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So having spoken formally to release Diana from the gag order on reporting the trial, Amelia wasn't quite done. She also stealthily mouthed the words, "Drinks tomorrow, after work?" It went without saying that it would be at their usual place. A discreet look of acceptance was all it took, to know the message had been received.
Minutes later, Amelia was face to face with the newly exonerated Sirius Black, smiling so widely, his face threatened to split into two. After offering a congratulatory handshake, she left him to the tumult of Wizengamot members for a few minutes. All of them were suddenly eager to affirm 'they knew he was innocent all along', and 'such a shame they'd not been able to do anything to prove it'. Those in the know diligently schooled their faces at the expression of those sentiments.
Meanwhile, Amelia had offered Sirius' legal representative a hearty handshake and had mouthed those words one more time. "Drinks tomorrow, after work?" The most subtle of nods was all she needed in reply, before she turned back to the newly minted free man and started to herd him out of the courtroom. There were important things still to address.
~~~☆☆☆☆☆~~~
When Phyllida Erskine-Brown (then Phyllida Trask) had taken a position in Equity Court Chambers at the Inner Temple, her assigned mentor was an irascible, self-described 'Old Bailey hack', one Horace Rumpole. In addition to teaching her much more about law than she'd ever learned at University while she acted as his Junior, he'd also introduced her to the somewhat dubious pleasure of Pommeroy's Wine Bar (and 'Chateau Thames Embankment'), just off Fleet Street.
Even after getting married to Claude Erskine-Brown, a fellow barrister in Chambers, and becoming qualified as a Queen's Counsel, or taking silk in the legal vernacular, she still took time to spend an hour or two with Rumpole periodically at Pommeroy's. Though she drew the line at joining him in his usual 'plonk', selecting a much more upmarket label.
So it was with chagrin that she found Horace at Pommeroy's that night, the day after Black's Wizengamot trial. The old boy appeared to be deep in avoidance strategies of the upcoming Christmas holidays (she'd not refer to Yule in the Muggle world of course), most likely also seeking refuge from that formidable wife of his, known around Chambers as, variously, Hilda Rumpole or 'She Who Must Be Obeyed'. The irreverent and largely well repressed side of Phyllida couldn't avoid the occasional (and somewhat inevitable) comparisons in her head to 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named'.
Normally Phyllida loved to sit with Rumpole and trade witty insights into their colleagues in Chambers or the vagaries of the Justices they'd encountered in the courtroom. But tonight, she'd really just wanted to spend the evening with her fellow witches, putting the Magical and legal worlds to rights behind some discreetly placed privacy wards, after all the inane wrangling of the Sirius Black case.
It wasn't to be, however. Rumpole was at his most charming (two glasses of plonk already on board) and he'd captured her attention just as Amelia Bones had arrived, followed moments later by their mutual friend, the journalist Diana Trent. When Rumpole waxed lyrical about being 'bewitched by the combined beauty' of the trio of women, they all knew the jig was up. Though the three wondered just how the old fellow had come by his knowledge of Magic…and managed to avoid being Obliviated.
But the wily old lawyer was not allowing himself to be drawn, not with a new audience to share his wit and wisdom with. After a brief recount of his first and perhaps greatest day in the sun (the Penge Bungalow murders of course, "Alone and without a leader!"), he took the three witches on a winding journey of a barrister with too many years spent under the dubious glare of those such as Mr Justice Bullingham and others of his ilk.
But funnily enough, it was just what Phyllida, Diana and Amelia needed. Diana had spent more years than she could count on the cutting edge of photojournalism, and had developed a weary jadedness that rivalled Rumpole himself, mired in telling tales of wars, poverty and corruption from around the world.
