Vanguard

by kitsunerei88

[Sequel to Liar Liar and From America With Love] Revolutions don't begin with spellfire and flying Molotov Potions. Revolutions begin with people. This revolution begins with a pureblood boy standing trial for a ruse he and his halfblood cousin have perpetrated, and a halfblood bastard with a gift for uncovering secrets.

3. Chapter 3

The morning of the trial, Aldon was standing at the entrance to Grimmauld Place, fiddling with the gold filigree buttons of his dark blue silk robes. His hair was neatly arranged and he had picked out his nicest black leather boots which were polished to a cool shine. His wand was in one pocket, and around his neck he wore a pendant, a simple golden circle embossed with the scales of Justice. It was the traditional symbol of a Truth-Speaker, or so he hoped. None of the memoirs or trial records had been specific, but it seemed like it would make sense, since a Truth-Speaker's main function was in the courts. If not, it would be now.

He had a ritual dagger at his waist, one of those now-rare instruments imbued with spells to amplify and help channel blood magic. He didn't think he really needed a ritual dagger – blood magic only needed blood, and in theory, any knife would do. But a ritual dagger, custom-made, with its gold-plated hilt, jeweled pommel and liquid runes running down the blade, looked far better than a kitchen knife, and Aldon wanted to look the part. He was a professional, he was there to summon Lady Justice Herself, and looking the part would add to the ceremony, to the importance of it all.

It would also make him look more like a fool if he failed, but he shoved that thought away. He wouldn't fail.

"All right, there?" John asked, joining him at the entranceway. He, too, had dressed well – better than Aldon had ever seen him, since John seemed to prefer jeans and a t-shirt most days. Occasionally there were cargo pants or sweatshirts, but none of it was anything Aldon would ever consider wearing.

Today, he was in a high-collared black shirt, buttoned in silver, with black trousers and polished black boots, then a dark grey robe over top. The robe was cut in the American wizarding fashion, at the knees. A silver pendant hung from his neck, and Aldon recognized the traditional insignia of a Natural Legilimens. Even if Aldon couldn't see it, he knew that John had his ACD on one arm and his wand in a holster on the other.

"As well as can be expected," Aldon replied, his voice clipped.

John eyed him, a slight quirk in his eyebrow. "It's all right to admit you're nervous. You are trying to do an insane ancient ritual today."

"It's a straightforward enough ritual," Aldon snapped, turning and pacing along the entranceway. "Spill blood on the design. Introduce myself and beg for her to hear the case. Done. How hard can it be?"

"As long as you haven't missed something." John nodded agreeably, then he turned to look up the stairs.

Aldon followed his gaze, seeing the Hermione and Francesca on the first landing, coming down. Both were in Muggle dress, wearing exactly what they would have worn in a Muggle court. For Hermione, that meant a neatly pressed white blouse and navy-blue skirt, tapered to her knees, a fitted jacket and cream-coloured flat shoes, while Chess was in a black dress, long-sleeved, with black tights and heels. Both of them had put their hair up, out of the way – Hermione in a chignon, held with a spelled Muggle clip, and Francesca in a simple bun.

It hadn't really been any of their decisions to put the girls in Muggle wear, not directly. At first, the plan had been for them to wear Muggle clothing underneath and add a wizarding overrobe, a mix of styles that would integrate both their Muggle backgrounds and their current magical status. The problem was that none of the tailors in Diagon Alley would serve them, or at least not without charging exorbitant prices. Their money, it seemed, was not worth as much as Aldon's, or Archie's.

Some, Aldon wouldn't even have tried – the owners of Twilfitt and Tattings were part of the SOW Party, declared Dark, proudly pureblood supremacist. They had simply turned up their noses and pointed the Lord Black, the two girls in tow, to the second-hand robe stores. But it wasn't just those ateliers – Neutral Madam Malkin had turned them away too, though she had at least been apologetic about it, and the smaller shops, those that even named a price, named one four or five times what the robes should have cost. Aldon suspected someone may have been pressuring them, given how unpopular Archie now was in the pureblood wizarding community.

The shock of the scandal had worn off to something new, a sort of unrest and anger that the Daily Prophet was actively stoking. Harry Potter had broken the law, and she had gotten away with it. She had flouted the rules that were there to protect purebloods, and had put all their children, the best and the brightest of the wizarding world, at risk. Then, her mother had attacked all of Wizarding Britain with her compulsion spell, and she and the Potters had gotten away, too. The lesser-blooded had gone too far this time, and lessons needed to be taught. And there Archie was, with his halfblood and Muggleborn friends, a co-conspirator to Harry Potter: a pureblood, but a traitor.

Why was it that purebloods were supposed to be the best and the brightest of the wizarding world, and, at the same time, delicate, gilded lilies that needed to be shielded at every opportunity? Aldon thought wryly, nodding at the girls as they joined him.

The robe situation had only turned into an opportunity. There were other, more interesting ways of making it obvious that the girls, even if Muggleborn, were magical, and Aldon had been fascinated to watch as they both wove complex Charms into their clothing. None of what they did was truly new to him – much of it was just runic illusion-spells – but he had never thought of using magic in his clothing to create such beautiful effects. Hermione's jacket and skirt were edged with gold spell-work, spiralling in delicate, moving curls on her lapels, while Francesca's dress was warm with something Aldon could only describe as firelight. If he looked at her straight-on, the dress would seem to be plain black, but if he turned his head to the side just slightly, it would come alive with the subtle glow of burning coals. It was a brilliant piece of magic.

Aldon realized he was staring, and he looked away.

"Looking good, Monster," John said, with an easy smile as he offered Francesca his arm. "Hermione. Where's Archie? And Sirius?"

"Fixing his hair and robes." Hermione rolled her eyes. "You know how Archie is. Apparently, it's genetic – Sirius is no better."

"There is nothing wrong with wanting to look good," Francesca said softly, something like reproach in her voice. "It's important to make a good first impression, especially for a day like today."

"She's right," Aldon added, smoothing his robes and taking a deep breath. He would be calm, he would be focused, and he would not fidget. He pulled out his pocketwatch, gold, checking the time. They would be Apparating, Side-Along, and Aldon had against his inclinations agreed to take both John and Francesca with him, since it wasn't very far. He was better at Apparition now, but he was worried about how much magic he would need to sustain the rite of summoning for a full day.

They had a bit of time. Percy had said he would meet them at court a half hour before the trial opened, because he needed every minute that he could get to prepare.

At least things at home were quiet. Aldon sighed, turning to study Grimmauld Place's blank walls, covered in gaudy green and grey stripes. Mother had been in France for the past two and a half weeks, handling some urgent matter that had come up with the Trust's French assets, and she wasn't expected back for another few weeks. But Father had heard something or other about Aldon's activities from the Lord Parkinson and had made a few careful inquiries over dinner.

"I hear that you are… consulting for the Black Heir, Aldon," he had said, his voice holding nothing but mild interest.

"The Black Heir is interesting," Aldon had replied, equally cool. "As are his friends. He's fortunate enough to call John Kowalski a friend, did you know? The son of the Head of Foreign Affairs at MACUSA."

"Hmm…" His father had looked up, considering. "Given the current sanctions, business in America has been impossible for nearly two decades. How is the younger Kowalski?"

"Savvy." Aldon half-smiled. "A Natural Legilimens. His sister, too, has just joined the ICW. He will be a good future connection for the Trust, and supporting Arcturus Rigel Black during this troubled time will, I think, pay excellent dividends down the line."

Father nodded, satisfied. In his family, everything came down to business, to money. Even their political stances had been more a matter of business sense than dedicated belief; had a political shift meant it was more advantageous for them to be supporters of blood equality, Aldon suspected his family would have turned with the tide.

In some ways, that made things easier for him. Finding out that he was a halfblood was hard enough, with the fear of losing his status, that he was glad he hadn't had to deal with any element of self-loathing or disgust. With his parents, it had been business, business and more business – he could barely remember any incident of his parents disparaging halfbloods or Muggleborns. And, whatever was said, the Rosier Investment Trust still had at least one division, well hidden as it might be, predominantly made up of internationally trained halfbloods and Muggleborns.

He had also, as Percy had predicted, gotten a summons to court within the last week. He smirked slightly, feeling the official-looking piece of parchment in his pocket – he would be at court today, certainly, but he wouldn't be testifying. As the Truth-Speaker in charge of the summoning ritual, he would become a part of the court itself, and Percy would use that as an excuse to kick him off the witness list. As if that even mattered, once Justice was summoned.

Archie thundered downstairs, his dark curls neat, and Aldon stared.

"What on earth are you wearing?" He asked, jaw dropping slightly as he eyed Archie's choice of dress. It was a black version, with trousers and a tie, of what Hermione was wearing – a jacket, a clean, pressed, white shirt, black trousers, shined black shoes. He was wearing a light blue tie, tied in a complex knot at his throat.

There was no overrobe, and magic did not flash on his clothing.

"A suit," Archie replied with a wide grin. "A No-Maj suit. I look great, don't I? I figured, if Hermione and Chess don't have robes, well, why shouldn't I stand in solidarity? I'm not ashamed of what I did, and this seemed like a great way of showing it!"

"Percy is going to go spare." Aldon shook his head, sighing. He didn't dislike Muggle clothes per se – there did seem to be a wider range of styles for Muggles than for witches and wizards – but there was a time and a place for it. Trial wasn't one of them. At the same time, it was too late now to persuade Archie otherwise, and Aldon had an arcane ritual to perform in an hour. He didn't have the energy to spare to try to convince Archie to change into dress robes. Not when, apparently, it looked like the Lord Black had already tried and failed, and he didn't think anyone would support him in the effort.

Lord Black was looking grim, formal in plain black dress robes. He was the wizarding counterpart to Archie's Muggle dress, and he looked anxious, on edge. He was not wholly supportive of Archie's decision to invoke an ancient ritual rather than plead guilty or, at least, play by the rules they knew, but mysteriously he had not fought as hard as Aldon had expected him to. Perhaps the Ministry raid had showed him that they simply weren't going to follow the law, not when it came to Archie, not when it came to this scandal. Not until Archie did what he was never going to do and fall into the pureblood line.

"Nah," Archie replied, waving a hand. "Percy is too busy worrying about how he's going to save my life, soul, or magic. If that really is all that Justice throws out as sentences."

"You are sounding far too flippant about this," Hermione said, grimacing.

"Hey." Archie grabbed her hand and looked down at her, his smile settling into something a little more serious, more grounded. "If I don't believe in our case, then who will? The blood discrimination laws, including blood identity theft, they are unjust – Justice will see that. This is the chance for which we've been fighting for years."

Hermione looked at him for a long moment, then she sighed, shaking her head. "We've prepared as well as we can, given the circumstances. I just… I worry about you. I'm convinced there's more to this than Aldon thinks there is, I'm convinced there's more risk, especially for you."

"Well." Archie tilted his head to one side, drawing the word out a bit. "Harry always took the risks for me, and you've taken risks for me before too, for things that I wanted. I think it's high time for me to take a bit of risk for you."

