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maraudereestauderelb · 1 month ago

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What if you're the defendant in one of the trials after the first War against Voldemort?

Hello everyone,

but a special "Hello" to those who love morally grey characters and who imagine themselves a little more "layered" when it comes to the World of Harry Potter and the Marauders.

We can't all be noble Gryffindores who never make any mistakes or wrong choices, can we?

Don't tell me, you've never imagined yourself using a little...dark magic...

Join me and be part of your very own trial! Sounds like fun, right?!

Are you guilty? What have you done? Who are you on the inside? - Let's find out together!

Oh and if you want a little music to set the tone, I've got a little recommendation.

It was a dark room. The tall walls and floor were covered in black marble tiles with the result that every step taken by one of the wizards and witches and every word said inside the biggest courtroom of the magical ministry was echoing, making the volume almost unbearable.

The wooden stands at the end of the room were filled with about fifty rather old witches and wizards dressed in plum-covered robes with elaborate silver initials on them, the members of the Wizengamot. Next to them sat one wizard dressed in black at a tribune. His name Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the prosecutor.

The rows around the circular room overcrowded with spectators waiting for the trial to begin, amongst them a lot of journalist. In the center of it all was one single chair on which a young woman was sitting, magically bound to it. Behind the chair in the center was another bench filled with five witches and wizards, the witnesses. On the left to the bench was a tiny desk with a chair on which another woman was sitting, her lawyer.

The young woman in the center was nervous, her body slightly shaking, but nobody seemed to notice. On the outside she looked strong and unfazed. But she was worried. Worried she would lose the trial, worried about the two dementors guarding the door, worried she had to go back to the prison which had been her home for the past month, Askaban.

She had been in the room on the tenth floor of the Ministry of Magic before, but as one of the visitors. The trial back then had been extremely private, the ministry trying to keep everything as secret as possible without getting much attention, but her very own trial was different. The room filled with those who wanted to see another Death Eater and murderer locked away for life.

Her heartbeat was going crazy and she was on the verge of tears already. She didn’t dare to look back to the witnesses behind her. The people who had her fate right in their hands. The odds weren’t good and she knew it.

The past month in Askaban had her losing her mind.

The young witch cringed when suddenly the prosecutor cleared his throat and with magically enhanced voice said: “Case 5895026. The magical ministry against Miss Y/N Y/S/N Y/F/N.” Within the blink of an eye, everybody had gone quiet and Y/N’s heart had stopped beating for a second.

“Miss Y/F/N”, he continued looking at her with disgust, just like everybody else: “You have been brought here to the Council of Magical Law so that we may pass judgement on you, for a crime about betrayal, plotting and murder. You are being charged with the murder of seven witches and wizards including two children of the ages four and three. What do you plead?”

“Not guilty”, her lawyer suddenly got up from her chair. “The defender Hailey Cornelia Carter”, Crouch said: “And todays witnesses are Professor Filius Flitwick, former teacher of the accused, Y/M/N, mother of the accused, Arabella McKinnon, family member of the victims, Alastor Moody, Auror, and Rabastan Lestrange.”

The witnesses nodded one after another before Crouch went on: “You’re advised to leave the court room until you’re called.”

Until each and every one of them had left the room, Y/N hadn’t dared to turn around. She couldn’t look at them. Couldn’t look at her mother. She had no idea whether her mother believed the accusations or not. Y/N hadn’t talked to her for months. What if she believed her very own daughter was guilty?

“Today we are talking about the events during the night of the 26th of July in the year 1970, where three Death Eaters attacked the McKinnons with Fiendfyre and burned down their house, killing seven witches and wizards. Paul McKinnon, Elisabeth McKinnon, their daughters Marlene McKinnon and Juliana Miller, Juliana’s husband Alfred Miller and their daughter, Pauline, and son, William. Ladies and Gentlemen, we are talking about a crime involving very dark and mighty magic. A forbidden curse. A curse which was purposely used to kill not only adults but two little children as well. On the night of the 26th of July in the year 1970 seven people had to die a horrible and extremely cruel death. It had been a quiet night like every other until their house went up in smoke and fire, because a coward had attacked them from a distance without a warning. And Miss Y/F/N here is accused of being said witch.”

