A/N: I apologise profoundly for not updating this story for so long, and I would like to thank everyone very much who has watched this story and how gratified I am that you have – although it's put a lot of pressure on me to try and better myself with each new chapter XD
Chapt'r thee Nynthe
To say Harry Potter was feeling tense on that dreadful morning before his hearing would be akin to saying that the Atlantic ocean is a little moist. His brain was awash with all kinds of terrible thoughts and visions – most of them ended up with him having his wand snapped, being expelled from Hogwarts and being carted off to live in the Middle Class Suburban Nightmare (Mark 3).
He sat with Mr Weasley on the Bakerloo Line of the London Underground, feeling utterly trapped. Not just within the dull metal box that clattered through the rat's nest of tube tunnels, but within the snares of the Ministry of Magic, and, worst of all (currently), he was trapped with Arthur Weasley.
Harry liked Mr Weasley very much - he was was, after all, a fundamentally likeable person - but Harry did not like Mr Weasley when he was in the Muggle domain. Letting Arthur Weasley into the Muggle world was...well...anybody who has ever walked into Toys R Us with small children who have just downed several pixie stix apiece will have a general grasp of what the situation was; apart from the fact that most children in Toys R Us are not in their late forties, wear shabby suits and wire-rimmed glasses and have a balding pate. These factors only endeavoured to worsen the situation.
Mr Weasley "ooh"ed and "aah"ed at everything. The escalators, the automatic ticket machines, the vending machines, the hot drinks machines, the television screens...even the devices that were out of order. "Ingenious, these Muggles!", seemed to be a favourite phrase of his.
After rising out of the bowels of London and into the sunlight, Mr Weasley led Harry down several back alleys that led behind a busy department store, where they found themselves staring at a battered and shabby red telephone box. Several panes of glass were missing, graffiti coated large swathes of the box, and the actual telephone within appeared to have been left to hang limply from a few wires after having been wrenched off its bracket by hoodlums.
"Um, I'm not sure it's going to work, Mr Weasley." Harry said uncertainly, as his guide pulled open the dilapidated door and sprang into the box, beckoning Harry to join him.
"I'm sure it will, it's the visitor's entrance to the Ministry, you see. I usually Apparate or use Floo Powder, but I think it would look better for your case if we arrived in a 'magically prohibited' fashion." Mr Weasley paused as he peered intently at the buttons. "Now, let me see... Ah yes. It's 6, 2, 4, 4, 2."1
The phone box descended into the Earth with a dull crunching and grinding which seemed to take an age, and Harry wondered nervously what would await him at the bottom.
(_)
Anthony J Crowley paced around the anteroom, feeling a like a caged panther. In his current disguise, he certainly looked capable of shooting one. The Honourable Meredith Cloade had been known by many animals across much of Africa and Asia as "The Nemesis of Pan".
Crowley was not alone, though. He was never alone. Three Auditors hovered in a corner near the ceiling, as if they were some species of deranged bat.
"Look, do something useful, can't you, and get me Beelzebub. Or at least one of the head honchos Downstairs. I need to check something." his voice was weary, as if he'd spent the last few days living in his car. This was true, by all accounts. Usually, if something had happened to his flat he'd impose upon the angel to give him food, warmth and a place to stay2.
The Auditors nodded an affirmative and, in a blizzard of paper, summoned into existence some of the most convoluted pieces of bureaucracy ever to exist with the Ministry of Magic (although with Delores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic wandering about the place, this was indeed saying something).
Sign on every marked line.
Crowley looked at the mountain of papers that almost reached the ceiling. He had only just managed to avoid being squashed by the titanic plague by leaping towards the few inches of space beside the door. "Right, okay." he cracked his knuckles and manifested about five hundred pens into being. They all began the murderous task of signing dozens of forms all by themselves. After several minutes of this, the Auditors appeared satisfied and whisked the forms away once more.
A circle of stone floor in the centre of the room, about three feet across, started to bubble and boil in an alarming fashion. It melted and twisted, started to whizz round and round as though it was some new cross-breed of volcano-cum-whirlpool.
A figure rose up out of the soupy, magma-like froth in the same manner a pantomime demon being lifted onto the stage via a trap door gets his cape stuck halfway. In all aspects Beelzebub and the Metatron were like two peas in a very disagreeable pod. They looked almost identical, although Beelzebub tended to prefer red and black rather than gold, white and blue; and he always wore a frown.
