A/N: The bad news: This chapter is two days late. The good news: The next chapter is finished already. Originally, Chapters 21 and 22 were going to be one chapter, but then I realized that would make it a 20k update, which in comparison to my other chapter lengths seemed a little excessive. Just for the record, I have written eight pages since 2 PM yesterday. Hope that everyone enjoys how things turn out - we're really getting to the finale now!

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Conciergerie looked much as Valjean remembered it. Tall limestone walls closed in on him oppressively, and as there was no sun left to see by, Satki had conjured him a spelled orb of light which hovered in midair. She had also removed the handcuffs, offering some scant words of comfort before leaving him alone to pace the small room.

It was very like the last chamber he had been granted the dubious honor of occupying; in fact, between the shoddy bed and table, it could have been that very jail cell. There was no telling - he suspected they all looked much the same. One noticeable difference from before was the presence of food. A tray of bread and fruit sat on the tabletop, so it appeared the court did not intend to starve him, or at least not until after his case was appealed again.

A shiver ran through him at that thought. It was difficult to think of himself when he had no idea how Javert was faring, but it did occur to him to wonder whether the Grand Chambre might uphold its original decision and have him executed. Even Azkaban would be preferable to that.

Of course, he had not Vowed to cooperate with the Dementor's Kiss, and therein lay the crux of the matter. The Vow was only binding should imprisonment be his sentence. At the time they had forged their agreement, Javert could never have foreseen a day when he would believe Valjean belonged anywhere besides Azkaban. Now that had changed, and the Auror was, perhaps, going to testify in his defense. There was a chance, a better one than he had ever had, to be free of the charges against him forever.

Valjean quashed firmly the small, niggling doubt in his head which worried that Javert would be in no fit state to make a court appearance; after all, the Healers had mended his wrist in moments. A knife wound was surely an even simpler fix. Still, the memory of the Auror's eyes boring into his own, turned dark by hurt, haunted him as he wore out his soles treading circles on the floor. Was he alright? What if the blade had been poisoned? What if -

Valjean's dithering was interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock. He turned, reaching reflexively for the wand which had once more been taken from him. The heavy door swung open, and though it was not the person he had hoped to see, his visitors were at least innocuous enough in appearance. A pair of Healers entered, their green robes swishing around their ankles. An Auror Valjean did not know stood in the corridor outside, but he seemed content just to wait as the door again swung shut.

"Good evening," Valjean said uncertainly. "Have you come from the Hôtel Matignon?"

The Healers glanced at each other, and one nodded the affirmative.

Immediately, Valjean was aflutter with inquiries. "Have you seen what happened to Inspecteur Javert? Is he okay? Will he -"

The same Healer, a red-headed witch, held up her hand. "We are not authorized to answer questions," she said. "I was given to understand that the occupant of this block required treatment - is that the case?"

Valjean bit his lip, but he gestured at the bandages on his shoulder and sat on the edge of the straw mattress, allowing the pair to approach. The witch's companion was a tall wizard with a nut-brown complexion, and he knelt beside the bed to hold Valjean's arm steady.

They were silent as they worked, unwinding the strips of lint to expose the lacerations underneath. Though they were in no way unkind, their manner was aloof; Valjean wondered if that were simply clinical practice, or if it was because of who and where he was. He would have liked for them to say something, even make mindless conversation, but they did not.

Skin knit to skin, muscle to muscle, and Valjean fought the urge to scratch at his arm despite the strangeness of the sensation. He had almost forgotten his injuries in the aftermath of Perrier's attempted assassination, but he found as the wounds healed that a tension he had been unconscious of carrying left him.

"Thank you," he murmured as they finished.

Something like surprise went through the Healers' eyes; perhaps they were simply not used to encountering gratitude in that place, but the witch smiled slightly in response.

"You will find a potion with your food in the morning," the wizard told him. "You should take it, to clear up any lingering effects. There is some minor scarring on your shoulder, though because it was not a bite, it mended well."

Valjean nodded his understanding. He thought of Coste's mangled arm, and decided he had gotten off lightly.

"Are you certain you can tell me nothing of Javert's condition?" he asked as the pair turned to go.

The Healers kept walking, and did not answer. Valjean watched from across the room as they rapped on the door. The Auror standing in the hall opened it at their signal, and any hope Valjean had of learning what transpired left with them.

The lock fell back into place as the door closed, and Valjean was alone again in the cell. He stared at his knees, the hovering sphere of light casting uneasy shadows in the corners of the room. Valjean could have suffered anything in the knowledge that Javert would be there on the other side of it, but now he did not even know whether the man was well, much less when he would see him next. The weight of his situation brought itself to bear on his shoulders, and Valjean buried his face in his hands.

