Trial of a Different Man
By Damien J. Frost
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, and all items associated with, are property of J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., et al. There is no profit being gained from the content of this story and it is to be used solely for private entertainment purposes. The plot is the intellectual property of the writer. No parts of this story are to be duplicated or posted elsewhere without the expressed permission of the author.
This story is rated "PG-13" or "T" by the guidelines of the fansite on which it is posted and contains Adult Content, Adult Language, and Suggestive Themes. Do not read if you are under the age of 13. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter One
The alarm went off.
There was a heavy sigh from the bed as an arm reached out in the dark and came down on top of the clock.
Eyes opened slowly and attempted to focus on the time on the digital display.
04:00
After staring at the clock, watching as the time change to 04:01, the figure in the bed groaned and sat up, letting the blankets fall and revealing a definitely male body, wearing nothing but his undershorts.
Shaking his head sleepily, he set his feet on the floor, his elbows on his knees and his head in his palms as he rubbed his eyes, as if trying to massage wakefulness into them.
"I need a new job," he muttered in his thick cockney accent before standing and walking to his wash closet, leaving the empty bed behind him.
Looking in the mirror, he saw that he needed a shave, but decided against it for the moment, citing his exhaustion as reason enough. With a wide yawn, he leaned over and started the water for his shower, turning it as hot as he could stand, knowing it was the only way to wake up on a morning like this.
As he waited for the water to heat up, he stripped his boxers off and relieved himself of a full bladder.
When he saw the steam drifting from behind the shower curtain, he stood and stepped into the shower, sighing in triumph as the near-scalding water pelted his skin.
With a smile, he squirted some shampoo directly onto his buzzed head and proceeded to knead his scalp and the little hair he had after his trip to the barber the previous night - if you could call a woman with a set of clippers a barber.
After rinsing and repeating, he soaped up a rag and washed down his toned body, cleaning off the sweat that had accumulated over the night.
With his shower complete, he turned off the tap and stepped out, flushing the loo as he did. Grabbing his towel, he dried himself as he walked back to his bedroom. He flipped the switch, illuminating the spartan room, with only a bed, a dresser, and a nightstand. Sitting on the nightstand were his alarm clock, a bottle of water and a picture of a little girl with curly light brown hair and a dimpled smile. Smiling softly at the picture, he went to his dresser and rifled around for a minute before pulling out sweatpants, jeans and some boxers.
Suitably dry, he slipped his knickers on, followed by the sweat pants, and finally, the ragged blue jeans that he wore every Friday.
Absentmindedly, he pulled a stained white t-shirt on before grabbing a red, hooded sweatshirt with the Arsenal crest square center on his chest.
Finally, he sat on his bed and pulled on a pair of white socks, and a pair of thick wool ones over those, before sliding on his black, steel-toed work boots.
With a sigh, he turned to see the time.
04:37 blinked back at him. After watching the time change again a few moments later, he stood and stepped out of the room, turning off the light and closing the door behind him.
As he poured himself a Styrofoam cup of black coffee from his automated coffee maker, he thought about the seats he had gotten for the match on Sunday.
It would be his daughter's first match, and the fact it was Arsenal v Manchester United made it even better. He had managed brilliant seats from his gaffer at the docks.
Smiling, he grabbed his drink, turned off his coffee maker, and made for the door, pausing to put on his dusty brown leather jacket, stocking cap, and gloves.
Locking his door behind him and grabbing the London Times off his stoop, he smiled as he stepped onto the streets of northeast London, the sun not even ready to make its way into the sky.
With his coffee and his breath steaming in the freezing November air, he made his way for the Underground, hoping to catch the 05:00 to Hammersmith.
With only a few moments to spare, he made the train and settled himself on a bench, opening the Times and preparing for the long ride.
After switching trains twice and catching a bus for the last leg, he smiled as reached the warehouse his office was located in. Waiting in front of the door was his secretary with two steaming cups in her hand.
"Morning, sir," she greeted when he reached her.
Taking the cup she offered him, he shook his head as he opened the door for her. "I don't know why you insist on waiting outside for me," he responded, his eyes drifting to her rather attractive bum as she walked by.
