Title: All That Glitters
Disclaimer: I don't own anything
Author's note: And so we finally return to Snape and Kingsley in this chapter. And, unfortunately, things aren't looking too great for either of them.
Summary: It was over, but it had been over since before it had even begun. They had already lost.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Enter the Furies
There was no sense of time in this place, not anymore. Not now that the Dementors had drained away the last vestiges of sanity, leaving behind a muddled mess of despair. The cold stone walls, dripping with moisture, covered in mold and mildew, reflected the psyches of the trapped prisoners, those forced to part with anything good that had ever happened in their lives.
Wizards and witches went insane here.
Snape closed his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. The air was cold, although he had no way of knowing if that was a natural effect of being on an island in the middle of the turbulent ocean, or if it was due to the presence of the Dementors.
He could hear their raspy breaths outside his cell door.
Sometimes Lily sat with him. It wasn't the stone, but rather a figment of his imagination. He had not been able to bring himself to use the stone again, to pull her back from the peaceful rest of the dead. But her memory lingered, floating around him, wrapping him in warmth.
Sometimes he was all alone, and her absence only made the hours worse. Or where they merely minutes? He had no idea, no sense of anything. It could have been years since he had been thrown into this place, or it could have been mere seconds.
Time meant nothing.
He was not insane. The Dementors had taken much from him, but not enough to drive him over the edge.
Still…
It was close. He was teetering on the brink, only moments away from plunging over the cliff towards the raging rapids of lunacy far below.
He rose from his cot, his limbs stiff and achy. Something was pressing against his chest, weighing him down, and though he tried to fight it, he could not. His vision blurred, exhaustion seeped into his bones.
It was cold, so cold.
Sometimes he heard the echoing taunts of his enemies. James Potter and Sirius Black, laughing callously, mockingly, calling him a coward. Bellatrix, declaring her suspicions, goading him with her blatant cruelty. His father, filled with indifference towards his only son. And the Dark Lord…
The high-pitched cackle, the snake-like eyes, the flash of green light as the end came rushing towards the only person he had ever truly loved…
He leaned against the wall. Moisture dampened his clothing, left him chilled. But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the ice that had long since entered his body, flooding his veins, wrapping around his heart.
Sometimes, he thought of Narcissa and Draco, and even less often, he thought of Lucius. Their faces passed before his eyes, blending and out of each other, vague and disconnected from reality. He did not know how they fared, if the wizarding world had come crashing down on them as well. He thought it was only a matter of time… Even Lucius' smooth tongue and Narcissa's courage could not protect them from Hannigan's version of justice.
Sometimes the room was simply silent. Sometimes there seemed to be nothing there but emptiness and the lonely rise and fall of dust motes suspended in the stale air. It was then, in those moments, that Snape was sane enough to think about the world and wonder what would happen to it now.
Ginny leaned against the doorframe and stared at her brother, watching him quietly. He was bent over, his chin rested on his hands, his elbows propped up against this knees. The sofa sagged slightly under his thin frame, and beneath his mop of red hair, his face wore a worried expression.
"Kingsley's trial is starting," she said finally, breaking the silence.
His gaze snapped up, surprise briefly flickering in his eyes. Then he nodded slowly and replied with a simple, "I know." He looked away again and gave a slow sigh, and his two-word answer seemed to hover in the air between them.
Talking with Percy had never been easy. Even before the rift, he had been so different, so aloof. The awkward tension only served to heighten Ginny's awareness of the fact, and she bit her bottom lip, casting him a worried look.
"Dad went to the courtroom." Ginny took a few more steps into the room, her eyes shining with frustration for the entire situation. Hadn't they already fought a war, hadn't they already lost enough? Why did these battles need to continue?
Percy ran a hand through his hair. "Good. I don't know how much time Father thinks he has bought with this ruse, but… I am glad that they are trying to prevent such a serious miscarriage of justice."
Ginny snorted. "It's more than just that," she retorted, crossing to his side. For a moment, she thought about taking the seat beside him. But then she turned away and sat down on the chair opposite, reclining against the cushions.
The Burrow was still, silent. Empty.
It hadn't been like that before. She wasn't entirely sure when the change had happened, when the house that had seemed too small for all of them had suddenly become spacious. They'd moved out, and that could have been part of it, but there was more to it than just that. The emptiness was just as much mental as physical, and even when they were all crowded into the same room, it still felt as though it wasn't quite right.