During Crouch’s speech the young witch in the middle of the room hadn’t raised her head a single time. Her brown eyes were glued to her hands. Never had she ever imagined she could end up in this position. She had been a good kid, a hardworking student, a loyal friend. And yet she was right where she was. In the middle of a courtroom, magically bound to a chair, in front of her the Wizengamot. She didn’t belong there and yet she felt guilt heavy on her shoulders.

James’, Lily’s and Peter’s deaths, Sirius’s and then her arrest felt like they happened years ago, in another life, but she knew they had only happened a months. Her friends…they were all dead, or worse.

“And I know what everybody in this room is thinking right now: Why? Why would a young witch do something as horrible as this. And the answer…the answer is simple, ladies and gentlemen, out of love.”

Sirius. They were trying to blame this on him as well?

“Miss Carter”, Crouch looked at Hailey: “You have the word.”

“Thank you, Mister Crouch”, Hailey nodded in his direction and got up with an almost unrecognizable sigh. Y/N knew how nervous she was. This was only her second trial, but she had fought so hard to even get her a trial, although everybody already seemed sure about the outcome. It was hopeless.

“First of all”, Hailey shrugged and casually leaned against the chair Y/N was sitting on: “Mister Crouch, you were wrong. Not everybody in this room was thinking what you pointed out mere seconds ago, because the question I have been asking myself ever since my client got arrested is: Why now? My client got arrested on the third of November 1971, a month ago, but the crime she is being accused of happened more than a year before that. So, I’ve been wondering…why not earlier? ...And then I knew the answer to it, because you never had the slightest evidence, you never had and you still don’t. My client, a young witch who never did anybody any harm, is suddenly accused of killing not only one person, but seven with a curse so dark, I bet, not even you as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would know how to successfully perform it. How should a twenty year old witch do it then? This entire trial is ridiculous! There is no proof and my client is innocent!”

“So what you are saying Miss Carter is that your client, Miss Y/F/N, never would have been able to evoke a Fiendfyre? That she is lacking the skill to do so? Miss Y/FN, are you supporting this statement?” But before she was able to answer Hailey said: “Of course she does!”

“Why don’t we ask someone who could give us a more competent opinion on this. I call Professor Filius Flitwick to the witness stand.”

Hailey stepped aside as the small figure of Professor Filius Flitwick entered the courtroom. His hesitant steps echoed off the black marble walls, each one punctuating the rising tension in the room. Y/N kept her gaze locked on her trembling hands, unable to meet the professor’s eyes. She had always admired him, had always seen him as more than a teacher—a guide, someone who had encouraged her love for magic before that love became an obsession.

Flitwick climbed into the witness stand, his expression betraying his reluctance. “Professor Flitwick,” Barty Crouch began, his voice sharp and cutting. “You were Miss Y/F/N’s teacher during her time at Hogwarts, correct?”

“Yes,” Flitwick replied, his voice soft but steady. “I taught her Charms throughout her seven years at the school.”

“And how would you describe her abilities?” Crouch leaned forward slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing.

Flitwick sighed, wringing his hands. “Y/N was… exceptional. She was one of the brightest students I’ve ever had the privilege of teaching. Talented, driven, and deeply curious. In her final years, she was the top of her class in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms.”

A murmur rippled through the audience. Y/N’s heart clenched as she felt every word like a dagger in her chest. Her gaze flicked up for a brief moment, catching the face of someone she desperately wanted to avoid, seated in the audience. Her former friend’s face was a mask of cold contempt, and Y/N quickly looked away.

Crouch’s lips curled into a slight smile. “A prodigy, then. Surely, someone with such talent would have the knowledge and skill to perform a curse as advanced as Fiendfyre?”

Hailey interjected, her voice calm but firm. “Professor Flitwick, in your opinion, would my client ever have been interested in such magic?”

Flitwick hesitated, his small hands gripping the edge of the stand. “Not at first,” he admitted, his voice laced with sadness. “Y/N had always been eager to learn, but in her last year, I noticed… a change.”

“What kind of change?” Crouch prompted.