It began with a faint tremble in his shoulders, which was followed by a dampness in his cupped palms, and Valjean realized he was weeping. That realization did nothing to stem the onset of sobs racking his frame; if anything, it seemed only to encourage them.

Valjean sat, crying, on the bed as the shadows wavered and flickered. It seemed that he cried for a long time.

The next morning found Valjean sitting in much the same position, looking blankly at the floor. So lost was he in thought that he did not notice the sound of hinges turning, nor the entry of the Secrétaire, until a voice said, "You should eat your breakfast."

Valjean lacked the wherewithal to startle, so rather than jump, he merely blinked and raised his head. The Secrétaire stood just inside the portal, and his expression suggested he was taking the measure of his prisoner, from the dark circles under his eyes to the way his hands were folded in his lap.

"Sleepless night?" Chabouillet asked dryly.

Valjean's gaze returned to the floor. "Yes," he croaked.

"No rest for the wicked," the Secrétaire quipped, but at Valjean's small flinch, he seemed to take some pity on the man. "Truth be told, I think you have more than a fair shot. Coste will not be attending, but he has signed an affidavit detailing what you did for him, and with Javert's -"

At that, Valjean lurched unsteadily to his feet. He stepped forward a couple of paces, stopping only when Chabouillet raised his wand in warning.

"Have you seen him?" Valjean asked urgently. "Is he alright?"

"I don't think -" Chabouillet began, but Valjean cut him off.

"You must say what happened," Valjean insisted. "Please. Those two Healers last night would tell me nothing - I have been worried sick - you must tell me, it is cruel to leave me in the dark like this." Valjean's voice cracked, and he felt tears pricking at the corners of his vision again, brought on by anger and concern and exhaustion.

He forced himself to meet the Secrétaire's eyes. "I do not think you are a cruel man, Monsieur," he said faintly. "Please."

The Secrétaire watched this display of emotion with an odd countenance. His look was by turns appraising, mystified, and finally pensive as Valjean reached the end of his speech.

"I do not like to be told what I must do by convicts," said Chabouillet. "I like even less to be begged by them." He paused, tapping his wand against his thigh. "And yet, I find that what you ask is both reasonable and well-intentioned. You should sit - you look like a stiff breeze would knock you over."

Valjean stumbled backwards automatically and sat on the bed, unable to tear his gaze away now that the Secrétaire promised answers.

"As you know," Chabouillet began, "Inspecteur Javert was stabbed in the side last night by Madame Élodie Perrier. The Healers have seen to him, and he is expected to make a full recovery."

Valjean sighed with immeasurable relief. The Secrétaire, however, was still regarding him seriously, and Valjean's stomach twisted.

"There was a complication?" he asked.

"A minor one," Chabouillet replied. "The surin Perrier used to do the deed was imbued with a curse."

"A curse?"

"A very poor one, as it would turn out. It is improbable that Perrier cast the spell herself - more than likely, she bought the enchanted blade some time ago, and whatever power it possessed has waned. Or, perhaps she was duped, and the curse was never much good to begin with." Chabouillet shrugged. "We are attempting to trace its origin, but I am not holding my breath for any leads."

The Secrétaire's lips thinned as he continued, "At any rate, the spell has sapped Javert's strength, but the effects are not life-threatening. The Healers have him on a regimen of different potions, and he should be restored in a week or two. In the meantime, he is insisting that he attend your appeal, and will hear no argument to the contrary."

Valjean's heart was lighter than it had been all night; Javert was hurt, but would recover. He pressed his fingers to his lips to stop himself shaking. Then Valjean asked, "May I see him?", though he suspected he already knew the answer.

Chabouillet frowned. "I am afraid I cannot allow that," he said. "In fact, even if I could allow it, I doubt your friend the Inspecteur would agree to come. It would be much too easy for the prosecution to claim witness tampering, given the potential threat of your strength, and your already... unusual relationship."

Valjean flushed at that, looking away. Surely all the Secrétaire meant was how unusual it was for Javert to have befriended a criminal; he could not know the rest of it. And yet, as Valjean glanced back in Chabouillet's direction, the pensive expression had settled over the man's face again, and Valjean was left to wonder if in fact he guessed at more than he let on.

"I understand," Valjean said, if only to change the subject.

Chabouillet nodded. "Madame Sarkozy will be coordinating your defense. She won't show it, but I think privately she is excited. This could be the biggest case of her career. You ought to be seeing her later, after she has finished grilling Javert - or visa versa, as the case may be."

Valjean chuckled; he could only too easily picture that exchange. The Secrétaire shared his wry smile. Clearly, Javert's habit of demanding information regardless of context was common knowledge.

Chabouillet raised his hand in farewell, turning to leave. A thought struck Valjean then, and he stood.

"And what of Madame Perrier, Monsieur?" he asked. "Has she been detained?"