"When else are you going to be able to do that, sir?" she asked flirtatiously without looking over her shoulder.
He coughed into his hand as he felt his cheeks heat up. He walked by her as she sat at her desk, and he couldn't help the smile that broke out as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, a sly smile on her lips.
Walking into his office, he glanced at the clock hanging on the wall and began humming.
06:03
Taking off his jacket, he sat at his desk and began his daily task of comparing the scheduled shipments due in that morning against his available staff.
As a supervisor for the wharf, he had to make sure there were enough men scheduled to handle the volume and type of goods coming and going in the early morning hours.
Usually, it was just incoming at this hour, but there were still plenty of ships that liked to get out with the early tide.
Shaking his head, he saw that there were five shipments coming in, and he knew he'd be at least three men short until after midday.
After near an hour, and much schedule juggling, the door to his office opened, admitting a young man with dark brown hair and gleaming blue eyes. "Oi gaffer, you're at the board a little early."
The man looked up from his desk with a wry smile. "After the dog's dinner that Michael made of shift last week, I have to keep things in order."
A sharp laugh came from the other man as he stepped away from the door and back into the hallway. "You know that was a one-off. It weren't his fault things went all pear-shaped," he said, walking away.
Before he got more than a few steps however, the man behind the desk yelled out at him, "I'll need you on Crane 3 today, Carver."
He laughed as he heard Carver mutter to himself, "I need the bees. Just, remember I need the bees."
Glancing at the clock, which read 06:52, he stood and made his way to the break room, where his crew waited for their assignments.
Quickly divvying up the work amid groans and yawns, he was pleased to note that all his men had dressed appropriately. It was the coldest winter in London in almost a score, and if they didn't dress warm enough, he was under orders to cut them loose for the day – without pay.
With a smile, he poured himself a new cup of coffee from the maker in the break room and then walked out with Carver to Dock 3 to greet the first ship of the day, a shipment of mobiles from China.
After a few hours, while he was arguing with a captain over when his shipment of knickers and other clothes would be allowed to unload, his mobile rang.
Holding up a finger and interrupting the already irate captain, the man pulled the phone out of his pocket and answered it. "I'm in the middle of something," he said irritably.
The voice of his secretary came over the line. "There's a couple of official-like blokes prowling around your office, sir."
Brow creasing, he stepped away from the captain and waved one of his men over. "Port Authority?"
"No, sir. I'd know how to handle PA. If I'd have to guess, I'd say they're government."
He was silent for a moment as he digested the information. Looking up he saw his man standing there waiting for instruction. Pointing behind him he said, "Warehouse 27A should be free enough to get this bloke's ship undone. Get it off so he'll be out of our hair."
He didn't wait for an answer before he walked away quickly, heading back to his office. "Keep an eye on them. If they ask you anything –"
"Shut the hell up and act stupid. I know sir."
"Right, I'll be there in a moment," he said, hanging up before she could reply, and looking at the clock on his mobile.
11:24
As he hurried across the busy dock, he thought about all the reasons the government would be looking for him.
None of them were good.
After a fifteen minute walk, he came into view of the building where his office was, only to have his mobile ring again.
Looking at the name, his lip curled in annoyance. "What is it, Sarah? I'm a little busy," he growled into the mouthpiece.
"Why are there blokes from the SIS here asking about you?" came the hissed reply.
"SIS?" he asked in confusion. After a brief pause, his eyes widened in realization and he sighed, a little defeated. "If you don't hear from me tonight, the tickets for the match are in the drawer of my nightstand."
"David –"
"I'm sorry, Sarah, I have to go. They're here at work too. Don't talk to them, if you can help it," he asked, as an afterthought.
"And tell Kat I'm sorry."
There was a long pause before the other end of the line went dead. He sighed as he put his mobile away, finally noticing that his hands were shaking.
He looked up and saw he was already at the doors to the building. Trying to quell the butterflies running rampant in his stomach, he stepped through and made his way to his office.
He stopped when he reached his secretary's desk.
"They're in your office, sir," she said, her eye flicking nervously from him to the office.
He turned his gaze toward the slightly open door, then sighed and faced the woman. "What do they look like?" he whispered.