Fred's absence weighed heavily on them all.
She blinked a few times and wondered, had she felt Percy's absence during the estrangement? She knew it wasn't a fair comparison, Percy hadn't died and so she could have conceivably argued to herself that it was only a matter of time before he came back. But still…
"It is more than just that," Percy agreed softly, contemplatively. "Or, at least, it has the potential to be much more than just that."
"Why aren't you at the courtroom?" Ginny questioned.
Percy's lips curled back into a grim smile. "Father did not think it was a good idea," he replied.
"Why not?" Ginny couldn't help but ask, surprised by the answer.
Percy shrugged slightly, but explained in a dull tone, "He did not want to put me in any unnecessary danger, or to involve me in anything illegal. He did not know what he would be forced to do, should his true loyalties be discovered, and he did not want to drag me into that mess." It was clear that he was repeating, verbatim, what their father had said to him.
It was also clear that he was not thrilled by his father's suggestion, and yet he must have seen the logic to the idea, because he did not argue the point any further. Instead, he lapsed into silence, and left Ginny to her own thoughts.
She could not blame her father for his concern. Percy had been the one to arrange for the trial in the first place, and should it not go well for Hannigan, he was also likely to be the one blamed for it. Keeping him out of the spotlight for as long as possible made sense, assuming that Hannigan would follow the age-old idiom – out of sight, out of mind.
"Percy?" she said tentatively, finding the courage to break the silence.
He looked at her.
"Do you love me?"
Percy sputtered for a moment, obviously caught entirely by surprise by her question. His eyes widened dramatically, almost comically, and his mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed any sort of answer.
"Of course," he stammered finally. "You're my sister."
She chewed her lip thoughtfully, then said, "Do you love the rest of us? Our family, I mean."
"Yes." This time, his answer came faster, and with more assuredness, although he still looked befuddled as to her reason for questioning him on this. "Why?"
Again, she paused, before asking, "Why didn't you visit Dad when he was bitten by the snake? Or Ron, when he was attacked by those brains in the Department of Mysteries? Why didn't you say anything to us at Dumbledore's funeral? Why didn't you come home after… everything?"
Percy did not answer right away. Frown lines marred the skin of his forehead, and his fingers slowly clenched and unclenched, forming fists before he released them and pressed his palms flat against the cushion of the sofa.
"I did visit Dad," he admitted. "I… he was asleep. And no one else was there. It was… late at night. I went to see… to make sure he was not…" He trailed off, not able to utter the last word of that sentence. Dead. But it hung between them, an unspoken reminder of what they had lost.
He rose to his feet and turned away from her staring at the Grandfather clock on the mantle. One hand was conspicuously absent, one family member gone.
"But there wasn't any way I could come to Hogwarts without being seen," he continued, his voice thick with guilt. "So that was why I didn't… visit Ron. As for Dumbledore's funeral… I didn't think… I didn't think I was welcome… After all, none of you said anything to me."
He stopped, unable to go on.
"We weren't the ones who had been wrong," Ginny shot back, but even as she said the words, she knew they weren't entirely true. Percy had been wrong about a lot, but so had they. And at this point, she wasn't really sure who had been more wrong.
She wasn't really sure it mattered.
Percy didn't say anything to her comment.
"I thought… it felt like you had… abandoned me…" she muttered finally. "When you left, after that row with Dad… You didn't write, you didn't… I thought you didn't care. About us. About me."
He turned to her, moving so sharply that she pressed herself back against the chair, almost expecting him to curse her. But he made no other moves, just gave her a very long stare, and then said, "I never stopped caring."
"You didn't show it. And you didn't come home."
He smirked, and ugly expression that did not reach his eyes. "Did you notice the clock, Ginny? Did you look at it at any point in the past few years?"
She frowned and nodded. "All the time. We were always in Mortal Peril, though."
"Before that," he countered. "During our fifth year. Before You Know Who made his presence known? Did you see it then? Or even now, since the war has been over?"
She blinked, shook her head. "I don't remember the past."
He sighed. "When you, or Ron, or Bill and Charlie, or George… when you all are here, your hands point towards Home. Even though most of you don't live here anymore."
She glanced at the clock. Sure enough, her elaborately carved hand was pointing towards Home.
"And where does mine point?"
