Title: All That Glitters
Disclaimer: I don't own anything
Author's note: So, this chapter makes reference to the plot regarding the Elder Wand. It was mentioned a while ago, in one of the earlier chapters, and I haven't really elaborated on it. So, just a reminder – Snape believed that Runcorn and Yaxley were interested in finding the wand.
Summary: But still… weren't young, dead family members supposed to happen to someone else?
Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Lonely Light of Mourning
The silence of the room was painful.
Once upon a time, Percy had enjoyed silence. He was not always able to concentrate in the rush of commotion that often filled the house, and the Gryffindor Common Room had been no better. The library had offered him solitude and silence, and it was there that he could most often be found while he still attended Hogwarts.
But now… now, he did not like the silence.
He knew what it meant. At any other point during the year, he would have been able to hear the voices drifting into his room through the closed door, laughter floating from the living room, chatter from the other bedrooms, or the sounds of cooking wafting with the scent of food from the kitchen. Now… now the silence meant that the others were waiting for him, waiting for him to emerge so that they could figure out what to say, how to make this better.
Didn't they know that they couldn't make it better?
Fred had died, his life ended so quickly, so abruptly, so unfairly, and his lifeless body had topped at Percy's feet like a ragdoll, never to move again. Fred had died, and this was a war, so it was not unexpected. Death touched every family, destroying what it could. But still… weren't young dead family members supposed to happen to someone else?
And now… twice…
That flash of green, that split-second when time slowed down long enough for him to know exactly what would happen, but moved far too quickly for him to stop the inevitable… And Penny's lifeless gaze staring up at the ceiling above them…
He should have been able to protect her.
Light flooded in through the window, but he had lost track of what day it was, or even the time. The light was tinged with orange and red, signs of sunset. Or was it sunrise? Had it just been night? He did not remember. He could think of nothing at all, nothing except those eyes, now forever gazing at a world she could no longer see.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he walked to the door of his bedroom. He knew his mother was most likely still there, unwilling to leave until she saw him. He wasn't sure he wanted to see her, wasn't sure he wanted anything other than to disappear, to curl up into a ball and let the world pass him by. But he felt a sense of responsibility to his mother, a desire to put her mind and rest…
…and to get her to leave him alone.
He pulled open the door.
Sure enough, Mrs. Weasley was sitting on the rickety stairs, staring morosely at the door. She jumped to her feet the moment the door opened, her face reflecting a mixture of emotions – fear, and worry, and love. Still, she hesitated, not rushing towards him as he thought she might. Instead, she just stood there, waiting for him to make the first move.
"You don't need to wait outside my room, Mother," he said stiffly.
She sniffed a little and replied, "Oh, Percy… I just want to check how you are doing."
He could see the circles of color on her cheeks, the puffiness under her eyes, signs that she had been crying. He wondered, vaguely, why had she shed tears? She barely knew Penny, and though his mother was, in general, a caring person, it still seemed odd that she would be moved to tears by the death of someone she had only met a handful of times.
Unless… the thought occurred to him a moment later… unless she was crying for him?
"I am managing, Mother," he answered slowly, because what else could he say? How could he tell her that it felt as though his entire world had fallen apart?
But she shook her head, an uncharacteristically shrewd look in her eyes as she said, "My brothers were both murdered in a war, Percy, and so was…" a pause, just long enough for her to find the courage to say the name, long enough for Percy to prepare himself for hearing it, "Fred. I know… you aren't managing. You couldn't be."
It was strange, that despite everything, he still had the presence of mind to marvel over the fact that his mother actually remembered that he had feelings. How many times had his feelings been disregarded in this house? Too many, and he'd lost track of them.
Then again, was he any better? How many times had he disregarded everyone else's feelings as well?
In a strangled sort of tone, he asked, "How is Ron?"
"He will be fine," she answered, and there was a clear not of relief in her voice. "Your father just Floo'ed to say he'll make a full recovery. Hermione, too."
