Summary: [Post-canon] After the war, someone needs to summon the Incarnation of Justice, and it won't be Aldon Rosier. For FeatheryMinx in RBE2.

I. Eleni Hurst

Eleni always knew that her magic was different.

Her magic was alive. It was not the dead thing that the professors at Hogwarts suggested it was, not simply a tool to be used for whatever that Eleni wanted. Quite to the contrary, Eleni's magic spoke to her.

It told her about lies. It told her who was lying, and who wasn't. Sometimes, it told her how people were lying, and rarely, it told her why. It was easy to pick out white lies, the sort of harmless comments that people made simply because it made their lives easier, or because it pleased someone else. Their day had been going horribly, but they didn't want to say so to a stranger; that robe really was atrocious but if daffodil yellow made someone happy, then so be it. Those were the sort of lies that made her magic grumble and shift, but that it ultimately didn't really care about.

The lies that did matter made her magic ache sharply in disapproval. Eleni always knew when someone had told her a major lie, which had come in helpful when her son became the Rogue of the Lower Alleys. Leo would always have her support, and a careful word here and there often prevented problems before they arose. There was a reason why her son's reign in the Alleys was more stable than the entire generation that had come before him.

Her magic was alive, and it was useful. It helped her identify people who were trustworthy and those who were not; it had guided her through Hogwarts, then through her Healer's training at St. Mungo's. Now, it helped her in her daily work as a Healer. She had never seen a need to draw any attention to it. So, her magic was different. So, what?

The Arcturus Rigel Black trial was a revelation, and not necessarily a pleasant one. It was good to know that there were others like her, but she was less sure about how she felt about her gift being named. Her magic was alive, and it was an intrinsic part of her, and it didn't need a name. What purpose did the name serve?

More importantly, what purpose would it serve to name herself as a Truth-Speaker, much as the young Aldon Rosier had done? It would only make others uncertain of her, and it drew unnecessary and unwarranted attention.

There was also no need. There had only been on Summoning of Justice in the last four hundred years, and it didn't seem like another would be necessary in her lifetime. Even if it were, there was Aldon Rosier, who would no doubt be the first person asked to summon the incarnation, since he had done so before.

But then there was the War, and the War changed everything.

She waited outside the kitchen of Potter Place, where the young Arcturus Black was holding his meetings. The War had only been a little more than a year, and yet it had left deep scars. The Lower Alleys needed to be rebuilt, and that included the Maywell Clinic. St. Mungo's, however, was protesting the usual funding for the Clinic, citing their own rebuilding efforts. Nearly all the Healers in the country had been involved in the war—those that hadn't joined the resistance had either been conscripted into service at Voldemort's side, or they had fled abroad.

"I refuse." The words, unusually loud and blunt, came flying out the door—the Lord Aldon Rosier, unless Eleni missed her guess. "I will not do it, Archie—and more than that, I cannot summon Justice in these circumstances."

The door was slightly ajar, and Eleni couldn't help but peer inside. Arcturus Black looked wan, his dark hair mussed, while the Lord Rosier had his jaw set and his arms crossed over his chest. At the table also sat a redhead wearing thick, hornbeam spectacles, one of the Weasleys, and a woman with long, blonde hair that fell halfway to her waist.

Weasley adjusted his glasses. "Unfortunately, Penny is right. We appreciate that your informants provided much of the critical background that led to our success, but unless there is a public proceeding, people will always question. In the case of Lestrange in particular, he was publicly one of Voldemort's most vicious enforcers—"

"Lestrange was an internal enforcer," Rosier snapped, uncrossing his arms to slam his hands on the table. "That means he turned his wand on Voldemort's own followers, not on anyone else."

Eleni's magic twisted in her chest, making her gasp in pain. That wasn't just a lie—it was a gross lie. Rosier knew perfectly well that he was lying, but he did it anyway. Covering for Lestrange, most likely, which meant Lestrange had used his skills on people other than Voldemort's followers.

