It turns out no power in heaven or hell could stop Rita Skeeter when she wanted to publish something: not Madame Maxime, not Albus Dumbledore, and not even the Minister of Magic himself, who had somehow been dragged into this whole mess.
The whirlwind of politics and drama surrounding the second task controversy began when I woke up to Fleur hitting me in the face with a pillow.
"Wake up, Marguerite," she demanded, hair looking straighter and more pristine and silver than usual. It took me a moment to realize she wore a stylish suit. "We 'ave an appointment."
"Dear lord, Fleur," I groaned, throwing the pillow at her. "What time is it? Keep your appointments to yourself. I don't remember asking for an invite."
"You'll be begging to come along once you see zis morning's paper." She threw it at me, and it hit me in the face.
"Enough with the throwing," I growled, but my anger shifted to something else entirely once I saw the contents of The Daily Prophet.
BOY-WHO-LIVES SAVES THE GIRL-WHO-STOLE-HIS-HEART
Beneath was the picture of Harry holding me after I had passed out but angled just right so that it appeared I was conscious.
Flames swallowed the image as wandless magic burst from my hands.
The nurse shrieked and scurried off, but Fleur didn't even blink, the fire reflected in her silvery blue eyes.
"Zey will pay for what zey did," she promised, her voice as furious as the flames in my hands, nearly a yell. "Zey 'ad no right bringing anyone outside of zis competition into zat lake. Meet us outside the carriage in 10 minutes." She conjured me a black suit to compliment her own and laid it on my bed. "We are suing zeir British assess."
The Ministry was a lot shabbier than our government headquarters in France. The ceilings had a few marks on them, the paint chipped in certain locations, and the floors had many scuffs. It had many tiny flaws that would be unavoidable in even the nicest muggle facility, but ones that magic easily could—and did—fix in France.
That was my first hint at the lack of oversight in this government.
My second was when I met the man actually behind this ludicrous government. He wore an oversized set of robes and a ridiculous pin-striped hat that kept falling in his face as Madame reamed him out.
"We come to zis country on good faith zat you will treat us justly—not six months ago you sat across from me in ze Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France and promised both me and ze minister zat you would do everything in your power to respect our customs and keep us safe from any domestic threats. Little did I know ze only threat we would face in zis country would come from you!"
"Now Madame," Cornelius Fudge placated with his arms raised, eyes shifting around the room, looking anywhere but her. "I would never do anything to harm—"
"Your ministry," Madame sliced through his words like a knife. "Abducted not one but two of my students and dumped zeir bodies in the bottom of a mermaid-infested lake. One of zose students was my ward."
Madame's massive finger pointed toward where I stood behind her. Cornelius's wide eyes shifted to me.
"Your ward is dating Harry Potter?"
I stepped forward in an instant, looking the minister dead in the eye. "That's slander."
The minister blanched. "You should be honored to be considered-!"
"Zat. Is. SLANDER!" Madame yelled over him, and the minister's head whipped back to her as he took the smallest of steps back. "Not only is it a blatant lie, but it is damaging to 'er reputation—irreconcilably! Marguerite 'as been trained by ze finest of potion masters, charmers, transfigurists, and herbologists from a young age. She is proficient not only in active magic, but in 'istory, politics, negotiation, and military strategy. She is ze only child of ze great Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel. A prodigy from a young age who would 'ave one day be more famous than 'Arry Potter in 'er own right. But what will she be known as now? Nothing else zan ze first fling of 'Arry Potter. Even if she should reach the 'eights of success and fame she is bound to reach, it will unjustly be tied to 'is name!"
Madame was right, no one could deny that. Not me, not Fleur, not the minister. One look around the room of grave faces proved it.
Little did Madame know that Harry hijacking my reputation was only part of the reason why the paper made me so angry. Of course the fact that my name and success would always be overshadowed by his was certainly annoying, but I already resigned myself to that inevitability when I discovered I was his sister. What truly infuriated me was the prospect of this idea floating around when the world would eventually find out we were siblings. The scandal it would cause…the rumors would never end, and we would both be shamed for it.
Feeling the fire rise within me, I stepped forward once more to narrow my eyes at the minister, who looked beside himself.
"I demand retribution, minister," I said, tone firm. "Not only did Skeeter destroy my reputation, but that little stunt that your government pulled in the second task could have taken my life."
"I demand it as well," Fleur said, falling into step beside me. "My sister could 'ave died if it 'ad not been for 'Arry Potter."