He knew he should have felt more relief about that – and he was happy that Ron had avoided any lasting damage – but somehow the relief did not come, and he only felt a strange detachment. He nodded slowly, painfully aware that he should say something else, something more.
But he didn't. He couldn't. The words seemed stuck in his throat, and nothing at all would set them free.
"Why don't you come downstairs?" Mrs. Weasley continued. "I can make you some soup."
"I'm not hungry," he replied automatically, and he wasn't. The very idea of eating seemed so strange, so foreign to him.
"You should eat something," she pressed, refusing to leave the idea alone despite Percy's obvious reluctance.
He knew it wasn't about the food. She just wanted him to come downstairs, to be with the rest of his family. She didn't want him alone, locked in his old room, unable to turn to anyone for help. But didn't she see… didn't she understand? He could surround himself with millions of witches and wizards and it wouldn't make a difference. It was his Penny who had died, and no matter what, he would feel alone.
"Please, Percy," she asked, and there was a catch in her throat, a plea for him not to turn his back and close the door once more.
But he could not bring himself to answer that plea. "Maybe later, Mother. I am… tired. I'd like to rest." And without waiting for a response, he turned and slipped back into his room, shutting the door and locking it behind him.
And then there was silence again. He listened for the sounds of footsteps on the rickety stairs, but did not hear them, and thought with a weary sigh that apparently his mother had decided to stay by his door, continuing her pointless vigil.
And suddenly he was angry, irrationally furious. There was no target for his anger, no outlet for the rage that boiled rapidly within, burning at the back of his eyes, turning everything around him into a fine mist of shimmering red. It was simply there, settling into his bones, wrapping around his heart, infusing itself into every cell of his body.
He did not move, did not reach for his wand, did not make any attempt to unleash this anger on his room. And yet, it escaped anyway, bursting out of him in great waves of uncontrolled wandless magic. The worn carpt at his feet unraveled, the chair near the bed began to wobble back and forth on its uneven legs, the bookshelf gave a sudden shuddering groan as its timbers creaked against each other.
A lamp exploded.
He didn't realize he was crying until he felt the tears dripping from his face, falling onto his robes.
"Percy!"
His mother's voice, near panic, came floating to him through the door. The doorknob rattled, she was trying to get in. But he had locked it and warded it against magical means of unlocking, and try as she might…
The door refused to budge.
"Percy! Please, open the door."
"I'm fine, Mother," he whispered, his voice too low to be heard.
He slid to his knees on the floor. A few books fell of the bookshelf, the covers of his bed somehow ended up on the floor, ripped and torn in places, ruined by his uncontrolled magic. The windows strained against the confines of the walls, pressing outwards.
His head was aching, a dull, throbbing pain. He closed his eyes, but in the darkness he could see Penny, her still form sprawled on the floor, the image etched against the back of his eyelids.
The windows shattered abruptly, exploding outwards, raining tiny shards of glass on the grass far below.
There was a click behind him, and though he knew the door had opened, he did not turn. He felt, rather than saw, his mother kneel at his side, trying her best to comfort him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulder, and he slowly opened his eyes, looking past her towards the still open door.
George stood there, holding two open safety-pins in his hand, and Percy silently wished his brother had never learned the Muggle art of picking locks.
But he felt no anger at George. It had all drained from his body, disappearing with the shattered windows, and leaving him exhausted and numb.
Of all the people Narcissa Malfoy imagined could show up at her doorstep in the middle of the night, Harry Potter was not one of them.
She stood there, in the doorway, her dressing gown pulled tightly around her to keep out the chill, her blonde hair cascading in unkempt waves over her shoulders, and stared blankly at Potter.
"Mrs. Malfoy," he said politely, his tone a little ironic, "I hope I did not wake you?"
It was so unexpected that it took her a moment to stop gaping and get her confusion back under control. She had been up all night worrying, panicked because of her son's disappearance. Her nerves were frayed, her temper under short control, and now this?