There was a moment of silence, then someone cleared their throat. "Be as that may," a woman, presumably Penny, said calmly. "Lestrange was also seen on the battlefield several times, and I don't doubt that if we went looking, we'd find accounts of him killing at least on the battlefield, if not elsewhere. There needs to be a trial, and the most effective way to clear him of all wrongdoing is to summon Justice. Who would question the Incarnation of Justice?"

"They have a point, Al." Arcturus sighed, shifting uncomfortably at the table. "If we want to bring charges against the rest of Voldemort's followers, then we can't favour your informants, not just on the strength of your word. I believe you that Lestrange was an informant, but we're setting up a new country, and we need to do it right. That means trials, and if we can summon Justice, that would be the most straightforward way of clearing this all up."

"Who do you propose to summon Justice, then?" Rosier demanded sharply. "I refuse to do so. If you insist on conducting a trial over the activities of my informants rather than dismissing them as necessary actions in the course of war, then I insist on appearing as a witness in their defence. No one else can provide the corroborating evidence that I can provide."

"If you've summoned Justice, they can provide that evidence themselves," Penny pointed out, but Eleni had heard enough. If this was a matter of Caelum Lestrange, master torturer, receiving justice when Rosier was intent on covering up at least some of what he had done, then she would step forward. The ruins of the Lower Alleys demanded it.

She opened the door and walked in.

"I'm sorry, but I could not help overhearing your conversation," she said politely, looking around and resting her eyes firmly on Rosier with a hint of warning. He was hiding something, and she knew it. "But if it is another Truth-Speaker you need, then I would be happy to serve."

II. Aldon Rosier

Aldon focused on the small details: the gold gilt on decorating the heraldic crests on the wall, the mess of Weasley's curls at the defence table in front of him, the chip in the wooden bar in front of him, which was worn away with time. The air in the courtroom was chill, too cold, and smelled of dusty tomes and old magic. He shivered, not entirely from the cold—anything to avoid looking at the Incarnation holding court over the proceedings.

It had been more than a year since he had been in the Courts of Justice. More than a year was still too soon. His entire lifetime, he thought, was probably too soon. The morning the Lestrange's trial started, he had needed a vial of Calming Draught to even get himself to court. He would have preferred a shot of brandy, but with Francesca watching, he hadn't been able to sneak one in. More than a week into this trial, some mornings were still better than others.

He wouldn't even have attended, but he had been the resistance spymaster. For more than a year, he had been in charge of their spies, and Caelum Lestrange had been one of his spies. One of his best spies, if he were honest with himself, much as Aldon might dislike him personally. As one of his best spies, Aldon owed it to Lestrange to testify in his defence.

He shut his eyes, trying to breathe in calm, and wiped his sweating palms on his trousers. It had become easier over the course of the trial to look at Justice—the Incarnation was better to Eleni Hurst than She had been to him. Or, perhaps, it was only that Justice preferred to represent Herself as female, putting Herself into a flowing, dress-like robe, and Healer Hurst looked far more the part than Aldon ever had. Not that it made much of a difference, since the soft curves of Healer Hurst had been subsumed into something sharper, something alien and unforgiving.

Like with Aldon, the Incarnation had summoned Her sword and scales; like with Aldon, She had been harsh on all of the witnesses who had testified thus far. Aldon doubted that She would be any kinder to him simply because he, too, was a Truth-Speaker, or because he had Summoned Her previously. She was not human, and Aldon knew that better than anyone.

"The defence calls on Lord Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier." Percy's voice sank into his consciousness, slow though Aldon had known it would be coming today. He had insisted, and he stood up and made his way to the witness box on the second dais at the front of the room.

"Very well," Justice said coolly. He didn't look at Her, but he could feel Her gentle, sharp amusement beside him. "A Lord now, are you? It matters not—you know the importance of telling the truth on the stand."