Chabouillet paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Élodie Perrier is dead," he said baldly. Seeing the shock on Valjean's face, he added, "It is no wonder, really, considering the cocktail of spells thrown at her all at once. One reacted badly with another - we will probably never know which."

Valjean nodded. He could not bring himself to feel happy, but neither did he feel what he would consider proper sorrow for a woman's death. It was a sin he could atone for later.

The Secrétaire, seeing Valjean had run out of questions, took his leave. The door locked behind him, but for once the sound did not fill Valjean with foreboding. Javert was going to be alright. He settled back onto the mattress, leaning against the wall, and finally dozed.

Mme. Sarkozy did indeed visit, a number of times, in order to put together a suitable defense. Upon her first arrival, she came bearing a message from Javert, "but," she said sternly, "I am not an owl. Do not expect me to ferry notes back and forth between the two of you."

The message was simple. In Javert's tidy script, the scrap of parchment read, I hope you are well. The terse wording nevertheless brought a warmth to Valjean's heart and a glow to his face. He held it briefly to his chest when he was certain Sarkozy's attention was turned elsewhere, before folding it and placing it in his pocket like a good luck charm.

The defense attorney was not so optimistic as the Secrétaire. "The Grand Chambre rarely reverses a ruling," she said. Having insisted that chairs be provided for these meetings, Sarkozy sat with her hands folded on the small table, Valjean across from her. "They do not like to be made to feel foolish," she went on. "You can expect they will lift the death sentence, but prison time may still be on the docket."

She drummed her fingers thoughtfully. "Even so, Javert's word does count for something, and internal investigation suggests that Madame Perrier had undue influence on the outcome of your first appeal, so the odds are not completely against you."

It had taken hours to account for every possible question, and how they were to be answered. Before Valjean knew it, the day had passed, and then the next, and then it was the morning before his appeal and Valjean could not have been more anxious. He alternated between sitting, a hot, acidic combination of agitation and dread brewing in his stomach, and pacing, trying without success to burn off some of the nervous energy.

A short rap on the door brought him to a halt - it could not be time to go yet, the sun was barely risen. Besides, nobody bothered to knock before entering the cell, that was simply not a courtesy prisoners were afforded. Valjean's brow creased as he stared at the door in perplexment, then startled as the knock was repeated.

"Enter," he called, adjusting his shirt.

The door opened, and Valjean's jaw dropped before he closed it for propriety's sake. He knew the man stepping over the threshold from the newspapers; it was doubtful whether there was a soul in the country who would fail to recognize the salt and pepper hair or stern features of the wizard standing before him, no longer a printed photograph, but flesh and blood.

Valjean bowed awkwardly from the waist. "M-Monsieur le Premier Ministre Marchand," he stammered. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting."

The Premier Ministre waved at the Auror accompanying him to wait outside in the hall, then permitted the door to fall shut. Valjean shuffled his feet, aware that he looked more than a little disheveled, but the Ministre seemed unperturbed. Up close, Valjean decided that the man's face was kinder than the photographs made it appear, and only when Marchand met his eyes did Valjean realize he was staring. Quickly, he dropped his gaze, but the Ministre did not seem to mind. Indeed, he was staring back, looking Valjean over with a frank curiosity.

"No need to apologize," said Marchand. His voice carried a hint of the South in its intonation, and he was, overall, a soft-spoken man. "I did not even know whether you would be awake, but in the end I decided you were unlikely to have slept much at all last night."

Valjean inclined his head. "You would be correct, Monsieur," he replied.

"So polite," the Ministre remarked, and though the words were spoken with some amusement, they were not mocking. "You may look up, you know," he added.

Doing as he was bid, Valjean raised his head until their eyes met again. It was unsettling; here was the seat of political power in wizarding France, having sought him out personally. Valjean forced himself not to fidget.

"How may I be of service, Ministre?" he inquired.

The Premier Ministre's answering laughter was as soft as his voice, but no less hearty for it. "If I am correct," he said, "then you have already done me a tremendous service. Is it not true that you helped to uncover the conspiracy which would have ended in my murder?"

Flustered, Valjean responded, "It is."

"And then willfully put yourself in harm's way to ensure that conspiracy could not reach fruition?"

It was increasingly difficult to hold the man's steady gaze. "I did, Monsieur."

Premier Ministre Marchand nodded. "My purpose in coming here was not to ask anything further of you, but to thank you, Monsieur Valjean."

Valjean's face twitched involuntarily; he could not remember a time that honorific had been used in conjunction with his real surname.

The Ministre could only have noticed, but he continued without comment. "Your actions have not only preserved my life, but have protected countless citizens from exploitation under He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. You should be proud."

"But Ministre," Valjean blurted, "it was not only I - There were others who -"

Marchand held up a finger, and Valjean swallowed the rest of his sentence. "Polite and humble," the Ministre mused. "I grow more intrigued by your character every minute."