“She became distant, withdrawn. One day, I discovered a forbidden book in her possession. A text on the Dark Arts. I confiscated it, of course, but… she was different after that. She looked tired, as if something was draining her. She seemed... lost.”

Y/N closed her eyes, memories flooding her mind. The long nights pouring over that book in the Room of Requirement. The allure of knowledge so forbidden it felt intoxicating. How she had used the Marauder’s Map and Sirius’s Invisibility Cloak to sneak into the restricted section. Her thirst for understanding had felt insatiable, but it was never meant to harm anyone. It was for knowledge, for power over her own destiny, not for destruction.

“Professor,” Crouch’s voice broke through her thoughts, “do you believe Miss Y/F/N was capable of summoning Fiendfyre?”

Flitwick’s face crumpled, and he looked directly at Y/N for the first time. She finally met his eyes, pleading silently. But she knew the answer before he spoke.

“I do,” he said softly, the words falling like a death knell. The room erupted in gasps and whispers, but all Y/N could hear was the pounding of her own heart. Flitwick turned to her, his face etched with regret. “I’m sorry,” he said.

The words felt heavier than the chains binding her to the chair. For the first time, Y/N felt tears prick her eyes, but she forced them back. Her voice—her defense—felt smaller than ever.

Hailey stepped forward again, her tone sharp. “Professor Flitwick, isn’t it also true that Y/N excelled in all forms of magic, not just the Dark Arts? That she showed immense skill in protective spells and healing charms? Skills that contradict the accusation that she would ever commit such heinous acts?”

Flitwick nodded, but his earlier words hung in the air like a specter. The damage had been done.

As Professor Flitwick stepped down from the witness stand, the tension in the room seemed to coil tighter around Y/N’s chest. Her breath hitched, and a cold shiver ran down her spine. She knew who was next.

Her mother.

They hadn’t spoken in months—since her arrest, since everything fell apart. But even before that, the rift between them had widened, starting the day her sister was killed. The guilt was unbearable. Her younger sister, bright and determined, had followed Y/N’s footsteps into the Order of the Phoenix. It was unusual for purebloods, but their family had stood firmly on the right side of this war. Her parents had been proud.

Then came the mission with Marlene McKinnon.

The night she didn’t return.

The news had shattered their family. Y/N had stopped going home after that, unable to face her parents. She had joined the Order first, after all, and without her, maybe her sister wouldn’t have followed. Maybe she’d still be alive.

A rustle of movement brought her back to the present. Her mother stepped into the witness stand, her robes slightly askew, her face pale and drawn. Y/N didn’t dare lift her eyes to meet her mother’s. She couldn’t bear to see the grief, or worse, the doubt.

“Please state your name,” Barty Crouch instructed, his tone professional but with an edge of impatience.

“Y/M/N Y/L/N,” her mother said, her voice trembling slightly.

Crouch nodded. “Mrs. Y/L/N, you are the mother of the accused. Can you tell us what you know about your daughter’s allegiances?”

Her mother took a deep breath, glancing briefly at Y/N before looking out over the courtroom. “For what I knew… my daughter joined the Order of the Phoenix with good intentions. She wanted to fight against You-Know-Who and protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. When her friends had asked her to join them in the order, she had been excited!”

A murmur rippled through the audience, but it was quickly silenced by a sharp look from Crouch. He stepped forward, clasping his hands behind his back. “Which friends are we talking about?”

“James Potter, Sirius Black-” Gasps echoed through the room.

“Good intentions, you say. But do you have any evidence to support this claim?”

Her mother hesitated, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. Finally, her shoulders slumped, and she shook her head. “No. I don’t.”

Tears welled in her mother’s eyes, and her voice cracked as she continued. “But I know my daughter. I know she couldn’t—she wouldn’t—do something so… so monstrous. I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”

Crouch pounced. “When was the last time you spoke with your daughter, Mrs. Y/L/N?”

“Months ago,” her mother admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “After her sister’s death… it became too painful to—”

“And did you notice changes in her behavior?” Crouch interrupted, his tone cutting. “Did she seem… different?”

“Yes,” her mother said reluctantly. “But the war has changed all of us. It’s taken so much from us. Her sister’s death…” Her voice broke. “It broke her.”

