Author's Note: Look, guys, I actually posted a thing! (Shock, horror.) I've been wanting to get back into writing fanfic for a while, so I thought I'd give this a shot! This story is for the Scoring round of the 'Hunger Games Competition' on HPFC. There's a lot more I would have liked to write if I hadn't been working to a deadline, but I wanted to begin to explore how the rest of the wizarding world might have felt during the Second Wizarding War, so this is me having a go at it! It's also the first time I've written an OC in fanfiction, so that was something new…

For any of you who are still waiting on 'Fred, George and the Secrets of Hogwarts', I realise it's been a year since I last updated (I'm sorry, I'm sorry!) but I promise that I will finish it as soon as I can. I definitely am determined to write the last couple of chapters at some point. Though I think I kind of have to read it through again first to remember which plotlines need wrapping up, etc.

Disclaimer: I claim no credit – it all goes to JK! Jonathan, however, is of my own invention. (As are his family and Emilia Grey.)

"Plenty of courage, I see. You have a strong will too, a fierce determination. Well, there's only one place for you… It had better be… GRYFFINDOR!"

Jonathan pulled the hat from his head, brushing a few strands of hair out of his eyes, and stumbled forwards towards the table on his left. A grin stretched across his face as he toppled into a free space, bursting with happiness and excitement.

The streets of Diagon Alley were lifeless and hushed, as though an eerie mist had descended over them. The shops, usually decorated with bright colours and gaudy signs, were deserted, some boarded up and abandoned completely, with cobwebs and dust smothering the old shelves. The few people who had ventured out that evening hurried towards their destinations with their eyes averted, their hands deep inside their pockets.

Jonathan, crouched in one of the shop doorways, pulled his fraying cloak more tightly around himself, shivering. His fingernails were caked with dirt, and his robes hung loosely off his shoulders. He dug one hand self-consciously into the pocket where he'd usually keep his wand, but his fingers met only with thin material, worn threadbare where he couldn't help but probe it, wishing that he could curl his hand around the comforting wooden handle of his wand. The loss of the wand made him feel helpless and vulnerable, as though his magic itself had been torn away from him, leaving only an aching hole behind.

Jonathan closed his eyes, leaning against the doorway, and tried valiantly not to dwell on it.

He stared at his copy of the Daily Prophet in dismay. Disjointed words and phrases leapt out at him from the page.

Thieves of magic.

Parasites.

Leeching off the wizarding world.

Wanted for questioning.

Mudbloods.

Jonathan was vaguely aware of his hands beginning to tremble, though he wasn't sure whether it was from fear or rage. He drew in a shaky breath. This couldn't be true. He couldn't be reading this. The wizarding world was the only place where he'd felt like he truly belonged, and yet he was expected to submit to interrogation under the accusation that he'd somehow stolen his magic from another witch or wizard?

It was ridiculous, completely ridiculous. If the situation wasn't so serious, it would have been ludicrous enough to be funny. Who was he meant to have robbed of their magic? Jonathan assumed it was the Squibs who were supposed to have been stripped of magic, but the article was suspiciously vague on the subject. However, a simple comparison of the numbers of Squibs to Muggle-borns would have showed that there had to be some other factor involved – there were far fewer Squibs. None of it made any sense. Anger began to boil in his stomach, and he threw the paper down onto the table, his jaw clenched.

Of course. This was just another excuse for the petty discrimination that he thought he'd left behind at Hogwarts. And now he was going to suffer through the humiliation of a baseless trial and have his wand taken from him, unless he could come up with some imaginary magical relative to use as a lifeline.

A frustrated cry tore from Jonathan's throat, as he gripped his wand with white knuckles. There was a bang, and the light bulb above his head shattered into fragments of hot glass.

"Please- please."

Jonathan's hand reached out towards the witch passing by, clutching at the hem of her robes. She pulled the hood of her cloak more firmly over her head, her eyes fixed on the horizon, as if she had somehow failed to see him. As if he were just another brick in the wall, or a Boggart to be willed away with a thought.