"We should go," Aldon interrupted, stalking out the door to the Apparition point just outside the wards, before Archie and Hermione could be any more nauseating. It was almost like Ed and Alice all over again, but Ed and Alice had had a bit more subtlety – they hadn't been physically affectionate where Aldon could see them, though the sexual tension between the two of them sometimes could be cut with a knife. Archie and Hermione were sweet – spelled bouquets of orchids every day, hand-holding, not infrequent kisses. Ugh.

He felt, rather than saw, John and Francesca follow him down the front steps and through the front garden to the Apparition point. He offered them his arms without comment, and when they each grabbed on, he turned on the spot and whisked them away, to the Wizarding Courts of Law.

The Wizarding Courts had stood there since the Romans, though Aldon was convinced that the Celts before them had summoned Justice through their own rituals. The ancient edifice showed its origins: four pillars towered front of the doors, the insignia of Lady Justice on each one. Aldon paused for a minute, studying the images – Justice the blind, cloth over her eyes, sword in one hand and raised scales on the other. The building beyond was white marble, lined with gold, protected from the elements by strong weather-proofing charms. The steps were flat, broad, made more for aesthetics than utility. He swallowed.

Walking inside, Aldon could see a high ceiling, two stories high, held up by more pillars, marble staircases sweeping up two sides of a grand atrium. He paused by the security Auror, showing him his summons and letting him register his wand, and he was waved through without further comment. Another good thing about a ritual dagger as opposed to a kitchen knife – it was considered too decorative to be a weapon.

He waited in the atrium for a few minutes, studying the space, picking up more symbols here and there representing Justice. The atrium was, of course, dominated by another sculpture of blind Justice in her robes, carrying the sword and scales, but smaller insignia also decorated the space; miniature carved scales lined the bannisters on the staircases, and there was another motif of the sword and scales around the ceiling.

Archie's trial would be held would be in courtroom one, on the ground floor, logically. The trial of the Black Heir was the most newsworthy one this summer, and Aldon could already see reporters and other observers waiting by the doors to the courtroom. He smirked a little – he would give them something to report on.

What was taking John and Francesca so long? Aldon turned, and the two of them were still with the security Auror.

"As I've said, she doesn't use a wand," John was saying, his voice sharp, one arm around his betrothed. Francesca's eyes were on the ground. "I don't know how much clearer I can make it. She can't register a wand with you because she's a runic paper-caster – she uses paper spells."

"I'm not sure I can let you in without registering a wand," the Auror replied uncertainly, and by the way he kept staring at Francesca and turning away, Aldon guessed that he was fascinated by magic she had woven in her dress. "The policies clearly state that I need to register all wands before allowing entry."

Aldon stepped up. "In that case, you've done so," he said, his voice curt. "You've registered all wands, because she doesn't have one. And the two of them are with me, so do let them in."

"And you're…" The security Auror struggled to place him.

"Aldon Rosier, the Heir to House Rosier," Aldon snapped. He wasn't used to being unrecognized, though there was no reason the Auror should have recognized him. "Did you even look at my summons?"

He shoved the parchment in the Auror's face once more, watching with a sort of vindictive pleasure as the Auror read it and his eyes widened.

"Mr. Rosier," he said, immediately apologetic, handing back the summons and waving John and Francesca through. "I'm very sorry for the inconvenience. Please, carry on!"

Aldon turned away, leading John and Francesca to a relatively secluded part of the wall. He glanced at Francesca, who was very pointedly not looking at him, and then at John. He was curious – no wand, and as far as he knew, only the National Magic School of China produced paper-casters. She was certainly of Chinese descent, but with her name, her American accent, and the mere fact she was friends with Archie, John and Hermione, he had assumed that she went to AIM.

No, he corrected himself. She had to be an AIM student, because she had also been John's strategist for the Triwizard Tournament, and John had been in the games wearing her ACD. He supposed she could have transferred schools after her third year, though he had never heard of such a thing. No one transferred into or out of Hogwarts, but maybe other schools were different. He discreetly glanced over at Francesca again, the glowing embers of her dress lighting up his peripheral vision.

"Stop wondering," John said sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's none of your business."

Aldon looked at John raising an eyebrow. His Occlumency shields were up – he checked them over, just to be sure, but they hadn't wavered.

"Yeah, your shields just aren't that great." John leaned back against the wall. "You sound like a badly tuned radio to me, or maybe a TV that's been left on in the next room or something. I get bits and pieces, here and there. You'll want to work on that."

Aldon glared at him. It had been a month. "And you didn't see fit to tell me this because...?"

"You didn't ask?" John half-lied. John lied a lot, but usually about completely unimportant things. Aldon tilted his head to one side, a discreet motion to tell the boy to stop lying to him. "Fine, fine. You didn't ask and it didn't bother me. And I usually try to pretend like I don't hear things from other people for their comfort, so I didn't know how to tell you."

Aldon's gift wavered a little, but not enough that he was worried. There was some minor detail omitted, he guessed, but probably John just didn't want to admit that he had liked having a back door to Aldon's thoughts. In the same position, Aldon would have been much worse about it, he was sure. He scowled – at least he could use John's embarrassment to wring a favour out of him. "For that, tonight, you're going to start helping me fix my shields."

John flashed a smile. "Sure thing, man. Heads up, it's Archie and Sirius."

Aldon looked over, and indeed Archie was walking into the Atrium, hand in hand with his girlfriend, the Lord Black backing them both. Cameras flashed, and Archie looked around with a confident smile.

"Mr. Black!" one of the reporters shoved his way in front of the crowd. "What have you to say, walking into your trial?"

Archie stopped for a moment, looking the reporter in the eye and appearing to think about it for a minute or so. "Only that justice will be done," he said finally, with a friendly smile, and Aldon withheld a snort. "And I will not fight the determination of justice. No further comments, thank you."

"Time to go in," John said, pushing himself off from the wall. "Let's see you use that summons to get us good seats, now."

Aldon nodded, and the three of the made their way into courtroom one, already beginning to fill with spectators. Aldon did, in fact, use his summons to get them good seats, only a couple rows behind the counsel table where Archie and Percy would sit, behind the row where Sirius and Hermione would sit. Lupin was already there, looking tired but wearing crisp brown dress robes.

"How are you?" he asked, voice warm yet worried. He had been informed of the plan by Sirius and Archie, though Aldon knew little of what he thought about it.

"As well as can be expected," Aldon replied cordially. Lupin nodded in reply, then turned to chat quietly with John and Francesca. Both of them were more familiar with Lupin than Aldon was; Aldon never stayed for dinner and he had spent most of his time at Grimmauld Place researching in a library by himself. He had never had classes with Lupin, either, having dropped Defense after that horrendous year with Gilderoy Lockhart. All the beauty in the world had not made up for Lockhart's sheer stupidity. If it were not for Ed, Aldon would have probably failed Defense.

Percy was already at the counsel table, chalk-white with a sheaf of notes in front of him. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he seemed like he was holding it together – his barristers robes were well-pressed, his grey wig was carefully pinned on his red hair, and his tabs lay pristine at his neck. He glanced at Aldon, and Aldon nodded in reply. He was ready – as ready as he would ever be.

The susurrus of whispers sweeping the room, many of them harsh or shocked, told Aldon more than anything else that Archie had walked into the courtroom. He looked around, spotting people he knew, here and there. Lord and Lady Malfoy were there, stern-faced, Draco beside them. Pansy sat on Draco's other side, hands folded primly on her lap, and her parents were on her other side. Lady Parkinson looked worried, while Lord Parkinson was wearing a frown of distaste. Scanning the room, he also spotted others of Harry's friends: Millicent Bulstrode, politely poker-faced, and Theodore Nott, looking excited. Adrian Pucey was there, looking curious. Headmaster Dumbledore, with Professor McGonagall beside him, was sitting in the back. The Minister for Magic was there, though Lord Riddle was a glaring absence. Names, faces, titles ran through Aldon's mind as he identified people, some as acquaintances, others by reputation only. The audience was noble, non-noble, Light, Dark, Neutral.

There were also many people he didn't know. Archie stopped at one row, pausing to talk to the people sitting there. Many of them were wearing robes, some of them cut short in the American style, others long in the British style, the girls in Muggle formal dresses. Some of them, too, had subtle magical effects on their clothing – these must be some of Archie's other friends or acquaintances from America. There were two blonds, speaking with strong Irish accents, a black-haired boy with a thick Scottish burr, a brown-skinned man with dark hair and eyes in American-style robes, a broad-shouldered man with muddy brown hair and clear hazel eyes in British-style robes.

Archie made his way to the front of the room amid a storm of comments about his clothing, his attitude, his expression, and there was more than one hushed comment about Hermione, who had her hand in his. Archie's face was relaxed, open – he smiled at the people he knew, nodding to Lupin, to John and Francesca, and he certainly didn't look like someone ready to stand trial, especially not someone ready to put himself on the line for his beliefs. Once he got closer, though, Aldon could see that the hand he had in Hermione's was white, shaking, and he knew Archie had to be pulling some sort of emotional strength from his girlfriend.

Hermione was stone-faced, worried, as she slipped into the row in front of Aldon, sitting between Lupin and the Lord Black, with John at her back. She would be guarded from all sides, Aldon realized, though he didn't think it would be necessary. Aside from the fact that Hermione had fast reflexes and her hexes hurt, the old trial records suggested that Justice, once summoned, ran her courtroom with an iron fist.

Aldon turned to the front, letting out a breath as he shut his eyes. He had gone over this a dozen times in his head. He was ready, his ritual dagger was primed. He knew what he needed say, and then Justice would appear and take over the proceedings. Even Hermione had agreed, however begrudgingly, that the ritual would work; where she got tripped up was in the errata, the risks and the consequences of summoning Justice, not the mere fact that he could be done. Aldon felt a vicious sort of satisfaction at that, because if there was any hint that it could not be done, he knew that Hermione would have seized on it and used it to savage him.

There was a flurry of activity at the front of the room, and one of the two clerks at the front stood. "All rise," she said, her voice bored, as all the witches and wizards in the room rose to their feet. Once up, she looked down at a sheet of paper and read it off, tripping through her words so quickly that Aldon couldn't be sure if he had heard correctly. "Hear ye, hear ye, all those having business in Justice's court, come forward and be heard. You may be seated."

There was a second wave of witches and wizards sitting down, and the back door to the court opened. A small, curvy witch with reddish-brown hair and hazel eyes strode in, and Aldon recognized Lady Amelia Bones, one of the Law Ladies and a judge of the Wizarding Court of Law. She was followed by five members of the Wizengamot, who must be Archie's selected jury – as a noble, he could only be tried by a jury of his peers. Or, Aldon half-smiled a little to himself, by Justice Herself.

"Madam Umbridge," Lady Bones said, taking a seat on the second-highest dais in the courtroom, looking around the courtroom and nodding at each of the prosecution table and the defence table in turn. She reached into her robes and pulled out a small pair of spectacles, setting them on top of her nose. "Mr. Weasley. Mr. Black. Let us not beat around the bush – we all know what we're here for today. Mr. Black, please rise. You stand accused of the crimes of aiding and abetting in the commission of blood identity theft, and conspiracy to commit blood identity theft. How do you plead?"

Archie had stood, Percy beside him motioning him to do so, and Aldon took a deep breath. It was almost time. "Not guilty, your honour."

