Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, although I love daydreaming about it.

The trial (part one)

Morning... Can we really grasp the meaning of such a word? Can we truly appreciate what a new day can or even may bring to us? The dawns, messengers of beginnings, bringers of life, usually pass by us, unappreciated, ignored, forgotten...

Humans are creatures of habit.

They wake up each morning, yawning and thinking with wistfulness of their cozy warm beds they have to leave in order to go to work. The day begins by dragging one's feet to the bathroom for human moments, brushing one's teeth, and then continues with the sound of feet being dragged a little more alert to the kitchen. Water is then poured in a pot and then on the stove it goes where a still partially asleep human being is waiting for it to boil. Over the water, once boiled at one hundred degrees Celsius, to be more precise, the still mostly asleep creature drops three up to five spoons of coffee in the steaming water. Five minutes later and half a cup of coffee already in the system, the human being is almost, almost, ready to start the day.

So it's not really surprising that this sad creature – usually a muggle, or an insignificant wizard of low breed, mind you, is not able to truly, really appreciate the messengers of day. They cannot see nature coming alive, they cannot hear the hum of nature preparing itself to greet the sun. After all, wonders like these are not for the common, nor for the unworthy.

Harry Potter stood at his window, seeing, feeling and sensing, like any well bred pure blooded wizard, the dance of nature awakening from it's nightly slumber. He knew that, somewhere in the mansion, the Malfoys were doing the same, paying respect to life, to nature, to the Mother herself.

It was an old custom, now forgotten by almost all, due to the the new blood, the „mud blood" that entered their world each passing year.

'Muggleborns' Harry though with a sneer, eyes flashing hatred for a brief moment alone.

But today was not a day to dwell on such ideas and conceptions.

The misty day of 17th December was a day special in itself, that spoke of unfulfilled promises, of betrayals, and with finality of justice.

All over England, wizards and witches alike were preparing themselves to floo to the Leaky Cauldron in London, and from there to catch a seat in the Court of Justice, where all Wizengamot was gathered to judge the case of Sirius Black.

Mothers kissed their young daughters, unfit yet, for such a trip. Fathers hugged their young sons, too crude, too innocent to glimpse at the horrors of the last war. It did not matter that they might not get a seat nor that they could wait in the rain for hours until the verdict would be given. All that mattered was the fact that going to the trial was the must of the season. It was the making or the unmaking of a human being, it was a show to be hold and remembered for the years to come.

And so, through the mist and the slow rapping rain, wizards and witches gathered in the Diagon Alley.

Some of them managed to reserve a seat at the Cauldron and there, they awaited with patience, over butterbeer or firewhiskey for the event to unfold itself.

Others were crowded in the Ministry, on the halls, in the waiting rooms and even in some offices if they were lucky enough to work there.

At every corner, there were little black boxes, connected directly to the WWN, commenting on the situation at hand, and getting ready to broadcast the trial, live.

Only the first of them to arrive, were the lucky ones that managed to catch a seat in Courtroom Ten, located on the tenth level of the Ministry of Magic.

The circular room, resembling a roman amphitheater, had a very high ceiling and gave impression of a rabbit hole. A large one, it is true, but nevertheless, a rabbit hole.

In the very middle, one could see an iron seat that had, on it's arms, heavy chains of steel. If one looked close enough, one could see that the chains were, in some parts, stained with something darker, something that remembered of struggles, of trying to break free, of tortures unfit for human eyes. In front of said seat, on a very high platform, there were several seats, in which the Interrogators sat, behind a high, wooden balustrade.

All around this circle of impending doom, were rows upon rows, seven at number, going higher and higher, of seats for the crowds, for vultures ready to feast on the poor soul held captive below.

These seats, were full of fidgeting wizards, talking to themselves, whispering and gesturing somewhere to the first row, where a family of silver blond heads were joined by a mop of dark hair.

„That couldn't be..." a wizard commented.

„It is, but still, to bring a child in such a place...What were they thinking!" hissed another, an outrageous expression on his pale face.

„Oh, shut up Diggory, it will bode him well to see this. After all, it is his godfather on trial today" said Amelia Bones, a middle aged woman with a stern expression on her face.

The small group of people that caused this not so small commotion, was blissfully ignorant of the ruckus above.

Four pairs of eyes, three silvery gray and one emerald green, were avidly watching the Interrogators entering the courtroom

A wand was pointed to a neck and a soft „sonorus" spell was heard by those from the first row. And then the clear crystal like voice of the court clerk was heard by all those from above with a clear command:

„All rise! Court is now in session!"

One by one, wizards and witches alike rose from their seats, as the Interrogators climbed the platform ant took their seats.

With a nod, from the High Interrogator – a man with bushy eyebrows, keen yellowish eyes hidden behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles – a door opened on the left of the platform and a man in shackles entered, held at wand point by two men dressed in red robes.

The man, dressed in linen robes of low quality, unfit for a self-respecting wizard, looked gaunt and had elbow length, matted and tangled hair. It was a fact to all that the years spent in Azkaban took a high toll on the once pure blooded proud heir of the House of Black.

He was soon escorted into the iron chair, and as soon as he reached it, the blood stained chains wrapped themselves tight around him, leaving no room for escape.

„Sirius Black" the rough voice of the lion-like man bellowed, „you stand here under the accusation of betraying the Potters to Him Who We Must Not Name, and leading them to their deaths. You are also accused of the death of one Peter Pettigrew and 13 muggles, on the streets of London. How do you plead?"

„Not guilty!"

A.N.

I know, I know, horrible cliffy...

I decided to divide the trial in two parts to do it more justice.

I will not reveal anything about how my story will continue, but what I want to underline is the fact that Harry will not have a redeeming quality, he will not turn out to be good, or anything like that. He is evil and will remain so until the very end of my story. Everything I write has a meaning, and everything will be disclosed in due time.

That being said, thank you all for your lovely reviews, they keep me going.

Yours faithfully,

erhea