"Please, I'm begging you. I haven't eaten-"

The witch tugged her robe gently away from him, continuing on her way.

"I haven't seen my wife, my baby, in months." Jonathan's voice cracked in desperation.

She turned towards him, just a little. For a moment, Jonathan thought he'd got through to her, but she just gave him a brittle smile, before her eyes slid over him. But that one glimpse was enough to spark a memory in Jonathan's mind.

"We were at school together, we were in the same year."

The witch whipped round to face him, staring at him with widening eyes. She seemed to be taking in his dirty, weakened appearance for the first time.

"We were in Herbology together. You showed me how to deal with Devil's Snare. It's me, Jonathan. Jonathan Rooke."

She blinked a couple of times, shaking her head slowly.

"I'm sorry," she said faintly, "I don't know what you mean."

"You must do! You're Emilia Grey, I know you."

"You are a thief of magic," she said in a monotonous voice. "You're no school friend of mine."

She turned away, striding into the distance with her head bowed.

"If they don't find me innocent-"

"Don't say that, you haven't done anything wrong."

"No, please, listen to me. They're not going to let me go, I can't prove my ancestry. I want you to run; take Sammy with you."

"I'm not going to leave you!"

"Please, Luciana!" Jonathan looked up into his wife's face, tears sparkling in her brown eyes. He reached up to brush a strand of dark hair out of her face, cupping her chin in his hand for a second. "Please," he said again. "They'll- they'll hunt you down. I can't lose you, or Sammy."

Luciana looked down, wiping her eyes with the side of her hand. Finally, she looked up and nodded.

"We'll come and find you," she said. "When this is all over."

"I know."

Luciana stood up, pressing a kiss on Jonathan's cheek. She opened her mouth, and then closed it again, apparently lost for words. She turned, her robes swirling behind her, and then she was gone.

The icy cold from the Dementors felt twice as strong now, and Jonathan could feel any last shreds of hope draining away, leaving him with an oddly hollow sensation that threatened to overwhelm him. He dropped his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking. Before he could even begin to search for a happy thought, his mind was assailed by a series images that left him shuddering, of his wife and his baby son, dead on the floor. Of his friends turning away from him, unable to look at him. Of a Dementor lifting its hood and turning his face towards it with one long finger… Jonathan shivered in his seat, his throat and chest tightening painfully.

It could have been anywhere from minutes to hours before he heard the door to the courtroom swing open. Someone was sobbing inside, and with a great effort, Jonathan lifted his head in time to see two burly guards walking out, flanked by Dementors and with their prisoner between them. His stomach plummeted to the ground, despair welling up inside him. The Muggle-born was a young girl, probably only just starting at Hogwarts. She looked thirteen at most. Tears were streaking down her cheeks as she stumbled forwards, the rattling breath of the Dementors growing louder.

"Please," she whispered wretchedly. "Please help me."

Jonathan could only sit frozen in horror, as he watched her dragged from the room, the sound of her cries echoing behind her. And then-

"Jonathan Rooke."

One of the guards was standing at his arm, and Jonathan couldn't find it in himself to resist. He stood shakily, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach as the cloak of the Dementor nearest to him seemed to ripple. His breath caught in his throat, as if it was being sucked forcibly away from him, and he gasped for air, his shoulders hunching involuntarily. He barely managed to stagger into the courtroom and slump into the chair. Instantly, iron shackles bound his wrists and ankles. He tried to twist his body away, but to no avail.

"Jonathan Rooke?" said a high, girlish voice.

Jonathan didn't even look up. "Yes."

"You understand why you have been asked here?"

"Yes."

"I see that you worked right here in the Ministry of Magic. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, is that right?" She didn't wait for an answer before continuing, her voice laden with sorrow that sounded somehow insincere. "How sad, that even these fine halls have been soiled by… people… such as yourself."