Then he smiled. "I have already delivered my endorsement to the Grand Chambre du Parlement, and I am pleased to find I do not regret doing so. After all, if we continue to punish good people for their past transgressions, then why should anyone ever change?"

It was not in Valjean's power to answer. He just nodded mutely, too overwhelmed to speak.

The Premier Ministre did not seem discomfited by Valjean's silence. He simply went on to add, "Whatever the outcome, I shall be watching." And then, "Do you know, I rather hope they rule in your favor."

Valjean stood fixed in place long after Premier Ministre Marchand left, fighting to suppress an emotion painfully like hope in his breast. Sooner than he would have liked, however, the door opened again to reveal Mme. Sarkozy, along with three Aurors. It was time, then.

Sarkozy held a folder stuffed with documents; Valjean could only guess at what all was in there. Of the Aurors, Satki stood in the center, along with Chevallier and a third wizard whom Valjean was fairly sure had been one of the party at the Hôtel Matignon.

"You know what you need to say?" Sarkozy asked, tapping her foot in what might have been impatience, or might have been nerves.

"I think so," Valjean replied, smoothing his hair so it lay flat.

"I have to cuff you now," Satki told him. "It's nothing personal."

Valjean smiled a little crookedly. "I'm used to it."

As she approached, Satki said, "Coste wanted to be here, but he's laid up in hospital. Loup garou bites are tricky to heal, same as werewolves. The marks never fully go away." She fastened the shackles around Valjean's wrists, continuing, "They've taken his statement, though. The court will have to account for that."

Valjean had heard as much from Chabouillet, but the distraction was welcome. He could almost convince himself he did not feel the cold metal close against his pulse point, and he nodded. As he was led from the room, Valjean had another thought: I have friends here. That notion settled his iron resolve. This will not be like the last time.

A maze of passageways ultimately found the group in front of a walnut-stained door.

"I will go first," Mme. Sarkozy said. "Valjean, you are to follow after." She looked at the Aurors. "Are you coming in?"

In the end, it was Chevallier who answered. With a slight glance at Valjean, he said, "We all saw how this man stood up to the Death Eaters. We will go in. And if you need to call another witness... Well. I would defend him."

The others nodded their agreement, and as Valjean turned to follow Sarkozy into the courtroom, he thought that perhaps the pounding of his heart was not due to fear.

The chamber was unchanged, imposing and cold, and the members of Parlement were already seated on their high benches. Valjean knew to head to the dias, and to the chair fixed in the middle of it. He was conscious of Chevallier following behind, and even more conscious of the way every eye in the room seemed to be turned on him. At his first appeal, the court had been almost casually dismissive in their attitudes. Now he had their complete and undivided attention.

Climbing up to the top of the dias, Valjean experienced a shiver of déjà vu as Chevallier said, "Handcuffs." He allowed the Auror to remove the restraints, flexing the feeling back into his fingers.

"Sit," Chevallier added, gesturing to the chair. Valjean knew he did not have a choice, and yet as he looked from the Auror to the thirty-odd faces on the benches, he almost fancied it was of his own accord that he sat deliberately down. He waited for Chevallier to tap the chair with his aspen wand, activating the binding spell which would hold him captive. The moment did not come.

Chevallier stepped down from the dias, leaving Valjean unshackled and unrestrained. If he felt reassured, it was quickly buried under self-consciousness, and he thought perhaps his heart did beat with fear after all. He was like an insect pinned to a board, and for an instant, he almost wished he had been frozen in place; the urge to squirm under the Parlement's penetrating stare was immense.

On the floor, Mme. Sarkozy took her place at the defendant's podium. It was not long before the Procureur, Grenier, entered to take the prosecutor's stand, and then they were waiting on only one other.

Valjean heard the door open behind him. Immediately, he was free of the staring, as all heads turned to the newcomer. Valjean could guess who it was, but he did not dare look in case he was wrong. The footsteps as they crossed the floor were measured, interspersed with the click of a cane. Then the newcomer drew level with the dias, and Valjean could no longer help himself: he glanced down.

Valjean had believed himself prepared. He was not. The naked relief he felt at seeing Javert again beside him was sudden and visceral. The Auror was not looking at him, but up at the Premier Président of the Grand Chambre, and Valjean took a moment to pick out the nuances of his posture. Javert leaned heavily on a black cane, which he gripped like it were a weapon. There remained an ashy pallor to his face, but the quiet dignity in the set of his shoulders was unmistakable.