Lady Bones nodded, unsurprised – they would not have convened a panel of the Wizengamot if they had thought Archie would plead any other way. "Very well. Let's get started, then."

"Lady Bones, there is a preliminary matter that we need to address." Percy stood up, and his voice was iron. Aldon sat up, shifting to hold himself a little straighter. This was the first hurdle – no one had done this in centuries – and if they dismissed Percy as insane here, there was no back up plan. Percy's voice was sure as he continued. "My client will be invoking his right to a trial before Justice Herself."

There was a moment of silence. Lady Bones frowned at him for a second – Aldon suspected that she thought she had misheard, or that she was waiting for Percy to tell her that he was joking, but Percy was silent, stubborn. Behind him, Aldon could hear whispers starting. He stiffened, checked his ritual dagger at his side, and shifted slowly to be ready to rise.

"Excuse me, counsellor?" Lady Bones said, leaning forward and tilting her head to eye Percy over her spectacles. "Your client would like to…. invoke Justice Herself to preside over his trial."

"That is correct, your honour. As a noble, Mr. Black has the right to a trial before Justice Herself when charged with an offence – this was laid out clearly in the Charter of Noble Rights of 1071, reaffirmed in the years 1241, 1357 and 1449." Percy kept his voice firm, though his posture was stiff, and Aldon could hear muffled laughter running through the courtroom. On the prosecution side, Madam Umbridge, a squat woman vaguely reminiscent of a toad, didn't even hide the expression of shocked glee on her face, though the barrister beside her, a younger woman Aldon vaguely recognized from school, was poker-faced. "These noble rights have not been rescinded or repealed at any point, and it is described in each of those reaffirmations as a fundamental noble right that cannot be rescinded or repealed."

Lady Bones cleared her throat, evidently considering the best way to proceed. She ignored the laughter in the courtroom. "You are quite correct on the law, Mr. Weasley," she said finally, "but the issue is not one of Mr. Black's noble rights. The issue is that we have lost the ability to invoke Justice Herself, if ever such a thing were possible. What you are requesting is simply not possible."

"In the normal course," Percy barrelled on, but the quickening of his voice told Aldon all he needed to know – Percy had his opportunity, and he was going to take it. Aldon slid down the row, thankfully only needing to squeeze past a couple people, before he stopped, waiting. "The Court would now adjourn to name a Truth-Speaker, one of Justice's Chosen with the ability to summon her for the rite of invocation. However, given that it has been many centuries since the last summoning, the defense has taken on the responsibility of doing so. If I may call on Mr. Aldon Rosier to step forward?"

"The prosecution objects." Umbridge stood up. "Lady Bones, this nonsense has gone on for long enough. Mr. Weasley, perhaps showing his inexperience, is requesting a fantasy. Let us get on with the trial."

"It is Mr. Black's right, your honour, to demand a trial before Justice Herself." Percy repeated, implacable. "I will now be calling on Aldon Rosier, Truth-Speaker, for the rite of invocation."

"This is highly improper!" Umbridge said, but Lady Bones held up a hand.

"Madam Umbridge, it would appear for the moment that the easiest way forward is simply to allow Mr. Weasley to proceed," she suggested, though Aldon thought he could see the smallest hint of curiosity in her hazel eyes. "Once Mr. Weasley and Mr. Black see that the request is impossible, we can begin with the trial instead of wasting time arguing over preliminary motions. I assume, Mr. Weasley, that you do not expect this rite to take very long."

"Not at all, Lady Bones," Percy said, and Aldon felt a sharp bite of satisfaction as he stood up and approached the front. He bowed, perfectly thirty degrees, before crossing the bar that separated the barristers, the court officials, from the observers. Lady Bones nodded at him, and, after a second of hesitation, Aldon nodded back. The memoirs had never said to be impolite.

The whole room was watching him now, many of his former friends and acquaintances in the audience. Aldon tried not to let it bother him. He had done his research, he had made his choices, and what would happen now, would happen. He approached the heavy, iron plaque set on the second-to-highest dais, unbuttoning his right sleeve and shaking his arm out, baring a stretch of skin marred only with a narrow scar. He would probably have another after this, he realized regretfully. Prices to be paid.

He drew his ritual dagger from his waist and, in a quick, deliberate movement, cut one jagged line beside his last scar, holding it away from him to drip onto the design. It sizzled, dried, disappeared faster than it ought, and Aldon had a single, joyful, victorious moment of knowing it had worked.

Then his ears roared, and there was something, or maybe someone, on the top dais which had been called, which was waiting, which wanted him. He felt, weightier than the thousand stares behind him, a sort of curious attention that was infinitely more terrifying. A ghost-wind whipped up – he didn't know whether it was real or only in his head, but his robes were flapping, fluttering, the iron design on which he stood was burning, bright gold, and in his peripheral vision, ancient runes circling the courtroom had come alive. They were lit, yellow, spinning, and in a moment of surprised clarity, Aldon recognized symbols of binding.

Oh, shit, he had the wherewithal to think, before his mind was blasted, not with words, but with a communication beyond words. It wasn't English – or maybe it was English, but a form of English so old he didn't understand it, or maybe it was even Norman French, he didn't know. He only understood the meaning.

Who are you? She demanded, and Aldon could just see her, wisps of light and dust shimmering in the form of a woman, dressed in the Roman-style draping robes that were so common in her images, with clear eyes, a patrician nose, standing on the top dais. She glanced over the courtroom, then turned back to look right at him. Introduce yourself to me, Truth-Speaker.

He knew the words.

"My name is Aldon Étienne Rosier," he said, unsure whether anyone in the room could hear him, see him, through the whipping, whirling, ghost-winds trapping his body. "I am one of your Chosen. On the demand of the accused, I implore you, Lady, to hear this trial for aiding and abetting and conspiracy to commit blood identity theft."

All went black.

XXX

Archie waited, breath bated, while his older quasi-friend, sort-of-acquaintance, definite conspirator-in-arms shook like leaf, his robes floating around him in an unseen wind. It wasn't that he didn't believe in Aldon – he did, or he thought he did. He just didn't know Aldon very well, not compared to Hermione, not compared to John or even Chess.

It was a long moment, maybe a minute, and Aldon sighed, then he crossed the top of the dais, examining the room carefully as if it were entirely new to him. Either he was a really good actor, Archie thought, chills running down his spine, or Aldon was… not Aldon.

"What is the meaning of this?" Umbridge snapped, rising to her feet, even if she was pale. The junior lawyer beside her was shaking like a leaf, as were the court clerks, and even Percy and Lady Bones didn't look so steady. His peers, various lords and ladies of the Wizengamot, or high-ranking members of their Houses, were whispering quietly to each other. "Lady Bones, I request that this cease at once. It appears to be completely irrelevant and is detracting from the administration of Justice!"

Aldon stopped in his examination of the room, the court clerks, the Wizengamot elders. He turned his head to Madam Umbridge, tilting it carefully, and the alien sort of intelligence on his face was, Archie thought, not something his new friend could fake. "I never thought I would see the day," he said, abnormally quiet, and even his voice was different. It was warmer in timbre, slower, more thoughtful, rolling liquid instead of sharp waves, and the way that he formed his words were all wrong. It wasn't his usual accent – it didn't sound like a British accent at all, not one as Archie would recognize it. There was the hint of something else behind it, something like French and yet not. He didn't know. He also sounded like he was trying out new words, a new language, considering how they tasted, and finding that they suited him very much.

"I never thought I would see the day when I, Justice Incarnate, was accused of detracting from the administration of Justice," he – no, Justice – said idly, stalking over to the plain, wooden chair standing at the centre of the dais. "I find that I am quite insulted by the suggestion." She snapped her fingers, and there was a sound like a gunshot through the room, and Umbridge collapsed with a sharp cry, a scream of guttural pain.

That was not a spell. Archie gulped, and the room, with the exception of Umbridge's ragged panting and whimpering, fell dead silent. One look over at Umbridge, lying on the ground, told Archie that both of the woman's legs were broken. They were simple, clean breaks, easy enough to heal, and Archie had to resist his Healer's urge to walk over and Heal her. This was not the time, nor the place, he reminded himself. They had bigger worries.

"Her cries annoy me," Justice's nose wrinkled in distaste, an expression common enough on Aldon's face but somehow still new when she was occupying his body. The whimpering noise cut off – looking over, Archie saw that the junior prosecution lawyer, pale-faced and not knowing what else to do, had simply Stunned her superior. "I see that, since my last summoning, the prosecution has forgotten its manners. Has the defense?"

She turned to look at Percy, who was now kneeling on the ground. "It has been many centuries, longer than our lifetimes, since you were last called," Archie's lawyer started carefully. "Much of your etiquette and procedure has been forgotten. I ask for your mercy in any missteps that we may take."

"My mercy?" She seemed amused at the very thought, leaning back in her chair. "I am not my sister, counsellor. And why is it that you have summoned me, and not my sister Mercy?"

"We have not the knowledge," Percy said, after a beat. "We did not know that was usual practice."

"I see." She tilted her head to one side, looking around the courtroom again in thought, crossing one leg over the other. "It is often said that there can be no Justice without Mercy, but I tend to disagree, as I always have. The facts remain the facts. Am I correct in stating that you have not one of her Chosen available for a summoning?"

"Not to our knowledge." Percy swallowed, visibly sweating a little. This had not been among the questions they had foreseen. "It has been… five hundred very long years."

"Five hundred years in this part of the world." Justice hummed a little, looking around the courtroom again. "I can hardly tell, based on your clothing, except for the witches in the middle with the flashing and glowing dresses. Cease with the spells – they're distracting."

Archie didn't need to look behind him to know that Chess and Hermione were tugging out the little paper charms for their illusion work and cancelling them, or that Saoirse, into whose clothing the spell was actually worked, was hastily constructing a secondary runic illusion to hide her glitter-spell.

"My Chosen stated that I am to hear a trial for aiding and abetting in the commission of blood identity theft, and conspiracy to commit blood identity theft." She paused, thinking for a moment – or maybe she was ransacking Aldon's mind for knowledge. Archie had no idea how possession worked, other than what John had told him and Harry's garbled explanation after her second year. He didn't know whether Justice would have access to Aldon's knowledge, his thoughts and feelings, or what would happen to him while possessed. Aldon hadn't mentioned possession would be part of the rite. "He believes it to be extremely important, of national importance, but I am unfamiliar with this offence. Please explain."

Lady Bones cleared her throat. "Madam Justice," she croaked, looking for space to kneel but not finding any, then flushing as she realized that she had addressed the incarnation by name. She curtsied awkwardly. "My apologies. I am not – I would be pleased to – I'm very sorry, but as Mr. Weasley says, I do not know the procedure where you will be hearing a case. Should I send away the jury panel? Should I leave? Should I remain, that I might be of assistance to you? Surely the laws have changed—"

"Laws always change." Justice waved one hand diffidently, carelessly, dismissively. "What is just does not. By all means, dismiss your jury, or they may remain as observers, I do not care. You, however, may stay and assist me as my amicus curiae. Explain to me your offence of blood identity theft; I am well familiar with both aiding and abetting and conspiracy."