"Ladies," the minister said with a nervous chuckle, hands raised. "No one would have died. The ministry had it perfectly under control—"
"Connerie!" Madame interrupted, enraged once more. "Did you even know of Marguerite's medical condition when you 'ad her thrown into zat water?"
"For a matter of fact, yes," the short man said, puffing his chest out. "I'll have you know I was very well informed, and we had medics on the scene just in case things went south."
"Ha!" Madame scoffed, looking down at him in righteous fury. "You zink your mediocre mediwizards stood a chance against Marguerite's chronic disease? Not even Nicolas Flamel, ze greatest apothecarists of our time, could reverse an episode once it was in effect. What were you to do? It's a miracle she survived your shenanigans."
The minister must have known then that he had been beat since his jaw set grimly and all the pompous wind seemed to deflate out of him. We waited in quite as he walked to his desk and collapsed into his chair, head dropped into his hand.
"Madame," he finally said, voice strained and weak. "I'm at a loss of how I should proceed. What do you desire from me?"
All three of us answered at the same time:
"Retribution."
Not five hours later, we sat in the front of a ministry courthouse packed with about a hundred of people. On the right of the room sat Dumbledore, Moody, Harry, and Snape on the witness stand. On the left sat Rita Skeeter, Ludo Bagman, and Barty Crouch Sr. as the accused. I personally thought Moody should be joining their side, but Dumbledore had convinced Madame otherwise.
"He was just following orders," Dumbledore had insisted. To which I had replied orders my arse, the man knew the pain he was causing and enjoyed it. The adults seemed to think I held a personal bias—which I certainly did—so they dismissed me.
Ministry lawyers bustled to and fro as the defense and the prosecution prepared. They buzzed and flitted around in their expensive suits, stress lines marking their faces. It provided a nice contrast to Madame's favorite lawyer from Paris, Celine Lagarde, who sat calmly beside us. Lagarde's skirt-suit was wrinkle-free as ever, and her beautiful, slightly aged face surveryed the room in a slightly bored, unphased manner—nothing like the sheer panic of the young ministry lawyers around her.
Madame leaned over to whisper something to Lagarde, passing her a note, and the lawyer smirked.
"We will be done by lunch, Olympe. They 'ave no ground to stand on."
Not that our actual case mattered much. We had the minister backing whatever verdict we desired. Speaking of…
"Order in the court!" the minister cried. Fudge wore a robe and clung the gavel, but he was not the judge. No, she sat next to him in black robes trimmed in pink. A strange choice for court attire, but Britain was a strange island.
"We have gathered here today to judge the crimes committed against Marguerite Flamel surrounding the Triwizard Tournament's second task. The accused are as followed: Ministry Journalist Rita Skeeter for Slander and Ministry Officials Bartimaeus Crouch Sr. and Ludo Bagman for Endangering the Health and Safety of an Innocent. The defense may proceed with opening statements."
There was a bit of fumbling and harsh whispering until finally a ministry lawyer who looked like he couldn't be much past the age of 20 stumbled up to the bench.
"In—in the last hundred years, the British government has not hosted the Tr-Triwizard t-tournament." I cringed on his behalf as a woman in the front row loudly snickered at his stuttering. He seemed to have heard it too since his stuttering doubled. "Therefore th-there are no mmmm-modern pr-pr-precedents s-set, only ones we can d-draw from what s-some may c-consider outdated t-t-t-times." He took a huge breath, eyes suspiciously shiny. "T-today my ttt-team and I will prove to you that the good s-sirs, Bartimaeus C-Crouch Sr. and L-Ludo Bagman, were merely following p-pr-prece-dent! As for the case of R-Rita Sk-Skeeter—" He looked around the courtroom as though this had been an afterthought. "The be-beloved journalist has every r-right to f-freedom of s-sp-speech!"
A hesitant clap broke out as the man returned trembling to where the defense team sat. I didn't miss the venomous glare Barty Crouch sent his way. He doubtlessly would have been better off defending himself, but I had a feeling that these amateur lawyers had been part of Fudge's attempt to pacify Madame.
"Thank you, Mr. Witherbee. The prosecution may now rise to deliver their opening statement."
The room quickly fell silent as Ms. Lagarde approached the bench. Although she only reached average height, I could not help but wonder if she had some giant blood in her; she certainly had the countenance of one. Lagarde walked on a level quite elevated from everybody else, swallowing the whole room with her competence and surety. She did not say a single word until she stopped dead center in front of the judge, who's eyes locked onto her like those of a charmed snake.