Javert bowed by way of greeting, and then limped steadily over to where Sarkozy was stationed. Only once he was there did his eyes lift to meet Valjean's. Valjean saw they held an echo of his own relief, as well as a faint promise of heat, but he did not have the opportunity to think on it, for that is when the Premier Président stood.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Grand Chambre," he began, and though the courtroom had already been silent, now that silence seemed stretched taut. "Two weeks ago, we heard the appeal to the case of Jean Valjean, and found him guilty on all charges. However, today we will hear his case again." He paused, and while the look he gave Valjean was not amiable, neither was it hostile. "New circumstances require new testimonials."

The Président lifted a parchment off the stand in front of him. He set a pair of reading glasses on his nose, then looked back at Valjean. "You are Jean Valjean of Faverolles?" he asked.

Valjean dipped his head. "I am, Your Honor."

"Is the name Élodie Perrier known to you?"

A small frown puckered Valjean's lips. "Yes, Your Honor. She was a noblewoman of some influence, but she was also a Death Eater. She tried on several occasions to kill Inspecteur Javert."

The Président nodded at that. "It has come to the attention of this court that the late Madame Perrier was involved in a number of criminal activities. One finding is of particular relevance to this case - it was discovered in the hours following Valjean's previous appeal that several members of this Parlement had been placed under the Imperius Curse, including myself. This was later learned to be the work of Perrier."

A low murmur went through the assembly at that. From the bobbing of heads, Valjean imagined that this had already been a topic of some great discussion.

Raising his hand for quiet, the Premier Président then selected two more parchments from his podium. "I hold here two affidavits," he said. "One from Mathis Coste, Auror Second Class, and one from Premier Ministre Marchand. Are you familiar with these documents?"

Valjean hesitated, trying to remember how Sarkozy had instructed him to answer that question. "I have not read them, Your Honor," said Valjean. "Nor have I discussed the contents with their authors. But I could guess at which events they refer to."

Adjusting his spectacles, the Président said, "Copies of these statements have been provided to the Parlement for perusal. In short, the contents are thus: Premier Ministre Marchand credits the accused with uncovering a Death Eater plot to overthrow our government, a plot headed by our own Préfet de Préfecture Henri Gisquet." The murmurings intensified again at this statement, though they died down as the Président went on, "Monsieur Coste would in turn credit the accused with rescuing him from a loup garou attack, at great personal risk to his own safety."

Having waited a moment for those assertions to sink in, the Président returned the parchments to the podium. "Are these summaries in line with your knowledge of events?" he asked Valjean.

"They are," Valjean replied. "Though the Premier Ministre is over-generous in his praise. I would not have accomplished anything without Monsieur l'Inspecteur."

The Président hummed in response. Setting the parchments back down, he turned his attention to the floor. "Now that all are aware of these facts, I would invite Monsieur l'Procureur Grenier to make the opening statements for the prosecution."

Down on the floor, Grenier did not appear put off by the contents of the affidavits. He took his place at the lectern and began to speak, entirely unruffled. "Ladies and gentlemen, let us set stories of heroics aside for the time being, and recall to mind what, precisely, the charges are against this man."

The Procureur drew a sheet of notes from his dossier, and read, "The charges stand thus - Jean Valjean is known to have committed an act of larceny, likewise breaking the Statute of Secrecy, which led to his original conviction. From there, he broke out of Azkaban Prison, an action never successfully attempted even by the Darkest of wizards. He has since lived under the alias Madeleine, procured a wand with falsified paperwork, and amassed a significant personal fortune under false pretenses. He is also accused of evading capture, and of escaping confinement following his reconviction two weeks ago."

He folded his notes. "Regardless of any acts of valor, there is incontrovertible evidence to back all of these charges. The man is guilty, and should be treated as such." Looking around, he added, "The prosecution rests."

Valjean realized he was leaning forward in his seat, hands gripping his knees so hard the knuckles were turning white. What made the Procureur's argument good was that it was factual and unvarnished, every word of it. If questioned, Valjean could not deny anything without lying, and if then, so what? There was proof enough to confirm what Grenier said.

The Premier Président turned to him then, and Valjean knew which question was coming next. "How do you answer these charges?"

Biting down on his tongue until the lightheadedness left him, Valjean replied, "They are true enough, Your Honor." He took a deep breath, eyes flickering a moment to Javert before he returned his gaze to the front. "But even so, I... I would ask this court for clemency."

Pursing his lips, the Premier Président removed his glasses entirely and turned his head to Mme. Sarkozy. "Perhaps now would be a good time for the defense to speak."

Sarkozy squared her shoulders. "I call the Auror Javert, Inspecteur First Class, to the witness stand."

Javert stepped forward, and anyone who sought to find weakness in his limp would have realized their mistake in the hard lines of the Auror's mouth. For what was perhaps the first time, Valjean appreciated fully how glad he was to have Javert's cool demeanor and understated confidence aligned to his side. Surely even the Procureur would quail in the face of the Auror's determination.