"Why hazzzt thou summoned me, Crowzzzley?" Hell's #2 boomed into the tiny room, creating enough noise to cause several flakes of plaster to wave goodbye to their fellows and jump onto the smaller demon's head.
"Nothing really major." Crowley said cheerily, removing Meredith Cloade's top hat and shaking the plaster dust off, before replacing it again. "Just wanted to check up on a few points. Um, if a demon is a witness in a trial, does he always have to commit perjury?"
"Yezzzz. Otherwizze he art not a daemon."
A polite cough from the corner alerted the larger demon to the presence of the Auditors of Reality. That is not strictly true. A demon may tell the truth in a courtroom if they are likely to give evidence that is unhelpful to the prisoner in the dock. However, (and upon these words a small stack of papers materialised onto the floor at Beelzebub's feet) according to Paragraph , Subsection mlcviii) Amendment 3,267.444576; a demon may be allowed to speak the truth within a courtroom in order to defend the subject within the dock if the defence of such a person lies within the best interests of Hell and/or notwithstanding, in a any way, form or shape, hinders the interests relating (no matter how indirect) to Heaven. The Auditors said coolly, and stared at the demons in a way that made the Arctic Circle seem just the place for a nice sunbathe.
Hell's #2 said nothing further and vanished back into the ground in a sort of reverse of the way he had arrived, without even saying anything in the nature of "goodbye". It made sense, of course. Demons were not meant to be polite to other demons. If people started being nice to each other irresponsibly Down There, Satan may as well throw in the towel.
Behind him there was a quiet noise that was nothing than a quiet voooooom!
Crowley's feelings about this familiar sound were mixed. He slowly turned around and looked at the man standing before him.
The newcomer was dressed in a midnight blue tailcoat, navy blue trousers, a white shirt with stiff starched collar (around the collar was a robin's egg blue silk cravat), and a silver silk waistcoat (with blue stripes). However, something was decidedly...different. He now appeared to be some form of...cat-person... His body was still shaped in a human form, but there a definite catness about it. For one thing, he was no longer wearing shoes, because none could be manufactured for his digitigrade feet; and he instead resorted to wearing light grey spats.
The young man's fur was pale, incredibly pale, it was the colour of chalk (save around the eyes, the fur there was dark grey, almost black). His hair, that was arranged tastefully in a neat side-parting, was so black that it appeared to have been held back with shoe polish. He had his back turned and seemed to be staring at something on his left forearm. Suddenly, after scratching his head in disbelief and looking totally preoccupied, he said:
"Now, my dear Mr Holmes, if you be so good as to take this... Mycroft? Mycroft? Oh, never mind, you take it and pass it on to him, will you? I'm sure his brother will be able to find some excuse to lock it away and never use it again." the man said and thrust what looked like the type of futuristic ray-gun favoured by Steampunk enthusiasts into Crowley's fingers. It was a gem of engineering, and above all it Looked The Part: plenty of brass and copper had been incorporated into its manufacture and had several little useful-looking handles and buttons (as well as lots of useless decorative cogs etched into it).
The young man, whom Crowley now recognised, was staring at him very hard. Then he proceeded to take in the surroundings. "Hmmmmm. Something tells me this is not the Diogenes Club." he pulled out a shining brass pocket watch from his waistcoat and opened it. "And it's not 1904, either." Hmmmm. So why're you here, Meredith Cloade?" Before Crowley could say a word, his dark glasses had been whipped away from his face.
Within those sparkling emerald eyes that stared into his own, twinkled an extra special gleam, the gleam of a man in the presence of an old acquaintance.
The cattish lips parted and stretched into a wide, accommodating grin, as his arms stretched into a friendly embrace. "Well, well, well... If it isn't my old pal Alistair!"
Before the demon could say a word he found himself enfolded into a fraternal bear hug. "Don't call me that!" he half-whined3. He hated the nickname almost as much as Marmite.
"You know you love it." said the man winking cheekily. "So, what's old Anthony J Crowley doing in this neck of the woods?"
Crowley sighed. As much as he liked having Nostradamus around, he had no patience on today of all days. "How did you know it was me and not 'Zira? I know you're dying to tell me."
