Fic: Prelude to a Hearing for turkeyish
Title: Prelude to a Hearing
Author: fpb
Recipient: turkeyish
Character(s): Ron, Ginny, Draco, Pansy, Blaise, Theodore
Wordcount: 1313
PRELUDE TO A HEARING
I
“I wonder,” said Auror Ronald Weasley to his sister, “whether these guys even realize the war is over.”
“And that they can’t always expect us to fight it for them either,” answered Ginny Porter, with an angry frown on her beautiful face. “Neither Harry nor you nor I are supposed to be spending the rest of our lives looking for supposed Voldemort supporters.”
“Well, me, perhaps. I’m an Auror after all. But I wish he hadn’t involved you and Harry.”
“Same here… Well, next time I’ll be sure to have a championship match abroad, too. Or I’ll develop spattergroit.” For a moment or two, both of them snickered. “You can only smile and demur politely so many times before you lose your temper.”
”Maybe this time they’ll get the message, who knows?”
“Yeah.”
Then she looked at her brother. There was a troubled air about him, as if he were facing an unpleasant choice.
II
Draco entered the room to be met by gales of laughter. His features immediately fell into a mask of chilly disapproval.
“Look out, kids, here comes Daddy!” answered Pansy Parkinson’s voice from where she sprawled across a large settee, her head in Blaise Zabini’s lap. “Everyone get serious!” Blaise turned to look at Draco, and his teeth flashed in a cheeky grin.
“Hmpf,” muttered Draco as he sat down on his usual armchair. “Glad to see you think there’s so much to laugh about.”
“You think there isn’t?” said a quiet voice from behind him. ”So far as I can see, things are going our way.”
“Barely,” said Draco. “I’ll admit you did a good job, Theo. You tied them up in knots till they didn’t know whether they were coming or going.” For a second, Draco’s chilly countenance turned to a mocking grin. “You certainly showed them what it takes to be a Law-Wizard.” Theo Nott grinned and bowed elaborately. “But that doesn’t get us anywhere nearer.”
“It gives us a lawyer we can trust,” said Blaise Zabini, “and that was one major problem. As long as we could only have court-appointed counsel, we were at the mercy of whatever stitch-up they wanted to devise.”
“But that doesn’t change matters. Tomorrow we are marching in to meet a jury of Mudbloods, Gryffindors and other interesting life-forms, most of which will have taken hits from the Dark Lord and will be all too happy to make us pay for it. I don’t reckon we’ll be getting our rights back - not in our lifetimes, at least.”
“I think the jury itself is the weak point,” said Nott thoughtfully, “and that is why I worked so hard to be accepted as a Law-Wizard. The court is inevitably stuffed by Ministry men, and that means we have no hope from them. But a bunch of people from the streets… whatever their prejudice, I think we can work on them.” Draco snorted.
“And there was another thing we wanted to talk about, Draco dear,” broke in Pansy. “Your gear. Your gear, and your attitude.”
Draco looked at her as if she had grown a second head. “My gear? What is wrong with my gear? My attitude, I can understand, but my gear?”
He looked down at himself. From the translucent, embroidered raw silk of his shirt, to the combed wool with fine edges of his cloak, the top-quality cotton and linen in his trousers, to his cordwain boots, everything was the height of quality and grace. He would not have gone out of the house wearing anything less.
“I knew you wouldn’t understand. Problem is, Draco, you aren’t a girl.” This was Blaise.
“Well, neither are you!”
“True, but my mother is. And you know what she often tells me?”
“No, what?”
“Don’t ever forget, Blaise, clothes are a tool. Clothes are an instrument.”
“That’s it in one, Draco. What do you think the jury will think if you come out there dressed as you are?” This was Pansy.
“Dressed as I am? What’s wrong with it? This is the best I’ve got.”
“Exactly,” came in Nott. “Better than about ninety-nine wizards and witches in every hundred will ever be able to afford. Now think, Draco, think! We aren’t going there to impress them. We’re begging. Begging for our rights, but begging. The last thing we want is to make them think we’re trying to overawe them.”
There was a silence, as Draco fought down a childish but inevitable feeling of resentment. As he looked at it, his friends had a point. There was no advantage in increasing the Mudbloods’ resentment, nor in underlining that recovering their civil rights would give them access to considerable fortunes. Better hang back and be inconspicuous.
“So what should I do? Dress like a beggar?”
“No, don’t be silly. You wouldn’t be credible anyway.”
“Wear whatever you want, but be inconspicuous. I don’t care if you have it specially cut at the Sartoria Arcani, but it must not draw attention to itself.”
