Chapter Text
Sebastian’s mouth was uncomfortably dry.
He was painfully aware of the heavy iron chains adorning his wrists as he was marched, only one day later, down the dark halls of the Ministry of Magic’s dungeons, officers on either side. The clanking of the metal against his slim, bruised limbs echoed along the stone walls.
He already knew the trial would be sped up, but in the flurry of action now, the significance of it was really sinking in. His head spun as his heart pounded and his skin chilled against the musty air of the dungeons. Surely, the only reason they would move it up was because they were absolutely sure of his guilt and punishment.
A shock-like chill rippled down his spine as a draft met them from an opened door and he expected to finally see the courtroom, but it was just another hallway, though shorter this time. Goosebumps raised beneath the rough cotton getup which was protecting him from very little down here, at least it wasn’t striped like a prison uniform. Not yet.
The polished black floor of the hallway reflected a blurred, vague image of himself as he took a look down to watch himself be led along it. He came to a halt with the officers as they finally came to a stop in front of an imposing set of double doors. Sebastian gulped.
This was it.
The officers mumbled to each other. One of them was the man from before. He didn’t recognize the other man, but he hardly noticed them all anymore. The unfamiliar officer knocked twice on the hard wooden door.
A few seconds passed before a muffled unlatching sound could be heard from the other side, and both doors opened with a creak echoing in the wide space beyond. The officers gripped Sebastian’s arms, though he stepped readily over the threshold.
The courtroom was huge, he had to crane his neck to catch sight of the shadowy ceiling, barely lit by the sparse torches. Tall, dark-stained wooden stands lined the hexagonal room, benches upon benches reaching up and out, meeting him on either side. They were full of witches and wizards, some wearing red robes and some wearing black, hats on every head adding to the effect of their necks craning down at him.
As he and the officers walked further into the room, arriving at the large circular tiled center floor, the Wizengamot bored holes into him with their collectivestare. A whispered rumble could be heard rippling through the stands as they got a better view of him, some of them staring down at him with unconcealed shock, even horror, others simply with pity, but all were very grave.
Sebastian didn’t know any of these people, but somehow he felt that he had personally let them down.
His footsteps shuffled with an echo, the added chains clashing with the guards’ boots against the hard, smooth floor. The pit in his stomach fell markedly further, a coldness setting into his bones.
Sebastian absentmindedly glanced toward the ceiling again and was taken aback at the shadowy forms of what could only be dementors drifting directly above a thin, shimmering patronus shield, as if eager to pounce on their newest prey. He had read about them. They guarded Azkaban, where he was surely headed. It made sense, he supposed, but that didn’t help the fear clinging to his chest.
The officers sat him down unceremoniously on a rough wooden chair in the very center of the room. The additional, thick metal chains hanging from it sprang to life and eagerly caught his wrists and ankles, joining the iron clasps already there. He was starting to feel suffocated by all the chains on him now, he hadn’t expected them to be so heavy.
Sebastian’s heart was thumping so loud he was certain they could all hear it, but he tried to keep his face neutral, hoping he didn’t look too much a mess,and lifted his gaze to the judge’s bench before him. Merlin be damned, he was going to face this with whatever shreds of self respect still remained at his disposal. Answering for his crimes with some semblance of dignity was all he could do now. His eyes settled on the judge.
Directly in front of him, in the highest, central seat, sat the oldest man he had ever seen.
The wizard had almost no hair, his skin wrinkled and thin, age spots visible even from Sebastian’s seat. The man donned a long powdered wig that slumped almost comically over his wrinkled head. He lifted a pair of old-fashioned spectacles set on a dainty handle, a lorgnette Sebastian had heard them called.
A thick golden chain caught his attention, it had an official-looking pendant hanging perched on the man’s robes from his thin neck, which seemed to strain from the weight.
The wizard was looking him over in an appraising manner, but finally cleared his throat and spoke in a warbling voice from above.
“Criminal hearing of the thirteenth of April, eighteen-ninety-one, into the offenses committed under the Wizarding Criminal Law of the United Kingdom of Great Britain by Sebastian Evander Sallow, resident at Bothy 3, Feldcroft, Scotland.”
The man’s voice was thin and wheezing, but he droned on all the same, at a plodding pace.
“Presiding: Faris Hildebald Jeptha Methuselah Spavin, Minister for Magic…” the old judge gestured to himself.
so that’s old “Spout-hole”, then.