“And what about her relationship with Sirius Black?” Crouch pressed. “How would you describe it?”

Her mother seemed taken aback by the question but answered after a pause. “Strong. Impulsive. She loved him deeply, perhaps obsessively, as young people often do at that age.”

“Could he have influenced her?” Crouch asked sharply.

“No!” Her mother’s response was immediate, almost panicked. “I don’t believe he would ever…”

But Crouch wasn’t finished. “Didn’t you just say that your daughter wouldn’t have joined the Order of the Phoenix if not for Sirius Black?”

Her mother’s eyes widened, realizing her mistake too late. “I—yes, but—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Y/L/N,” Crouch cut her off, his tone triumphant. “You’ve made your position clear. If Sirius Black could influence her to join the Order, who’s to say he couldn’t influence her to commit darker acts? Perhaps their loyalty to You-Know-Who was simply well-concealed, a strategy to infiltrate and betray.”

“That’s not true!” her mother cried, tears streaming down her face. “She’s innocent! She would never—she couldn’t—” Her voice broke completely, and she looked at Y/N, desperation in her eyes. “I’ll get you out of this,” she promised, her voice trembling. “I know you’re innocent, sweetheart. I know.”

Y/N couldn’t look at her. Her mother’s words cut deeper than any accusation. Innocent. The word felt like a stone in her chest, because she wasn’t sure it was true. She had never intended to hurt anyone, never wanted to stray so close to the darkness. But her thirst for knowledge, her reckless love for Sirius—they had all led her here, to this chair, with her prisoner number inked into her skin like a brand.

And for the first time, she wondered if maybe she did belong here.

Arabella McKinnon walked into the witness stand with a presence that silenced the room. Her grief was palpable, etched into her features like a permanent scar. She knew Arabella’s job today wasn’t to present facts—it was to stir emotions, to make sure no one left this courtroom doubting who the villain was.

Arabella spoke with a quiet dignity at first, her voice steady but heavy with sorrow. She described the McKinnons—their warmth, their bravery, the way Marlene had laughed so easily, even in the darkest of times. She described the children, their lives snuffed out before they had even truly begun. Her words painted vivid, haunting images, and the room hung on every syllable.

“They were everything to me,” Arabella said, her voice breaking. “And they died screaming. My family burned alive because someone—because she”—her trembling hand pointed directly at Y/N—“decided they didn’t deserve to live.”

A sob erupted somewhere in the audience, and Y/N felt like the floor beneath her chair was crumbling. She wanted to scream, to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come. Her throat felt like it was closing, the air in the room thick and suffocating.

“And for what?” Arabella continued, her voice rising. “For power? For loyalty to that… that monster? You knew them, Y/N! You knew them, and you did it anyway!”

“I didn’t—” Y/N began to whisper, but Arabella cut her off, her grief giving way to fury.

“Don’t you dare speak!” Arabella’s voice cracked like a whip. “You don’t get to sit there and pretend you’re innocent. You deserve Azkaban. You deserve to rot there for the rest of your miserable life, with nothing but the screams of my family to keep you company!”

The courtroom erupted into chaos. Shouts and murmurs filled the air, but all Y/N could hear were Arabella’s words, echoing like a curse in her mind. Her stomach twisted painfully, nausea clawing its way up her throat. She tried to suppress it, to hold herself together, but the pressure was unbearable. As Arabella was escorted out of the courtroom, still sobbing and shouting curses at her, Y/N doubled over.

She barely managed to turn her head before she vomited onto the cold marble floor next to her chair. The bile burned her throat, but it was nothing compared to the searing pain in her chest. She stayed hunched over, her hair falling in a curtain around her face, trying to catch her breath as tears streamed down her cheeks. The courtroom was silent now, save for the faint echoes of her retching.

Her gaze, blurry and unfocused, drifted upward, searching the crowded bleachers. She was looking for one face. One pair of eyes. She found them, but the expression she saw was ice cold. No sympathy, no compassion.

Her former friend stared down at her, and Y/N’s heart shattered all over again. The words they had once exchanged, years ago, came rushing back with painful clarity.

“We may fight for different sides, but I’ll never betray you, Y/N. You’ll never find a dagger in your back held by me.”