“Oh really? And how do I do that? I don’t think I even understand what you want.”
“All right, then,” said Nott, “do what I tell you. Ask your house-elves. They’ll know exactly what to wear.”
“ASK… MY… HOUSE-ELVES…?” stuttered Draco as though incapable of understanding the simple words. Pansy rolled her eyes, and Blaise and Nott looked at each other with a well-what-did-you-expect expression.
III
The next day found Ronald Weasley waiting in a certain street, two blocks away from the Ministry of Magic. He was in mufti, out of his Auror uniform, and wearing deliberately inconspicuous clothes that might have been Muggle or Wizarding according to how one looked at them. Soon the people he was waiting for came into view.
“Hey, Nott! Malfoy!” The call was soft, but reached the right ears. The four people who had been walking on the other side of the road crossed over. They all were wearing modest, unnoticeable dress; Draco’s was in shades of dry, matt brown.
“What do you want, Weasley?” Nott’s voice was neutral, but Ron could easily see that each of the four had one of their hands in a pocket, gripping something long and thin. He kept both his hands clearly in sight.
“Just thought I’d tell you a couple of things. First, Harry and I will not be testifying. They refused to summon us when they realized how we were going to present matters.” Ron saw nothing, but felt the four Slytherins relaxing.
“Second, the prosecutor wants your guts for garters, and she is more than willing to bend every rule there is to get them, but I don’t think the judges are in with her. At least, she seemed to deliberately keep them out of her attempt to suborn us.”
The Slytherins looked at each other, and Ron felt a further, subtle shift in mood. Nott turned to him.
“Thank you, Auror Weasley. That might be very useful.” He waited a second. “May I ask how come you’re telling us this?”
“I’ve been fighting with myself over it, to be frank. I knew the prosecutor was laying traps for you. I don’t trust any of you, but I came to the conclusion that I’d rather let everyone have their rights under law, and take my chances, than let the prosecutors take short cuts that might one day be used against others. It’s not out of love for you, I assure you.”
“All the same,” said Theo Nott, the lawyer, “we are grateful.” His hand shot out, and, before Ron could do anything, took his hand and shook it, short and hard.
“Thank you, Weasley.”
Ron watched them go. He had not wanted to shake any of their hands, and the swift, strong grip had been an unwelcome surprise. He wished he could have avoided it.
END OF THE STORY.
Author: fpb
Recipient: turkeyish
Character(s): Ron, Ginny, Draco, Pansy, Blaise, Theodore
Wordcount: 1313
PRELUDE TO A HEARING
I
“I wonder,” said Auror Ronald Weasley to his sister, “whether these guys even realize the war is over.”
“And that they can’t always expect us to fight it for them either,” answered Ginny Porter, with an angry frown on her beautiful face. “Neither Harry nor you nor I are supposed to be spending the rest of our lives looking for supposed Voldemort supporters.”
“Well, me, perhaps. I’m an Auror after all. But I wish he hadn’t involved you and Harry.”
“Same here… Well, next time I’ll be sure to have a championship match abroad, too. Or I’ll develop spattergroit.” For a moment or two, both of them snickered. “You can only smile and demur politely so many times before you lose your temper.”
”Maybe this time they’ll get the message, who knows?”
“Yeah.”
Then she looked at her brother. There was a troubled air about him, as if he were facing an unpleasant choice.
II
Draco entered the room to be met by gales of laughter. His features immediately fell into a mask of chilly disapproval.
“Look out, kids, here comes Daddy!” answered Pansy Parkinson’s voice from where she sprawled across a large settee, her head in Blaise Zabini’s lap. “Everyone get serious!” Blaise turned to look at Draco, and his teeth flashed in a cheeky grin.
“Hmpf,” muttered Draco as he sat down on his usual armchair. “Glad to see you think there’s so much to laugh about.”
“You think there isn’t?” said a quiet voice from behind him. ”So far as I can see, things are going our way.”
“Barely,” said Draco. “I’ll admit you did a good job, Theo. You tied them up in knots till they didn’t know whether they were coming or going.” For a second, Draco’s chilly countenance turned to a mocking grin. “You certainly showed them what it takes to be a Law-Wizard.” Theo Nott grinned and bowed elaborately. “But that doesn’t get us anywhere nearer.”
“It gives us a lawyer we can trust,” said Blaise Zabini, “and that was one major problem. As long as we could only have court-appointed counsel, we were at the mercy of whatever stitch-up they wanted to devise.”