Lady Bones, who Archie thought was handling the shock remarkably well, nodded. She motioned with one hand, behind her back, for one of the two clerks in front of her to go to the jury; the clerk, pale-faced but resolute, rose. She headed over first to Umbridge, cast a levitation spell on her, then motioned for the Wizengamot members to follow her out of the courtroom. A few of the Wizengamot members were muttering amongst themselves, but Archie was too far away to hear anything they said. How would summoning Justice play in his overall plans of raising awareness? On one hand – it was Justice Incarnate handling his trial, so how could anyone say it was unfair? On the other, it was unorthodox, and the mere fact that it was unorthodox meant that people would be muttering.

Then again, those people would have muttered no matter what Archie did, so he counted it a fair loss.

"Blood identity theft is an offence in which a halfblood or Muggleborn witch or wizard holds themselves out to be a pureblood, thereby receiving some direct benefit as a result," Lady Bones explained quickly. "The level of mens rea needed is low, and the actus is the receipt of the direct benefit; a halfblood or Muggleborn does not need to directly present themselves as a pureblood, merely receive the benefit without correcting the assumption. It is not necessary to impersonate any specific pureblood."

"It is a form of fraud, then," Justice mused, snapping her fingers again. Aldon's dress robes turned white, flowing more like a dress than anything else, the clothes matching that of the carved sculpture which that Archie had seen in the atrium. It was sleeveless, fastened by golden brooches on the shoulders, with golden armbands on the upper arms, and Archie winced a little internally for Aldon. From what he had seen, Aldon was far too uptight and conservative to wear anything of the sort. "But I will also need your terms defined. What is a halfblood? What is a Muggleborn?"

Lady Bones coughed. "Er, a pureblood as it is currently defined in law is a person who can provide proof that they have four magic-using grandparents. A Muggleborn is a person who is fully descended from Muggles, or non-magic-users, with no parent or grandparent who can use magic. Halfbloods are defined by exclusion; anyone who is not a pureblood and not a Muggleborn is a halfblood."

"I see." Justice's face was impassive. "And in this society, being a pureblood has benefits above and beyond being a Muggleborn or a halfblood."

"That is correct, Your…" Lady Bones paused, uncertain what to call her. "Honour."

"In times and in courts past, I have not had a title." Justice waved her hand, uncaring, Aldon's orange eyes beady as she studied the courtroom once more. "Your Honour or Madam Justice will be fine. Is it equally an offence for a pureblood to pretend to be a Muggleborn or a halfblood? Are there degrees to the offence – are some instances of the offence considered worse than others?"

"It is not an offence for a pureblood to pretend to be lesser-blooded." Lady Bones cleared her throat, clearly a little uncomfortable. The Bones were Neutral and intensely private about their political leanings, Dad had told Archie once, and though they were non-noble they were extremely prominent in the legal profession. About a third of the Bones, or those related to the Bones, including the Goldsteins and the Boots, ascended to the ranks of the Law Lords and Law Ladies. The Law Lords and Law Ladies were nominally noble, but they had no voice in the Wizengamot and their nobility was not heritable. "There are different degrees to the offence, but only for Muggleborns. Pretending to be a pureblood is considered a first-degree offence, whereas pretending to be a halfblood is a second-degree offence. It is not an offence for a halfblood to pretend to be Muggleborn."

"What are the sentences for this offence?" Justice leaned forwards in interest. "If you have summoned me, then they must be great indeed."

Lady Bones coughed again, and Percy, beside him, stiffened. "For a Muggleborn or halfblood, the sentence for blood identity theft is at minimum, a ten-year term of imprisonment in Azkaban and scales upwards to the Dementor's Kiss." She hesitated.

"Continue," Justice ordered, wrinkling her nose. "Do not hide things from me. You cannot in any case – my Truth-Speaker's powers, when I am not possessing him, are nothing compared to mine. I have other means of making people talk."

"The accused, Arcturus Rigel Black, is a pureblood. He has been charged with aiding and abetting and consipiracy in connection to blood identity theft. The typical sentence for this offence a fine, with the historical upper limit of 1500 galleons – approximately the equivalent of a year's income for many families." Archie couldn't see Lady Bones' face, but her voice was clear and carrying.

Justice straightened in the chair that she had been lounging in, somewhat indolently, focusing on Lady Bones below her, then turning to the defense table where Percy was still kneeling and Archie was sitting, frozen, in his seat. "You have invoked your right to trial by Justice Incarnate for an offence on which your life does not rest?"

She was looking at him, not at Percy – right at him. She wanted an answer from him directly, not from his lawyer. Archie swallowed, then he stood. "I have, Your Honour," he said, using all his actor's training to avoid squeaking. He could not squeak – he had to be a model here, he had to be strong for Hermione, for Toby and Saiorse and Sean, for Derrick and Isran, all of whom had come to his first day of trial to support him. He could not disappoint them. "Please, hear my case. It's the only way I'll have a fair trial, given … everything."

"Do not lie to me." Justice tilted her head to one side, considering. "Do not half-lie to me, do not lie by omitting key factual details to me. This is your first warning, Arcturus Rigel Black."

Archie looked down. "It's also the only realistic way I have of challenging the blood discrimination laws, Your Honour."

Justice studied him, the expression on her face not completely unfamiliar since Archie had seen that look of surprised consideration on Aldon's face more than once, but still somehow different. He thought it was something about how Aldon normally held himself – Aldon was always tense, he was always wound up, he was always primed for a fight even if his words were flippant. Justice, in his body, lounged. She was fully confident, fearless, she had no need to hold extra tension in her body as he did. "I see," she drawled. "You are aware that, by requesting a trial in front of me, you are committing to the sentences that I hand down? I deal only in life, soul, and magic – I do not deal with something so mundane as monetary fines."

Dad hissed behind him, swearing, no doubt trying to think of ways to end this ritual, go back to the rulebook that they knew and understood, as he had been trying to do for weeks. Archie ignored him – the Ministry probably had something more than a fine in mind for him anyway. They had broken enough other laws when it came to him – what was one more?

Why not take this risk? Archie had no guarantee that he was safe, not after the search warrant, maybe not even before. And, just as he told Hermione, if he didn't believe in his case, then no one would. He had to be willing to put himself on the line for it, and then trust in Percy and in Justice Herself to see the right result.

"I understand, Your Honour," Archie replied firmly. "The blood discrimination laws, including blood identity theft, are unjust and should be struck. I will take the risk."

"Brave words," Justice commented, leaning back in her chair. She studied him for a moment. "Very well. Let us proceed with the opening statements. Defense counsel, you look ridiculous, sit down at your table. Prosecution?"

Archie sat back down in his seat, Percy none too steady as he sat down beside him. Across the room, the junior lawyer looked around, hesitant, then rose, visibly trembling. "Your Honour, Madam Justice," she stuttered, her hands gripping the table in front of her. "My name is Clearwater, first initial P. I, er – I must request an adjournment. Madam Umbridge was, er, lead counsel on this matter, and I – um, I am not—"

"Denied," Justice ruled, blunt. "You are still counsel for the prosecution, and the expectation is that the prosecution is ready to proceed on the day of trial. If the prosecution puts forward two counsel, then both should be ready to proceed. You did review the case?"

"I – I did, Your Honour." Clearwater's eyes fell to her table, and she reached shakily for the pitcher of water on her desk, pouring herself a cup. The water sloshed over the rim, splashing a little onto her robes, onto the table.

"That's not all you did." Justice's eyes were sharp.

"I – I prepared all the materials, Your Honour," Clearwater replied, taking a sip of her water. "But a case of this magnitude – if I, a junior prosecutor, were to speak to it – the public perception of the administration of justice—"

Justice glared at her, the expression terrifying, and Clearwater froze, her words dying on her lips. "I am Justice Incarnate," she said, and her voice was clipped. "If you bring into question my ability to administer justice one more time, I shall do worse than break your legs. Begin your openings."

"Y-Yes." Clearwater cleared her throat, picking up a scroll of parchment and making her way to the centre podium. She took a deep gulp of her glass of water, followed with several deep breaths. But when she started, she didn't stutter. "Your Honour, we are here today to hear the trial of Arcturus Rigel Black, who is accused of aiding and abetting and conspiracy in the commission of blood identity theft, specifically by allowing a family friend and halfblood, Harriett Euphemia Potter, to take his name and identity in order to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Under his name, Harriett Potter received a Hogwarts education, to the point where she began apprenticing under Hogwarts' Potions Master, Severus Snape. In the course of this trial, you will hear that Black, in return, took Potter's place at the American Institute of Magic, thereby ensuring that none, not even their parents, could uncover the deception. Over four years, Black failed to correct the misapprehension, and the ruse continued. Indeed, the ruse would have continued indefinitely, were it not for the events of the Triwizard Tournament, during which Harriett Potter was unmasked, identified, and named.

"You will hear that, shortly after she was unmasked, Black admitted all the essential elements of the offence in the course of a newspaper interview, which will be submitted as an exhibit. You will hear how, in the course of that interview, Black and Potter conspired to trade places, to allow each of them to attend the school that they wanted to attend." Clearwater took a deep breath. She had been looking up at Justice periodically, whose expression was impassive, considering, then she looked back down and continued.

"Black and Potter did more than simply conspire to commit the offence – they went ahead and executed on their plan. Alongside the interview, you will also hear from Auror Dawlish, one of the two Aurors who arrested Black on his return at Heathrow Aeroport from the students' flight from America. You will hear from Potter's friends, Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy, on the differences they have noted between their friend Rigel's personality, and Black's. These will, in their totality, demonstrate that Black was in America while Potter was at Hogwarts."

Clearwater stopped, looking up at Justice again, but the incarnation's expression hadn't changed. She was listening. "By encouraging Potter and participating in the offence, the prosecution will be submitting that Black meets all the elements of the offence of aiding and abetting in the commission of blood identity theft. By planning the offence together with Potter and by taking preparatory steps toward it, and indeed, completing it, the prosecution will be submitting that Black meets all the elements of conspiring to commit blood identity theft. Given the severity of these facts, especially the four-year period that the ruse continued, the prosecution will be seeking a term in Azkaban of no less than two years. Thank you."

Archie didn't miss the sharp intake of breath from behind him, though he felt grimly vindicated. Days of arguments with Dad over what he planned to do – a full week of it, if he was truthful – and he was right. He would never plead guilty, and Dad had thought he should have tried any of the other defenses with the goal of mitigating the sentence, but the Ministry had never planned on following the rules in his case. Even if two years in Azkaban wasn't much compared to a life imprisonment, most went insane within a year.

"As I have said, Madam Prosecutor, I do not deal in things so mundane as imprisonment. I deal in life, soul, and magic only." Justice's voice was bored. "Are you seeking execution? Loss of his soul? Loss of his magic, or some part of his magic? A permanent curse of some kind on only him, or one that should continue through to his descendants?"

"Er…" Clearwater paled. "I, er – I will need to seek instructions. May I return to this point in my closing submissions?"

Justice sighed, shaking her head in mild disgust, and turned to Percy. "Granted. Defense – proceed."