The promise had been made in the shadow of their diverging choices, shaped as much by the war as by the men they loved—Sirius and Rabastan. But now, it felt hollow, broken. Y/N dropped her gaze to the chains on her wrists, unable to bear the emptiness in her friend’s eyes.

She wasn’t sure what hurt more: Arabella’s fury or the silence of someone she had once called a sister.

As Hailey stood to cross-examine Arabella’s devastating testimony, Y/N could feel the weight of hopelessness settling deeper into her chest. Her defender was determined, her voice steady as she tried to redirect the courtroom’s focus. But it was no use. The emotions stirred by Arabella’s words hung in the air like smoke, suffocating any attempt to shift the narrative. The damage was done.

Hailey returned to her seat, her hands clenched tightly, and for the first time, Y/N saw doubt flicker in her eyes. There was no saving this. The audience murmured restlessly as Barty Crouch called the next witness.

“Alastor Moody.”

The sound of Moody’s wooden leg hitting the marble floor was loud, deliberate, as he approached the stand. Each step sent another dagger of dread into Y/N’s gut. She knew Moody would bury her. He’d never trusted her, not from the moment she joined the Order. A pureblood with ties to the Black family, the Lestranges? To him, she was a walking liability. What would he say now that Sirius and her had both been arrested? The thought that Sirius was being dragged through the mud, even in her trial, made her feel sick all over again. She clung to the belief that Sirius’s trial, whenever it came, would vindicate him. She knew him better than anyone—it simply didn’t make sense that he’d betray James and Lily.

“State your name and occupation,” Crouch said as Moody settled into the stand.

“Alastor Moody. Auror,” he replied, his magical eye spinning wildly, taking in every corner of the room. When it passed over Y/N, she felt as though her soul was being laid bare.

“Mr. Moody,” Crouch began, “you’ve known the accused for some time, haven’t you?”

“I have,” Moody said gruffly. “Worked with her in the Order of the Phoenix.”

“And what was your impression of her?”

Moody’s lips curled into something between a grimace and a smirk. “I never fully trusted her,” he said bluntly. “She’s got the bloodline, the connections, and that… feeling about her. You’ve been an Auror as long as I have, you start to recognize it. The way the Dark Arts cling to someone.”

Y/N’s heart sank. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she avoided looking at the audience. She didn’t need to see their faces to know what they were thinking.

“Interesting,” Crouch said, leaning forward slightly. “And what do you mean by this… ‘feeling’?”

Moody gave a sharp laugh. “Dark magic leaves traces. Most people can’t sense it, but after years of chasing dark wizards, you learn to pick up on it. And with Y/N, it’s always been there. A subtle hum, like static in the air.”

Crouch raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating. And yet, you worked alongside her?”

Moody shrugged. “I liked her sister well enough. She had a good heart, didn’t deserve what happened to her. But Y/N… I kept my guard up.”

Y/N stared at the floor, her mind racing. Where is Dumbledore? she thought bitterly. He had promised to protect her, to protect all of them when they joined the Order. But now, with everything falling apart, he was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t been there for Sirius either, leaving him to rot in Azkaban. What had been the point of their loyalty if it was only met with abandonment?

Crouch continued. “Mr. Moody, have you ever witnessed the accused using dark magic?”

Moody hesitated, just for a moment, before nodding. “I have. In battle. It was during a skirmish with Death Eaters. She used spells that were… questionable.”

Y/N closed her eyes, her chest tightening. I only ever used it to protect my friends. The memory flashed before her eyes: spells cast in desperation, the heat of battle, the need to keep her friends alive. She thanked whatever shred of luck she had left that Moody hadn’t been there the one time she had crossed the line entirely.

The Imperius Curse.

She could still remember the way it had felt—the surge of power, the absolute control. She had forced three Death Eaters to their knees, stopping them from killing Lily. The effort had drained her so completely she had nearly passed out, but for a brief moment, she had felt pride. That single act, if anyone had seen it, would have been enough to condemn her to Azkaban without trial.

“And what do you make of her capabilities, Mr. Moody?” Crouch asked, his voice sharp. “Do you believe she is capable of casting Fiendfyre?”