When she did speak, her voice projected lowly, evenly, and surprisingly quiet though strong. Rather than a lack of projection abilities on her part, it seemed to me much more likely that Lagarde's volume, like most things she did, was calculated.
"Despite what my opponent indicated, no precedent has been set for this particular circumstance: that is, the circumstance of a non-competitor's life being threatened in a tournament she did not consent to partake in. Marguerite Flamel has had a rare illness from birth that awakens when subjected to extremely harsh conditions, whether physical or emotional. The directors of the Triwizard Tournament, Bartimaeus Crouch Sr. and Ludo Bagman, exposed her to both physical and emotional triggers when they dumped her into a lake with murderous mermaids and only a young boy to save her."
Ludo blushed, shamefaced, and he looked desperately as though he wished to disappear. Meanwhile, Crouch's face reddened from an entirely different emotion. The man looked as though he would burst with a hundred angry protests any minute now.
"As for the…journalist… Rita Skeeter," Lagarde continued mockingly, much to the tittering amusement of the court and fury of Skeeter, who glared daggers at her. "She committed slander not only by hijacking the reputation of my client by linking her to a boy so famous that her name will now always be reluctantly connected to and overshadowed by his. But she also falsely portrayed their non-existent romantic relationship in such a way that my client appears weak. It is no honor to be connected to anyone in the capacity of swooning after them. It is hard enough for a woman to be taken seriously in the professional world, much more so when a young lady is thought of by popular culture as a damsel in distress. Us women know." She gave a meaningful look to the judge who had a grim look on her face.
"Thank you, Ms. Lagarde," the judge said solemnly.
"Thank you, Your Honor."
As Lagarde returned to her seat, she kept an emotionless mask up. The only sign of her success was the slight pat she gave Madame's hand under the table.
As Witherbee and his coworker, who looked oddly like him, scurried to the stand and began to present a scatterbrained case based on bizarre precedents set in ancient and medieval times, I leaned back in my chair, slipping into a deep fatigue that I didn't successfully sleep away the day before. The Witherbee lookalike started citing the lawful casualty of a mother in Rome when I felt the first flutter of it against my skin.
Looking down, I was surprised to see a green butterfly beating its wings against my hand. Not just any green, but a visceral, shocking green—a shade too bright to be emerald and a tad too harsh to be lime, uncomfortably familiar in hue.
I whipped my gaze around the room in alarm. Was this a threat? Did somebody outside of Madame discover my animagus form? Or was this from her?
The woman in question sat in rapt attention of the ministry lawyers' mishappen defense, clearly no thought of butterflies on her mind.
As discretely as possible, I cupped the butterfly in my hand. Surprisingly, the texture felt like paper. It instantly stilled and fell into 2 even folds—a note.
I glanced around to make sure no one was watching me before opening it underneath the table. In a slanted scrawl that looked oddly familiar, it read:
The future holds no hope for your brother—only the past. Ask for the powder.
I blinked.
"History holds the answer!" Witherbee cried out in his nervous, high-pitched voice. Questions ran through my mind, chasing their own tales as the adrenaline took over. Who would send this? Why would they send it? Maybe no one sent it at all…was it a joke? No, the tone was too serious—rushed an uninterested…and oddly specific. Which begged the question: was the sender an enemy or a friend? A friend would be direct, but an enemy wouldn't warn me at all… unless…was this a trap?
"Things might have changed slightly—erm, significantly—from 1642," Witherbee continued, correcting himself at a few scoffs. "But everything you see here today needed to be built at one point. Every building needs a foundation. The rules we follow today are in direct response to what we've allowed historically."
Then there was the separate but altogether eerier question of not who but what?
What did the words mean? What future was this letter addressing? What past? And most importantly, what powder? The actual content of the letter was perhaps the only thing more concerning than they mystery behind its sender.
"Zey are crumbling," Madame murmured to me, leaning back into her seat with a satisfied, cat-like smile.
"Were they ever standing in the first place?" I whispered back, a bit distractedly.
A quiet hmph escaped Madame's lips before she focused back on the court proceedings.
Left back to my own thoughts and feeling a bit more grounded, I considered the riddle of the letter once more, but this time from a fresh perspective—Dumbledore's perspective. Dumbledore was the only man who knew anything about my relation to Harry, which made him a prime suspect. Even more so, I knew for a fact Dumbledore believed danger awaited Harry in the future; he admitted as much in the office. But one very important question remained if Dumbledore truly wrote this: why would he?