Ginny switched her gaze to his hand, and confusion furrowed her brow. Percy was standing in the living room, right before her, and so his hand should have been pointing to Home. But it wasn't.
It was pointing to Lost.
"Hasn't pointed to Home in a while. I didn't come home, Gin, because… well, this stopped being Home a while ago. Now, whenever I am here, it just…" He jerked his head towards the clock with a weary sigh. Then he walked back to the sofa and sank down, shaking slightly with an exhaustion that was both physical and mental.
She stared at him, and the shuttered look that closed off the emotions in his eyes.
"We all made mistakes," he muttered. "I wasn't the only one. And it was pretty clear that I wasn't welcome back here."
Ginny nodded. "I know," she said slowly, her eyes shining brightly, her words carried an odd emotion that even she could not quite identify. "But I… you were ashamed of us, Percy. You made that so clear when you walked out. You weren't just upset or angry or hurt. You were ashamed of us. And I… I don't know. I guess I just never thought… that you could feel that way about me."
"I'm sorry," Percy whispered. "For everything."
"Yeah," Ginny murmured. "Me, too."
The witch with ebony hair pulled back into a severe knot rose to her feet and held out her hands, and immediately the courtroom silenced. She cast her gaze over those gathered, letting her emotionless icy blue gaze linger over Kingsley.
"Head council for the prosecution," she announced, "Frederick Hannigan." Whispers ran through the courtroom, a few of the spectators leaning forward in their seats to get a better view of the man expected to be the next Minister of Magic.
Hannigan strode forward, pausing before the Wizengamot. There would be no jury in this trial, no group of impartial wizards hand-selected to decide the disgraced Auror's fate. Just the Wizengamot, influenced by the public's cry for revenge.
He nodded his head to the witch who had called him forward, the one who would be presiding over the trial. Aurora Borealis was fair and open-minded, powerfully magical, and well respected.
And then he began to speak.
"The accused, Kingsley Shacklebolt, answers today for the charges of treason." He paused, letting the last word linger in the air, the worst crime a witch or wizard could commit filling the silence and reverberating off the stone walls. "As you well know, treason carries a penalty of life imprisonment in Azkaban. However, given the nature of this crime, the identity of the accused's co-conspirator, and the death of Minerva McGonagall which resulted, justice should be given by Dementor's Kiss."
The whispers that had rushed through the crowd grew in intensity, turning into a dull roar. Hannigan let the audience, his audience, work themselves into a frenzy, before holding his hand out, signaling that he was not yet done.
Another quiet fell, not as complete as before, and he smiled inwardly.
"And the accused shall be held accountable for his crime. It will be shown that, despite being entrusted with the safety of this country, he chose to betray its good and upstanding citizens to enter into an alliance with the traitor Severus Snape."
A burst of fury resulted from that announcement, filling the room. Shouts rang out, filled with wrath. The noise rose in volume, making the individual words indecipherable from the mass of jumbled cries.
Aurora Borealis banged her gavel several times before order was once more restored.
"The accused used this alliance to bring about the brutal, untimely death of our esteemed Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. And it will be shown," he concluded, his voice rising with passion, "that the intention of this alliance was to instate the accused as the next Minister of Magic!"
He had not mentioned the death of Amos Diggory, although he could certainly bring that up if necessary. He hadn't survived this long in politics without picking up a few tricks. And he knew it was always better to have a few hidden tricks up his sleeve… just in case.
He did not pay attention to the opening arguments made by council for the defense. Blanche Trudea was a well-known barrister from Edinburgh. More well-known than her various accomplishments, however was the fact that she had been childhood friends with Jonathon Abbott. In fact, they had been together at one point, and the breakup had been amicable enough that she was certainly still sympathetic to the other wizard.
It had been easy enough to arrange for to be assigned as Shacklebolt's counsel.
Hannigan gave her a quick, once-over glance, and then let his mind wander to the finer points of the trial.
But while Hannigan might not have been listening to Mrs. Trudea's words, Kingsley was hanging on ever single syllable she uttered. She spoke simply, quietly, and with conviction. Her words came directly to the point as she explained that Auror Shacklebolt had only been acting with the interest of the wizarding community at heart, that McGonagall's death was not his fault, and that, in fact, had he been allowed to carry through with his plan, he would have brought Snape to justice himself.