"Weasley, first initial P, your honour." Percy rose from his seat, much more put together than Clearwater had been, in Archie's opinion. "The defense does not deny the elements of the offence, but instead rejects the idea that blood identity theft is an offence at all. Blood identity is an immutable personal characteristic that cannot be changed and which was not, traditionally, recognized as a distinction among witches and wizards. I expect you to hear that, prior to the Statute of Secrecy's enactment in 1689, witches and wizards lived alongside our Muggle neighbours, and that we did not distinguish by blood identity. I further expect you to hear that, on the basis of their magic alone, halfbloods and Muggleborns are on no way lesser than purebloods – they are capable of the same feats, occasionally more."

Justice was leaning forward in interest, which was at least a change from the bored and languid pose she had taken for the prosecution's opening. Her lips were curved in what seemed to be a tiny half-smile, which disappeared almost the same instant that Archie realized it was there. Percy paused, as if waiting for a response, but she tilted her head slightly, a motion to move on. Archie chanced a glance at Clearwater, who had a roll of parchment in front of her and was ferociously scribbling, ink flying everywhere on her hands. Archie had no idea how she would read what she had written later – Archie hated writing with quill and ink, unless he slowed down to half his normal speed or less, everything would be illegible. Behind him, Archie could hear a storm of whispers, and he tried to ignore it.

"I expect you to hear that, in nine hundred years of admitting Muggleborns and halfbloods to Hogwarts, there were no major incidents that justified the exclusion of Muggleborns or halfbloods from school. I further expect you to hear that, to the extent that there are any differences between Muggleborns and halfbloods and purebloods, such differences are minute and exaggerated, and that the laws discriminating against Muggleborns and halfbloods are unjustified, overbroad, create danger for Muggleborns and halfbloods and are unsupported in a free and just society. Finally, I expect you to hear from many people, including Arcturus Rigel Black, a pureblood, about the ways in which these laws have personally and negatively affected them.

"The defense will be seeking that you strike the law against blood identity theft, and therefore the charges against Arcturus Rigel Black, on the basis that they are unjust and cannot be supported. Thank you." Percy returned to his seat, sitting down, and Archie took in a deep breath.

His opening had been amazing. Archie was never happier that he had picked Percival Ignatius Weasley to be his lawyer. Even if Percy was young, even if Percy was awkward and a little uptight, what other lawyer would have taken a stand like this? He put his hand on Percy's arm, squeezing a little and flashing him a smile, but the barrister only shook his head at him. He scribbled something on the No-Maj legal pad he had, passing it over.

This is just the beginning, he wrote. No one can tell what will happen. You're still insane.

All the Blacks are, Archie wrote back. I believe in you, Percy, and I believe in Justice. She'll see it our way – she has to!

Percy glared at him, shook his head, then pulled out a second pad of paper and a series of pens. Archie smiled slightly – Percy would see. It was risky, and Archie didn't deny that, but if he didn't believe in his case, no one would. And imagine if he could get all the blood discrimination laws struck in one fell swoop! Percy said he was being overconfident: at best, Justice was only likely to strike down blood identity theft alone, and even that was far from certain.

All the risks Archie took, however, they would be worth it if the laws were struck. And, knowing that this was a possibility, he would never have been able to live with himself if he hadn't taken it. Life was short – he learned that in the Darien Gap. He would not live with regrets, and keeping his head down and accepting a fine, instead of taking this opportunity, that would have been one of the biggest regrets of his life.

"I will have silence in the court," Justice said, glaring out over the audience, and Archie felt the command running over his head, ruffling his hair like a breeze. The noise behind him halted suddenly, and he knew that there had been some sort of magic behind it. "This court is a place of respect, and if you cannot be silent, then you may leave."

No one moved, though Archie didn't know if that meant that they chose not to, or if they couldn't. Experimentally, he lifted one foot – he could still move, so presumably they were choosing not to.

"Very well." Justice turned back to the prosecution table, relaxing back into her chair. "Madam Clearwater, your first witness."

Clearwater stood up and took the podium, looking increasingly uncertain as she looked over her notes – both the ones she had taken today, as well as the ones she had taken before. "Madam Justice, if I may call Armand Abbott, correspondent for the Daily Prophet."

Armand Abbott was a small, thin man with sandy brown hair and eyes that flickered over the courtroom, over the proceedings, constantly. His nose, a small snub nose, twitched every few minutes, an expression betraying his nervousness. One of the court clerks, the one who had left earlier, had returned during the opening statements. She rose, motioning for the wizard to raise his right hand. "Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

"I do," Abbott said, and even his voice was nervous. It was high-pitched, trembling in quality, but he sat down easily enough, and Clearwater began her examination.

It was dull. Archie shouldn't have thought so, considering it was his life on the line, but this examination was dull. Armand Abbott was a correspondent with the Daily Prophet, but his primary responsibility was to review and collect information from international newspapers. He specialized in English-language newspapers in America and Australia and reviewed about six newspapers daily for anything important. When he found things that were important, he would present them for review by his supervising editor, who would make the final decision on what matters were reported in the Daily Prophet, and usually asked that they be summarized for the Wizarding British public. When he read Archie's interview in the American Standard, he had followed his procedure and had presented it to his supervising editor, and in usual practice, he was asked to summarize it for the Wizarding British public.

Archie didn't like the word summarize, and he knew without having to look that Hermione's expression behind him would be that very polite "oh yes, really?" look that she sometimes adopted when people told the biggest fibs in front of her. He heard a very soft scoff from a few rows behind him – that had to be Saoirse.

"You're lying," Justice said, a bored but considering look in her eyes. "I have already given my first warning for lying."

"Censor," Abbott blurted out, all in a rush as he flushed. "Censor the interview. I was asked to censor the interview. I did."

Justice stared at him for a few moments, head tilted and expressionless, then she leaned back. "Go on."

"I… largely removed material that would be considered offensive by the Wizarding British public," Abbott explained, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. He mopped his brow. "From my recollection, I removed further details about the blood discrimination laws, I removed Harriett Potter's achievements, and I removed Black's message to the public."

"Is this the article that you revised and published in the Daily Prophet?" Clearwater passed a newspaper cut-out to one of the court clerks, who passed it to the witness.

Abbott skimmed the article quickly, then he nodded. "Yes, it is."

"Your Honour, if I might introduce the article as Exhibit A?"

"Granted. Miss Clearwater, what is the relevance of all of this?" Justice's voice was mild, but Archie thought he could hear a note of annoyance. "Ignoring the fact that your witness has admitted that he did not interview the accused, that all he did was read and plagiarise the article from an American newspaper, and that he then published it under his own byline, it does not appear to me that any of this is relevant at all to the heart of this case. Mr. Weasley, does Mr. Black deny any of the facts leading to the charges?"

Percy stood. "No, Your Honour. He does not."

Justice turned back to Clearwater, and the disdain was evident on her face. "In that case, Miss Clearwater, what is the relevance of this interview? The question is whether the law is just. Do you have any questions relating to the issue in question, or was this just to establish that Mr. Black did an interview where he admitted the key elements of the alleged offence?"

Clearwater stopped, and from his perspective beside Percy, Archie could see her shaking, the way her breath caught in her throat. She had no idea what to do, Archie realized – and, more than that, she was on the point of tears. She breathed deeply, in through her nose and out through her mouth, and Archie guessed that she had to be thinking very fast. While trying not to cry. "I, er," she stuttered, and her voice wavered. "I – I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honour.

"Very well." Justice turned to Percy, eyeing him beadily. "Your witness, Mr. Weasley."

"I have no questions for Mr. Abbott, Your Honour." Percy hadn't even stood up properly to speak, instead rising to a sort of hunched posture and sitting back down once the sentence was out. "We may move on."

"Understood. Miss Clearwater, your next witness? And I hope he is a great deal more relevant than your last." Justice's voice was a warning, and Clearwater was pale but determined as she strode to the podium, a sheet of parchment in hand. Archie thought he recognized the notes she had taken during Percy's opening statement.

"Your Honour," she said, her voice slower than before, more deferential, but steady. "Regrettably, I must beg you for an adjournment. The prosecution was not advised that the defense would be challenging the law, and I did not prepare for this eventuality. As my colleague, Mr. Weasley, said, it has been five hundred very long years since you were last summoned, and I was not – I did not know it was possible to challenge a law within a trial. In the name of fairness, the prosecution requires an adjournment to revise and prepare its case."

There was silence, as Justice leaned back in her chair and studied Clearwater for a long, long moment. She was expressionless, though one of her fingers was tapping thoughtfully on the arm of her chair. She was still lounging, yet she somehow still exuded an air of danger. Clearwater stared down at the podium, waiting for, or maybe dreading, the ruling. Unlike before, she was still as stone – so far past fear that she had simply given up.

"I am very unhappy about this, Miss Clearwater." Justice's voice was icy, stern, a harsh lecture. Coming from Aldon's body, Archie thought there should be something very funny about it, but it really wasn't – whatever was possessing him was so different, so far beyond mortality, that even if it was his almost-friend's body, it wasn't him, and Archie couldn't put them together in his head. They simply didn't fit. "I am extremely disappointed with the poor state of your preparation."

"I am aware, your Honour." Clearwater didn't look up from the podium, and Archie thought he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes, even if they weren't present in her voice. There was a long silence, as Justice examined her, as if she was a very curious bug pinned on a board.

"How much time will you need, Miss Clearwater, to prepare your case properly?" she drawled eventually, her head tilted in consideration.

"A week, Your Honour." Clearwater took a breath and looked up, and her face was red, her eyes were damp, but there were no tears on her face. "We can be prepared in a week."

Justice continued staring at her for a few minutes, eyeing her hair, her clothes, her face, before she inclined her head. "You have a day," she said simply. "That should be more than enough time to plan your trial strategy and line your witnesses up for tomorrow. I will even give you a delayed start – ten-thirty in the morning, Miss Clearwater, and not a moment later."

"Yes, Your Honour. Thank you, Your Honour." Clearwater nodded, head held high, and she turned to sit down at her own counsel table, neatly gathering her parchment scrolls in one bundle. The expression on her face was worried, almost a little lost, but Archie thought there was something else to it – a hint of determination, maybe, a spark of excitement, the acknowledgement of a challenge accepted.

"On the request of the prosecution, court is adjourned until tomorrow morning at ten-thirty," Justice ruled, standing from her seat. "Now, who has responsibility for my Chosen?"

There was silence, again, and Archie gave an almost panicked glance towards Percy – Aldon was not publicly supposed to be known as their ally, and he hadn't said that he would be possessed! They had thought he would perform the ritual, and that he would have to be present to sustain the spell, but they hadn't expected that he would be the vessel. Percy's lips were thin, pressed together, and he quickly stood up.

"Madam Justice," he began, slightly hesitant. "I am – in our ignorance, we failed to understand the details of the rite of summoning. He came with us, but there is no one with direct responsibility for him."

Justice pursed her lips, frowning. "You did not appreciate that I would possess him for the duration of the trial," she said baldly. "You did not know that, outside this courtroom, he will spend most of his time unconscious, that no one may interfere with the propriety of this trial?"