"Very simple, really. It was the eyes. For all your aptitude at changing shape, neither of you can get the eyes right. Meredith Cloade had rather dull grey steely ones, whereas those are your own bright piercing yellow ones. A little bit catlike and with a hint of ruthlessness in them. You know, they still look the same since we last met iiiiin..." he paused, his face became thoughtful as he struggled to recollect.
"1971, Las Vegas, we both woke up in a king-sized bed with king-sized hangovers, completely starker and with about ten showgirls, 2 female croupiers and a male 45-year-old Latino janitor to whom you gave Aziraphale's name and phone number." Crowley grinned as he saw the discomfort suck the smile off the other's face in the same manner in which a weasel sucks an egg.
"Ah. So that's what it was I'd forgotten. Now I know why." Nostradamus looked decidedly ashamed of himself, as the memories of the sordid venture crawled out from under the haze of alcohol. "Not my finest hour, really."
"That's what she said." Crowley murmured.
"And I do feel guilty about giving that man 'Zira's phone number." Nostradamus prattled on, unaware, "I mean, the poor angel must've been driven completely round the twist!" They both started to laugh, picturing Aziraphale attempting valiantly to ward off droves of horny, middle-aged janitors.
As they sobered up, Crowley's natural inquisitiveness returned to him. "So uh...what happened to you...? Why do you look like a cat now?"
The question was waved away with a hand that was white-furred and definitely more paw-like than when the demon had last seen it4. "It's rather a long narrative involving lots of complicated things and I find myself as a mere zombie again."
Crowley's brain processed this information quietly, and, after resolving not to delve too far into the convoluted machinations of Nostradamus's habit of changing life states more frequently than a suicidal reincarnationist monk, decided to have another stab in a different direction.
"Okay, why are you here? I know you, Nos. You watch far too much Doctor Who, and like to play at your James Bond fantasies. You always try and meddle in stuff, so what're gonna meddle with this time?" he glared through his own eyes with his borrowed forehead pulled down low into a horrible leering frown.
"Oh, nothing, nothing. It's just that when I checked my watch just now, I saw the date and realised that given this day is an important historical event, I can't very well stand idly by and let you two stick your oars in. So, I can't take chances." Nostradamus had started calmly walking towards the demon with an expression of innocent complacency on his face. Crowley knew from experience that a person with that expression usually means more harm than good. He'd invented the technique, after all.
It happened so quickly, that even to Crowley's enhanced senses, it was all but a blur. The other's arm whipped out as a snake leaps at its prey; and, like a snake, Crowley experienced what felt like a long, thin, fang piece the skin of his neck. Then the pain went away.
In his hand Nostradamus was holding a large syringe, that had been emptied of its contents.
"What the heaven was that for?" the demon half-yelled, rubbing his neck, wishing the wound to heal.
"Just a little touch of Klatchian coffee to sober you up. I know how you and the angel enjoy getting whammed before you have to do anything strenuous. Oh, and by the way, don't try to get rid of it. It contains a few trace elements of holy water. Not enough to erase you from existence, but enough to make you very ill for the next 457 hours if you try to do anything to the coffee..."
"God, I hate you sometimes, I really do."
"Hate, love, it's all the same. Life is philosophy, and lateral thinking is the key... Just...something for you to chew over. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an angel to speak to. Good day..." And with that unnecessarily lengthy parting speech, Crowley's problem walked smack into the wall. "Ow...ooh I really ought to remember I'm solid..." He touched a button on the metallic armband on his left forearm and vanished into the adjoining room with another voooooom! in a haze of pixellation.
On the floor lay a small pocket manual with a sepia photograph of the ray-gun printed on the front cover. The demon supposed it had fallen out of Nostradamus's pocket when he had unleashed his syringe-attack.
He picked it up, and briefly examined the swirly letters proclaiming "Dr Gustav Uppenheimer's Magnificent Quantum Hyperioncomposamatrix" to be 'the most efficient feat of sub-atomic engineering since re-spliced bread' before hastily shoving into a pocket of the tailcoat he was 'borrowing'.
(_)
Harry left Mr Weasley at the entrance as he walked on legs made of chewing gum on a floor that appeared to be a large bowl of porridge on a ship in a storm. It was, in actual fact, a large geometrically tiled one, that opened out onto a large, lozenge-shaped chamber around which were several tiers of benches and galleries. These were mostly occupied by witches and wizards, all of whom were robed in robes of a deep midnight blue, and all had a tiny golden "W" on the left breast of the uniform.