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur," Sarkozy began, "please summarize for the Parlement the events of the past week and a half as they relate to Jean Valjean. Succinctly, if you wouldn't mind."

Javert nodded. He stood comfortably at parade rest, and when he spoke his voice was clear and calm. He might have been giving a report to Secrétaire Chabouillet, or to a certain provincial mayor.

The Auror's explanation picked up just after the conclusion of Valjean's first appeal, beginning with Mme. Perrier and the dementor, and his story unfolded from there. As requested, he was brief, but even so it took some time to describe the entirety of the conspiracy they had discovered, especially as Sarkozy would every so often ask a clarifying question.

There was no denying Javert was thorough in his narrative. That being said, it was also true Valjean, who was familiar with the events as they had panned out, perceived a few details that were noticeably obscured by the retelling. Thérèse was left out in all but the vaguest of ways, while the existence of the Unbreakable Vow, as well as the bizarre circumstances surrounding Javert's wand, were absent altogether.

Eventually, Javert reached the attack on the Hôtel Matignon, and it was clear that the Parlement was hanging on to his every word. So intense was the atmosphere that one witch actually gasped aloud when Javert described Valjean tossing him his wand to fight back against Bellatrix.

"And then he turned himself in quietly, as promised," Javert concluded. "What happened after that I could not tell you - I was stabbed by the late Madame Perrier, and so my memory becomes a shade unreliable for the next hour." This last was said with his characteristic dry humor, and a few chuckles broke out around the room as the tension eased.

Mme. Sarkozy smiled. "Do you believe this man deserves leniency, Inspecteur?"

"I do," Javert replied seriously. "If Valjean has wronged society, then he has surely made up for it by his efforts. Monsieur l'Procureur speaks of a fortune made under false pretenses - true, perhaps, but how much of that wealth was returned to the citizens of Montreuil-sur-Mer in the form of schools, and hospitals, and infrastructure? The town has never been more prosperous than it was with Madeleine as mayor."

"And," he went on, "though there are those in this government, in this very courtroom, who would see him put back in Azkaban, Valjean still chose to save us all from death or servitude at the hands of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers. Some of us," he added with a cough, "have been saved more directly than others."

Javert did not look at him, but where he sat on the dias, Valjean could still make out the way the Auror's ears were turning red, as well as his slight, awkward shift in position. Then Javert tugged at his collar, and Valjean decided it was not the eyes of the Parlement that had him embarrassed.

The courtroom was oblivious to this subtext. Sarkozy inclined her head, saying, "The defense rests."

"In that case," said the Président, "I will open the proceedings to cross-examination."

Grenier stepped back up to his stand, smiling slightly. "Monsieur l'Inspecteur, if you would."

Javert turned to face him. "Monsieur l'Procureur," he returned curtly.

Drumming his fingers on the podium, the Procureur said, "It must strike the entire Parlement as strange that you should defend this man you once so completely denounced. Many might wonder at your reasoning."

"That is not a question," Javert drawled.

"No," Grenier agreed. "But perhaps the accused has caused you to say these things by some magical means, or under the duress of information."

Javert did not roll his eyes, though Valjean suspected it was a near thing. "That argument grows more tired every time I hear it," he said. "Valjean has spent the past forty-eight hours in the Conciergerie. Even if I had been under some enchantment, the forced separation would surely have broken it. For that matter, I have been hounded by at least a dozen Healers - any one of them can testify my wits are entirely my own."

He lifted his chin, and his voice was cold as he added, "And if you are insinuating that the accused might possess some information about my person, then I hope you would know, Grenier, that I would lose my post, my pride, and my life before succumbing to blackmail."

Someone on the bench said, "Hear, hear!" but Javert did not break eye contact. He simply looked levelly at Grenier, whose sly smile had disappeared.

"As you say," the Procureur replied. "Then perhaps you care to explain this." He pulled a page from his folder. "The following excerpt comes from the court transcript of the previous appeal. You said, quote, 'the man is undeniably guilty in the eyes of the law'. Do you recant that statement?"

Javert held one hand behind his back, the other leaning onto the cane in front of him. "Valjean has not denied the validity of the charges against him. Neither shall I. The law would find him guilty, and I do not retract what I said. However..."

The first hint of discomfiture crossed Javert's features. "I was wrong," he stated. The twist of his mouth at this admission suggested he had swallowed a lemon, but it did not stop him pressing forward.

"I was wrong to believe that human nature was only good or evil. I was wrong to believe a single mistake was enough to justify damning a man for life. Jean Valjean has erred, to be sure, but his heart is a good one. Whatever the law might say of such matters, it would not truly be just to condemn him."

Grenier narrowed his eyes. "The prescribed punishment for the crimes of the accused is life imprisonment in Azkaban. Do you mean to tell the court that this law is unjust?"