Moody didn’t answer immediately. His magical eye swiveled to Y/N again, and she felt like it was peeling back every layer of her being. “Aye,” he said finally. “She’s capable. Doesn’t mean she did it, but the skill’s there.”

It was the final nail in the coffin, and Y/N knew it. She didn’t even flinch as he stepped down from the stand. Her thoughts were elsewhere, drowning in regret and anger.

I did what I had to do, she told herself, but the weight of her choices felt heavier with each passing second. And still, she couldn’t shake the question echoing in her mind: Where is Dumbledore?

As Rabastan Lestrange strode to the witness stand, his smirk alone was enough to send a chill down Y/N’s spine. He looked far too composed for someone who had been convicted of his own heinous crimes. Y/N couldn’t understand why they had brought him here. What could he possibly add?

She gripped the arms of her chair tightly, her fingers digging into the wood. Her gaze darted briefly to the audience, scanning for her former friend, Rabastan’s wife, and found her sitting stiffly among the crowd. Their eyes didn’t meet.

The courtroom fell silent as Crouch began the questioning. “State your name and affiliation.”

“Rabastan Lestrange,” he said smoothly, leaning back in the witness chair. “A convicted servant of the Dark Lord.”

There were murmurs from the audience, but Rabastan seemed to bask in the attention. His dark eyes flicked to Y/N, glinting with malice.

“You’ve claimed to have knowledge of the accused’s activities. Please, enlighten us,” Crouch said, his tone cold.

Rabastan chuckled. “Oh, I know more than a little about Y/N Y/L/N. She and her beloved Sirius Black were always slippery, but I’ve seen through their charade from the start. Working for the Order of the Phoenix? No, no, they were playing both sides, working for the Dark Lord all along.”

Y/N’s head shot up, her chest tightening. “He’s lying!” she shouted, her voice cracking, but Rabastan barely flinched.

Crouch raised a hand to silence her. “The accused will remain quiet unless addressed.”

Rabastan leaned forward, speaking directly to the Wizengamot. “I’ve seen her wield the Dark Arts like a master. I was there the night the McKinnons died. She was wild with rage, casting Fiendfyre like it was second nature. Enjoyed every moment of it, too.”

Y/N’s vision blurred as her pulse thundered in her ears. “That’s not true!” she cried, her voice breaking.

Rabastan ignored her, smiling cruelly. “I even offered her that place among us. Told her the Dark Lord would appreciate her talents. She was delighted?”

Y/N felt bile rising in her throat. The sheer audacity of his lies was almost unbearable. It was true, he had offered her said place, but she had declined. She had hated him from the start—hated everything he and his kind stood for. But she had stayed silent about his crimes, out of a twisted sense of loyalty to his wife. A loyalty that now felt painfully one-sided.

Her eyes flicked to her former friend. She sat motionless, her face unreadable. Y/N wanted to scream at her, to demand how she could just sit there and let this happen. Her for him. Every time.

When Rabastan spoke again, his voice was almost gleeful. “I saw her kill them all.”

Y/N froze. Her heart dropped into her stomach. It was a lie, twisted and reframed, but it wasn’t entirely baseless. There had been a moment—a stupid, reckless moment during one of her secret meetings with her friend—when she had spoken too much, blinded by grief.

Rabastan’s grin widened. “She’s been playing everyone from the start.”

“I’m not a murderer!” Y/N screamed, tears streaming down her face now. “You’re lying! You’re all lying!”

Hailey stood abruptly, her voice trembling with barely contained anger. “This is ridiculous! These are baseless accusations from a convicted Death Eater. If he’s so certain, let’s prove it.”

There was a beat of silence before Hailey said the words Y/N had been dreading.

“We request the use of Veritaserum.”

Gasps echoed through the courtroom. Even Rabastan’s smirk faltered slightly.

Crouch raised an eyebrow. “A bold request. The accused will need to consent.”

Y/N’s hands trembled as she clutched the arms of her chair. She knew the truth wouldn’t completely exonerate her. The things she had done—the spells she had cast—would seal her fate, even if she hadn’t killed the McKinnons.

But what choice did she have?

