Hello! This story is very special to me, more so than most of the crap I've written, so I hope y'all enjoy it!

I don't own Harry Potter or any of its characters!

A Majority is always better than the best repartee. - Benjamin Disraeli

The courtroom was positively buzzing that day. The entire Wizengamot had been coming in, day after day, to try suspected death eaters and snatchers, and nobody was focused this close to the hour-long break they would have for lunch. There was just one more group before the break, and according to the notes, this was the team that had worked with Greyback. If the suspects weren't total morons, they'd know to take the plea. They didn't look like morons. They had a certain scruffy dignity as each was shoved into a chair at the center of the courtroom. Only the girl looked scared when the chains on the chairs clanked ominously. The tall, Black wizard sitting where the Minister usually would cleared his throat.

"Lachlan Scabior, Ivan Hornblower, Emil Froud and Poppy Parkinson, you each stand accused of joining forces to aid Voldemort's attempted rise to power, stooping to such measures as theft, murder, rape, kidnapping and torture, for profit.

"Hornblower, how do you plead?"

"Guilty," grunted the pale man at one end. Several members of the Wizengamot looked scandalized that the circles under his eyes were not just from lack of sleep, but from muggle makeup.

"Froud, how do you plead?"

"Guilty," said the oldest of the defendants. He looked like he was seeing something in the room invisible to everyone else, but he seemed sensible enough. He was certainly sane enough to be held responsible for his actions.

"Scabior, how do you plead?"

"Guilty," answered the third man. He had been looking at the last defendant to be called with a strangely soft expression; it was shocking to hear him answer so sneeringly to the auror in charge of the hearing. He, unlike the other two men, had clearly put a great deal of effort into his appearance His handsome face was clean shaven, his hair was clean and tied back, and he was wearing a well-cut suit with an atrociously flamboyant tie.

"Parkinson, how do you plead?"

The last defendant, an eighteen-year old girl with long black hair, didn't answer right away. She seemed to be struggling to find the right words. Most of the Wizengamot seemed to assume that she was trying to bring herself to take the plea, and that the hearing was almost over. Some even began to pack up and get ready to get lunch as soon as possible. Parkinson took one last look at her companion and gulped before saying,

"Not guilty."

"Not guilty?" repeated the Black auror, clearly surprised.

"No," Parkinson cleared her throat, "Not guilty." The ginger scribe for the day let out a deep laugh.

"But you traveled for months with a known snatcher team," said the Black wizard, "you said, in front of multiple witnesses, including you fellow defendants that you were a snatcher, you have a Dark Mark, and you were not only aware that there was a plot to kill Albus Dumbledore, you also played a large role in it!"

"And," added the scribe, "You are a blood relative to an extremely dangerous Death Eater whose actions led to the deaths of an unknown number of wizards and muggles alike, as well as the permanent loss of two aurors' minds!"

"Well, yeah… but I didn't do anything wrong!" insisted Parkinson.

"Then explain yourself," said the Black wizard.

"Are you sure? It's a long story."

"We have time." The room almost exploded. Any sympathy the members of the Wizengamot may have had for Parkinson vanished. She was no longer a tragic example of youth gone awry; she was now a Death Eater and a snatcher of the worst kind. One wizard amid the groans almost went horse screaming, "Dammit, Kinsgley!" at the top of his lungs. Parkinson shifted in her seat and cleared her throat over the din.

"I guess it all began the summer when I was fifteen…"

Parkinson began to tell about three years' worth of adventure, but in her mind she couldn't help but remember all the parts she wasn't telling: the strange friendship she had developed with the men now sitting next to her, all the nights with Lee, and the only time in her memory her mother held her like a child. For hours, she told watered-down versions of the most exciting three years of her life, which she could go over, in detail, for years to come.

Anyone who knows were I got Ivan and Emil's last names from gets a shout out next chapter!