Amelia had already been through one Wizarding war, facing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (or the Hyphenated Dark Lord as Amelia sometimes thought of him). She'd lost most of her family in that war, leaving her with only one cousin and her beloved niece Susan. She'd also seen her love of the law corrupted by Death Eaters buying their way out of consequences, by lining the purses of Ministry officials and the Minister himself. Indeed, just yesterday, they'd all been forced to face the fact that corruption was like the many-headed Hydra, cut one off and another will grow in its place.
As a very smart, but Muggleborn witch, Phyllida's own discontent with the Wizarding world came from the fact that she'd had to largely make her own way in the Muggle world on leaving Hogwarts. Even after attending Cambridge University and coming down with a top notch first, Phyllida had barely been able to get a foot in the door for client referrals through the Ministry or the Wizengamot. While always intending to straddle the Magical and Muggle worlds professionally, the young barrister had found herself only being given the opportunity to dip her toe into Wizarding law very occasionally, and usually only for the most hopeless of cases. She might have made more of a go of it if she'd decided to take the path of a solicitor, but Phyllida had dreamed of being a barrister from the time she'd known what one was. And the Wizarding world would never have given her the ability to take silk; she was justifiably proud of being a Queen's Counsel.
Having finished woolgathering, Phyllida turned her attention back to the others gathered around the table, tucked into the quieter corner of Pommeroy's; well as quiet as it got this close to Christmas. Unsurprisingly, Rumpole was charming her fellow witches with tales of legal derring-do in the Old Bailey and Uxbridge Magistrates courts, investing them with a fervour that would not have been lost in telling tales of fighting dragons in times of yore. Then again, Phyllida usually concurred with Rumpole. She too would choose a battle with a dragon over a bad day in court with Judge Bullingham, given her druthers.
That got her thinking. If Rumpole had managed to get around the Statute of Secrecy and truly knew about Magic, she'd love to blow his mind by taking him to see the Welsh Green Dragon Reserve. She thought he'd likely find a kindred spirit there. Surreptitiously, under the table, Phyllida pulled her wand out from her sleeve, then cast the strongest privacy charm she could manage non-verbally. Time to beard the lion in his den. Amelia recognised the feeling of the charm settling and gave her a sidelong look, as if to question what she was up to. Phyllida just shot back a quick wink and surreptitiously mouthed "Trust me."
But before she started the inquisition of her one-time mentor and now old friend, she stood, interrupting Rumpole's tale of the newest Timson to fall foul of the law.
"Sorry, nature calls. I'll make up for spoiling your tale by buying you a drink or two. It's my shout anyway. Same again all round?" At the sounds of assent from her friends, Phyllida moved off to the bar area, after a quick detour via the ladies loo.
She returned with a glass of Sangiovese for Diana, and a Riesling for Amelia, along with a bottle of a nice Barolo recommended by Jack Pommeroy, to split with Rumpole. When he quirked an eyebrow at her choice, she responded, "It's almost Christmas, my friend. Enjoy something with a bit of quality for a change."
"Oh surely you mean Yule, don't you?" he responded, with no more emotion than he would if commenting on the weather. The gloves, it appears, were off. "I might be a Squib my dear, but you need to work on your subtlety when casting from under the table. You were looking a little constipated at the effort."
And wasn't that bit of news a surprise? Given Rumpole's capacity for finding himself with the most odd clients, she could see that he might have come across magic by accident. She'd never suspected he was a Squib though. Sadly, there went the trip to the dragon reserve, it would probably be no more out of the ordinary than facing Hilda Rumpole, the infamous 'She', after returning home late, having over-indulged in Rumpole's normal plonk.
Meanwhile, Amelia and Diana, who'd spent many an evening listening to Rumpole stories from their barrister friend, simply leaned back in their seats, wine in hand and merrily sipped away, ready for the upcoming floor show.
"Ahhh, I guess you are wanting the full tale then, dear Portia," Rumpole intoned, using the nickname he'd rarely dared address to her directly.
"Very well then, know that names and dates have been redacted for mine and others' protection, but here we go." Rumpole took a healthy swig of the rather robust wine Phyllida had brought back from the bar.