"One's got black hair, all an unruly mess, 'bout your size and glasses. The other looks Irish, red hair, big and mean looking."
The man felt himself pale at the descriptions. "Thanks," he muttered absentmindedly, contemplating whether or not to run.
He decided it would be worthless though. If they were waiting for him instead of going to him, then there were people watching the docks already.
Steeling himself, he walked into his office with an irritated scowl. The men were sitting in the two chairs across his desk, so he pulled off his gloves before taking his chair, glaring at them all the while. "Whatever I can do for you blokes, make it quick-like. I'm busy."
The one with glasses leaned forward and offered his credentials, showing that he was, indeed, affiliated with MI6. "Just to prove that we're here legitimately," he said condescendingly.
It was odd for him to hear an accent free of the east-end influence.
The man leaned back and stared at them, his irritation growing. "Once, again, I am a busy man. What do you want?"
"Would you roll up your left sleeve, please?"
He turned to the redhead, who had asked the question, and quirked his eyebrow in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your left sleeve – roll it up. I won't ask again," came the growled response.
Standing and pulling his gloves back on in irritation, he snarled his reply. "Unless you blokes can give me a reason to do what you say, I have work to get back to."
Before he could step around the desk however, the large redhead reached over, grabbed his arm and shoved up his sleeve, revealing a symbol that had become feared throughout England – a tattoo of a skull with a snake writhing through it.
The grim look in the eyes of the raven-haired man told him that it was over.
Releasing his arm, the redhead pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket. "David Miller," he read. "You are hereby under arrest by the authority granted by Parliament, the Prime Minister and her majesty the Queen."
He held back the tears he could feel forming as he stood. "Let me finish out my day, get things in order," he said – pleaded.
The raven-haired boy shook his head as he stood. "You know it doesn't work that way," he said, seeming to regret what they were here to do.
But he straightened his glasses and the look fell, as he seemed to remember to whom he was speaking.
With a sigh, he pulled his mobile out and punched in the number for his boss. It rang twice before the line was picked up.
"Hello."
"Oi, gaffer. I'm being arrested."
"For what!?" came the shouted reply, causing him to rip the mobile from his ear.
"It's not for anything against the port," he replied. After a brief pause, he added, "I probably won't be back."
"They're taking you right now?"
"Aye."
"Hand it over to Carver. After you, he's got the best head on his shoulders."
"Aye."
"Good luck then, mate. We'll miss you."
"Thank you, sir."
With that, he hung up and walked out to his secretary.
"What's going on, sir?" she asked nervously.
"Nothing good. Tell Carver he's in charge until they can find a replacement for me."
Her eyes widened and she turned to the open office, where the two men were standing, watching the exchange. "I'll tell him, sir."
"Thank you, Sam."
When he returned to the office some minutes later, the redhead pulled handcuffs from his pocket. With a sigh, he stuck his hands out and allowed the other man to clap the metal around his wrists.
They walked out of the office and past the secretary's desk. She stood and ran around the desk, throwing her arms around his neck. "It's been great working for you, sir," she said, tears welling up in her eyes.
He couldn't help the smile that popped up when the raven-haired man snorted in disgust. Before he could reply, the redhead pulled her off him and shoved him around the corner and into the empty hallway. There was a 'pop' next to him loud enough to blow his eardrums before the man with glasses grabbed him. The world distorted, and he had the distinct impression that he was being squeezed through a pinhead.
When they arrived on the other side, he was surrounded by hundreds of people popping in and out of existence.
He was dragged towards a reception area, where a bored looking witch was talking to an irate man.
As they walked the distance, he noticed that people's conversations drifted off as he passed them.
Then, it started.
"Is that him?"
"I thought he was dead…"
"There's no way…"
Snippets of shocked sentences came from behind him. As they passed the fountain in the middle of the Atrium, he felt that they could not get through the doors quickly enough.
He could feel the two men at his sides growing nervous at the growing attention they were receiving. Just before they stepped through the doors, a hand reached from nowhere to grab the hood of his sweatshirt and yank him around.
There was a spat curse as he was spinning - "You bastard!" – and he caught a flash of brown hair before a fist connected with his nose and sent him to the ground.
