A/N: Last Chapter! I hope you like it.

Chapter 13: The Redemption of a Saint

Try as I might I can never remember exactly what I said that day to the committee. I suppose I told them everything. Most likely beginning with the first day Fudge had asked me to take the potion to Charad Street. But the exact words I used have since faded completely.

I do remember feeling relieved, that Fudge was not there to hear my account. The minister never attended hearings for this committee. It would have looked suspicious to change this pattern now. Even with the amount of media coverage this case was receiving.

Complete silence in the courtroom accompanied my story to the end. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the daily prophet reporter scribbling away in his notebook looking quite pleased with himself, as if the entire ordeal had been his idea.

Once I had finished it took quite a while for the court to find it's voice again. The silence was broken very hesitantly by more murmurings. Though they hardly sounded excited now. A shocked and quite apprehensive feeling seemed to have taken hold . Much like the expression that Celia still wore as she looked at me. For all that I could tell her gaze had not left me since the beginning. It was strange how this knowledge made everything seem much calmer.

'Very- very well,' Viejen mumbled hesitantly once the courtroom had again, quieted down.

'The committee will take one day's recess to take this new...er...evidence into account. We will meet back here at 4:00 Monday after noon.'

'Sir!' The executioner interjected almost threateningly, looking rather put out. No doubt he had been planning on putting his axe to use by sunset.

'Any problems arising with this new...ehm... situation may be dealt with in my private chambers. Court is adjourned.' Viejen said pointedly to the executioner, who was still scowling.

More commotion from the court room as people rose from their seats to leave. The reporters were first to exit through the back doors, each of them attempting and failing to hide the excitement they felt at being the first to reveal this story to the world.

Viejen stepped down from the bench. I saw him stop and converse briefly at the defendant's table with the two guards. I strained my ears to hear their conversation, but it was simply impossible with the ensuing commotion. It was less than a minuet before Viejen was once again setting off to his chambers with the executioner following in his wake.

The other guard who had been left at the table with Celia, (who's eyes were once again focused on her feet), looked quickly in her direction then strangely up at me. Then with an almost relieved sigh, he took off at a near sprint after the other two. Soon all three of them had disappeared around the corner that led to Viejen's chambers.

I thought of leaving then, decided against it. So I silently settled my self in one of the wooden benches close to her chair and waited for the room to completely empty. Waited until we were completely alone.

This seemed to take hours. People were leaving two by two talking excitedly to each other about the unfolded events, or about where to go for dinner, or the outcome of the recent quidditch match, (Scotland vs. Italy). Finally the last pair began walking to the back of the room and then through the wooden double doors, leaving the courtroom completely silent, except for the odd shuffling sound of my feet scraping against the tile on the floor.

For some reason I seemed to be more nervous now then I had been in front of the entire court. The shuffling noise was becoming quite annoying even to me, yet strangely I couldn't will myself to stop.

If only she would say something.

If only I COULD say something.

If only it weren't so quiet.

Then finally: 'You shouldn't have done that.' Celia said rather shakily her eyes still pressed to the floor

'Yes, well. Least I could've done I suppose...' I said rather awkwardly.

'No. I mean you really shouldn't have done that!' She said speaking much louder. She was looking at me now with a sincerely worried expression.

'Now that this is out who knows what'll happen. Father's reputation will be ruined. Over 20 years of working his way up in the ministry dashed in 10 minuets. And with you know who back on the lose, a new minister is the very last thing any one needs...'

I had heard these words before though I did not say that to her. She still didn't know the entire truth about her Father, what he had done. I had conveniently left out the conversation I had over heard a week before in the minister's office from my testimony. It wasn't necessary. She continued...

'That's not to mention what will happen to you. You do realize that you might as well clean out your desk now? That is if your lucky. They just might find a way to drag you into this entire mess.'

I knew by "they" she meant her Father. I knew what he could do to me. I was apprehensive, but still willing to take the punishment. I did not tell her this. I wanted her to continue to speak. I had never heard her talk as boldly as she now was, her voice was, not soft as I had known it to be, but strong...melodic. She continued:

'I've heard stories of people that have spoken against the ministry, who've been shipped off to Azkaban on trumped up charges, or worse...' Her voice cracked as she put her hand to her mouth and turned away.

'Celia...' I began hesitantly. 'Do you have any idea what they do to Creatures who come here?'

She still refused to look at me. Though I could see that she was now biting her lip fighting to keep the water that filled her eyes from emptying onto her cheeks. She was in such a state that I thought it best not to detail the brutal beheading process. Instead I contented myself with saying:

'You did see the axe he was carrying didn't you?' I saw her give a slight shudder. She was biting her lip so hard that I could see a small drop of blood issuing from it.