"I won't tell you my parents' names. They've long disowned me and I view them with similar disdain. So once I knew I was on my own…being shipped off to my Muggle Great Aunt Isla at the age of eight did rather give the game away, I was determined to make a success of myself within the Muggle law courts. But the most odd thing kept happening; I always kept getting 'randomly' assigned the cases where there was Muggle-Magical overlap."
Amelia and Phyllida shared a look. While there wasn't an 'official' list of Squib barristers and solicitors operating within Her Majesty's courts, the two witches had heard of a sort of underground referral process for wizards and witches who fell afoul of the Muggle law enforcement process. It seems Rumpole had been kept in the loop all along.
"I met your latest client, you know. Probably twelve or thirteen years ago, give or take."
At that announcement, Phyllida's jaw dropped. Rumpole's involvement in the Magical law community was much greater than she realised.
"Ahhh, I see that I've surprised you once more, my dear. I do get the Daily Prophet, though the owl has to drop it off in the back garden for me. Hilda rather frowns on owls regularly popping into the kitchen at breakfast, and swiping the crispier bacon rashers. Not one for engaging with birds or nature, is She."
All three ladies heard the capitalisation on that She. Diana struggled to hold back a wry chuckle at the astute observation.
Continuing, Rumpole directed a look at Amelia, commenting, "You served justice well yesterday, from what I read in the Prophet this morning. Your thorough presentation was equal to some of the best prepared defence cases I've seen in all my years at the Old Bailey. I was greatly impressed."
Amelia coloured a little at the compliment, recognising that Rumpole was not one for flinging them about willy-nilly.
"Indeed it was," Phyllida interjected. "Rather made me feel a bit surplus to requirements," she finished, offering a raised glass and a genuine smile to assure her old friend there were no complaints intended.
"But back to the story. So I met Sirius Black in…oh, it had to be the summer of '79. He was on the hook with two friends of his for a drunk and disorderly charge."
Rumpole settled back into his, accepting the top up of his glass offered by Diana, and switched into full blown story-telling mode.
"It was a week before the Potter lad's wedding as I recall. He and three friends had started the buck's night at the Leaky Cauldron for several hours, before venturing out into Muggle London, aiming to hit a few more pubs and perhaps a nightclub or two. It's ironic that the evening was called a stag night, given the groom-to-be's troubles later that evening."
All three ladies were drawn in by the tale; Horace was a masterful story-teller.
"By around midnight," the old barrister went on, "all four of them were fairly well past inebriated. They had somehow found their way into Hyde Park, just before the 12 o'clock closing time, having stopped at a nearby off-licence and stocking up on a bottle of whiskey apiece, I think it was.
"Anyway, they managed to evade the police patrol as they snuck in, and continued to enjoy their refreshments while wandering the park. At some point, Mr Potter, Mr Pettigrew and Mr Black decided a swim in the Serpentine was just the ticket, and not wanting to ruin their clothing, stripped down to the altogether, leaving the items in the care of Mr Lupin, who had a modicum of sense left, it seemed."
Amelia chuckled at the comments. Even though not at Hogwarts during the Marauders' era, their feats of near insanity were rather well known amongst the Magical community.
"Well the three lads were having a fine time of it, it seemed, which attracted the interest of the nearest patrolling constable. Startled by the man calling out as he approached in the pitch dark, all three shifted into their animagus forms and attempted an escape. While they did make their way into a more wooded area, the sight of a large stag racing through a London park had the bobby radioing for back up to capture both the drunken hoodlums and for the wildlife removal service. Mr Lupin, being the keeper of the clothes, was targeted for answers, having been left holding the bag so to speak."
At this point in the tale, all three listeners were struggling to hold back their laughter, not wanting to miss the rest of the details.