The old man has proven time and time again that he has no qualms saying unpleasant or disagreeable things straight to my face. So why the secrecy? Why hide behind a mysterious, indirect message?
The only detail that I hadn't known he knew before this little stunt was the butterfly. I would need to get to the bottom of how the old man found out about my animagus form and quickly. I couldn't have others discovering it like he had or it would no longer be much use to me.
"Will the prosecution please rise and approach the stand?" the judge's deep, smooth voice broke through my calculations.
"Good luck, Celine," Madame said to her quietly. The witch graced her with a rare smile in response.
"Mon chéri," she replied. "After all these years, you know I do not need it."
Madame chuckled, and even I couldn't keep my lip from quirking up, drawing Lagarde's attention."
"Do not worry, Marguerite," Lagarde assured, her confidence as commanding as any charm. "This will all be over soon."
Without another glance back, she pit-pattered to the stand, her heels like fireworks cracking on the courtroom's marble floor.
"My opponent's case rests entirely on the precedent of the Roman Triwizard Tournament in 1642, during which the directors of the tournament lawfully involved a contestant's mother in one of the trials, leading to her untimely and accidental death for which no one was ever held accountable. What my opponent failed to acknowledge was that the only reason the Triwizard directors were not found responsible for her demise was because, and I quote from the 1642 Triwizard Trial, 'they had no conceivable way of knowing of her heart condition' since she herself did not know of it. However, you'll find that was not the case with the young Ms. Flamel here."
Lagarde turned around to face us. "Calling my first witness, Olympe Maxime, to the stand."
Madame squeezed my hand before rising. I watched in surprise as she sat in the witness stand. I had expected her to be called up last, as the witness with the most to add to the case usually was usually saved until the end. Unless…was she the only witness? No, she couldn't be. Surely the would want the word of Dumbledore…
The man in question sat near our bench looking smug as a cat with a bowl of milk. His eyes twinkled when he caught me staring. The old man must've had something up his sleeve.
"Madame, are you or are you not the appointed ward and guardian of Marguerite Flamel?" Lagarde asked once Madame had settled.
"I am," Madame responded with no little amount of pride. I smiled.
"And are you or are you not the headmistress of Beauxbatons?"
"That I am."
"Were you present during the decision meeting with the tournament directors and other heads of schools to determine which loved ones would be taken in the second task?"
"I was."
"As Marguerite's legal guardian, did you forbid the involvement of Marguerite Flamel within the trial on the basis of a chronic medical condition?"
"I did."
"Did the headmasters and directors seem to understand and say they would honor your wishes?"
"They did."
"Did you have any further conversations in which you stated you changed your mind or were approached about giving your consent?"
"I did not."
"Did you have any prior knowledge that Marguerite would be taken down into the lake?"
"I did not."
"Did she suffer physically after her ordeal in the lake? Was her illness triggered?"
"Compounded question!" Witherbee interjected.
The judge's shrewd eye jumped from Witherbee to Lagarde to Madame, who was glaring at the young lawyer. "Overruled," the judge decided. "Granted that Ms. Maxime answers both questions in chronological order."
Lagarde nodded in thanks. "Olympe?"
"Yes and yes," Madame replied, anger seeping through her voice.
"And on the point of Rita Skeeter, has Marguerite suffered any mental and emotional hardship as a result of her news article entitled, 'BOY-WHO-LIVES SAVES THE GIRL-WHO-STOLE-HIS-HEART' that has further intensified her illness?"
"She has."
"Assumes facts not in evidence!" Witherbee protested.
This time the judge inclined her head toward him. "Sustained."
"Not to worry, Your Honor," Lagarde resigned, unbothered. "The validity of Olympe Maxime's assessment will be confirmed by my next witness. For now, I will step aside to let my opponent cross examine."
"Thank you, Ms. Lagarde," Witherbee said, tripping a bit on his way to the stand. "Madame Maxime, you've stated here that you are the 'appointed guardian and ward' of Marguerite Flamel. Please confirm if that is correct."
"It is."
"Yet legal guardianship is quite different than appointed guardianship or wardship. Note the difference there. There is no government record of Nicolas Flamel passing on the role of guardian to you, and it appears there is also no record of you filing for legal custody."
"Objection! Inflammatory!" Lagarde cried, looking furious.
The judge frowned, and much to our detriment, she looked curious. "Overruled."
"Is it true that you did not file for legal custody?"
I waited for Madame to say it was a load of merde, but she did not. Instead, she angrily pursed her lips, glaring at him, looking for all she was worth like she had been stung by a bee.