"We did not, Your Honour," Percy admitted freely, even as Archie blanched. Aldon had had plans for these months – even outside the trial, he been walking with a bit of jaunt in his step, because Chess had apparently gotten back some paperwork to him so he could have a closer look at her ACD. It looked like that would need to wait, if he would be out of it any time he wasn't in court for the entirety of the trial.

"I see." Justice paused. "In that case, someone will need to take responsibility for him – he will fall unconscious the moment he crosses my insignia and will go nowhere under his own power. Even for the hour or so of waking I grant him each day, he will be in a fugue or dream-like state, with only enough ability to eat and perform the bodily functions I would rather not experience. Not you, counsellor, nor anyone else anticipated to be involved in this trial."

"That could be… difficult, Your Honour." Percy's voice was slow, and Archie understood. Most of the people here today would be somehow involved with the trial, or they were there in support of one side or another – they were not unbiased observers, and many of the people who could be considered unbiased had no reason to step forward and help. Archie looked around, but he didn't recognize most of the people who had attended – Malfoy and Parkinson, he knew, and they were sitting with people who had to have been their parents, and Nott and Bulstrode were there, but very few others. Some he thought he might have seen once or twice, at a Gala event or other, but he couldn't be certain. Lord and Lady Parkinson had their heads together but made no move to rise.

There was a long, awkward pause. Archie waited, and he waited, and he exchanged looks with Dad, who shook his head, and then with Uncle Remus, who also shook his head. Around the room, people were poker-faced, murmuring slightly, but it didn't seem like anyone was willing to get involved. A minute passed – two minutes. Then three, and Justice scowled.

Ten minutes. It was ten minutes of cold, awkward silence, then someone, Lord Parkinson, stood up, but only to bow and exit the courtroom.

Twenty minutes, then thirty. The courtroom was warm, too warm with bodies, and it was obvious that Justice intended on sitting there and letting them sweat until someone stepped forward. Thirty minutes, and Archie knew that Aldon was in a room of people who all knew him, knew who he was, many of whom he was sure he was at least nominally friendly with, and yet no one stepped forward.

Forty-five minutes in, the door to the courtroom opened slightly, and a meek, willowy brunette slipped in, followed by a broad-shouldered Asian man who hung back, standing at the back of the room. The woman wore a terrified expression on her face, mixed with hard determination and some element of sorrow, as she stepped forward to the front of the room, seemingly trying to shrink from the many eyes that followed her. She looked ready to cry.

"I will take responsibility for him," she said. Her voice was even, quiet, a little nervous. "My name is Christina Blake, Madam Justice. I do not have any association with either the prosecution or the defense. I work closely with his father, and Mr. Rosier has worked under me, or in my office, for some time."

Justice tilted her head slightly, narrowing her eyes. "That is not all he is to you," she said, and it was not a question, only a bald statement. "I do not like people who hide things from me. Why should I entrust my current physical form to you?"

The woman shifted, uncomfortable with the question, looking down. "Does it matter, Your Honour? It's not relevant. I care for him deeply."

"I see that is true." Justice's words were slow, measured, almost a little puzzled. "But I am cautious, through long experience, of the threats often posed to my Chosen in the course of a trial – it is not unusual for a party to attempt to destroy my physical form to alter the course of a trial, though I react violently to any such attempts. You have said you are close to his father, but about him, you have only said that he worked under you for a short time. This does not make any sense – if you had more of a relationship to him than merely being his co-worker, you would have said otherwise."

"He would not want it known." Blake didn't look up. "It isn't relevant."

"I am the one who decides relevance." Justice's voice was hard. "I care not for what this body would want – for the duration of this trial, I make the decisions, and I am concerned primarily with the safety of my Chosen, not his wishes. Explain."

The woman swallowed. "I am," she said, a little choked, then she took a deep, shaky breath, and looked up. "I am—"

She stopped again, words seeming to fail her, then she coughed and cleared her throat.

"Spit it out," Justice said, lifting her head in a mix of curiosity and disdain. "I have no patience for—"

"I am his mother!" She burst out – a clear, bald statement, audible through the back of the courtroom.

There was a moment of pure, absolute, shocked silence. Then, Justice tilted her head.

"I see," she said, and Archie had the briefest moment of panic, shit, shit, shit, before he looked over at Percy, eyes wide, but Percy seemed just as taken aback. Behind him, Archie could hear that the room had positively erupted in noise, some people barely managing to keep their voices down to a whisper, and the scratches of the reporters' quills going into overdrive.

"His what—"

"It can't be—"

"Silence!" Justice roared, clapping her hands once, and words died, smothered in people's throats. Archie's tongue was sealed to the roof of his mouth. He could barely breathe, struggling to get air in through his nose. The air in the room was heavy, oppressive, and Archie slowed his breath down, forcing himself to be satisfied with the small amount of air that he got. It was enough, just enough. He couldn't make a sound. "I will have order in the court, and those of you who cannot be silent, get out, before I drain all your magic in consequence."

The stampede for the door would have almost been funny, if it weren't for the reason. Archie had no idea what to do, what he could do, if there was anything he could do. He turned around, throwing a pleading look at Dad, but Dad only shook his head, face grim. Hermione stayed, as did John and Chess, and the row of British Muggleborns and halfbloods he had met through the Triwizard Tournament.

"Very well," Justice said, once the room was mostly clear. "Madam Blake, I shall entrust my Chosen to your care. Court is dismissed."

Archie rose from his seat, in unison with everyone remaining in the court and imitating the others as they bowed and filed out of the court. He looked back as he left, where Justice held her possessed body's head close to the woman who was, in all probability, Aldon's biological mother, telling her something, while the broad-shouldered Asian man who had come with her stood close by. He hoped, despite a dreading conviction that it could not be so easy, that this would not go too badly for his new almost-friend.

XXX

"What the fuck," Derrick hissed, on the steps of the courthouse. "What the actual fuck just happened?"

"Something insane," Isran replied, his tone a little dry. "Hermione, your boyfriend is mad."

"He says it's a family trait." Hermione couldn't help but smile. Maybe it was insanity, but somehow, she couldn't help but be pulled along. She never really could, and that was exactly how they had ended up here. Well, that and Aldon Rosier, who was, if at all possible, even more mad than Archie. At least Archie could be convinced to listen to reason, most of the time; Aldon Rosier was a chauvinistic noble asshole who always thought he was right.

She still felt sorry for him, after today. She knew he hadn't been upfront with his family – about his gift, about what he knew, or about what he was doing. She had done enough research on the Rosier family to know exactly who Aldon Rosier was, and what he stood to lose. And it was quite a lot – his family was in the inner circle of the SOW Party, and he had effectively crossed enemy lines to help Archie. And if she knew, then John knew, and as much as John's act that he was just a boneheaded jock annoyed her, John would never let anyone who was a threat hang around. Or at least he would keep a sharp eye on them.

Which, she supposed, he had been doing. Still, he had gone out of his way to introduce Aldon to Francesca, and he would never have done that if Aldon posed any threat. Somehow, both John and Archie were convinced, despite all evidence to the contrary, that Francesca was somehow helpless or defenseless and that she needed to be sheltered. It was stupid.

"Let's move past Aldon Rosier for a moment," she said, pulling her two schoolmates to one side of the courthouse doors. Their two Irish allies exchanged a look and joined them, then Toby sighed and followed, rubbing his forehead slightly. "We did get a good admission today from that reporter, remember?"

"The thing about the censoring?" Isran sighed and shook his head. "It had occurred to me too, right after he said it – we could have flooded Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, Godric's Hollow, or the other wizarding communities with copies of the original from the American Standard. The problem is… Rosier."

"Isran's right," Derrick chipped in, his voice a low, annoyed burr. "I mean, I can't blame the guy, but it's going to be all over the Evening Prophet tonight and he'll be the news cycle for the next week at least. No one is going to remember or report on a little detail from the trial like how the Arcturus Rigel Black interview was censored."

"For England, maybe, but Ireland is another matter." Saoirse paused, tilting her head. "We have never cared much for Wizarding British noble scandals – there are very few noble families in Wizarding Ireland, and they're interlopers, not of ours. It may be reported in the Irish Gales. Sean and I will blitz the interview through Ireland, and I'll translate it in full and send it in to the Nuachtlitir Draoi. There was a summary in it before, but not the complete interview. It'll only reach maybe three hundred people, but it's a start."

"Thank you, Saiorse." Hermione breathed a sigh, something between relief and gratitude. It was a lot to ask someone to translate a full article, but it needed to be done, and the good thing about the Nuachtlitir Draoi was that it was only read by mages who were unfriendly to the Ministry and the SOW Party anyway. The newspaper – more a newsletter, really – was written entirely in Gaelic, only read by mages versed in what they would call the traditional ways and which the Ministry would call dangerous and outdated illegal magical practices. "Isran, Toby, Derrick – let's start printing extras of the American Standard interview for distribution anyway. It doesn't need to be many, but let's be prepared. At least, we can hope the trial might spark some renewed interest."

"I'll take it to a print shop," Toby volunteered. "There's a place near my hostel. How many – say, a hundred?"

"Let's make that two hundred," Hermione said decisively. "Send fifty copies over to Sean in Ireland, keep fifty copies for yourself for Hogsmeade and the smaller communities in Wizarding Scotland, and Derrick, Isran and I will take the last hundred and we'll filter them through Diagon Alley and England itself. Are you coming tomorrow? If so, we can do the hand-off then – if not, regular post should still have them to us by Wednesday."

Toby flashed a thumbs-up sign. "Since we ended early today, shouldn't be a problem."

"We can't, so mail it to me for the two of us." Sean shook his head, somewhat regretfully. "Wish we could come, but it's a long way for us."

"Understandable." Hermione caught a glimpse of Sirius, Archie, John and Chess waving at her. "I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow, or if not, sometime soon."

She turned from them and jogged to catch up with her friends, taking a few deep breaths to hide her worries. Archie had taken a huge risk, and even if she got a deep and painful knot in her stomach at the thought of it, she would go ahead and use his chosen strategy to push her cause forward. She had to, otherwise this would all be for nothing. She caught up to him, accepting the hand he held out to her, and flashed him a quick smile – by the tremble in his hand, he was tired, a little overwhelmed or worried, and he was looking for support. She let him pull her into his arms for a warm, slightly shaky embrace. She breathed slowly, listening for Archie's breaths to match her.

"All good?" he asked, after a moment, rubbing his nose into her hair. She didn't have any idea why Archie was so fascinated with her hair – it was a disaster on the best of days, never lying where she wanted it to go, so mostly she kept it locked up or tied down in a tight French braid.

"All good," she lied, hugging him back.

It wasn't all good. It wouldn't be all good until they were finished this stupid trial, and then it would only be good if Archie came out the other side alive and mostly intact. She wanted change as much or more than he did, but she still worried.

XXX

Aldon woke up.

He didn't know where he was. He recognized, as if from a very distant place, that this was not at all usual and that he should have been concerned. He wasn't – instead, it was simply something a little curious. The ceiling above him was all white, with stucco curlicue designs in the corners, and his blankets were snow-white, textured with small circles that created a ripple effect through the fabric. His pillows were twice the size of his usual ones, in purple, but with the same texture. He ran his hands over them briefly, fascinated with the sensation.