It was a weak argument, Kingsley knew. Because, the fact of the matter was simply that he had worked with a known Death Eater. A traitor.
"In conclusion," Mrs. Trudea said, even though very few were listening to her speech anymore, "the defense will show that the accused has committed no crime, and that, in fact, he has bravely sacrificed his own security and popularity in order to catch the last of the great remaining threats, Severus Snape."
She said it all with distaste, and Kingsley felt his heart sink. He knew, now, why she had never come to visit him in Azkaban, why she had shown no interest in asking for his side of the story, his defense of his actions.
She wasn't on his side.
And then the trial began.
The first witness for the prosecution was a small, weasely-looking witch with faint gray eyes and a wide grin. She looked inordinately pleased to be on the stand, and as she settled herself into the witness box, she slid a hand over her slightly rumpled robes, smoothing the creases.
"Please state your name and occupation," Hannigan began.
"Elizabeth Brielle," the witch simpered. "I work at Dervish and Banges in Hogsmeade."
"Thank you, Ms. Brielle. Would you please tell us what you witnessed on the afternoon of June 7th?"
"Of course," the witch continued in the same simpering tone. "I had left the shop for a few minutes, and saw Headmistress Minerva McGonagall walking down the path from Hogwarts. I called out a greeting to her, and started in her direction. Then…" she lowered her voice dramatically and whispered, "I saw him."
"Who?" Hannigan prompted, a little annoyed by her melodramatic retelling.
"Severus Snape," she said, and a murmur ran through the crowd.
"And what did Snape do?" Hannigan asked.
"He stunned Headmistress McGonagall," Ms. Brielle replied. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, despite the fact that no tears had started to form. "I cried out… there were several other witches and wizards around, and we all started towards him, but we were too late. He looked the Headmistress and disappeared. We could not stop him." She let out a shuddering breath. "How I wish we could have saved her!"
Kingsley eyed the witness with disdain. She was exactly the type of person McGonagall would have despised.
It didn't matter, though. The onlookers were absorbed in the story, commiserating with the witness' fake emotion. A ripple of muttering echoed behind him, but Kingsley did not dare turn his head to meet the accusing gazes he knew would be focused on him.
Instead, he slanted a look at his counsel. She had not objected to this line of questioning, although she should have done so. There was no proof that he had been working with Snape at the time, nor was there any proof that he had known of Snape's plans. In fact, the only time there was any proof of that would come later, after McGonagall had already been killed.
But she hadn't objected.
The chains tightened around his wrists.
When it was time for the cross-examination, Mrs. Trudea rose to her feet and walked over to the witness stand. "Ms. Brielle," she said carelessly, "did you see Kingsley Shacklebolt at any time during the attack on Minerva McGonagall?"
The witness hesitated, then shook her head. "No," she said faintly. "I did not." Then, as an after thought, she added, "Doesn't mean he wasn't part of it, though!"
Kingsley turned frantic eyes to his counsel, but she did not object to the comment. Instead, she just smiled, nodded her head at the witness, and said, "No further questions."
Hannigan called two other witnesses, both from Hogsmeade, to give the same testimony. They corroborated Elizabeth Brielle's story, each elaborating with their own tidbits.
Then Hannigan called another witness, an Auror.
"Tell us, Baker," Hannigan requested, "what happened the night of June 5th?"
Baker leaned forward as he spoke, his eyes darting back and forth between Hannigan and Kingsley. "I was called to the Malfoy Manor along with several Aurors. We were summoned by the Malfoys' elf, who claimed that her master had been attacked by Snape."
"And what happened?"
"When I arrived at the Manor, Auror Shacklebolt was examining a memory from Lucius Malfoy. He later reported to us that the memory showed Snape attacking Malfoy, demanding to know the whereabouts of the Elder Wand."
"Had Snape revealed anything else?" Hannigan asked.
"Only that he was working with Runcorn. He tortured Malfoy for a while, after Malfoy couldn't tell him where the wand was. Then he left."
"And all of this was in Lucius Malfoy's memory?" Hannigan prodded.
"Yes," Baker confirmed.
"Did anyone besides Shacklebolt see this memory?"
Baker hesitated. "No," he said, squirming a little uneasily.
"So you did not, in fact, see this memory yourself?"
Baker shook his head. "No, I did not."
"And you do not know if there was anything else in the memory?" Hannigan continued.