When she did speak, it neither confirmed nor denied. At least not outright.
"We did not see it as necessary at ze time!" My heart dropped. So it was true. "Such formalities are trivial when I am so clearly the only viable guardian of Marguerite!"
"In what sense are you her rightful guardian? Since there is no written record of her parents passing on her guardianship to you," Witherbee said with more zest than I had heard from him the whole trial.
"It was agreed-!"
"Without written communication? I find that unlikely."
"What misguided point are you trying to make by picking apart the legality of my wardship?"
"Just the fact that if she's not your legal ward, your demand that she remained out of the second task holds no legal basis."
I scowled as Lagarde raised hell on several objections, forcing Witherbee to detract his statement, but the damage had already been done: the court was whispering, and I personally felt somewhat betrayed—deceived.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I whispered to her as she sat back down.
She looked at me with serious onyx eyes, slightly glittering under the light of the court. "For me, it was always so natural zat you should be my daughter. Ze law nor written formalities 'ad anything to do with it."
I nodded tensely, accepting her words, but still not happy.
When Lagarde returned to the seats, she and Madame exchanged furious whispers. "This could be it," I heard Lagarde say. Madame did not seem willing to accept that, and neither was I. "There must be some trick you 'ave up your sleeve," Madame insisted. "I do not like to lose, especially 'ere in this 'orrid place."
They went on back and forth like that until a surprising voice interrupted them: Dumbledore. He pulled Lagarde to the side, out of hearing range. I watched them like a hawk, trying to figure out the words they exchanged, but all I could see was Lagarde grimly nodding and taking a paper from him, which she quickly tucked to the back of her folder before turning back to the judge and calling out, "Madame Pomfrey to the stand please!"
I shouldn't have been surprised when an old lady in a white apron and head covering quietly walked to the front of the room—of course someone had to be watching over me during my time in the infirmary—but I was, mostly because I had never seen the woman in my life. She was withered but vivacious, like a pruning sunflower that's orange deepens with age.
"Madame, thank you for testifying. This will be brief," Lagarde assured, eyes glued to a document in her hand. "When Ms. Flamel was first brough into your infirmary, what was her condition?"
"Her pulse was faint," the mediwitch declared, voice kind but stern. "Her skin was pale and cold to the touch. Her hands, clammy and shaking. Altogether, she presented all the sings of a severely ill patient within those first 2 minutes. This was later confirmed when I ran diagnostics on her blood, finding the level of oxygen dangerously low. At one point, I was concerned about brain damage."
I paled. Madame Maxime patted my hand under the table. I nearly pulled away, still upset about the custody controversy, but ultimately I need the comfort, her support.
"Why were you concerned about such a thing, Madame Pomfrey?" Largarde asked, intrigued as though she didn't already know every answer leaving each witness' mouth.
Madame Pomfrey then turned her gaze on me, which I met a bit sheepishly. This woman had nursed me back to life, seen me at my worst, yet I knew nothing of her besides her face and the words she spoke right now. My guess was as good as anyone's what she must have seen.
"When oxygen drops too low, brain damage is only a matter of time. One of the symptoms that the loss of oxygen is beginning to affect the brain is hallucinations, which Ms. Flamel had."
My mouth dropped a bit.
"She called out to people as though they were there. She cried, screamed, fought and kicked as if an invisible force attacked her. Grasping and clawing at her neck with the desperation of one being suffocated."
The mediwitch sent me a strange, pitying look, equal parts concern and curiosity. She wasn't the only one.
Subconsciously, I curled a hand protectively around the base of my throat.
What had I been dreaming of?
I had never been suffocated, but the rest of the world was surely questioning that fact right now. Hopefully they attributed the blame to the second task, assuming I'd dreamt of the lake water drowning me. That would help our case.
"Last question—Madame Pomfrey, is this like any disease you've ever treated during your 50 year career as a mediwitch?"
"Absolutely not," Pomfrey replied quickly, bluntly. "There is something going on here completely atypical—a magical illness triggered by emotion and severe physical conditions that lashes out like a viper within her, striking various organs at random. Her blood was most abnormal while I evaluated her. Several times, I thought—I dreaded the worst."
"Meaning?"
"Based on her unbalanced levels of nearly every hormone and essential compound that feeds our life blood, she should not have survived. I presumed her close to death."
I blinked. Whispers broke out throughout the courtroom, a wave of intrigue and horror under which I felt myself struggling to breath smoothly.
"Not just once, but several times."