She stepped aside, allowing Potter to enter her home.
"Have you seen Draco?" she asked, because it was the only thing that mattered, and she could think of no other reason that Potter would be here.
"Not since the fight at the Ministry," Potter replied gravely. "Do you have any idea where Yaxley might have taken him?"
Narcissa shook her head. "Back to France?" she suggested with a tired sigh. "Or to his manor here in Britain?" But both of those she had already suggested to the Aurors at the Ministry, and so far they had had no luck. Hannigan, at least in this one instance, she could trust to do his best to find Draco. Because the ambitious, power-hungry wizard knew the price of his failure.
Lucius had made sure of that.
Potter shook his head. "I already visited both," he said grimly. "Is he…?"
He did not finish the question, but Narcissa knew what he was asking. Her pale skin grew even whiter, all blood leaving her face as her eyes widened at the question. But she answered in a steady tone, "No. No, if he was… I would feel it."
Neither had been able to bring themselves to say the word – dead – but it did not matter. And Narcissa knew, perhaps better than most mothers, what it meant to have a son in constant danger. If something had happened to Draco – something irreversible, something permanent – she would know.
Potter's green eyes narrowed slightly at the comment, and he gave a slow nod of reluctant agreement. His expression was conflicted, torn between a variety of emotions she could not decipher. But what she did see, the one thing that she could identify, was determination.
Determination to find her son.
She had no idea what had brought about the change in Potter's opinion of them, nor did she particularly care. If he could help her, she would take his help, because saving what was left of her family was the only thing that really mattered.
Then a thought occurred to her. "Lucius told me once that Severus…" She stopped with an uneasy look at Potter.
He gestured for her to continue. "I know you have been in contact with Snape," he said, and though he had to force the potion Master's name from between clenched teeth, he did not throw any accusation of treason or betrayal at her. There was something in his eyes, something telling her that she could continue the explanation, that he did not care about her friendship with Severus.
She licked her dry lips. "Severus believed Yaxley and Runcorn were after the Elder Wand," she said, her expression contemplative. "That's why they wanted him. Hannigan wanted the Ministry, and Severus had to be brought down for that to happen. But the other two wanted knowledge… knowledge of the location of that wand. They saw the last fight between you and the Dark Lord, they knew that it was that wand that had defeated him… It's power is beyond their wildest dreams."
"And they thought Snape knew where it was?" Potter asked sharply.
Narcissa shrugged. "The Dark Lord is dead, and demanding answers from you would be dangerous. But Severus… he always knew far more than we realized. If he was in Dumbledore's confidence, it is likely that Dumbledore had some idea of what you would do with the wand after it fell into your hands. He might have confided in Severus… to make sure that someone knew where the wand was, someone could guard it if necessary. If it falls into the wrong hands…" Again, she shrugged. "It is just a guess."
Potter considered this in silence, then questioned, "Do you think he would have taken your son to find the wand?"
A fleeting smile of pride passed over Narcissa's lips as she said, "Well, my son was the true honor of the wand, at least for a short while."
"But he isn't now," Potter argued pointedly. "So what help could he be?"
She gave an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes, feeling a little bit annoyed at his lack of knowledge. She supposed she could not blame him for not understanding the finer points of wand-making, but still…
"The wand chooses the wizard, Potter. I am sure you have heard that?" He nodded, and she continued, "Wands form a bond with their witch or wizard. Even when they pass into other hands, they retain some of that bond. Usually not enough to wish to return to the other wizard, but enough that they can still be used by their former master, if necessary."
"So you're saying that Malfoy… uh, Draco… has a bond to that wand?"
"Yes," Narcissa replied firmly. "However tenuous the bond, it is there. If Yaxley had even an approximate idea of where the wand was, he could bring Draco, and…"
"He would be able to help find the wand," Potter finished. There was a silence, and then he said, "Alright. Thank you. I know where to start looking."