“Overseeing this Criminal Trial: Demetrius Ambrosius Shacklebolt, Head of the Auror Office of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—“
A tall black man with an interesting, ornate beard inclined his head from the section with black-robed court members.
“Prosecutor: Patrick John Mickle, Chief Prosecutor of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”
A brown-haired, thickly mustached gentleman sat straight-backed in a bench behind Spavin to his left.
“—and Court Scribe: Esther Josephine Marks.”
A woman, in a seat quite a ways below Spavin on his left-hand side, nodded curtly, eyes flicking over her half-moon spectacles and tightly tied blonde hair, slicked back so severely that it was sure not to budge an inch any time soon.
There was an odd pause, the old man slowly shifted in his seat and shuffled his papers in a prolonged sort of way.
Only a prosecutor, no defense. Right. Why had he agreed to that, again? Never mind.
Spavin’s slow, wheezy voice rang out in the large room.
“Present: the jury of the Wizengamot, amounting to seventy members of the Ministry for Magic of the United Kingdom and thirty members of the general wizarding public.”
The Minister for Magic finally lifted his watery eyes from his parchment and slowly looked meaningfully to his associates beside him before clearing his throat and calling with a lifted hand, waving lazily,
“Call the witnesses for the defense!”
There was a pause and Sebastian heard witches and wizards shifting in their seats, the added tension certainly wasn’t helping his stress level, and he wished his chained hands could wipe that bead of sweat forming from his brow.
Spavin had to clear his throat impatiently before Sebastian noticed that someone must have slipped out.
The young officer from the holding cells poked his head from behind the double doors into the room and said, “Sorry, sir. They’re on their way.”
The door creaked once again and Sebastian could only stare blankly, frozen stiff, as Henrietta walked through, backlit by the signature red glow of Ominis’ wand, who followed after her calmly, his arm gently resting awkwardly against her elbow.
No Anne.
Good.
Sebastian had to crane his neck a bit as they passed to see them, but his eyes kept dancing about, afraid of what they would find. Something lurched in Sebastian’s chest as he couldn’t help but notice both of their raw, red-rimmed and tear-tired eyes, the flush painted against Ominis stark against his pale complexion. Sebastian’s breath shuddered as if he would start to weep once again, but no tears came.
Henrietta and Ominis seated themselves in a section at the bottom of the benches behind him, Both of their grave, obviously sleep-deprived expressions certainly did not escape Sebastian’s notice, though Henrietta appeared better, a little less broken than the boy beside her. Yes, though Ominis held himself stiffly- it was beyond the custom aristocratic habits of his upbringing, in that certain way Sebastian had only seldom seen, at those few times when he had beheld his best friend about to face his own dreaded parents.
An odd choking sound escaped Sebastian.
A guard beckoned Henrietta quickly from her seat. She made her way slowly to stand beside Sebastian’s chair. She was not making eye contact with him, her face turned away, preferring to check with the guards all the way that she was doing it all right.
As she finally, inevitably, faced the bench before them, a glance her way revealed that her expression was seemingly unreadable. But under that straight-set, polite façade, those bloodshot eyes and tight-clenched jaw were all too clear. He had hurt them all so much. Sebastian lowered his head, eyes tracing the rough linen stitches of his trousers.
Spavin cleared his throat again and a shuffling of parchment could be heard now throughout the courtroom as he recited each name with sluggish, ceremonial emphasis.
“Witnesses for the defense: Henrietta Marie Byrne, Ominis Morpheus Elias Octavius Gaunt, and… yes, not present, Anne Etheldreda Sallow.” He paused. “And why has the witness not presented herself, then…? ” He trailed off, peering at the officers
One cleared his throat.
“She was unwell sir, not fit to appear.”
Sebastian’s chest squeezed so tightly that his body, though firmly bound, still managed to cave in a little upon itself, contracting in severe, wordless emotion.
Why did it hurt so much?
The court scribe, Esther Marks, was clicking away vehemently on her typewriter.
The Minister continued, “And, yes… the charges...” He lifted his next parchment before him a little to catch more light.
“…the charges against the accused are as follows: That he did knowingly, deliberately, and in full knowledge of the heinous nature and illegality of his actions, commit the offense of murder of the first degree by way of the killing curse—“ He cleared his throat awkwardly, “Avada Kedavra against his own paternal uncle, Solomon Beathan Sallow, his legal guardian, on the tenth of April, eighteen-ninety-one.”