'They would have killed you, Celia. They would have if I hadn't done something.' I moved closer to her. Now standing beside the chair where she sat.

'Maybe...' She whispered after a moment. ' Maybe, it-it would have been better... if they had.'

Her voice cracked again, the tears finally won the battle and fell freely down her face.

I wanted to say something then. I should have. I should have told her that she was as good as any person I had ever known, perhaps better.

I should have told her then that I loved her. But I couldn't even admit that to myself yet, how could I say it to her.

I silently walked next to the chair at which she was sitting.

'Better for one monster to die then to have an entire nation thrown into chaos. It would be horribly selfish of me to think anything else wouldn't it?' She asked. Her face still turned away from me.

'Of course not' I said, though rather hallow.

The irony in this was that, the sacrifice of one for the good of all had been one of my many mantras. Especially after my family joined with Dumbledore.

Only now had I begun to doubt it.

Even if Celia died, How long could one guarantee that Fudge would remain in power. With the return of You-Know-Who, it was almost inevitable that Fudge would be forced out of office weather Celia were alive or not. It was strange that I was just beginning to realize this as I moved to sit in the chair beside her.

Now for some reason, her life; one single, solitary life; mattered more to me than the life of the ministry, my ideals, the entire Wizard race. Even my own existence seemed to take a back seat to hers.

I listened to her sob very softly for a few more moments. Then with out realizing entirely what I was doing, I gently placed my arms around her shoulders. She tensed for a moment then, very hesitantly, she laid one hand on top of my own, barely stroking it with the tips of her fingers.

It was impossible to say how long we stayed locked in this strange embrace.

Maybe a second.

Perhaps and hour.

Then, the silence was broken by four pairs of footsteps. Celia straightened, suddenly and took her hand from mine. I could tell with out looking that her eyes had widened in fear.

As we heard the footsteps growing louder she turned to face me. Leaning in so that our faces were barely two inches apart, she whispered urgently...

'It might not have helped. But all the same...' As she said this she reached her hand up and softly aloud it to slide down the side of my face.

'Thank you' She whispered. Then, she placed a warm kiss on my cheek.

'Celia!' A very stern voice yelled from somewhere in the back as she pulled away from me.

The footsteps had entered the court room. Viejen, the guard, the executioner and Fudge were all standing by the back double doors. The Minister looked quite livid. (Though weather he had seen the kiss or not it was impossible to tell).

'Yes Fath-' Fudge gave her a deadly glare that I could never have expected from him.

'Yes Minister' She corrected hastily standing up from her seat.

Fudge motioned the executioner to her. He obeyed, and I could see as he came closer that the maniacal glint had returned to his eye.

He took up the end of the rope that was tied around Celia's neck, and led her to the double doors that I could see Viejen and the other guard exiting from. Fudge allowed the executioner to go through the doors before him.

I saw Celia turn and give me a small, sad smile before the executioner pulled on her rope, forcing her out of the courtroom. Once they were gone, Fudge fixed me with a look that clearly said "I'll deal with you later", before sweeping out of the court room.

I was once again in the dark. Why would the minister himself escort Celia back to her dungeon? And what had she meant when she said "It might not have helped..."?

Half dazed, I left the courtroom and Followed the sounds of the now five pairs of footsteps. It was a very short distance before they stopped. I caught my breath around the corner from where I could hear the door opening. With a pang, I realized that they had stopped directly across the hall from Celia's dungeon, room number 12.

The door that was currently opening was the door to number 13.

I heard it click closed. I took a step from behind the corner. I automatically headed for the doorknob. It was locked. Of course, why hadn't I expected as much. I reached for the wand hidden inside my pockets.

'Alohamora' I whispered. It made no difference. The door remained locked.

I was forced to remember vague days when my very status in the ministry would allow any doors to be opened for me. But those days were over. I made another vain attempt to turn the handle of the door, before giving up and sinking to the floor beside the door.

As much as I strained my ears, I couldn't hear anything of what was taking place inside. The corridor around me was eerily silent.

It was a few moments before I began to hear the faint sound of whispering from inside the room. I pressed my ears to the door but still could hear nothing of the conversation.

Then suddenly the whispering stopped; I heard an indistinct sound (somewhere between a swish and a thud.), and then foot steps coming closer to the door.

Hastily I retreated back behind the corner, where I would be blocked from view. I still do not know precisely why I did this. I already knew that my career was as good as over, and after the display he had witnessed in the courtroom, there was no use in pretending to the minister that I wasn't concerned for what happened to Celia.