She stared at him for a moment, surprised by the easy acceptance in his words. "What?" she asked, a little spitefully. "No accusations? No assumption that this is just some elaborate trap to have you lead me to the Elder Wand? No allegation that I am lying to you?"
Green eyes stared at her, or perhaps through her, leaving her feeling a little cold and uneasy. As the younger wizard looked calmly at her, she could not help but wonder what he saw, and what he thought.
But when he spoke, his words were simple and firm. "You aren't lying."
Again, she felt her curiosity flare. What had brought on this change?
Then again, did she really care? If it brought Draco safely home to her… She'd sent Lucius to a lifetime of torment in an island prison surrounded foul creatures that sucked the happiness out of the very atmosphere. She would not lose Draco, too.
"There are some who wonder why you are not putting Runcorn on the stand."
Hannigan glanced at Abbot and frowned at the thought of his accomplice. The Dark wizard had been taken to Azkaban immediately upon capture after the fight in the Ministry. But Hannigan had dome everything possible to keep Runcorn from being forced to answer any questions. If the wrong people learned the truth…
Truth potion could easily ruin everything. Runcorn held valuable information in his hands, and if he became suspicious of Hannigan's motives…
It was like a house of cards, and all it would take was one gentle breeze, and everything would come toppling down.
"We have Shacklebolt already," Hannigan said finally. "The Wizengamot will find him guilty. If I put Runcorn on the stand, it will reopen the trial to more questioning. I'd rather this ended now."
"But what of Runcorn's own crimes? When will he be tried for those?" Abbott pressed.
Hannigan pursed his lips. "Soon. But we have just recently lost our Minister of Magic, the Headmistress of Hogwarts, and a promising young Healer. Runcorn's trial can wait, we need to focus on rebuilding all that has been broken."
"And Snape?"
"His trial can wait as well. They are both safely locked away in Azkaban, and they are not going anywhere."
When the Wizengamot finally convened to vote on Kingsley's crimes, the Auror had resigned himself to being found guilty. He did not like the thought of spending his life in that God-forsaken prison, or worse, receiving the Dementor's Kiss. But he was not entirely sure he had any other choice.
As he sat on the stiff, uncomfortable chair, the chains wrapped tightly around his wrists, his eyes moved past the Wizengamot who would decide his fate, past the crowd of revenge-thirsty witches and wizards who had come to witness his sentencing, past a gloating Hannigan, and settled, with some surprise and suspicion, on the woman standing at the back of the room, watching silently.
She met his gaze without blinking, without flinching, and without allowing her expression to waver in any way, to give him even the faintest of clues to why she was there.
His attention was torn from her and brought forcefully back to the problem at hand as Aurora Borealis rose to her feet and began to speak.
"Mr. Hannigan, does the prosecution have any final comments before we deliberate?"
Hannigan smiled, the same triumphant smirk that had graced his features for the past several days, and walked to the center of the courtroom. He gazed out at his audience, pinning them all with his intense state, and, surprisingly, the courtroom fell into silence. Everyone seemed to be waiting with abated breath for his speech.
"You have heard a tale of treason and treachery, of a power-hungry wizard who allowed himself to believe that he was above the law, that he was not beholden to this society. You have heard the testimony of Aurors, of common witches and wizards like yourself, of a Ministry official, and even of Narcissa Malfoy. You have heard the crimes of the accused, and they are despicable to the extreme."
Kingsley reflected silently that it was ironic how Hannigan was preaching to the audience. It was the Wizangamot, and not those seated in the rest of the courtroom, who would be making the decision as to his guilt or innocence. But it was clear that Hannigan already knew what the outcome of that would be – at this point, wasn't it rather obvious? – and he had a different agenda. He needed to convince the public, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he was their savior, that he was the one who could protect them.
It was not a closing argument of a trial. The intended goal was not to have Kingsley found guilty.