The voices of those around me grew louder, but none louder than the voice in my own head. What the devil? I turned wide eyes toward Madame, who didn't look the least bit shocked. Why was I only finding out about this now? Was it a stunt?
"Her father—Nicolas Flamel, that is—was right in his assessment of Marguerite's ailment."
"Which is?"
"Unprecedented."
The crowd's voices elevated to outright chatter, and the judge needed to slam her gavel down several times to regain control of the room.
"Quiet! Quiet please!" Fudge called out.
"Thank you, Madame Pomfrey," Lagarde said amidst all the noise, seeming very satisfied with herself. "That will be all."
"Any questions from the defense?" the judge asked.
"No," Witherbee said. "We do not wish to dispute or downplay the severity of the young Ms. Flamel's medical state. We wish to get down to the bottom of it, same as you."
At that, Pomfrey stepped down from the bench, leaving me wondering who was up next.
They really should have scheduled an intermission during this thing thing, because people must have been getting antsy since they would not stop talking, despite the Minister's request and the judge's pounding. I could hardly blame them; it was my trial, and even I was finding it hard to keep my focus. If there were anyone besides the hyper-focused Madame Maxime next to me, I surely would have been chatting alongside the audience.
The side conversations died down, however, at the sight of Albus Dumbledore approaching the stand. By the time he reached the witness stand, and addressed the crowd with a simple, "I suppose it's my turn, now," every eye was glued on him, every voice silenced.
I had to give it to the headmaster; he truly did know how to command a room.
"Professor Dumbledore, it is a well-known fact that you were a close friend and confidante of the late Nicolas Flamel, that you even hid the Philosopher's Stone for him in his late age. Is that correct?" Lagarde asked, eyes once more on her papers.
"Yes, that is correct, Ms. Lagarde," Dumbledore replied. "Nicolas was not only a close friend, but a mentor to me for much of my life."
"Did he ever entrust you with knowledge about his daughter?"
"Why, certainly. When he first began looking for cures and treatments for her unique illness, the two of us would correspond quite frequently about trials and theory."
My eyebrows rose. This was news to me. What sort of conniving maneuver kept Dumbledore from mentioning that he knew so much about my illness until now? His piercing blue eyes found mine as though he had heard my thought, which he might have.
I was starting to think that Dumbledore might know a great deal more about me than I even wanted to discover.
"So then," Lagarde continued, anticipation in her voice. "Would it be fair to say that you hold an intimate knowledge of Marguerite's illness? Perhaps even more knowledge than anyone else alive?"
"Yes. That would be a very fair assessment indeed, especially considering that Nicolas left all his research and theories about the illness to me."
I looked toward Madame, who seemed to be pointedly refusing my gaze. Why hadn't she been left with that information as my guardian? What benefit would it be in the hands of a headmaster who I never even met in a school across the sea?
Based on what you know of this rare illness, do you think the second task was likely the cause of Margeurite's fatal condition?"
"Absolutely," Dumbledore answered grimly. "The combination of the extreme physical conditions and the volatile emotional stimuli could have easily killed her."
"Is that why you also protested when someone raised the idea of involving Marguerite in the second task?"
"Yes, and I explained to them the reason why, so there's no excuse for why she was included regardless," he replied firmly.
"Permission to submit new evidence, Your Honor?"
The judge looked surprised but beckoned Lagarde forward. As she glanced at it her eyebrows rose.
"Professor Dumbledore, the evidence I just submitted to the judge was a letter you recently presented to me addressed to you by Nicolas Flamel, Marguerite's late father. Would you care to elaborate on the context of the letter?"
Dumbledore locked eyes with me briefly before facing Lagarde, completely calm and collected. "Certainly. This letter was written about a month before Nicolas' death detailing his wishes that I should be the sole guardian of Marguerite after his and Perenelle's passing."
Whispers broke out around the court like wildfire. My vision grew blurry as I suddenly felt extremely hot.
"So you have been appointed guardian—"
"Objection!" Witherbee cried. "Evidence not authenticated!"
"Your Honor, this letter has the magical seal of Nicolas Flamel. I assure you it will find no flaw if submitted for further investigation," Dumbledore assured.
"Overruled," the judge said, seeming annoyed at Witherbee's interruption. "Please proceed, Ms. Lagarde."
"So you have been appointed guardian. Are you her legal guardian as well?"
"I am," Dumbeldore confirmed.
I lost all interest in Dumbledore, instead looking straight at Madame, who suddenly seemed unable to lift her eyes from her hands folded in front of her.