In the centre of the floor sat a high-backed throne-like chair, which Harry assumed was the dock, for it faced a high desk at which sat the Minister for Magic himself, Cornelius Fudge. Fudge, the complete moron who had been spending the summer telling the wizarding world that Dumbledore was going off his rocker and Harry was some attention-seeking prat.
Harry assumed it was alright to sit down, and did so, wondering what was going to happen to him.
"You admit to being the person of Harry James Potter, of Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Winging, Surrey?" Fudge said, in a tone that arrived in Harry's ears covered in sharp icicles.
"Yes."
"You are aware that you have been summoned here for the charge of knowingly and deliberately casting a Patronus protection charm on the night of August the 12th of this year?"
Yes." Harry repeated. He hadn't expected it to be like this. He hoped it wouldn't continue in this fashion, it did grate on the nerves after a while.
"Then we may commence. Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic; Amelia Bones, Head of Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister -"
"Council for the Defence, Mr Arbuthnot 'Sideways' Slant, of Messrs Morecombe, Slant & Honeyplace, Ankh-Morpork and President of the Guild of Lawyers; and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." said a dry and dusty voice that Harry didn't recognise, but he felt a ray of hope shine upon him as heard the mention of Dumbledore. At least if he was going to go down, he'd be able to go down with certain style.
Before he could concentrate on this thought, however, Fudge gave an almighty squeal of alarm, and jogged the table so violently that he overturned several ink bottles.
The Minister had seen the two newcomers entering the chamber. One was dressed in his customary flowing robes and velvet hat of Middle Eastern design, and the other was impeccably dressed in a black three-piece suit, (the sort one is usually buried in) over which he was wearing the ceremonial barrister's long black robe; and the ceremonial barrister's ponytail powdered wig that were traditional in United Kingdom courtrooms. The second man's skin was very grey, and almost black around his staring eyes. His face and hands were intersected by several neat scars apiece (that been stitched up very recently, it seemed). On his head, poking out from under the fringe of his wig very untidily was a very scruffy mop of grey-white hair, that looked like an elderly feather duster that been exhumed especially for the occasion.
A rather corpulent witch who resembled a toad stuffed into her robes, with a hideous pink bow in her mousy brown hair, sitting on Fudge's immediate right, raised her hand.
"Hem hem. I'm sorry? I must have misheard you. It sounded as if you said you were from a place called Ankh-Morpork. There is no such place in Britain. Are you a foreigner?" Her voice was disgustingly light and breathy, and far too honeyed to be real; but Harry noticed that she pronounced the word 'foreigner' with the same undertones that one might use to speak of cockroaches or the contents of one's lavatory.
"I am, to put it plainly, ladies and gentleman, a zombie. As his worship presiding over the proceeding has evidently noticed rather more...forcibly than yourselves." Mr Slant indulged in a small smile of satisfaction as he saw Fudge attempting to mop up the mess.
"There is no spell that can reawaken the dead!" Fudge snapped, looking down from his lofty perch at the lawyer.
"That you know of. Evidently you have never been to the Unseen University. However, these matters are somewhat trivial. The only relevant facts are those of my client's case, which, if I am not much mistaken, your worship, is very sound. Let us continue. I am sure that none of us here appreciate time being lavishly spent on such games as this."
Harry noticed that Dumbledore was...not smiling, exactly, at Mr Slant; but there was a definite suggestion of approval in the gleaming blue eyes. It seemed that the zombie was using his own condition to his advantage, and by making Fudge angry, he could be sure that Fudge would put his foot in it sooner or later...
"Ankh-Morpork is a small market town in the Lake District," Dumbledore said cheerfully, to alleviate the argument.
"Yes, yes, yes! Now, on with the proceedings!" Fudge yelled as if he was once again 4 years old and screaming at his mother to buy him a toy broomstick5. He took a moment to calm down, and continued in a voice that was struggling to remain smooth, "You have admitted to being Harry James Potter and of casting a Patronus charm. The fact that you had already received a warning for producing a hovering charm three years previously did not deter you in the slightest from deliberately committing anoth-"
"Objection, your honour." Mr Slant cut him off quickly, "The law of Her Majesty's United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland clearly states that all judges and juries must, whenever in the courtroom, to the best of their abilities, shun all and any prejudices they may have, and to be as impartial as they are able, in order to uphold, unequivocally and fairly, the statutes of the realm. You are a Minister of the Crown, even if you do not know it, and as such, are committed by law to uphold these standards. You are not permitted to knowingly slander the Defendant."