It was a campaign speech. The intended goal was to have Hannigan appointed Minister.
It made Kingsley's insides twist with fear and guilt. Fear for the rest of the world, for what would happen to them if Hannigan got his way. And guilt, guilt that he had somehow not been able to stop this, to prevent everything from coming this far, this quickly.
But what could he do now? What power did he have left?
He had tried to stop Hannigan, Runcorn, and Yaxley. He had tried, and he had failed.
"The accused has been in touch with Severus Snape," here a low hiss ran through the courtroom, "one of the vilest traitors this country has ever known." Hannigan paused for dramatic effect, glancing contemptuously at Kingsley, and then continued, "And he has the blood of Amos Diggory and Minerva McGonagall on his hands."
"I do not!" Kingsley burst, unable to contain himself with that accusation.
"Silence," one of the wizards of the Wizangamot snarled. "Or we will silence you."
Kingsley glowered in reply, but made no other attempt to speak, knowing that the wizard had not been lying, and probably would have been all too happy to use a silencing charm if necessary. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman in the back of the room shift her weight and ease forward, slipping slowly through the crowd of standing onlookers.
He felt something, a brush of wind passing by the hem of his robes. Next to him, his counsel suddenly stiffened and leaned forward. "Wait."
All eyes turned towards her, and Hannigan froze, his mouth falling open.
Blanche Trudea rose to her feet with an apologetic smile for the Wizangamot and said, "I have one more witness I would like to call to the stand."
Madam Borealis narrowed her eyes and leaned forward as she answered, "Ms. Trudea, the trial has reached an end. You have already rested your case, and we are not hearing closing arguments. You cannot introduce new evidence at this time."
"The new evidence only came to light at this very moment," was the response.
"This is preposterous," Hannigan blustered, striding forward angrily. Beseechingly, he turned towards the Wizangamot and added, "It a serious miscarriage of justice if we allow…"
Blanche turned towards him coolly and said, "It would be a serious miscarriage of justice to allow an innocent man to go to jail. One more witness is all I ask."
In a low voice, Hannigan hissed, "Blanche, what are you doing? This was not what we agreed upon."
"Agreeing to anything was unethical," Blanche answered in her own quiet voice. "And unless you would like everyone to know just why you arranged for me to be Auror Shacklebolt's counsel, I suggest you allow me to call this one witness." With a smirk, she added adroitly, "If your case is as strong as you think, one witness should not make a difference."
Kingsley watched as Hannigan opened and closed his mouth, looking remarkably like a fish caught out of water. His eyes had widened and his skin had lost come of its color, leaving his pallid and gray. But it appeared that he was far too worried by Blanche's threat to risk not allowing her to call her witness, and he reluctantly turned to the Wizangamot with a half-hearted shrug.
"I have no objections to this," he said slowly, his words laced with annoyance.
Madam Borealis looked unconvinced as she said sharply, "But I do. We cannot reopen a case that has already been tried simply because you have realized so late that you have more evidence you wish to offer." Her words were harsh, but more than that, Kingsley could tell they were affected by the opinions of the public. She saw no reason to allow more questions because she had already made up her mind as to how she was going to vote.
So much for open-minded and honest.
"I am truly sorry," Blanche said, stepping up to the Wizengamot's raised platform, "but the evidence only came just now. And I must offer my client the best representation I can. It would unethical for me not to request this."
Madam Borealis sighed, and gave a slow nod. "Very well," she muttered, displeased. "You may call your witness." The entire trail was a sham, after all, and one more witness would not make a difference.
Would it?
Blanche smiled. "Thank you. Counsel for the Defense would like to call Andromeda Tonks to the stand."
The woman from the back of the room walked forward, catching Kingsley's eye as she did so. A faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and she inclined her head towards him. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, and her soft brown eyes bore an inscrutable expression. The similarities to her sister Bellatrix were obvious, and Kingsley wondered suddenly if she often was faced with problems because of that.