Somewhere in the corner of Sebastian’s vision, a hand drifted near a wand, almost unconsciously. Sebastian was too engrossed to notice it much, the pace of it all was maddening. He was now only able to see the gnarled hands gripping the long scroll above him, and was overly conscious of Henri’s breathing beside him, sensing the quickened, labored notes in it. She was anxious. He didn’t dare look at her.
Spavin lowered the parchment quickly and peered down at him through his dainty, handled spectacles, his eyes enlarged almost comically through them. Sebastian would have snickered if this was another day, another him. But now his hands merely shook in their chains.
Spavin’s warbling tones floated down to him.
“You are Sebastian Evander Sallow, of Bothy 3, Feldcroft, Scotland?”
Solomon’s home. Not his. It had been ages since he last slept there. No bed, no safety, no home. He was a stranger, a stranger that slept in a shack.
Sebastian forced himself to keep the man’s gaze.
“Yes.”
“You did, indeed, perform the killing curse on your uncle, Solomon Sallow, in the hillside catacomb in Feldcroft, Scotland, on the night of April the tenth?”
Someone choked quietly on their breath behind him. Sebastian’s ears burned and he struggled to swallow the lump in his throat. His voice sounded strange to his own ears.
“Yes.”
“And you are aware of the heinous nature of the Unforgivable killing curse?”
His voice grew smaller
“Yes.”
“And you committed this, in sound mind and with reasonable powers of discretion, with the express intent to kill your Uncle?”
It was almost a whisper now. He was shrinking in on himself, trapped under the Minister's appraising stare.
“Yes.”
“Speak up, boy.”
There was a threatening sort of firmness beneath Spavin’s wheeze.
Sebastian’s voice shook as he confirmed it once more, and he felt the mask of his face stretch as his eyes grew wide, the tightness in his chest threatening to strangle him.
Henrietta took a deep, shuddering breath behind him. He squeezed his eyes shut to block it out.
Coward.
“Y-yes.”
Spavin’s words darted out like a snake bite.
“Look at me when you speak, boy.”
The words jerked obedience from Sebastian.
“And you are indeed sixteen years of age, born on February the eleventh, eighteen-seventy-five?”
Tears were brimming now. It was stupid, just his birthday. Their birthday.
“Yes.”
The old man sat back in his seat and glanced to his left at the prosecutor.
“Mr. Mickle, you may begin your examination.”
The moustached man rose quickly and straightened the tight suit jacket beneath his robe, eyes sharp and flickering with something deep and unsettling as he strode to the center of the room, very near where Sebastian sat. The prosecutor merely faced him for a moment, perhaps relishing the sight before him, before spinning swiftly on his heel and addressing the court in a thick Irish accent.
“Wizards and Witches of the Wizengamot. Your honor.”
He gestured gracefully to the Minister.
“The case before you all today is a simple one, tragic and regrettable as it may be.”
He stepped back, indicating Sebastian now.
“Young Mr. Sallow has not had a pleasant time as of late, to be sure. With an ill sister and the tragic absence of his dearly departed parents, it is expected for a young man to struggle with the challenges of life.”
The prosecutor began to pace, still emphatically addressing the court.
“However, Mr. Sallow has only ever been treated with the utmost attention, care, and compassion from his uncle, the deceased victim, Mr. Solomon Sallow. He was additionally supported by every reasonable means both thoroughly and openly by the faculty of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
The prosecutor had stilled, addressing individual portions of his audience in the chamber, making pointed eye contact.
But a ringing was growing in Sebastian’s ears, and his own breath was starting to drown the man’s voice out.
“Therefore, can we indeed find any remotely clement explanation for…”
Sebastian’s very blood churned inside him.
“…express intent for the most heinous act… the sound mind of a young man who… frequent disciplinary action…”
The room grew darker in his vision, shadows creeping from the edges threateningly.
“…opportunities to turn away from this path of… clearly rife with dark, evil magic… willingly and readily… the Killing Curse, as an Unforgivable… an automatic life sentence…”
Sebastian was certain he would pass out, but the scene continued before him, small and distant as it seemed.
“…tried as an adult due to his… young man expressing extraordinary depravity… no need for direct evidence, but still…”
One thing rang out clearly, followed by a thick moment of silence that snapped Sebastian brutally back to the crawling reality that crashed through the Prosecutor’s speech.
“Miss Henrietta Byrne.”