Fudge's jaw dropped six feet as his brain tried to process this verbal barrage. "The fact remains," the Minister ploughed on, trying to ignore the zombie's granite stare, "That Mr Potter here is under the age of seventeen and produced a full-fledged Patronus in an area full of Muggles, and in the presence of a Muggle no less!"
A squat witch with a rather angular jawline and a monocle suddenly looked at Harry, rather than her notes, and boomed in a deep alto, "You produced a full-fledged Patronus?"
"Yes." Harry said quickly.
"A corporeal Patronus?"
"A what?" Harry asked, unsure of what she was driving at.
"A Patronus that wasn't just vapour, one which had a clear shape?"
"Oh, yeah, yeah it was. It was a stag. It's always a stag."
"Always? Do you mean to say that you've produced a Patronus before?" Madam Bones raised her eyebrows so much that she had to screw her monocle back in. "Impressive, most impressive at his age."
"That is beside the point!" Fudge yelled impatiently. "In fact, if it was impressive this only strengthens the case against him. He cast this charm in plain sight of a Muggle."
"Excuse me, your worship, but I would like to draw your attention towards the law of Cargo Abornum Familitat. A major factor of my client's case is that the non-magical person in front of which he cast the offending spell, was in fact his own cousin, Dudley Dursley, who was well aware that Harry Potter is a wizard. Therefore -" Mr Slant droned, before being brusquely cut short.
"Hem hem. If I might interject, Mr Slant? Whilst there is no doubt that the Muggle is in fact Harry's cousin, I am afraid that the law you quote is somewhat out of date." The toadlike woman called Umbridge had raised her hand once more. Her voice was syrupy-sweet, and to hear it would almost certainly put one off sweets for ten years.
"Out of date or not, my dear Madam Undersecretary, the question remains: why would Harry cast a Patronus charm if it was not an act of self defence? Of all the spells there are to cast, there are many that would be beneficial to Harry. Casting a Patronus is, as Madam Bones kindly pointed out, difficult magic. Quite why Harry would choose to randomly produce a difficult and...noticeable...spell within plain view for no apparent reason is beyond me." Dumbledore's voice was as polite and gracious as ever, although Harry could sense the quiet authority that lurked within.
"Honestly Dumbledore, why the boy does anything or not is beyond me. The fact remains: he did indeed cast the Patronus, he admitted doing so!" Fudge said, loudly, as if by repetition and wilful thinking he could have Harry behind bars.
"I did it because of the Dementors!" Harry blurted out at last, fed up with being talked about as if he wasn't in the room.
Fudge's face lit up as he grinned nastily. "Yes, very clever, very clever. Dementors can't be seen by Muggles, can they? So, you thought it would make a nice little cover story. Casting a spell in front of Muggles and no witnesses, very neat and tidy..." Harry could detect the smugness in the Minister's voice. It was akin to watching Piers Morgan on Prozac. All he wanted to do right now was to punch Fudge very hard right in the solar plexus.
"Your worship, we do in fact have three witnesses." Mr Slant said coolly. He coughed, and a moth fluttered out of his mouth, along with several handfuls of dust. The moth flew up towards Umbridge and settled on her hideous pink bow. Harry wasn't sure if she was going to swat it, or flick out a long sticky tongue and catch it. She quickly trapped it in her handkerchief (of a hue that would put peonies to shame) and put it into a pocket of her fluffy pink cardigan.
Harry wondered who the other two witnesses were. He knew that batty old Mrs Figg was actually a squib working for Dumbledore, but surely the other two men were Muggles? Or were they...?
"I call to the stand, Mrs Arabella Doreen Figg!" boomed Mr Slant.
Harry vacated the chair as Mrs Figg was called in. After giving her name and address, she was asked by Madam Bones, (who seemed to Harry to be the only really impartial witch in the Wizengamot,) what had taken place.
"Well, I was coming back from the corner shop -" Mrs Figg started, in a thin, nervous voice. She had been cut off by Fudge.