She took the stand and Blanche quickly asked the beginning questions, introducing her to the Wizengamot at the court room.
The change in Blanche's demeanor was so abruptly, so completely out of character, that Kingsley felt his suspicions grow with every passing second. But the idea that came to mind, the only explanation that he could comprehend, was so strange, so daring, so incredibly foolish… that alone made it seem impossible.
"Tell me, Mrs. Tonks," Blanche said, leaning on the railing of the witness box, "has your sister been in contact with Severus Snape?"
"Yes," Andromeda replied.
A ripple of disbelief ran through the room. All eyes on the Wizengamot turned sharply to Andromeda.
"How do you know this?"
"She came to me," Andromeda replied. "She asked for my help. She said she was in trouble, as was her husband and her son. She said that Severus Snape had been staying in a home at one of her husband's properties, and she was worried that they would be discovered."
"Preposterous," Hannigan interjected. "I object to this! It is hearsay…"
Blanche turned quickly to the Wizengamot and said, "It is not hearsay if the witness is repeating what was said directly to her."
Madam Borealis looked reluctant and concerned, but she nodded. "Objection overruled," she said slowly, cautiously. "You may continue, Ms. Trudea."
"Did she say how Snape had avoided discovery for so long?" Blanche pressed, looking back at Andromeda.
"He had a Secret Keeper. Narcissa did not know who the Secret Keeper was, but she had her suspicions."
Blanche turned and looked at Hannigan, meeting his gaze with her own steady smile. "Mrs. Tonks, Narcissa Malfoy testified that she had not ever been in contact with Snape, at least not since the end of the final battle at Hogwarts. Furthermore, she testified against her husband and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Can you explain?"
"Objection!" Hannigan snarled, on his feet once more. "The witness is not an expert in this subject. How can she be asked to explain why her sister did or did not say something?" His face was flushed darkly, filled with anger, his eyes flashing. He took a few threatening steps towards Blanche before stopping and forcing himself back under control. "This entire line of questioning is a sham!"
"She lied," Andromeda snapped before anyone from the Wizengamot could answer Hannigan's objection. "She sat on the stand and she lied because she thought it was the only way to save her son." Eyes flickered to Madam Borealis as she added, "She lied, because Mr. Hannigan asked her to."
There was an instant uproars, cries of anger, shouts of fury and distrust filling the air. The crowd all around them was hurling accusations and insults, stamping their feet on the ground, banging their hands on the railings of the seats and stone walls that surrounded them.
"Order! Order!" Madam Borealis shouted, lifting her voice to be heard above the ruckus. It was a few minutes before the crowd quieted enough for the questioning to continue, but during this entire time, Andromeda had remained quiet and composed, her eyes never leaving Hannigan's pale face.
"That is a serious allegation," one of the elderly wizards on the Wizengamot wheezed, leaning forward to frown at Andromeda.
"I am only repeating what my sister told me when she asked for my help," Andromeda answered calmly.
"And you believed her?" Blanche cut in quckly. Hannigan had lapsed into a shocked silence, as though not able to believe that everything had slipped away from him so quickly, and it was clear that she wanted to take advantage of his momentary speechlessness to proceed as far as possible with her case.
"At first, no. She asked for my help and… I refused." She lowered her gaze, looking a little ashamed to admit to that. "It was a mistake, which I soon realized. She is my sister and…" She paused, gave a half-shrug. "She was trying to protect her son and… and Severus."
Blanche's eyebrows raised. "She was trying to protect a traitor?"
A hush fell over everything, a stillness that blanketed the entire courtroom as every single person waited with abated breath for the answer.
"She was trying to protect Severus. But he wasn't a traitor."
The silence deepened.
"How do you know that?" Blanche asked.
Andromeda paused, then tore her gaze away from Hannigan and stared hard at Blanche. "Because," she said finally, "I know quite a bit about Severus. I was, after all, his Secret Keeper."