"Which means that when you told the officials for the Tri-wizard Tournament that you do not agree with her involvement in the second task, they ignored the direct order of her legal guardian?"
"Indeed."
I felt him staring at me, but I refused to look.
"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore. That'll be all."
Witherbee approached the stand.
"Headmaster," he greeted with no little amount of hostility. "How are we to believe that this letter is true?"
"Objection! Inflammatory."
"Sustained."
"Fine. Headmaster, how long have you been Marguerite's legal guardian?"
"Since the day after her parents' death. It was very important to Nicolas that I move quickly so that I would have the ultimate say in what happened to her next."
"By what happened to her next, do you mean Nicolas made you legal guardian only so that you could appoint another?"
"It's not so simple as that," Dumbeldore sighed as if resigning himself to telling an unpleasant story. "We both agreed that Marguerite would be best kept in France while she completed her education. However, after she graduated from Beauxbatons, Nicolas made it very clear that he wanted me to assume full guardianship and apprenticeship over his daughter, which I fully plan to do when the time is right."
My mouth fully dropped.
"Apprenticeship?" Witherbee repeated incredulously. The crowd broke out into a roar of intrigue and the judge had to bang her gavel several times to regain even a semblance of control.
Apprenticeship…my father had signed me over to an apprenticeship with Dumbledore? One of the greatest wizards of our era had agreed to basically have me attached to his hip for the rest of his life, and no one had even thought to tell me?
I felt Dumbledore's eyes on me and hesitantly met them. They twinkled, and the anger I had been harboring against him reluctantly softened.
Apprenticeships were a rare thing these days since they so closely bonded the novice to the master, a process that not many are willing to undergo. For a wizard as powerful as Dumbledore to announce he was adopting an apprentice was the equivalent to him revealing that he found a way to clone himself because everyone knew that was really what the endgame of any good apprenticeship was. And if Dumbledore, brilliant man that he was, chose to undertake such an endeavor, he certainly wouldn't fail until his apprentice reached perfection.
"Are you sure you did not simply wish to shirk your responsibilities as her guardian all these years by handing her over to Madame Olympe Maxime?" Witherbee sputtered out, like a bee getting in one last sting.
However, his attack fell on deaf ears, its intent transparent. Everyone knows a bee dies when it stings, and so did Witherbee's case.
"Yes, and don't attempt to argue negligence, my dear boy," Dumbledore advised in a pleasant tone. "Proxy guardianship is a perfectly legal endeavor, and you'll find that Madame Maxime has been an exceptional proxy. When any matter of extreme consequence arose, I was always informed and had the final say in the decision process. Look deeper into the matter and I assure you it will lead only to further embarrassment."
Witherbee deflated, and something in my gut told me he must have gone to Hogwarts—perhaps it was the particular shade of red at the headmaster's rebuke.
The case pretty much ended after that. Some banal banter and weak protests that were nothing more than formalities at that point followed about Rita Skeeter's role in the whole ordeal. After proving the legitimacy of my illness and that the second task brought me close to death, it was easy to convince the jury that Rita's article was the icing on the cake.
"After much deliberation, the court rules in favor of Marguerite Flamel on all accounts. To compensate for the physical and mental damage done to Ms. Flamel as a result of her coerced participation in the second task and the subsequent article that was released, the British Ministry of Management will grant Ms. Flamel 5 million galleons."
The patronizingly kind smile that Fudge sent in Madame's direction told me that this had been his idea of a generous gift, likely agreed upon even before the trial began. An olive branch in this potential international politics hailstorm.
Madame rested a hand on my shoulder, and she smiled down at me with dancing eyes. I offered a slight smile back but shrugged off her hand, dimming the light in her eyes a bit. I felt bad, but I had to be honest; not only was I still angry with Madame for lying to me, but I also wasn't that thrilled about the money. Truth was, I had never been much of a money person since I had always had a lot of it, and so I had trouble understanding it's value.
Reputation, however. Image. Character. Those were everything to me. Which is why my heart leapt at the judge's next words.
"Additionally, this court hereby bans Rita Skeeter or the Ministry of Magic from printing any materials containing Marguerite Flamel's image or name without the express permission of Ms. Flamel or her appointed guardian."
An enraged shriek escaped the mouth of Rita Skeeter as Madame, Lagarde, and I bowed to the judge and walked over to shake Fudge's hand.
I smirked. Now that made it all worth it to me.
A photographer snapped a shot of us, and Fudge immediately leaned in toward Madame to whisper as though they were old friends and she hadn't been threatening his life just this morning.
