This was written for round 2 of the Quidditch League Challenge. The theme was interpretation of lyrics. My lyrics-for-inspiration were the following:
"And so it must be for so it is written
On the door way to Paradise
That those who falter and those who fall
Must pay the price"
~ "Stars" from Les Miserables
I also chose three prompts: "how to win", "clipped wings", "less than perfect"
The bits of dialogue were taken from The Goblet of Fire (chapter called "The Pensieve") and so is JR's work, not mine.
Word Count: 1,178
Bartemius Crouch walked into court, that steely dungeon hidden in the depths of the Ministry, with his wife trailing behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her thin quivering figure, pale fingers playing with the gold chain she kept about her neck at all times. It caught the light, reflecting it harshly, and Bartemius turned his attention forward. He could not afford to wear his emotions so plainly; now more than ever he had to uphold his cool resolve. He could not waiver, could not falter. He had long ago decided to fight fire with fire, to play the game with the same ruthless severity as his enemies. Hadn't he turned the tables around? Hadn't he brought about the end of the war? This was how they, as a community were able to win and preserve their way of life; this was how they had kept from being swept under a wave of social cleansing. He was their savior, an angel putting the demons in their place, fighting in the name of Justice and the Law.
Now was no different.
He lowered himself into the high-backed chair, the honored seat of the judge, surveying the room. He was flanked on the right by the jurors of the Council, indicated by the brilliant red robes they wore; to the left were bleachers that were open to the public and that day they were filled almost to capacity and still more people were filing in, choosing to stand up against the wall than to miss this occasion. His palms were clammy, and he rubbed them vigorously on his robes to rid himself of the dampness, trying to ignore the uncomfortable restriction of his robes. His heart was drumming insistently against his chest so he took a deep breath to calm himself. He was the keeper of the peace, he reminded himself. Justice was blind, was without bias. He had to be so as well. It was the way of the virtuous; it was the only way.
"Bring them in," he instructed and was granted the satisfaction of hearing the clear, steady way in which he articulated this. The courtroom immediately fell silent, and his last note rang ominously throughout the room.
A door to his right, on the main floor below him, opened and six Dementors glided in, escorting a group of four to the center of the room. As they passed, those along the wall shivered, cowering away from the chilling effects of the dark hooded creatures. Bartemius felt no such cold; in his stuffy robes, he half-wished for it.
Several faces turned up to peer at him, gazing at him with pity or open contempt. Even some of the jurors were chancing a glance in his direction. He kept his focus determinedly on the seated figures before him. There were four: two men, one woman, and one man who looked young enough to still be in school. This was their trial, their day of judgment, and he, Bartemius Crouch, would deal their sentence.
"You have been brought here," he began, "before the Council of Magical Law so that we may pass judgment on you."
The young man cried out, pleading, from his place in the chair. He called out to his father, eyes wide with terror, and strained against the cords that bound him to his place. Bartemius avoided his gaze, working hard to keep his heart rate level. He could feel a vein in his neck beginning to throb, and his palms, he realized, had begun to sweat again. But Justice is blind; Justice took no sides. If the boy had faltered, if he had strayed from the clear path of the honorable, then he would have to take responsibility for his actions. The Law did not play favourites, and neither did he.
"I now ask the jury to raise their hands if they believe, as I do, that these crimes deserve a life sentence in Azkaban."
The boy was creating such a ruckus that Bartemius had to shout to make himself heard. He tugged at his collar, trying to find a little relief but there seemed to be little cool air within the room, despite the six Dementors present. There were too many people, and the heat was slowly getting to him.
Why was it so bloody hot today?
As one, the jurors raised their hands, the sleeves of their red robes licking down their arms. As one, the crowd began an overpowering applause, cheering and jeering and hooting. They pressed forward, devilish sneers on their faces, prancing about like imps in their jubilance.
They were being herded out now, the trial over, the verdict announced, but one figure was still struggling, twisting frantically away from the Dementors. He was a mouse ensnared in the claws of a hawk. His panic-stricken face only highlighted his youth: large eyes, skin clear of wrinkles but still holding on to the last traces of pubescent acne, and only a fuzzy hint of the beard he might have, given time.
"I'm your son! I'm your son!" The boy was screaming, over and over, growing ever more desperate, ever more terrified.
Bartemius slammed his hands onto the table, pushing himself to his feet. He looked down at the boy, towering above him. His duty was to uphold the law; his loyalties were to Justice. A society could not flourish when evil-doers were about; the law did not discriminate between a murderer and his accomplice, between a thief and a slanderer. They were all criminals, and they would all serve their time. His feet were placed firmly in the path of the righteous; he would be damned if he let the boy drag him down with him.
"You are no son of mine! I have no son!"
Great chaos ensued. At long last, Bartemius Crouch Jr., juvenile delinquent, convicted torturer, was hauled from the court room to await transportation to Azkaban prison. Bartemius Crouch, Sr., Head of Magical Law Enforcement and honorable judge of the Council of Magical Law, left his wife in the capable hands of Dorothy Woodville to climb down the spiraling staircase down to the main floor. His pulse was racing, and he could tell by the irritating tick in his left eye that his blood pressure was climbing. He clawed at his neck, loosening up his collar with effort as his sweaty fingers slid across the smooth surface of the tiny button. Almost to the bottom, he tripped over the hem of his robes and stumbled down the last three steps.
Bartemius threw out his arms to catch himself. He landed, sharply and ungracefully, upon his hands and knees. He heard the cackling laughter of demons and felt their stares so full of malice and spite. His face burned with shame, and he let his head hang for a breath longer than necessary. When he finally did look up, it was in time to see the jurors, with their red robes blazing, rising to their feet, a wall of flames rising above him.