Jonathan kept his eyes lowered, focusing on keeping his breathing steady and trying to ignore the throbbing fear in his chest.

"So tell me, Mr Rooke. From whom did you steal your magic?"

Tears burned at the back of Jonathan's eyes, but he blinked them away, the small flicker of defiance he had left burning inside him. "I didn't steal it. I was born with it."

The voice laughed, a tinkling, high-pitched note. "Oh, but I don't think that can be true. According to our records, you are Muggle born. Parents' professions – teacher, and hairdresser."

The other witches and wizards around the main interrogator laughed sycophantically, and even with the Dementors nearby, Jonathan flushed with anger. His hands balled into fists, but he fought to remain calm.

"I didn't need to take my magic from anyone. It's mine."

"You don't deny that your family are Muggles?"

"No." Hopelessness began to seep once more through Jonathan's very bones. What did these people care about justice?

"Deary me, that just won't do, will it?" Another pealing laugh. "You see, Mr Rooke, you are a leech. You have left a deserving witch or wizard bereft of their magic, because of your own selfishness. And you must be punished. Isn't that right?"

Jonathan didn't say anything.

"I said, isn't that right?" The voice had taken on a dangerous note, and Jonathan's anger flared again.

"Do you enjoy this?" he shouted, before his brain really registered the stupidity of the action. "Do you enjoy torturing innocent people, even little children? Does it make you feel big and powerful?"

He strained at the metal bindings, but they held firm, digging into his wrists. Jonathan stared up at the woman leading the trial, his eyes narrowed. She was dressed all in pink, a cat Patronus strutting around her, its tail in the air. Hatred rose up in his throat like bile, but the woman waved one stubby finger, and two Dementors began to close in on him from either side. Another wave of icy despair washed over him, and he slumped back in his seat, his head drooping.

Her voice seemed to come from very far away, as it said, "Please dispose of Mr Rooke's wand. I don't believe he'll be needing it any longer."

It was hopeless. He'd been living off just the few Knuts he could beg for weeks, and still there was no sign of this torment ending. When Jonathan ran his hands over his torso, he could feel his ribs protruding from beneath his skin, coming into sharper relief for every day he spent without adequate food. A purplish bruise covered half his left side, where a supporter of You-Know-Who had kicked him, as he lay in the early hours of the morning, trying to get some sleep. It still made Jonathan wince to touch it.

He shifted on the hard ground, trying to find a more comfortable position, and to ignore the pangs of hunger, loneliness and sorrow that were beginning to grow familiar. It was dusk now, and the trickle of shoppers had eased off. He was unlikely to get any more money or food tonight, so all he could do was to try to catch a good night's sleep.

But as Jonathan pulled his robes around him, shutting his eyes, he heard a sudden crack of someone Apparating. He sat upright, looking towards the source of the noise. A witch was standing the middle of the street, her eyes bright in the glow of the lamps at the side of the road, frizzy blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders.

"Hogwarts is fighting," she called, her voice brimming with elation. "This is it."

Jonathan struggled to his feet, Diagon Alley suddenly bubbling with the excited voices of other Muggle-borns like him. A small flame of hope seemed to have sprung up again in the pit of his stomach. The fight was not over. There was still a chance to make things right. Shaking himself into action, he joined the crowd of people congregating in the middle of Diagon Alley. Someone flung out their arm, and with a bang, the Knight Bus jolted into view in front of them. Jonathan piled onto the bus with everyone else, handing over his last few Knuts to the conductor.

He was sure he could find a wand somewhere – Merlin, he'd wrestle one out of a Death Eater's hand if he had to. This was the first time in months that he'd had any faith to hold on to, and he would go down fighting before he let it go. It was for himself, his son, his wife, and all the other Muggle-borns he knew. It was for justice. Jonathan smiled. He knew his parents would be proud.