Aldon swallowed. "I had not thought that my status would matter," he retorted dryly, and turned to focus on Percy.

"Lord Rosier," Percy said, his face purposely blank. "Would you kindly explain your role in the revolution?"

"I was the resistance spymaster," Aldon replied tersely, trying to ignore the dominating presence beside him. Justice, no matter whose body She occupied, was impossible to ignore.

"And your duties?"

"I was responsible for cultivating informants within Voldemort's ranks." The courtroom was full of people, dressed in a mix of Muggle and wizarding clothes, all of whom were watching him. Both Penelope Clearwater and Percy Weasley had students beside them, taking notes and organizing papers. Aldon tried to focus on the small things—the teal trim on an unknown woman's robes, the scratching of pens on paper, the acrid smell of old magic. The more he focused on the small things, the more he could ignore the big ones.

"I was also responsible for managing the informants," he continued, fixing his gaze on Percy. "My informants would pass information to me from the inside, and I would collate that same information and provide it to resistance command to guide their actions. At times, I would also instruct my informants to conduct sabotage activities, such as by delaying Voldemort or providing misinformation, such as could be done. Voldemort was an accomplished Legilimens, so the latter was limited."

"And Lestrange?"

"Lestrange was one of my informants." Aldon shifted, letting his gaze wander over to where Lestrange sat, his expression carefully bored. "He was one of my highest-ranking informants among Voldemort's army, and accordingly provided some of the most valuable information to the resistance. With his information, we were able to track Voldemort's movements and gain a fix on his personality."

"Would you care to provide some examples of the information that Lestrange provided, in the course of the war?" Percy paused. "Particularly any information which had a significant impact on the course of the war?"

Aldon shifted uncomfortably. "It's difficult to say, Mr. Weasley. Most of the information that my informants provide to me is minimal, and meaningful only when put in combination with information provided by others. Sometimes, the information would come or be decoded too late for it to be of any use. However, I knew from Lestrange and from others that Voldemort was a micromanager. I knew that Voldemort was egoistic, and overconfident, and a strong man—I knew that many of his followers were with him out of admiration for his magical prowess. I—"

"You are not answering the question, Chosen." Justice's voice, familiar even in a different body, was sharp. "Answer the question."

Aldon looked down.

"Eyes up." Justice sounded annoyed. "You are one of my Chosen—now act like it and give your evidence properly."

Aldon sucked in a deep breath. "Er—most notably, Lestrange provided warning on the Welsh massacre. I had had another report earlier outlining the targets that were most at risk, but he provided a warning as it was happening. Partially because of his actions, as well as other information, we were able to mobilize and while we were too late for most of Wales, we did manage to save some lives. Not many, but some. Lestrange also provided information on Voldemort's movements throughout the Scottish campaign, particularly the decision to go into the Highlands and on Voldemort's defences within Hogsmeade Village. We knew from Lestrange, as well as two other sources, that Voldemort had lost trust in his retained Stormwings. He—most critically, with his unique position, Lestrange was also able to provide the resistance of warning of persons that Voldemort had captured, and to dismiss or misdirect any information that was potentially harmful to the resistance."

"His unique position," Percy repeated. "Would you elaborate?"

"Lestrange was Voldemort's chief internal enforcer," Aldon said, staring out into the audience and willing himself to believe what came out of his mouth. He didn't know—he had, indeed, tried not to know more about what Lestrange did as an enforcer. "Lestrange had unique access to the more sadistic elements of Voldemort's inner circle, who were entrusted with torture of captured prisoners. He was the one who was trusted to enforce discipline among Voldemort's ranks, which gave him unusual access to information passed—"

"Lying," Justice noted, and Aldon gasped as he felt a sharp tug at his magic. A warning from the Incarnation. "You know better. Truth, and all of it this time."

"I know nothing," Aldon replied, staring at Lestrange. "I know nothing, Lady Justice."