The chamber was perfectly, deafeningly silent. Javert's expression might have been carved from stone.

Then he said, "Yes."

The uproar was instantaneous. The Président had to bang his gavel to restore order, and even that took several attempts. When the Parlement was finally quiet again, the Président waved for the men to continue.

Javert took a step nearer the prosecutor's stand; settling carefully on his heels, he lifted his cane from the floor and pointed it directly at Grenier.

"I have a question for you now, Monsieur le Procureur," he said. "You seem to keep a great deal of information in your files there - perhaps you can look up the answer, if you do not know it already. For how many years was Valjean first sentenced to prison?"

"Objection," said Grenier.

Another swing of the gavel. "Overruled."

"Well?" Javert raised an eyebrow. "Do you have an answer, Grenier? No?"

He tutted, and turned to the bench. "Monsieur le Premier Président - Jean Valjean's original offense was petty theft, coupled with a minor breach in the Statute of Secrecy, under which only one Muggle had to be Obliviated. What is the penalty for such an offense?"

The Président seemed to consider this. "Standard practice would recommend a five year sentence," he replied.

"A five year sentence." The Auror paced, clearly working toward some point. "I have reviewed the court record. I do not doubt that a copy of the same document resides in Monsieur Grenier's dossier, though he ignores its contents because they are inconvenient to him. Valjean's original sentence was indeed set for a five year period."

He stopped, pivoting to look up at the dias. "Jean, how many years did you spend in Azkaban?"

Valjean swallowed. "Nineteen," he whispered.

"Pardon?"

"Nineteen," Valjean repeated, more loudly.

"Nineteen years," said Javert, turning to stare back up at the benches. "Nine teen years." His words trembled slightly with an anger simmering just below the surface, and his gaze swept from Grenier to the Premier Président to the other members of Parlement. "Is there a person -" he demanded, "- one, single person in this courtroom who can answer to the fact that Jean Valjean spent nineteen years in Azkaban on a five year sentence?"

The rage did not quite reach his voice, but Valjean saw it in the tightness of Javert's back, and in the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"How many others?" the Auror asked. "How many other people - perhaps even good people - have you kept in that place past their time? Ask yourselves that, and then tell me if it is justice to put this man back there."

Javert had said his piece. He stalked off to the side of the floor nearer Mme. Sarkozy, and it was plain he was trying to keep ahold of himself. Around the courtroom, faces betrayed shock, amazement, and in a few places, guilt. The Président thudded his gavel, though no-one was speaking.

"I call the Grand Chambre to a vote," the Président said. "Because of Élodie Perrier's interference in the last ruling, the use of capital punishment in the form of the Dementor's Kiss shall be forgone. Therefore, the options before the Parlement are as follows - either to follow the prescription of the Code Pénal, which amounts to a life sentence in Azkaban Prison, or to name the accused pardoned of all charges on account of services rendered to this government and its agents."

Spell or no spell, Valjean could not have budged if he had tried. He was aware of two things: the weight of the court's attention, and the drum of his heart against his ribs.

"Those in favor of conviction?"

Around the chamber, a smattering of hands went up, but not many. By far, the majority had remained motionless. That meant... Valjean did not dare think what that meant, as if the act of thinking it might take everything away from him.

"Those in favor of pardon?"

Hands went up. Valjean did not have to count, he could see which way the court had been swayed.

"Those abstaining?"

The Premier Président jotted down the results with a quill and blotted the ink. "Very well," he said. "Jean Valjean, this court has elected to pardon you of all charges."

The gavel fell on the podium and the room erupted in chatter, but Valjean had eyes for one person, and one person only, and that was the Auror staring up at him from the floor. Javert did not smile, exactly, but the happiness was there in his expression anyway.

Getting off the dias proved to be a slight struggle; Valjean's knees felt weak, and descending the stairs took a moment longer than it might have otherwise. As the members of Parlement trickled past, several stopped to issue their congratulations. Valjean repeated his thanks over and over, and the words were just as sincere in each iteration.

Beside the door, Satki was beaming. She beckoned him forward, and Valjean went to meet her the moment there was a break in the crowd.

"Congrats, convict," she winked. "You know that's your nickname now, don't you?"

Valjean laughed. "So long as that's all it is, I think I can live with that."

"Chevallier said to pass on his good wishes. I think he's gone to accost the people who voted against you."

Shaking his head, Valjean replied, "I wish he wouldn't, it was their right."

Satki shrugged. "And it's his right to express dissatisfaction with our elected officials." The witch reached into her robes. "Here," she said, withdrawing his wand from her pocket. "This is yours now, for good. I'll see to it the Wand Permitting Office sends you the proper paperwork."

Valjean's fingers closed around the handle, and a friendly warmth crept from the wood up his arm.