Her voice was barely a whisper as she said, “I consent.”

The room fell silent. It was over. One way or another, it was over.

The vial of Veritaserum sat glinting on the prosecutor's desk, the liquid inside swirling like molten silver. Y/N stared at it for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest. She knew what it would do. It would lay her soul bare, tear away every veil of secrecy she had ever crafted. And there were things—truths—that could never see the light of day.

With trembling hands, she lifted the vial to her lips. It tasted bitter and metallic as it slid down her throat. Almost instantly, she felt its effects—a strange, floating sensation, as though her mind had been disconnected from her body. She fought the pull, digging deep into her resolve. You can’t lie. But maybe, just maybe, you can choose how much you reveal.

“Miss Y/L/N,” Crouch began, his voice sharp and eager, “did you kill Marlene McKinnon and her family?”

The words struck like a physical blow, but she didn’t flinch. Her gaze darted to her former friend in the bleachers. There was no sympathy in her eyes, no shared history, no bond of trust. Nothing but cold detachment.

Y/N’s mind reeled back to that moment—the fateful conversation with her friend. She had been blinded by grief, suffocated by rage. Marlene McKinnon, her sister’s partner on that doomed mission, had survived. Her sister had not. That bitterness, the unjust cruelty of it all, had spilled out.

“Do you think Marlene deserves to die too?” her friend had asked softly. A simple question, laden with dark implications.

And Y/N, angry and lost, had nodded. Just a single, damning gesture.

She didn’t have to say it aloud to know what would happen next. Her friend had treated it like a gift—an act of warped kindness, an answer to Y/N’s unspoken grief.

But did that make her the killer?

“I didn’t cast the fire,” Y/N said at last, her voice steady but hollow. It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

The courtroom held its collective breath. Crouch’s lips curled into a predatory smile. “Then who did?”

Y/N hesitated, the weight of the serum pressing on her, demanding an answer. She looked directly at her former friend, whose face betrayed no emotion.

“I believe it was Rabastan Lestrange who killed Marlene,” Y/N said. Her voice rang out clearly, each word deliberate.

Murmurs rippled through the audience, but Y/N didn’t care. She couldn’t look away from her friend. The betrayal cut deeper than any spell, deeper than the scars she carried.

“Have you ever cast Fiendfyre?” Crouch pressed, his voice rising with impatience.

“I’ve never cast it,” Y/N replied, and it was the truth.

Crouch’s frustration was palpable now. He paced before her, searching for a crack in her armor. “Have you done anything that could send you to Azkaban?”

Y/N’s heart thundered. She thought of the curses she’d used, the lines she had crossed to save her friends, her loyalty that had tied her hands and sealed her fate time and again. She could feel the truth clawing its way to the surface. But with the last vestiges of her will, she clung to one thought: He has to accuse me first. Don’t give him the power to condemn you.

Her voice was quiet but firm as she replied, “You will have to accuse me of a crime first if you want to convict me.”

For a long moment, silence hung heavy in the air. Crouch’s face twisted with anger and frustration. He knew he had lost.

Finally, he turned to the Wizengamot. “There is insufficient evidence to convict the accused of this crime. I am forced to call a verdict of not guilty.”

The words echoed in the chamber, and for a fleeting moment, Y/N felt a wave of relief. The chains binding her to the chair vanished, clattering to the ground.

But as she rose shakily to her feet, that relief turned to bitterness. The cheers from her lawyer, the gasps from the crowd, none of it mattered. James and Lily were gone. Peter was gone. Remus thought her a traitor, just like Sirius. And Sirius...

Sirius was in Azkaban. Alone, broken, abandoned, just as she had been.

She turned to leave the courtroom, her gaze falling once more on her friend in the bleachers. No words passed between them, but the message was clear. They were strangers now. Whatever bond they had shared was gone.

The freedom she had just won felt hollow. What was the point of any of it if she couldn’t save the people who mattered? If she couldn’t get Sirius out of that hellhole, what did this verdict even mean?

As she stepped into the cold air outside the Ministry, her prisoner number still etched on her arm, Y/N made a silent vow. If the world had given up on Sirius, then she would be the one to bring him back.

MASTERLIST