"But you suspect more, and you never tried to confirm your suspicions." There was a creak, a sound as Justice shifted on the top dais. "Inform me of your suspicions, Rosier."

Aldon was grimly silent for a moment, until the Incarnation tugged at his core again, and he grimaced. "Lestrange may have also been responsible for torturing for information for Voldemort. To the extent that he did so, I am fully confident that they were necessary in the circumstances of war. I have no confirmation."

"And you didn't look for any." There was a small huff of amusement. "Don't lie, Chosen, it disrespects the gift you have been given."

Aldon refused to look at the Incarnation. Instead, he focused on Percy for his next question.

He was freed from the stand after a full day—one afternoon, and the next morning. But the day after, even he could not stomach returning to the courthouse.

He had done his duty by Lestrange, testifying in his defence, and by attending every day previous. He would go back on the day the decision was read. Until then, he could simply read the reports of the trial in Bridge.

Justice was terrifying. Even if he was not the one possessed, Justice was terrifying, and he wanted as little to do with Her as possible. Lestrange would understand—or, if he didn't, fuck him. Aldon didn't care.

III. Justicia

Justicia examined the courtroom with pleasure, feeling the hum of apprehension and uncertainty running like electricity through the room. The walls were old stone, steeped in Her magic and influence, and the wizards had added more of Her signifiers over time. The wall behind Her blazed with gold, a portrait of Her in one of Her most favoured forms: the flowing Roman dress, the sword and the scales, and the blindfold. In court, She preferred the crown over the blindfold, but the symbology was good.

There was nothing quite like a trial. Humans lied. Humans lied for every sort of reason, and there was nothing like the sensation of ripping everything away and laying their untruths bare for judgement.

Both of the barristers were familiar to Her—a rare event, but a welcome one. It was unusual for Justicia to be called more than once in a lifetime in any part of the world, but She could not say that She was displeased. Both barristers were both properly deferential, and they carried out their offices with civility and professionalism.

She glanced over to the accused, giving evidence on the stand beside Her. Caelum Lestrange was forthright in his testimony—he had admitted to multiple instances of torture and murder, all of them with a blank, uncaring expression. What was remarkable, however, was that Lestrange didn't lie. He had fought even less that Her own Chosen had fought, concealing nothing, though in Her long experience most did when they had committed the sort of horrors that Lestrange had committed.

Weasley was running a duress defence. Lestrange had committed atrocities, but he had done so because he had been forced by circumstances into doing so. Justicia was not fully convinced—duress defences should only be used sparingly and in the most exigent circumstances of imminent danger. A duress defence made no sense in the context of a year-long war.

There was, however, a lot of ground in the fact that Lestrange's actions had been committed in the context of a war. When it came to wartime, there were different considerations. One of the fundamental principles of justice was that a person be able to know when they were breaking the law—in the circumstances of war, who created the law and what was legal remained an open question until the end of the war. There were overarching principles governing conduct in war, but they were quite different than at other times.

Lestrange had been a combatant in the war. His testimony, and that of the other witnesses, confirmed that he had been an enforcer within Voldemort's ranks. He admitted that he had tortured for information on Voldemort's orders, and that he had killed. But he also testified, truthfully, that he had never done anything that he considered unnecessary; he had refrained from killing to the extent possible while maintaining his cover.

Whatever he had done, Justicia couldn't hold him criminally liable considering the circumstances of war. Her decision would need to be very carefully worded; She hoped that Weasley had done his job properly, and that his closing submissions would cite some good case law on which She would be able to rely. Otherwise, She would take Her time in drafting Her decision, which would no doubt be relied upon for every other trial for actions conducted in the course of war in this country for the foreseeable future.

She looked around the courtroom, Her eyes resting on each of the markers of the court system: the wooden bar separating the crowd from the officers of the court, the two tables for the prosecution and the defence, the noble and intimidating insignia of Her office around Her.

She had been out of Wizarding England for far too long before this generation. It was good to be back.