"I appreciate it," he murmured. "All of it."

The courtroom emptied gradually. Valjean waited in the vestibule just outside the main chamber, smiling to people as they spilled out into the hall. Finally, the Premier Président passed him, nodding cordially, and the vestibule was left quiet in the absence of footsteps.

"Jean Valjean," growled a voice he knew well.

Valjean turned, something almost coy in the slant of his lips. "Inspecteur Javert," he returned.

Javert leaned against his cane with some weight, but it suited him well enough that he could, had he been so inclined, have suggested it was for fashion rather than support. The heat was returned to his steel grey eyes, and he glanced pointedly from Valjean to the door of the vestibule's little storage closet. Valjean's smile widened.

A moment later found Javert shouldering the door open. Their faces met before it had time to latch after them, Valjean grasping at the front of the Auror's robes. Javert's hand was cupping his cheek, the other snaking around Valjean's waist, and Valjean gasped against the mouth kissing him so thoroughly.

"Javert, I -" he panted between the needy parting of lips, "- I missed you."

"I missed you, too," came the muttered reply. The arm at Valjean's waist tugged their hips together, and the temperature of the room increased markedly. Then they were both staring at each other, breathing hard. The expression in Javert's eyes had not changed, and Valjean knew himself wanted.

"The things you said," pronounced Valjean, his fingers climbing higher to card through the Auror's long hair. "In court. Javert, thank -"

"Don't you dare thank me," Javert said, bringing their foreheads together, "for something which should have been yours by right."

Javert's cane lay quite forgotten on the floor. His body exerted a slight pressure, and Valjean took a step backwards to compensate. When the pressure did not decrease, Valjean guessed the man's intention and took another step back, feeling wood panelling against his shoulder blades. He did not think he had ever been so content to be pushed against a wall before.

Then Javert's mouth was back on his, and Valjean's chin lifted into it. The touch of tongues was still too unpracticed to be more than awkward, but Valjean did not doubt they would figure it out with practice. That thought, the notion that there could be more times like this, as many times as they wanted, crashed over him in a giddy wave. They broke apart again, and a laugh rumbled through his chest.

"I'm a free man," Valjean said, tasting the words experimentally.

"You are," Javert agreed, his voice low in Valjean's ear. "Though there is one minor detail yet to resolve."

Valjean raised an eyebrow. "What is that?"

The Auror smirked. "Nothing that needs to be taken care of right at this moment." Then he tilted his head further to the side, putting his lips against the point on Valjean's neck where his pulse hammered frantically.

Valjean's reply died before it started, to be replaced by just an, "Oh." His fingers wrapped tighter in the hair at the nape of Javert's neck, and the Auror's teeth grazed over the sensitive skin of his throat in response.

Well aware that no-one was likely to come looking for them, or to otherwise make use of the little storage room, which was empty but for some cobwebs and old shelves, Valjean's free arm wound around the Auror's back, meaning to draw him closer yet. In so doing, he inadvertently touched against Javert's side, the place where beneath layers of clothing, bandages held his injuries in stasis. Javert winced, and Valjean could not fail to notice.

"But I am thoughtless," he said, releasing his grip at once. "You are hurt, you should be resting. No wonder you are out of breath, I -"

"Jean." Javert's quiet tone cut through Valjean's tirade. Though his voice was firm, his eyes danced with laughter. "That is hardly why I am out of breath."

Studying him for a minute, Valjean determined that Javert was not, in fact, concealing any greater pain than he had already demonstrated. Resolving still to be more careful, Valjean took the man by the chin and guided their faces nearer; leveraging himself up on his toes, his teeth closed over the Auror's lower lip, and the noise Javert made startled both of them. Valjean was immediately afflicted by the urge to press every breathy, desperate noise from the Auror that he could.

Something of his desire must have shown on his face, because Javert chuckled, burying his nose in the crook of Valjean's neck. "We shouldn't do this here," he said, sounding muffled. "Someone is bound to notice."

Valjean hummed. "So you say," he murmured back. "But I don't see you stopping."

"It's harder than I expected," Javert conceded, planting a line of kisses down the length of Valjean's neck. "I haven't slept in two days, wondering..."

Then the Auror did something, and Valjean's back arched off the wall. "Ah, Javert -"

"You would let me," Javert said, sounding awed. "You would let me make you mine, right here and now."

Valjean grunted. "I might require it," he replied. "These trousers are getting uncomfortable."

Hesitating, Javert said, "I shouldn't. It wouldn't be right - not yet."

Valjean cocked his head. "Something troubles you still. Some uncertainty. If I have done anything to -"

"No," Javert insisted. "It is nothing which you are responsible for."

Biting his already-swollen lip, the Auror met Valjean's eyes. "We have got to talk to Thérèse," he said, "about this Vow that we made."