"I only know what Malfoy told us. Auror Shacklebolt agreed that he had told the full story. There was nothing else."
Hannigan turned and looked at Kingsley, a sneer on his features. "Ah, yes… you have the word of Lucius Malfoy and Kingsley Shacklebolt. So if there was anything else in that memory, or it either of them had been lying… well, you wouldn't know, would you?"
"No," Baker admitted.
"Thank you. No further questions."
As he walked back to his seat, he glanced at Kingsley and smirked. And Kingsley had to fight back the urge to struggle to his feet, wanting nothing more than to wipe the smarmy smile from his enemy's face.
Ms. Trudea walked briskly over to the witness stand. "Can you please tell this courtroom, Auror Baker, how long you have worked with Auror Shacklebolt?"
Baker frowned thoughtfully. "About twenty years, I guess. Give or take some."
"And in those twenty years, has Shacklebolt ever, to the best of your knowledge, broken the law? Worked against the Ministry? Attempted to seize power by force?"
"No," Baker answered truthfully.
She nodded. "Has my client, to the best of your knowledge, remained an honest and upstanding citizen?"
"Yes."
"Has he ever asked you to lie for him?"
"No."
"Has he ever asked you to do anything illegal?"
"No."
"Did you ever think he might be in league with Snape? Before the evidence was brought to your attention, that is."
"No."
"Thank you. No further questions."
"Redirect?" Hannigan asked, sidling forward.
"Go ahead, Mr. Hannigan," Aurora Borealis replied with a nod.
"Auror Baker," Hannigan said, "you testified that Shacklebolt never tried to seize power by force, never attempted to work against the Ministry."
"That's right."
"Was Shacklebolt a member of the Order of the Phoenix?"
"Yes."
"Did the Order ever work against the Ministry?"
A pause. Baker obviously had no idea how to respond that that, and he shifted uncomfortably again, glancing quickly at Kingsley.
"Auror Baker?" Hannigan pressed.
"I… I guess so. For a little bit. When… uh… in the last year of Fudge's time as Minister. And then again… uh… when Pius Thicknesse was Minister."
"The Ministry was under control of Voldemort when Thicknesse was Minister!" Kinglsey shouted, unable to stop himself. "And Fudge was incompetent, putting us all in danger! Of course we fought…"
"Silence, Auror Shacklebolt," one of the Wizengamot snarled, and several others echoed the sentiment. "If you wish to say something, please have your counsel do it for you."
Hannigan continued as though he had not been interrupted, as though Kingsley's outburst had not even registered for him.
"So, Shacklebolt has worked against the Ministry before?"
Baker bit his lip, but nodded, "Yes. I guess so."
"For the greater good, of course. He was trying to prevent You Know Who from taking power?" Hannigan said, smiling.
Baker nodded. "Yes, that's right."
Hannigan leaned forward and remarked in a would-be casual tone, "So he was willing to disregard laws in order to do what he thought was right? He believed that the Ministry was wrong, and he wanted to… protect us?"
"I suppose."
Kingsley strained against the chains locking his arms in place. He knew it was pointless, that he would not be able to break the magic that held him in place. But he knew what was happening, could see the entire thing unfolding before his very eyes. He knew where Hannigan was going with this, and he knew that his counsel was not going to do a single thing to stop it.
"By any means necessary?"
"Yes," Baker agreed.
Hannigan turned, glancing at the Wizengamot. "So… if he decided that he would make a better Minister than Amos Diggory, it is conceivable that he would have taken that position from our esteemed Minister… by any means necessary?"
He did not have to say anything else, did not have to elaborate on the implication any further. Diggory's death, the sudden and pointless murder, was so fresh in the minds of the public that they reacted instantaneously, predictably, with a cry of fury and hatred. As one, the audience rose to its feet, yells echoing through the room, shouts bouncing off the walls.
Kinglsey closed his eyes and let the wrath wash over him. His head hurt, his heart pounded frantically, his breath was coming in uneven gasps. How much more of this would he have to endure before they convicted him of treason and sucked away his soul?
He opened his eyes again and inhaled slowly, evenly. He turned slightly in his seat, letting his eyes pass over the angry mod behind him, and landing on the man standing by the door. Arthur Weasley was watching him, and looking very, very worried.
He expelled his breath and sighed. It was over, but it had been over before it had even begun. They had already lost.