A/N: This story is for everyone who grew up reading Harry Potter. It's my version of a grittier, older, less idealistic take on the story that we love, in a world where Voldemort emerged victorious. It's weird and different and I hope it intrigues you.
- Prologue –
The trial chamber of the Wizengamot was open to the air. It's drab, grey walls gave way to the blue sky. Two stands were placed at the front of the roofless room, and at present, they were packed with dignified-looking men and women clad in traditional robes. They spoke quietly among themselves, pausing every now and then to turn their heads and frown at those seated in the seats at the far end of the chamber.
The seats at the far end were, in actuality, long, roughly hewn wooden benches, and had been dragged in especially for the occasion. The men, women and children packed into the benches were dressed in tattered dresses and business suits, jeans and tee-shirts, robes and rags. They talked loudly among themselves and stared wide-eyed at the sand-filled pit located at the center of the chamber. It was in that pit that the night's entertainment was set to occur.
There were two chairs by the very edge of the pit, and seated in them were two men. One was a prisoner; he was chained tightly to the chair, and his head lolled forwards against his neck. Blood dripped from a cut on his brow, and one of his eyes was blackened. The other man lounged elegantly in his seat, with his right ankle balanced upon his left knee. He oozed aristocratic grace, and disdainfully glared up at the people crammed into the benches.
Behind the two chairs was the juror's dais.
The side-door of the chamber flew open, and a toad-like woman dressed in bright pink robes approached the dais with a roll of parchment clutched tightly in one hand. All those present quieted immediately.
"Ahem," the woman said, smiling sweetly. "We are gathered here today to bear witness to the trial of a criminal who has committed the crime of treason against our beloved state."
She unrolled the parchment, held it up, and began to read the suits filed against the prisoner.
"For acts of vandalism upon Ministry property, for breaking the pact between man and government forged in the Sedition Act of 1987, for being in violation of sections 1.29, 2.34, 5.67 of Article IV in the Ministerial Doctrine, as well as sections 3.45, 5.67, and 7.10 of Article V, as well as…"
She continued speaking, and the people seated on the benches began to speak in soft tones. They shook their heads as she listed the prisoner's crimes. Some of them hid smiles behind their hands; others wiped away tears with handkerchiefs. Those seated in the stands remained stony faced and silent.
"…for attempted murder of members of the House of Lords, for attempted murder of members of the Ministry, for attempted murder of members of…"
The list continued, and many of the room's occupants frowned and grew puzzled as the woman continued at length, listing a litany of crimes so varied and violent that it seemed bizarre that one man had done them all.
"…for attempting to raise an army, for attempting to distribute magic freely, for accusing the state of criminal conspiracy, and for attempting to instigate widespread criminal conspiracy."
The woman's smile hadn't faded, though her eyes were steely and cold. She rolled up the parchment and set it upon the dais.
"The prisoner will receive a traditional wizard's trial-by-fire. His challenger is a stand in for the law," she announced, placing a hand on the shoulder of the unharmed, blonde man seated comfortably in the left chair. He flinched slightly at her touch, but offered no comment. The woman removed her hand and resumed speaking.
"The rules of Wizengamot combat are thus: The arena is the pit. Both men will be given the same dose of blood magic to use at their disposal. Neither can live while the other survives. The man who emerges victorious is on the side of justice."
She snapped her fingers twice, and with a loud crack, a house elf appeared bearing a tray. The woman reached down and retrieved two, long, thin objects. She raised the hypodermic needles high in the air, and the silvery liquid within them shimmered as the crowd leaned forward to check that the prisoner and challenger would be receiving the same dosage of magic.
The challenger reclined in his chair when she presented him with the needle. The needle was inserted into the flesh of his right arm, and he tensed visibly as magic poured into his veins. The women withdrew the needle when the tube was empty, and discarded it with a flick of her wand. She then approached the chained man, but before she could prick him with the needle, the prisoner raised his head abruptly and rattled at his chains. The woman jumped back.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. She hesitated slightly before turning back to the prisoner, but this time she didn't attempt to insert the needle into his arm. He leaned in as close as his restraints would permit, and it appeared to those present that he was mumbling something to the woman.
The observers murmured, but quelled when the pink-robed woman raised a hand to silence them. She stepped away from the prisoner and discarded the needle.
At this, several people from the benches rose.
"Fraud!" an elderly, bearded man roared, shaking his fist at the woman. "Give 'im 'is magic!"
"Fascist pigs!" a hooded teenager yelled from the back.
"QUIET!" the woman shrieked. Her face was distorted with rage as she drowned out their voices. She brandished her wand at them, and they grew silent. The woman smoothed out her pink robes and smiled again, the look of fury disappearing. "The prisoner himself has elected to enter the ring magicless," she said to the men and women in the benches as if addressing a child. "Perhaps, deep inside, he knows he deserves to fail," she added in a saccharine tone.
The doors to the chamber opened once more, and men robed in black wearing skeletal masks filed in. The formed a circle around the pit. The tallest one withdrew his wand from his robes and freed the prisoner.
"The trial commences," the masked man said in a gravelly voice.
The challenger entered the ring, back straight, head held high. The unchained prisoner stumbled after him, bruised and bloody from his prior confinement. He stared at the ground as he walked, and swayed dangerously, as if unable to support his weight.
Upon reaching the furthermost end of the ring, the challenger stood with his back to the prisoner and addressed those seated in the stands above him. "I am the chosen one of the Dark Lord, and I shall fight this man in his stead."
The people seated below remained silent, but from the stands came polite applause, and a shower of sickles and galleons.
The prisoner didn't seem to have heard the challenger's declaration. He'd come to a halt at the other end of the ring and was blinking up at the dazzling, mid-day sun. The men and women in the benches were here to see him, and were disappointed at his poor showing. They rose to their feet anew.
The masked men surrounding the pit drew closer as the crowd grew rowdier. The prisoner seemed to have lost his bearings once more. Tradition dictated that he address the crowd as the challenger had. The men and women in the benches began shouting again; they yelled his name and stomped their feet as his opponent watched him with cold, calculating eyes.
Seconds passed, and the prisoner did not speak. The challenger raised his arm into the air, his palm facing the prisoner. He met the prisoner's eyes, but the prisoner didn't seem to recognize him. For the first time, his face betrayed something besides indifference; he scowled fiercely, his arm shaking as he opened his mouth to cast a spell. The challenger's body shuddered with the force of his blood magic, and he unleashed it prematurely.
The prisoner was thrown backwards, his limbs tangling as he crashed into the pit's wall.
"Say something!" the challenger roared, advancing towards the prisoner. "Diffindo!"
The wall behind the crumpled man exploded, and the onlooker's screams could be heard echoing through the chamber. An elegantly dressed woman in the stands fainted and dropped to the floor.
The challenger had fallen back from the force of the blast. He shielded his eyes as the sand settled around him, reshaping the terrain of the arena.
The prisoner had been jolted back to awareness; he scrambled to his feet, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He limped forward and paused when he reached the challenger's fallen form, and gave the man a hard kick in the chest. The challenger groaned and rolled over. The prisoner allowed himself a small smile at his opponent's discomfort, and then cleared his throat and turned to face the crowd. The challenger rose to his feet behind him, magic visibly rippling through his body.
"My name is Harry Potter," the prisoner said hoarsely. He glanced over his shoulder, green eyes flashing as he noted the fact that the challenger was approaching him once more, and then turned back to those gathered before him. "And I am about to die."