"We weren't aware that there were any other witches or wizards living in the area besides the accused." The Minister said, looking towards the witch called Umbridge for support.
"I'm a squib, so you wouldn't have me registered, would you?" Mrs Figg said, a pink flush of indignation alighting on her cheeks.
Harry, being too preoccupied with his own fate to notice, didn't see the expression of malice that had appeared on Umbridge's visage when the word 'squib' came in to play. Mr Slant and the Headmaster on the other hand, did.
"W-well, anyway, I was coming home from the corner shop with my cat meat, when I saw two boys in the street. One was quite skinny, and the other was very large." Mrs Figg carried on, trying to keep the stutters of fear out of her voice. "Then a man came running down the street."
"A man? What man?" Madam Bones boomed from her perch as though she were a demented eagle owl. With her monocle screwed in, magnifying one eye rather more than the other, she certainly looked like one.
"A man all done up like a dog's dinner in morning dress. Top hat, tails and white spats, I think. Two Dementors were running after him."
"Running? Dementors don't run, they glide, surely?"
"Yes, w-well, that's what I meant... They were all big, and wearing cloaks."
Harry could feel the little bubble of hope that had arisen within his chest deflating rapidly. It sounded as though Mrs Figg had never seen a Dementor before in her life.
"And then, the man ran into young Harry here, and they fell to the floor. Then, the Dementors started kissing the man...it was horrible... Harry managed to pick up his wand and cast the Patronus when another man came along. He shouted something like 'hands off him, you demons' and then that famous quote from the Bible for some reason, and then grabbed a Dementor. They seemed to be all frightened of him. Then the Dementor he'd grabbed sort of...went all swirly like a Catherine wheel and fizzled out like..." Mrs Figg struggled to find a comparison.
"Thank you, Mrs Figg, you may go." Dumbledore said kindly.
Mrs Figg shuffled out of the courtroom, looking very much harassed.
"So, it seems there were in fact Dementors in Little Whinging after all," Dumbledore said, looking up at the Minister.
"Oh for heaven's sake Dumbledore! How likely is it that Dementors would wander into a Muggle suburb and happen to chance across a wizard?" Fudge snapped, his temper rising.
"37.6% likely, your worship." Mr Slant murmured.
"Ah, but we do have two more witnesses," Dumbledore said, ignoring the zombie's interjection, although with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, making his silver moustache twitch.
"I call his Lordship, Anthony Cloade, 4th Marquess of Derrington-on-Sea!" shouted the lawyer.
'His Lordship' was sent in immediately. Aziraphale, still rubbing his neck after being injected with Klatchian coffee, sat down with great feelings of trepidation, in The Chair. He couldn't help feeling he was on the TV show Mastermind all over again.
"You are Lord Anthony Cloade, of Number 42, Park Lane?" Mr Slant inquired, his grey eyes boring in the angel's own pastel-blue ones. Like Crowley, the angel wasn't good at disguising his baby-blues.
"Chosen Subject: Historical bibles and selected classical bibliography." Aziraphale said automatically. A pregnant silence fell into the room. It was broken once more by the zombie.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Yes, I am he. Yes, quite so." Aziraphale stumbled over his words, as if he was dancing on ice with blunt skates and a cup of scalding pitch balanced on his head.
"Are you a squib as well? We don't have you registered in the Greater London area." Madame Bones said rather bluntly.
'Lord Cloade' suddenly looked highly offended. A haughty expression that would have been greatly admired by the real Lord Cloade appeared on his borrowed face. "There's no need to adopt that choice of words! This is the 21st Century! My sexuality has nothing whatsoever to do with anything in here! Alright, so perhaps Kenneth Williams and I once had a few bottles too many of Château la Fête back in 1974, but I can tell you now he only admired me for the size of my tomes!"
"My dear fellow, they are enquiring whether or not you are of wizarding parentage but have no magical powers of your own." Dumbledore came to his aid with a soothing voice and calming hand laid upon the distressed angel's shoulder.
"Oh. Well, then no, I am not a squib, and I'm not a wizard either, if it comes to that." A slightly stunned silence fell about the courtroom. But only briefly. After all, many Muggles had been brought into St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries before. They had all been promptly mind-wiped afterwards...
"My lord, would you care to tell us, in your own words, what happened on the night in question?" Mr Slant said, coughing out another few lungfuls of dust.