"So the huge dog and the stag disappeared into the woods, though no-one noticed the rat I'm told. A nearby patrol joined the search and started sweeping the woods. I think they'd normally have let the boys escape, but someone was afraid the dog or stag might cause some harm. It was over an hour later when three very chagrined men emerged from the woods, stark naked and starting to shiver a bit as the cool night air and the excess alcohol combined to make things more than a little uncomfortable. They were easily rounded up and were charged with public nudity, and being drunk and disorderly."
At this, Rumpole's audience could hold back the mirth no longer and there was a pause of several minutes as the trio of witches worked to regain their composure, by the expedient method of adding more wine to their systems. Horace simply leaned back in his chair and smiled in contentment, as he took a deeply satisfied sip of the Barolo. It was always nice to have an appreciative audience to his tales. Pity Judge Bullingham wasn't nearly as enthusiastic.
Phyllida, being a veteran recipient of Horace's stories, was the first to regain the power of speech. "So I'm guessing you were assigned the cases then, Rumpole?"
"Indeed I was. Mr Lupin was lucky and was just given a caution by the constable, for being in the park after hours. The other three came in to see me, accompanied by Lupin as moral support, and also being more familiar with the Muggle world. It was one of those cases where the lads could do nothing more than plead guilty and throw themselves on the mercy of the court. They did so, received a small fine apiece and a stern warning by Judge Kirby, who had a manner that reminded one of an old priest intoning 'Go now and sin no more'. Would have made a marvellous character actor if he'd chosen a different career. Anyway, that is the story of how we came to have a mutual client, my dear Phyllida. It should be noted that the mysterious appearance and disappearance of a very large stag is still talked about by the police constables who patrol Hyde Park, I believe. One of those perpetual enigmas, never to be solved."
At that, Rumpole finished the story with a flourish of his glass at his companions (having safely lowered the level to avoid spillage). He sat back with a deeply contented air, having told his tale well, to a devoted audience. But then the smile dimmed a little.
"It was such a shame to read of the events of the Potters' deaths and Black's incarceration. I felt for the poor orphaned boy. Having lost my own family to different circumstances, it was all too easy to sympathise with a child losing everything he knew. Tell me, how is young Harry doing?"
Amelia answered, being the most familiar with Harry's situation.
"He's doing well, Horace. Professors Flitwick and Sprout realised he was not being taken care of by his relatives and called me in. They are now his guardians and the boy is flourishing. It's truly a joy to see. Perhaps some day we can have you meet Harry and tell the tale of the time you met his Dad. He rather dotes on hearing stories about both his parents."
"I would be happy to do so, my dear. Just pass word through Phyllida and arrangements can be made. Now, enough of an old hack's ramblings. Tell me Ms Trent, where are your plans for your next article? I do enjoy reading about your adventures."
And so the evening turned to lighter topics. Another bottle of Barolo appeared on the table, tempting Diana and Amelia to give it a try, resulting in a third bottle to close out the night. Jack Pommeroy poured the three witches into a cab, which took them back to the Leaky Cauldron to Floo home (Apparition not being wise after imbibing to that extent).
Meanwhile Horace Rumpole donned his beaten up hat and overcoat, bid Jack farewell and, on relatively steady legs, wended his way to the nearest Underground station to make his way home to Froxbury Mansions on the Gloucester Road, and the formidable Hilda.
'She' would be upset at his later than usual arrival, but would enjoy hearing the tale of Sirius Black and how young Mr Potter was doing these days. A second generation Squib herself, Hilda had also been shocked and dismayed by Voldemort's attacks on the Potters, and had worried about the poor orphaned boy. It would be a pleasant thing to put her fears to rest.
A soft drizzle began to fall. Rumpole elevated his well worn umbrella over top of his battered hat, and minutes later disappeared down the stairs to the Underground. As he took his first step down towards the station, he thought back to his companions that evening, and sent off his wishes for the season. "Happy Yule, my dears, Happy Yule!"