He should get up, he thought vaguely. Wake up, eat something, clean himself up, then he should be back to bed because he was back in court tomorrow and those were always exhausting days. He needed his strength.

But he wasn't a lawyer. He wasn't associated with the courts at all, so why was he in court tomorrow? He sat up, frowning slightly – this should all worry him a great deal more than it was, because he was filled with a strange, floating sensation of uncaring. Everything was fine. Everything was perfectly fine.

Aldon Rosier was currently possessed, and that was entirely okay. That was right – he had summoned the Incarnation of Justice, and she was currently inhabiting him and subtly directing him to do the things he needed to do, before she put him back under. He had flashes of the trial, here and there, but none of it really connected. He had no idea what had happened, and he … wasn't as concerned about that as he should be.

He stood up, thinking vaguely about finding something to eat, and he noticed that he was still in his court robes – dark blue, silk, gold filigree buttons. It was wrinkled now. He didn't like that, but he would no doubt Transfigure it into something else once they were back in court, so he didn't really care. Or maybe she didn't care, which meant he didn't care. He wasn't sure.

The room was done in white. The walls were a creamy off-white, and there was a purple throw at the foot of his bed, matching his pillows. He touched it briefly – he couldn't identify the material, but it was soft, warm, fluffy. He had a bedside table, which was painted in the same shade of purple, with gold accents on the knobs to the drawers. There was a crystalline light-orb sitting on top, which had been left on. It was in the American style, a piece of American magical technology, he realized distantly; they were expensive and rare in Wizarding Britain, since they hadn't been reverse-engineered yet. The owner of this home had to be first, magical, and second, wealthy. He nodded sagely to himself at his logical reasoning.

Across from the bed was a large mirror, framed in gold, and Aldon examined himself for a moment. He didn't feel like himself, but he looked the same, which was very strange indeed. He felt like perhaps he should be something more, when he was being possessed by the Incarnation of Justice. But maybe not – the binding runes on the courtroom made it seem like her powers were sharply curtailed outside the courtroom, though she would hold him until the final ruling of the trial.

He didn't know that. Or did he? Random knowledge, thoughts, were bubbling up in his mind, as if from a very long way away. He didn't know if he had known this information before, but he knew it now. He also had flashes, confusing flashes of other courtrooms, other trials, where people were dressed all wrong, or all right, where he had stripped people of their magic, struck them down where they stood, or ripped out their souls. He frowned, trying to make those images disappear, and his counterpart in the mirror frowned with him. Strange. The mirror didn't talk to him, tell him to stop frowning. It was silent. Just an empty mirror.

He moved over to the window, a broad window which had been left open. Noise rose up from the street, and he looked down to see metal contraptions moving like fish on the roadways below. He seemed to be very high up in the air, high enough to be flying, so he had to be in a very tall building. Outside, he could see other buildings stretching into the sky, far taller than any wizarding building he knew. He stared, for a minute or so, at all the other competing buildings. Where was he?

There was a small, circular, table lying under the window, in a warm brown accented with gold in the centre of the table and on the one, central leg. The table was framed by two chairs, both upholstered in purple, with gold on the arms and back. They were small chairs, older in style and elegant, and he tilted his head slightly as he examined them. They weren't intended for lounging, perhaps only for sitting while writing a letter or something small.

He would find more answers outside the room, he suspected. His thinking was all wrong – it was slow, as if he had been hit with an Impedimenta Jinx and was waiting for it to wear off. If he had the ability to worry about that, he thought he should be worried about that, but instead he was filled with a dreamy, floating sort of feeling that made it very difficult to care about anything.

He wandered out into the hallway and stopped. There was a large frame on the wall, holding several pictures, all of which were moving like magical photographs did. All the pictures were of him – there was one where he couldn't have been more than two or three, laughing, another one when he was probably seven or so, dolled up in dress robes, where he was frowning. Another one in his Hogwarts robes, probably as a first year, his Slytherin patch on his chest and a green and silver tie at his neck, a few other formal pictures – he recognized the robes he had worn at the New Year's Gala, two years ago. That was all… very odd.

The hallway was short, only having the room he was in, a bathroom, and a door at the end of the hall which he assumed had to lead to the master suite. He wasn't interested in that – it was unlikely that there would be any food in the master bedroom, and he needed to eat. He was hungry, and he could hear some noise from the other direction, the chatter of weirdly echoing voices, so he headed that way.

He walked out into an adjoining set of rooms. There was a kitchen, which had some sort kind of food in on the counter. A rich scent assaulted his nose, but he didn't recognise what it was. He glanced at the packages – a large paper bag had held, it seemed, three smaller containers made of a hard, shell-like material. All three were filled with something like a stew, with big chunks of things it. One of them had meat, and it was open, and he leaned over, smelling something tangy. He identified garlic, stewed tomatoes, but something unlike that, a spice he didn't recognise. One of the others was green, with chunks of something white and cubed, and the last one had large pieces of potato and cauliflower. There was also a device on the counter, lit up with a blinking red icon, and he glanced in to see cooked rice.

The rest of the kitchen was curious, too. There was a large sink, empty but for a few mugs, but many other interesting devices that he wasn't sure he recognized. There was something in the corner that was black, with a glass, flat-topped pitcher underneath, labelled, oddly, with lines and cup numbers. There was no fireplace, as he would have expected, either for cooking or for the Floo, but there was a large contraption that he would hesitantly label as the stove top and oven – it didn't look like any stove or oven he had ever seen before, but they were close enough that it seemed like a reasonable guess. There was also a large, white box, with doors for a small upper compartment and a larger lower one. He reached out, opening the lower one quickly, and was surprised by the blast of cool air that hit his face.

Muggle technology, he realized vaguely, shutting the strange contraption. Some kind of ice box, to prevent food from spoiling.

"Aldon?" The voice was soft, warm, cautious, and Aldon turned around to see, of all people, Director Blake. From the New Developments Division of the Rosier Investment Trust. She was standing in a doorway leading to, he guessed, the other parts of … wherever he was. She was here, so he had to be… somewhere she lived?

He didn't know why she was there.

"Yes?" Aldon said, a little quizzical. Normally this would have distressed him so much more, he suspected, but nothing seemed very important when Justice was possessing him.

Director Blake approached him slowly, as if he was a feral animal. "How much – how much do you remember of this afternoon?"

"Very little," Aldon admitted freely, with a strange light-headed uncaring that another part of him, the part he suspected was probably his genuine personality, was currently ringing alarm bells over. He ignored it. "I am… currently possessed. I think I need to eat."

"I – I ordered Indian. I don't know if you like Indian food?" Director Blake moved hesitantly to the counter, pulling out a bowl from a cabinet above, filling it with rice and handing it to him. "I have here murgh makhani, which is butter chicken, but in case you're a vegetarian, I also ordered you some palak paneer, which is spinach with cheese, and aloo gobi, which is potatoes with onion and cauliflower. Er, do you have any preferences? Justice warned me that you would eat a lot and you wouldn't be awake long, nor would you be yourself, so I just ordered food and hoped you would like it. Um, we didn't go out to eat a lot when you were working with us, so I don't know what you like, and your father didn't know either. I'm sorry, I'll order something else if you don't like it, or if it's not enough, or… well. I'll just order a pizza, shall I?"

"I'm sure it will be fine," Aldon tried, a little confused, struggling to keep up with the quick, nervous cadence of her speech and the flow of information. He reached for the container of potatoes and cauliflower. He wasn't sure what any of these foods really were, but he had to eat something, and this looked the least foreign. "I am… why am I here? Where am I?"

Director Blake took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "All right. Okay. I can do this. We should talk about what happened, Aldon. Come sit in the dining room – I'll do my best to explain. I'll take the food with us."

She pulled out her wand and, with a quick wave, levitated the whole package and sent it soaring out of the kitchen, into the dining room. Aldon followed, looking around with a distant sort of interest.

The dining room opened to a parlour. It seemed like people could sit and eat at the table, but still talk to people sitting in the living area. Both rooms were done in light greys, with splashes of purple and dark blues. The sofa was dark blue, with a dark blue pouffe, and there was a huge, matching armchair. One wall was covered in a grand bookshelf, and a faraway part of Aldon prodded him to go and peruse. He ignored it. On another wall, there was something that looked like a wide dresser or sideboard, on which there was a strange black box, out of which was coming the noise he had heard in the hallway. They sounded like voices, but so many voices – it wasn't a portrait, it couldn't be. Some part of him itched to go examine it more closely, but the larger part of him, the one in control of him and his thoughts and his actions, had him take a seat at the small dining room table. The food floated down in front of him, along with spoons and forks, and mechanically, he started spooning some of the strange potatoes and cauliflower and onions onto his bowl of rice.

There were more pictures of him, scattered here and there. On the wall in the dining room, there was a picture of him from not long ago, only a few years, standing and laughing in a circle with Ed and Alice. He wasn't sure when that had been taken – certainly after he turned 13, but his hair was windswept and he was laughing, though both Ed and Alice seemed to be annoyed. There were others in the living area, though they were of him when he was younger, before school started. One of him with an ice cream cone in hand, maybe six, pouting as he licked it; another, maybe five, tumbling around with the rare sabrelions that Father had had for a short while. On one side table, between the sofa and the armchair, there was a single, large, still portrait of his father, arm around Director Blake, both of them much younger. They were smiling for the camera, his father almost a little rakish in appearance and Director Blake had a bright smile that lit up her whole face.

"Another life," Director Blake said quietly, spooning some of the butter chicken onto her bowl of rice. "I keep it as a reminder. You can call me… Christie, I suppose, if you like, Aldon."

Aldon blinked slowly at her, the picture triggering another memory from the void. A summer at the New Developments Division. Hands, ears that looked like his. Swiping a hair from the brush that Director Blake – Christie – kept in her side drawer, from where she put her hair up around ten-thirty each morning, which was the time that she laughed and said that her mind started working. A Paternity Potion, glowing bright green, verifying his lineage.

"You're my mother," he said, his voice blunt as he took a bite of his food. It was spicier than he expected – the potatoes and cauliflower had a bite to them, but it wasn't bad, just different. He wondered vaguely if his real personality would be so open to the flavour. He suspected not. He was hungry, and food was food.

"Yes," Christie agreed, nodding slowly as she took a bite from her own bowl of rice. "It is… a long story. I don't think I have time to tell it to you now, especially when Justice said that you would be, well, not yourself. For now, what do you remember of this afternoon? Do you remember the end?"

Aldon cocked his head, taking another bite of his food, swallowing. He had to eat a lot – he had a full day of trial tomorrow, and this would be all he had for the next day, so eating was primary. Then, some sort of shower, and he had to handle his bodily functions too, and then it would be back to bed. Everything else was secondary. "No. Bits and pieces of the trial. I think I broke someone's legs."

"I—Well." His mother set her bowl down, shaking her head, evidently deciding not to respond to that point. Instead, she stood up, reaching for a newspaper lying on the low table in front of the sofa and armchair. "I suppose you worked out your parentage using your gift – Evan always said that you were exceptionally bright, that you take after me that way. I – I'm sorry, I'm babbling. I don't know how to break this to you – I barely know how to talk to you, not unless we're talking about numbers, or magical theory, or runes. So – So—"

She turned around and offered him the newspaper, folded oddly so that he couldn't see the headline. Aldon frowned a little, setting down his bowl of rice and spicy potatoes and cauliflower and onions to take it in hand. He unfolded it and put it down on the table beside him, picking up his bowl again – nothing, now, was as important as getting as many calories in him as possible for the next day.

