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The office was silent as Frank sat at his desk. It was dark but for the halo of light surrounding his workstation from a solitary candle floating midair above it. At that point in time, it would have been hard to tell just what time it actually was-he had been awake for hours pouring over files of werewolves who had either been seen in London on September 1st, or who had business there.
A small stack of manila folders were tossed messily on one corner of the desk's wooden surface, with multicolored requisition forms and other legal documents slipped arbitrarily in between. One file still remained to be scoured. Frank stared at it for a moment with distaste before sighing deeply, leaning forward, and flipping the folder open.
He froze. Staring pleasantly up at him, smiling sheepishly and shrugging in would-be casual way, was a picture of Remus Lupin. Frank laughed.
"You're starting to see things, old man," he said, rubbing his eyes before looking at the picture again, expecting Remus' image to suddenly morph into someone else's. It didn't.
Perhaps Frank was too tired for it to sink in; perhaps nothing would surprise him ever again. All he did was frown slightly. "That's... intriguing," he mused, before immediately remembering the close proximity Remus had to Alice...
"Oy, Frank?"
Frank jerked out of the sleep-deprived stupor he had suddenly fallen into and turned to find Fabian Prewett standing before him. He was wearing a favorite pair of maroon robes, the ones that his brother Gideon always made fun of him for because the maroon clashed horribly with Fabian's red hair.
"Yes, Sir?"
Fabian smiled sympathetically at Frank before motioning for him to stand. "It's time."
Frank's stomach seemed to drop from his body. Right, he had almost forgotten: the trial. The trial.
"So, they've reached a verdict?" Frank whispered to Fabian as they slid into the back row of the Wizengamot ten minutes later.
"'Bout to announce it, yeah," said Fabian, settling down onto the wooden bench and leaning forward so that his elbows rested on his knees. "Been talking it over since you left."
"Doesn't seem like there'd be much to discuss, does it," Frank responded darkly, unconsciously holding a hand to his ribcage, recalling the uncomfortable twinge of broken ribs-a rather low-priority injury in comparison to his rest, as far as his Healers had been concerned-that he had lived with for days after the ambush. Though, admittedly, he was grateful that the Healers had decided to put a stop to the sudden seizures which had left him momentarily paralyzed, and figured out why he was breathing up blood, before they tackled such a minor injury, uncomfortable or not. "I'll show them all these bloody curse scars all over my body if they need any more convincing."
Fabian shrugged powerlessly, and Frank settled back onto the bench, taking in the Wizengamot. The room was filled with people: members of the Wizengamot, mostly, but a few Ministry personnel, like Frank, had been given access to the trail. The room's stone walls, combined with the three chain-bearing chairs in the center of the room and the sinister attitude of those present, created a very tense atmosphere. Frank shivered before spying his old Headmaster, Dumbledore, across the other side of the room, sitting with Moody. The Headmaster gave Frank a brief smile before his attention was torn to the three manacled men entering the Wizengamot floor, but it was enough to bolster Frank for what was to come.
The three men, dressed in dirty and ragged clothing, were each seated in a chair. The chains snaked up the men's bodies and held fast, and the men did not pull at their shackles. They were pale, surly...
"Sure sign of guilt if there ever was one," whispered Fabian, gesturing to the body language of the three prisoners. Frank nodded, choked on some rising bile in his throat, and fervently wished that Alice was seated on his other side.
"Rosier, Avery, Mulciber," demanded Crouch, who was presiding from his high bench before the prisoners, looking every bit as grim and strained as he always did. The three men did not look at him.
"You have been charged with fraternization with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, with becoming his spies and his Death Eaters."
At this, the man in the center, Rosier, raised his head and stared unblinkingly around the room.
"You have been charged with planning and carrying out an ambush targeting two Aurors and two Aurors-in-training."
The three men sat up straight, their motions pulling against the chains and causing them to rattle loudly. Crouch began speaking again, tried to raise his voice over the noise, and was hardly heard. At this, Mulciber and Avery began tugging at their bonds in earnest, leering at Crouch, making the chains rattler louder.
"You have been charged with attacking and injuring the Auror-in-Training Frank Longbottom," yelled Crouch over the din. Somehow the eyes of the three men found Frank, and they stared at him, smiled disconcertingly at him, still pulling on their chains. "Enough!" shouted the presiding ministry official, pointing his wand at the bindings of the three men, his spell tightening the chains so that they dug into the convicts' skin, forcing each man rigid against the back of his chair.
By now, all the spectators in the room were leaning forward intently, varying degrees of disgust on their faces. Avery spat as best he could toward Crouch, though some of the spittle ended up running down his chin, which was now alternately blotched purple and white from the way the chains were blocking his circulatory system. Crouch ignored him.
"You have been charged," he continued, "with the murder of the Auror-in-Training Samuel Hage by way of the Killing Curse, and of the torture and murder of the Aurors Ewan and Greta Peakes."
Frank recoiled slightly, brought his hands up to his eyes to try to block the rushing memory.
"Frank! Frank, they're dead! It's an ambush-"
"Samuel, behind you!"
A shout, a blast of green light illuminating the young Auror as he crumples to the ground, a look of concern on his flushed face, his eyes blank-
Frank felt the heavy weight of Fabian's hand on his shoulder. He stiffened, recalled his courage, and forced himself to look into the doomed men's eyes as the verdict was announced.
Crouch's voice trembled and Avery, panting slightly from fighting against his bonds, his face flushed and his eyes bloodshot, crowed triumphantly. "Don't think this is the end. Don't think for one second that by capturing any of us, the Dark Lord's work is finished. You may capture some of us, but you will never weed out the Dark sympathizers hidden in your midst!"
"Silence!" roared Crouch, finally disconcerted enough to crack. "For these charges so named, you have been found guilty." He pointed his wand threateningly at the three men as a group of Aurors prepared to take them away. "May you rot in Azkaban forever!"
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