to himself. Andromeda Tonks continued directing St. Mungo’s and mentoring new healers. The day Lestrange was released from the rehab program, the Daily Prophet featured a photo of Andromeda picking her up at the ministry, elegant, auburn waves shielding the free woman from the camera as they disapparated. Ron was assigned to a unit keeping a short leash on paparazzi at the Tonks residence, but the post was short-lived because Lestrange disappeared on the third day and never returned.