Look at them. Not so high and mighty now, are they? Robes encrusted in filth, faces marred with bruises, and him – his once prided hair now matted and tarnished to a dirty brown.
It takes all my might not to break into a smug grin.
And yet, there is still haughtiness in their stance, aplomb in their posture.
As if they hadn't spent the last few days in an unclean holding cell like common rabble.
"You are all aware why you have been brought before me." It's a statement, not a question. I couldn't be bothered to worry if they had been told, or not. I know what they deserve.
Malfoy sneers at me, and I find special relish in the wince that follows; a cut lip doesn't make it any easier on his pasty face.
I let a little smirk bleed through, and take satisfaction in the mild fear that flashes through Parkinson's eyes. She bows her head and Malfoy hisses something in her ear that snaps her head up and back into position.
Still following his orders, I see.
"Do you have anyone who will defend your case?" I know for a fact that this is a closed trial. Only someone in the higher echelons can do anything that might influence my decision.
Of course I have already made my decision. These inbred murderers need nothing more than a long stay in isolation. Think over their actions for a while, maybe.
If they stayed sane long enough.
I want to tell them how I really feel – wanted to gloat – not so rosy now, is there? The only blood that will be of any essence is that which will bleed from your fingers as you try and claw your way to freedom – one way or another.
I want them to realize that it was they who spilled so much blood; so many dead, so many who would never be whole again.
All for the sake of blood.
If it is blood they want, this time, it will have to be their own. No more; no more will the side of the light bleed for them.
Now they will bleed for the side of the light.
I paste an especially sunny look on my face, as if I were sending my favorite pupils off to a picnic in the meadows.
It unnerves all of them, and I relish the moment.
"For the crimes committed in the name of the Dark Lord Voldemort," I wait for the customary flinch, and proceed, "you will be sentenced to 17 years of isolation at Azkaban." My tone is almost pleasant, as if I were speaking of the sunny weather that had arrived with the death of that overgrown rodent.
He – who – is – rotting – in – a – paddock – somewhere*. I mentally snort. Ron had the most inventive names. Ron, I wonder if he'll be free for lunch today.
Their faces register shock, and fear. Ah, so they've heard of the improvements made at the prison, have they? Perhaps there are no dementors, but credit is due for creativity of the human mind.
Their beloved mentor is not around to help them now. I'm sure he's pacing around in his dungeons or outside the courtroom, trying to free his precious Slytherins. It won't happen, not before they've had a good dose of the prison at least.
It takes weeks to appeal and get another hearing.
The courts are overrun with cases; the ministry wants everything cleaned out, as soon as possible.
It took a good bloody half year to find this filth; I'll be damned if they don't get a taste of the cruelty they have doled out.
The charms – if you can call them that – on the new prison were pure genius, even if she said so herself. It had taken her months to get it right, but judging from the shock on the Wizengamot's faces when it was demonstrated to them... well it was a mark that the spells worked.
It was all too much for Parkinson, I suppose. She crumples into a heap on the floor and sobs emerge. No amount of talking gets her to put on a brave mask.
17 years. One for each of the Order members and students who had died defending the castle till Harry had fulfilled his destiny.
Harry.
Poor sweet Harry. I wish he were alive to see this.
He might not recognize you, a small voice tells me, and I stomp it out. The Death Eaters and their offspring deserved it.
I bang the gavel and move onto the next case. Malfoy gives me one murderous glare and I respond with a smirk of my own. I wriggle my fingers in his direction, in a parody of friendship.
Goodbye, Draco. Keep well.
I stifle the urge to laugh maniacally, and watch expressionlessly as the next prisoners are brought in for their sentence.
This is an easy job.
*Taken from a story I read on . I cannot remember where from; I like the statement.