To their credit, his guards didn't allow another attack against him, but the fact the first attack had occurred showed how little they actually cared for his well-being.
As he struggled to his feet, he saw others in the official robes of his guards holding back the crowd that had gathered.
"Lot good you are," he muttered to the redhead at his right as he finally passed through the doors.
They walked down a short hall before stopping in front of the lift. When the doors opened they ushered everyone and everything out, amid curses and crushed paper airplanes.
When it was cleared out he was roughly pushed onto the lift, where he leaned against the back wall as the redhead pressed the button for the second level.
"So, who's head of Aurors these days?" he asked conversationally as the lift fell further into the ground. "Because I tell you, I'm thinking about filing a complaint for the treatment I've received in custody," he snickered.
After a moment of silence during which he thought he was being thoroughly ignored, the glasses-man answered.
"I am."
A whistle issued from his lips at the information. "Come a long way haven't you, mate."
Before he could say anything else, an arm was barred under his throat and he was being pressed hard against the wall.
"You are not my mate, you fucking ponce," he growled.
There was a ding as the lift reached the second level, and the glasses-man pulled away and shoved him out into the hallway ahead of them.
As he walked along the cubicles that made up the office, he saw officers in dark black robes stop and stare in shock at the three men.
Feeling a little mischievous, he raised his cuffed hands and waived at someone he recognized from school, a self-deprecating grin on his lips.
Before long he was through the cubicle maze.
After a short walk down another hall, and he was shoved in an empty, stone cell.
Before the door shut and he was dismissed to darkness, he called out. "What's the time?"
The redhead answered after a moment.
"12:37."
The door shut and darkness fell.
He spent the next while thinking about his daughter, and whether or not she had been scared by the men who had come looking for him.
He doubted it.
She was fearless.
She was nothing like him.
When the door opened again, several hours later, he climbed to his feet and prepared himself for whatever was coming next - except a raven-haired woman stepping in and throwing her arms around him.
Strange, then, that that is exactly what happened.
He was speechless as the woman clung to him, crying into his chest.
After a few moments, the redhead man stepped in behind and pulled her away form him.
Looking up at the other man, he couldn't help the old smirk that graced his features. "Must you always pull beautiful women away from me?"
There was an involuntary snort of laughter from the redhead, which, of course, caused him to scowl.
There was a moment of awkward silence before the woman turned to him. "I'm glad you're alright."
He smiled in gratitude before his eyes narrowed at her. "What are you doing here?"
"I work here," she answered, as if it were obvious.
Which, he supposed, it was.
"So, now what?" he asked, looking between the two.
"We are here to tell you of what you have been charged with, and to advise you of your rights," she answered.
He nodded and sat back on the floor, his back against the cold stone, readying himself.
The redhead launched into it without anymore preamble. "You are hereby charged with Conspiracy for Murder, Murder, Conspiracy to Commit Treason, Treason, Use of Illegal Curses, Crimes Against Muggles, and Crimes Against Humanity. You have right to council, either Ministry-appointed or one of your choosing. You have right appeal any of these charges in court. You have a right to bypass trial by claiming guilt to all charges at any time, whereupon you will be sentenced to the minimum of all counts, with sentences running consecutively.
"Have my accounts been frozen?" he asked curiously.
The two aurors exchanged a glance before the woman shook her head. "We tried, but it was discovered that freezing your accounts would put too many people, both muggle and magical, out of a job."
"Then I have council," he answered, smiling at her answer.
There was another brief period of silence before the redhead nodded. "Well, then, we're done."
He walked out and left he and the woman alone.
"What time is it?" he asked, wondering how long he had been here.
Glancing at her watch she answered "19:26."
"It's good to see you, Pansy Parkinson," he said, his voice genuine.
She smiled back at him and walked out. "It's Weasley now, Draco."
Draco Malfoy couldn't help but laugh at that bit of information as the door closed and darkness descended again.
Author's Note
I am not giving up on Repercussions, I promise. But this came into my mind, and I have a feeling it won't stop until it's done.
I hope. My mind is so scattered, that who knows how things will come out.
Thank you, all, for reading.
-Damien J. Frost