Aziraphale looked suddenly uncomfortable. He'd been dreading this day. Angels are supposed to tell the truth, no matter what, as far as possible; but Aziraphale wasn't sure how to tell the truth to these wizards without revealing everything.
"Um...well, you see, I was...in the area, making sure that...my client came to no harm. I have been assigned to protect a certain member of the community, and after...conversing with my superiors, I noticed m-my brother...yes, my brother Meredith...being attacked by two great big cloaked things that were...sucking the lifeblood not only out of him...but the environment. I heard...noises...inside my head. And such visions...such dreadful visions..." Aziraphale's face clouded over with a look of pure pain and terror. "The sirens...the bombs dropping...falling, falling falling, falling towards people...men yelling, women screaming, children wailing, flames leaping, licking, frying, burning, buildings crumble, ashes tumble, bells ring out...and there am I...unable to help, forbidden to do anything...free to watch all the pain and misery and suffering..." As he spoke, on the edges of hearing, came the sounds and noises as he described them. For one moment, everybody felt a small fraction of that feeling deep within themselves...and then it was dispersed. Aziraphale shuddered and tried to remember who he was supposed to be. "And then...I um...I shouted 'Leave my demon ALONE you foul monster from the nether hells!' and then -"
"-Why would you shout that? Calling someone a demon is a strange thing to do." The Minister said abruptly.
"I-I..he's my brother you see...and so...my pet name for him is that he's a demon, you see." Even to Aziraphale the story sounded feeble. Fudge scribbled a note down and waved a hand to the angel that he should continue.
"I grabbed hold of one of those foul creatures and..I'm not at all sure how to describe it. It rather reminds me of the opening credits in Doctor Who, when the TARDIS is travelling through the Time Vortex with all the spinning lights and flashes of colour." Aziraphale paused when he saw blank looks on the faces of most people within the courtroom, and then ploughed on before he lost his nerve. "The..thing I grabbed went like that and seemed to die. Then I asked if Harry was alright and I managed to...to...to take my brother off to a safe place." This last sentence was of course a complete fabrication6.
"Thank you, my lord, you may stand down." Mr Slant said dryly, with a slight cough. The lawyer coughed again, in a meaningful way. Small flurries of dust trickled down to the floor.
Professor Dumbledore placed a gentle hand on the angel's shoulder. Aziraphale was staring into space, with a familiar maniacal gleam hazing over his azure eyes. He was staring at a point high up, near the vaulted ceiling where, if one looked very hard, several shadows seemed to be slightly darker than they ought to be.
"Your Lordship, you may vacate the seat." Dumbledore's voice was soothing, as if from a shepherd to a demented sheep that had strayed into the forest and grazed upon peculiar mushrooms.
Aziraphale's only response was to remove his top hat and Frisbee it wildly into the shadows. Mid-flight, there only a slight increase in volume in the wheeeeesh noise that suggested that the hat had ceased to be harmless and had now become a weapon on par with that of Oddjob's.
He could only wonder what on Earth his old friend Crowley would say...
(_)
1 ZDZ: There have been rumours that the maintenance staff alter the code to say: 7477-633-968-9265377 on every April Fool's Day – however, such a sentence is illogical. To perform the actions described are physically impossible and...er...rather messy for men – and even more messy and embarrassing for women – not that I am in any way a chauvinist, I am simply stating a mere fact of biology – if any Feminists wish to argue about it, they are perfectly free to walk into any church and take up a case with God (or if He's out, they can call the Vatican or the Archbishop of Canterbury and ask to make an appointment).
2 ZDZ: Not that Crowley actually needed any of those things – he just enjoyed depriving Aziraphale of them. Misery loves company.
3 ZDZ: Even though demons are supposed to be negative, they aren't allowed to whine. Whining is for angels, even if demons hail from angel stock.
4 ZDZ: Of course, the infinitely more...searching...question is where Crowley had last seen it.
5 ZDZ: Fudge was always chubby, even at that tender age, and as such, managed to get through no less than ten toy broomsticks, all on their maiden voyages. If Fudge had been present aboard the RMS Titanic, it wouldn't have even made the journey out of Liverpool Harbour.
6 ZDZ: But so are many things. Vacuum cleaners, the belief that there is such a thing as Civilisation, the cheese in ready-made sandwiches found in supermarkets, Paris Hilton's face, and so on and so forth...