He glanced over at the headline of the Evening Prophet. ROSIER HEIR HALFBLOOD BASTARD.

Some distant part of him was screaming, but Aldon found that he couldn't really dredge up anything other than a mild sort of concern as he skimmed the article. He couldn't concentrate enough to read, though certain lines still jumped out at him. Rosier Heir, Aldon Rosier, revealed as halfblood was one line, then mother is Christina Blake, Director of the New Developments Division at the Rosier Investment Trust, known Muggleborn, then, at the end, no comment from the Lord Rosier at this time.

"Oh," Aldon said, pushing the paper away in favour of spooning himself a new bowl of rice.

"Aldon." Christie's face was an open picture of worry. "You're not as panicked about this as I expected you to be, or as you should be. Do you understand what's happened? Am I getting through to you?"

Aldon thought about it. Thinking was difficult while possessed – he wasn't sure what were his thoughts and what was something else, what his feelings were and what was other. The article meant that his secrets were revealed, and somehow, he thought that should have bothered him so much more than it did. For now, there was food, there was a shower, there was a bed to return to, and there was a trial. The trial was everything, as was feeding and caring for this body so he didn't collapse and lose the possession, and everything else was secondary. This could wait.

"I'm now a known halfblood?" he tried eventually, reaching for the dish that Christie had described as spinach and cheese. Spinach and cheese sounded pleasantly mild.

"Yes." Christie drew out the word, uncertain. "And that means, Aldon, that you no longer have the rights of a pureblood. Evan said that he has to disown you – the political pressure will be too much, and he'll have no choice. Eveline and I fought him on it, but—" She sighed, and shook her head. "But, Aldon, sweetheart, I don't want you to worry about a thing. It's not going to be real. He'll make an announcement, he'll disown you politically, but he won't do the blood rite to formally cut you off. We got Eveline on the phone, she's creating a cover story, and fortunately the rite is complicated and requires a lot of ingredients that can only be found abroad, and your father is still young, by wizarding standards. She thinks that, as long as they can delay until the storm passes, people will forget they haven't done it. Then, when your father passes, the Rosier title will still come to you, as will everything else. There's no one else in line."

Aldon blinked, the words running over through his mind. He understood them, he understood each and every one of those words, but somehow, all together, they didn't make any sense. He understood disowning, and he understood Evan, his father, and Eveline, his mother, and… Christie was also his mother? And there were plans?

He paused in chewing his food, then he realized his bowl was empty and reached for the large pot with the rice, refilling it, then dumping on more of the spinach and cheese. That, he thought, he might genuinely like. He was still hungry, and he should probably eat all of this, as well as the pizza that she had offered to order for him. Pizza was delicious. The Italians made it.

Something clicked in his head, with a lot of effort. Some part of him was very frustrated and yelling at him, but he could barely hear it over the overwhelming compulsion to do exactly what he needed to do, and then go back to bed. Christie had spoken to his father and his mother. She had spoken enough to them to make plans.

"You spoke to Father?" He frowned, confused. "And mother? And you're also my mother. I don't… I'm not sure I understand."

Christie sighed very heavily, putting her head into her hands. "I – I don't know where to begin."

"Beginnings start at the beginning," Aldon said, nodding, and he thought it was potentially the most intelligent thing he had ever said.

She studied him for a few moments, while Aldon took the time to shovel away more food. Rice was good. Rice was filling, and the spinach and cheese was a pleasant add-on. He should also have some of the butter chicken, before Christie ate it all, so he spooned on some of that too, taking another hearty bite. He should ask for the pizza, too. He wondered vaguely how quickly the pizza would come if she ordered it. Maybe it would be here by the time he finished this food and had a shower?

"The beginning..." Christie looked away from him. "Your father and I – we were involved. For a very long time. I was hired at Rosier Investment Trust almost right out of Ilvermorny. These were early days, Aldon, within the first ten years of the first reforms, before Muggleborn prejudice had fully sunk in. Halfbloods were still going to Hogwarts in those days, and Evan and I worried, but we didn't… It was different, then."

Aldon nodded, half-listening, but mainly eating. If Christie was talking, then she couldn't finish her butter chicken, and he would be able to eat all of it, because it was delicious. It was these spices. Butter chicken was creamy, almost sweet and rich and he could taste garlic and cumin. Cumin was a good spice. He liked cumin.

"We were together, and we kept it quiet at first because it was, you know, an office romance. I didn't want to be fired, and Evan wanted me where I was, in the company. He was so dashing to me, then. He looked so much like you do now, with the same bright eyes, a daring grin. Taller, though, and a little broader – in terms of body shape, you take after my family. It wasn't – it wasn't blood prejudice that kept us quiet, those first few years, just normal things. I loved my job, and I still do, in fact. I didn't want to lose it. And Evan, he was trying to balance his responsibilities as the Rosier Heir, as a noble, as a future politician, and it was – we were trying to find the right time to break it open. We went on dates in the Muggle world, we snuck out of the office on lunch dates or he would make up dinner plans and it was… it was hard, but it was also wonderful. Occasionally, we even snuck in a weekend trip, to France, Italy, the Greek Islands, and… years passed."

"And sex happened," Aldon supplied helpfully. Sex. What an odd word. Three letters. Sex. It was so like six, but not at all. Butter chicken was tasty.

"Yes, Aldon." Christie frowned at him, then shook her head. "We were intimate, for many years. Even now—" she cut herself off abruptly, then coughed. "Fifteen years. About fifteen years, we were together – we watched as the laws changed, the politics changed, and it became less about the office romance, more about my blood status. Evan — I tried to break it off, many times, I said he shouldn't have to live a lie, but he was – I loved him. I still do. Eveline says he's a coward and he doesn't deserve it, but I don't… It was complicated for him. Obviously, he married Eveline in name, but it was… well, that's for Eveline to explain to you. It's enough to say that it was a marriage in name only, which provided considerable benefits to her, and which shielded us as we kept seeing each other."

Some part of Aldon thought he should find this very interesting, and the rest of him agreed that he should keep her talking. His second (or was it his third?) bowl of rice was finished, and there was still half a container of the spicy potatoes and a bit of the spinach and cheese, but he had finished off the butter chicken. Except for the bowl that Christie had in front of her, that was. "Mother and Father always did have separate bedrooms," Aldon replied, nodding in encouragement, trying to be discreet as he reached over and swiped her bowl.

"I expect so." Christie replied dryly, her eyes following Aldon's hands. She hadn't missed his move, but she didn't try to stop him. "Anyway. You came along. It wasn't planned – it – it just happened. And you would be a halfblood, and politically, the writing was on the wall, and so—so—so I gave you up. We knew you were likely to take after Evan, wizarding genetics being what they are, so I took a leave from work, and Eveline stayed at home, pretending illness. When you were born, I had you about three, four days in my arms, then I gave you up. I wanted you—I wanted you to have everything, a fair chance at whatever you wanted out of life, I wanted to hand you everything on a silver platter, and you couldn't have that with me. And Evan promised me you would have the world with him. And Eveline, being Eveline, swore she would hold him to it."

She laughed suddenly, a little odd, bird-like laugh that seemed to be full of something else, reaching for her wand. A cardboard box flew through the air, landing in front of her, and white, soft sheets were spilling from the top. They were like handkerchiefs, Aldon thought, but they looked weaker, softer, easier to tear.

"I broke it off with Evan after that. Eveline says it was the smartest thing I ever did, because I always deserved better, but it wasn't like that. I couldn't have done it again, that's all, and every time I saw him, I remembered you. He is … He is good enough to slip me pictures of you, to tell me how you're doing, and of course when you wanted to come and work in my division, he arranged it so you would." She smiled at him, a small trembling smile. "And it was so – so wonderful, you know, to see you work. You're a lot like me when you work, you have the same tics, your brain works like mine. I – where am I going with this? It doesn't matter. None of that matters, sweetheart. Evan, Eveline and I – we'll take care of it, okay? It's all going to be okay."

She reached, with a trembling smile, for the box of fluffy handkerchiefs, pulled one out, wiped her eyes and blew her watery eyes. Aldon watched her, a hint of distant curiosity as he finished off her bowl of butter chicken and rice. He was moderately full now, but he should pack in another bowl if he could, and some of that pizza – he didn't know when next he would be able to eat. Sometimes, in other courts, he could order someone to bring him something over the lunch break, but just as often, people would be too terrified to follow through on his orders. Idiots. He wasn't dangerous to anyone except liars. He hated liars.

"Okay," he replied, nodding easily, putting the rest of the rice into his bowl and indiscriminately dumping the rest of the weird spicy potatoes onto it. On second thought, he did sort of like these too. Or maybe he did. Some part of his mind kicked him, frustrated, screaming at him that this was important, that he needed to listen, because this was critical to his future, but only a little of it bled through to him. "So…"

Christie took a deep breath in, then let it out slowly. "For now, you take my name – it's actually on your original Muggle birth certificate, Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier. Aldon was a name we all chose, Eveline demanded that Étienne be your middle name, and then there was me, and there was Evan. Your father and I are splitting the company – you'll have a job with me after the trial ends, and of course you can stay with me as long as you like. The second bedroom is yours, and Evan said he'll send a house-elf over to make you all your favourite foods, because I'm really – I don't cook much, and we'll get through this. Everything will blow over, and everything will be okay. Okay?"

Her eyes were huge, wet, seeking reassurance, and Aldon smiled. He had listened, and even though he wasn't sure how much he really understood (this wasn't critical for him – this wasn't the trial, and everything came down to the trial), but he did understand the last part. Everything would be okay, because his mother said it would be.

"Okay," he said cheerfully. "So, um, is there a pizza coming? I think I'd like a pizza."

XXX

AN: Oh, Aldon. Just - oh, Aldon. More broadly - did I just use summoning Justice to shove in something that looks very much like constitutional litigation into a world where there is no constitution? Why, yes, I did, thanks for noticing. Extra thanks for this chapter (and the next few) to JAP, SHL and REW for helping me figure out what Wizarding British law looks like, and for reading over the openings for me. Also, as always, thanks to meek_bookworm for beta-ing, and while I am fairly convinced that everyone (except for the lawyers... do I have any of you yet? Any future lawyers in the readership?) is going to find this super boring, she swears up and down that it's not. So, uh, let me know in your reviews. Will try to explain the lawyerly in-jokes in ANs, though there aren't any in this one. I suppose I should note that Percy actually demonstrates a lot of tics young lawyers actually have, though that was more in the previous 2 chapters - he's a little overly academic, and a bit naive. A few more years of criminal practice should beat that out of him.

Next Chapter: Who's gonna fight for the weak / Who's gonna make 'em believe / I've got a hero, livin' in me / I'm gonna fight for what's right / Today I'm speaking my mind / And if it kills me tonight / I will be ready to die (Hero, by Skillet)