I still instinctively avoided the disapproval of authority figures, no matter what I thought of them. I knew I would still instinctively stand tall when the minister passed my way. I would still play the part of a ministry saint to my collegues. Even though now I considered myself an enemy of the administration. I was still an appalling coward.

I plastered myself against the wall, careful not to be seen as I heard the door open and voices emerge from it.

'Unfortunate. Dear, dear... I am really far too old for this job'. Came the reedy voice of Viejen.

'Yes...yes... a shame. You remember of course not to mention ...?' Fudge's voice trailed off.

'What? Oh of course dear boy. If there's one thing this job's taught me it's never dwell on the unpleasant.'

'Good, good' Fudge added hastily. Their foot steps trailed off.

I didn't understand. What was unfortunate, what was a shame, what was unpleasant? A thought did spring to mind... I remembered the sound. A swish then a thud. Almost like the sound of an axe...

No. They wouldn't.

Fudge, pompous and cold as he was couldn't watch... couldn't mandate something like...

But the room was number 13. The Executioner did have that sparkle in his eye as he led her away...

No. No! It wasn't possible. She'd been relocated that was all.

I moved to the door. Again, I attempted fruitlessly to turn the handle.

Celia was in there. Alive. She had to be.

Maybe they were torturing her. I had to get to her.

But why didn't I hear her. If she was inside the room why, even from the door did it sound so silent?

So hollow? So...

dead?

**

Fudge never did get the chance to "Deal" with me as he would have liked to. The daily prophet article detailing the hearing was front page news on the following day. The press attention from the article gave him no time to hurriedly dismiss me from the Ministry all together.

The ordeal at the sentencing hearing, coupled with the return of You-know- who put the minister in a very unpopular light.

It was not long before he himself was appearing before the Wizengammot, attempting to account for his actions.

I have also receiving quite a bit of media attention. More than I had anticipated at least.

Apparently the public cannot get enough of the ministry insider who had risked his career in favor of his conscience. I have to admit that it does sound rather heroic on paper and I won't deny that I quite enjoy it. After two years of basically being ignored in the ministry, it's quite nice to be in the lime light.

The contents of my morning post went from containing bills and Ministry orders, to containing stacks of fan mail.

One such letter, I remember quite vividly, was from my Mother.

The parchment was tearstained as she told me about how she had read the article in the daily prophet. She wrote about how proud she was of me and how much the family missed me. In the end she pleaded with me to come home

The letter is still sitting on my kitchen table, unanswered.

I've tried of course to write a response. But somehow the words always seemed wrong. Besides going back to the burrow would be like admitting defeat. A concept I still shudder to think of.

I know I should go back. Maybe someday I will.

Not another word was spoken about Celia, or the continuation of her sentencing hearing. No one has seen her since the day of her sentencing hearing.

In all the commotion about Fudge, she seems to have disappeared into the back round. Which, as I constantly remind myself, is what Fudge wants.

To be rid of her. No matter what the cost.

Of course there are the usual low brow gossipers gibbering about the case.

All of them seem to think that she disappeared, right under the ministries nose.

Like Dumbledore and Sirius Black, she apparently made a daring escape involving a complicated potion and, of course, fire.

I listen to the rumors, however implausible they seem. I like to believe them.

I like to think of her somewhere out in the open air. Riding on the wings of some great horse, always remaining one step ahead of the ministry. I like to think of her free.

I like to think that room number 13 in the ministry's fifth corridor doesn't exist, that I never heard the thud or the swish of an axe.

I like to think that one day, a long time from now, she will come back.

Once You-know-who, and Fudge, and Viejen, and Dumbledore have disappeared. I will see her again.

Even if it's impossible. Even if it is not true.

I like to believe it.

Sometimes I walk down Charad Street.

I find myself going there more and more frequently. Perhaps it's habit. Perhaps I'm waiting for her. Perhaps I'm looking for the redemption that I will never find. The redemption that was not meant for saints.

I walk on the gravel beside the over grown pavement. Shiver beneath the large leaves that hide the light, and stop just outside her mansion.

It is quieter now then it has ever been. The golden polish on the façade seems to have been tarnished. The cherubims no longer laugh. There are no strange sounds issuing from the trees.

It is as if the street has lost its life. It's mystery.

As I stand and stare at the address that once held such fear for me, I can only feel a slight churning in the pit of my stomach. The numbers have not changed as they should have. Carved in marble above the house front the address remains:

Number 13, Charad Street