“But that doesn’t change matters. Tomorrow we are marching in to meet a jury of Mudbloods, Gryffindors and other interesting life-forms, most of which will have taken hits from the Dark Lord and will be all too happy to make us pay for it. I don’t reckon we’ll be getting our rights back - not in our lifetimes, at least.”
“I think the jury itself is the weak point,” said Nott thoughtfully, “and that is why I worked so hard to be accepted as a Law-Wizard. The court is inevitably stuffed by Ministry men, and that means we have no hope from them. But a bunch of people from the streets… whatever their prejudice, I think we can work on them.” Draco snorted.
“And there was another thing we wanted to talk about, Draco dear,” broke in Pansy. “Your gear. Your gear, and your attitude.”
Draco looked at her as if she had grown a second head. “My gear? What is wrong with my gear? My attitude, I can understand, but my gear?”
He looked down at himself. From the translucent, embroidered raw silk of his shirt, to the combed wool with fine edges of his cloak, the top-quality cotton and linen in his trousers, to his cordwain boots, everything was the height of quality and grace. He would not have gone out of the house wearing anything less.
“I knew you wouldn’t understand. Problem is, Draco, you aren’t a girl.” This was Blaise.
“Well, neither are you!”
“True, but my mother is. And you know what she often tells me?”
“No, what?”
“Don’t ever forget, Blaise, clothes are a tool. Clothes are an instrument.”
“That’s it in one, Draco. What do you think the jury will think if you come out there dressed as you are?” This was Pansy.
“Dressed as I am? What’s wrong with it? This is the best I’ve got.”
“Exactly,” came in Nott. “Better than about ninety-nine wizards and witches in every hundred will ever be able to afford. Now think, Draco, think! We aren’t going there to impress them. We’re begging. Begging for our rights, but begging. The last thing we want is to make them think we’re trying to overawe them.”
There was a silence, as Draco fought down a childish but inevitable feeling of resentment. As he looked at it, his friends had a point. There was no advantage in increasing the Mudbloods’ resentment, nor in underlining that recovering their civil rights would give them access to considerable fortunes. Better hang back and be inconspicuous.
“So what should I do? Dress like a beggar?”
“No, don’t be silly. You wouldn’t be credible anyway.”
“Wear whatever you want, but be inconspicuous. I don’t care if you have it specially cut at the Sartoria Arcani, but it must not draw attention to itself.”
“Oh really? And how do I do that? I don’t think I even understand what you want.”
“All right, then,” said Nott, “do what I tell you. Ask your house-elves. They’ll know exactly what to wear.”
“ASK… MY… HOUSE-ELVES…?” stuttered Draco as though incapable of understanding the simple words. Pansy rolled her eyes, and Blaise and Nott looked at each other with a well-what-did-you-expect expression.
III
The next day found Ronald Weasley waiting in a certain street, two blocks away from the Ministry of Magic. He was in mufti, out of his Auror uniform, and wearing deliberately inconspicuous clothes that might have been Muggle or Wizarding according to how one looked at them. Soon the people he was waiting for came into view.
“Hey, Nott! Malfoy!” The call was soft, but reached the right ears. The four people who had been walking on the other side of the road crossed over. They all were wearing modest, unnoticeable dress; Draco’s was in shades of dry, matt brown.
“What do you want, Weasley?” Nott’s voice was neutral, but Ron could easily see that each of the four had one of their hands in a pocket, gripping something long and thin. He kept both his hands clearly in sight.
“Just thought I’d tell you a couple of things. First, Harry and I will not be testifying. They refused to summon us when they realized how we were going to present matters.” Ron saw nothing, but felt the four Slytherins relaxing.
“Second, the prosecutor wants your guts for garters, and she is more than willing to bend every rule there is to get them, but I don’t think the judges are in with her. At least, she seemed to deliberately keep them out of her attempt to suborn us.”
The Slytherins looked at each other, and Ron felt a further, subtle shift in mood. Nott turned to him.
“Thank you, Auror Weasley. That might be very useful.” He waited a second. “May I ask how come you’re telling us this?”
“I’ve been fighting with myself over it, to be frank. I knew the prosecutor was laying traps for you. I don’t trust any of you, but I came to the conclusion that I’d rather let everyone have their rights under law, and take my chances, than let the prosecutors take short cuts that might one day be used against others. It’s not out of love for you, I assure you.”
“All the same,” said Theo Nott, the lawyer, “we are grateful.” His hand shot out, and, before Ron could do anything, took his hand and shook it, short and hard.
“Thank you, Weasley.”
Ron watched them go. He had not wanted to shake any of their hands, and the swift, strong grip had been an unwelcome surprise. He wished he could have avoided it.
END OF THE STORY.