"I suppose this picture would be an okay one to include in The Prophet, eh, Olympe?" Of course, the photo opt was probably the only reason he allowed this trial in the first place. What was the point in pacifying a powerful foreign guest if the minister couldn't brag about it?
"Ask Marguerite," Madame deferred. "It is 'er image after all."
Fudge looked down at me curiously, almost as if he were thinking, is this little girl really what all the fuss was about? "Young miss?"
I considered for a moment, really just to spook the minister into thinking this all had been for naught—that he wouldn't be able to use this trial and the generous compensation as the publicity stunt he had intended. Seeing the slight doubt turning into full-blown discomfort would have been enough for me if he didn't shift just right so that a beautiful vial tucked under his vest caught my eye.
"What's that?"
The minister looked surprised. "What? Oh, this?" he laughed, pulling it out to reveal its delicate hourglass shape. "Nothing but a boring little experiment one of my Unspeakables presented to me right before I came to court. I must confess I wasn't paying much attention, what with all the suspense of the looming trial. Whatever it is, it seems likely unremarkable."
I might have believed him if it didn't contain the thing that I had been warned about in a mysterious tip just an hour before: Powder. A golden powder unlike anything I had ever seen.
What were the odds…
"Can I have it?" I asked bluntly.
Fudge looked at me in shock. Madame, too, looked taken aback.
"Please," I added for good measure.
"Ms. Flamel, this powder has not even been tested yet," Fudge protested. "Its properties are unpredictable. It would be highly irresponsible, not to mention illegal, for me to give it over to you."
I should have just let it go there and not pushed the minister of a foreign country on the word of a complete stranger, but there was something about that mysterious note…perhaps it was the familiar handwriting. Either way, I wouldn't find out what the sender was up to until I had that powder, which I highly suspected was the one in Fudge's hand. Why else would the sender deliver the letter in the middle of the trial where so many people could have seen?
The vial would stay in Fudge's custody only for a brief while; he only had it on his body right now because he rushed from the presentation to the trial, and after he left here he would doubtlessly deposit it in some dank ministry room to be forgotten.
In other words, since I would likely never be crossing paths with this vial again, it was now or never. With that in mind, I steeled myself, looking the minister dead in the eye.
"You know what's also illegal now? Publishing anything about me without my consent in your newspaper or really any other platform." I countered. He blanched. "It'll be pretty difficult for you to spread the news of your diplomacy and kindness without using my name to tell the full story."
The minister's mouth dropped open at a loss as he glanced at Madame for help. However, Madame refused to meet his eyes; instead, she studied me intently. My guardian, legal or not, knew me well enough at this point to know this wasn't just a trivial power play.
"Madame," Fudge implored beseechingly. "Surely you wouldn't want your ward to be exposed to such a dangerous, untested experiment."
"My ward can take care of 'erself, minister," Madame dismissed firmly, not breaking eye contact with me. "Marguerite is just like 'er father, always wanting odd bits and ends to study for scientific purposes." That was only slightly a lie. I liked to research like my father, but never for fun—only when it had a purpose. "What is ze 'arm in granting it to 'er? As you said, it remains untested and zerefore unvalued. Marguerite could 'ave easily stumbled across zis invention on 'er own. No liability for you or ze ministry."
"But Madame…"
"One zing is for sure," Madame cut over him. "Once my ward sets 'er mind to something she won't stop, so if you want zat paper of yours, I would make peace with the loss of powder."
I sent Madame a grateful look.
"And I have a feeling, as Dumbledore's apprentice, this trial will be only the beginning of the news-worthy stories I'll be involved in," I added with a smirk.
Fudge frowned, eyes narrowed at me. I didn't blink.
With a disgruntled, exasperated sigh, Fudge bent closer so only Madame and I could hear him. "You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Flamel. Let's sayI agree to this," he negotiated in an intent whisper, "it won't just be for one paper. It will be for anything I want to publish about this trial or this day."
"One month," I demanded.
"Excuse me?"
"You can post what you want about the trial for one month, then that's it."
Fudge gave me a long, hard look. He knew he had been beat. "Fine, agreed. With the understanding that you will be amenable to future requests of publishing about you."
I nodded, but when I went to grab it, he held onto it.
"This better not fall back on me," he warned sternly. "Don't hurt yourself with this powder."
I snatched it from his hand and smirked. The vial sent a jolt through my hand, maybe from excitement, maybe from something else.
"Deal."