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Last of The Fae Chatper 144: The Thane Fae Trials Pt.4
🕑 Added 2025-04-08 00:26:09 +0000 UTC"Officer Gerald, can you give a detailed account of the events that occurred leading up to and during the alleged crime?"
The question came from Madam Bones—measured, precise, and without any theatricality. Her voice held no accusation, nor comfort. It was the kind of neutrality that made Jerry Gerald sit up straighter, as though instinctively aware he was being evaluated under a microscope.
"Yes, of course," Jerry replied quickly, eager to regain control of the narrative. He cleared his throat and launched into his testimony. "I was stationed with a unit of dementors assigned to me by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Our task was to search the Hogwarts Express for contraband once it reached a predetermined stop. I followed orders, deploying the dementors as instructed when the moment came."
He paused, drawing a breath as confidence slowly crept back into his voice.
"Everything proceeded as expected until a powerful magical aura was suddenly released—intentionally, I believed. That aura sent the dementors into a frenzy, breaking their formation and causing them to swarm the train. Once I became aware of the disturbance, I apparated onto the train and discovered that the dementors were either fleeing or had vanished. I attempted to question Lord Fae, who was in the corridor. He refused to elaborate, saying only that he had, quote, 'handled it.' Based on his proximity and lack of cooperation, I arrested him on suspicion of interference with an official investigation."
Madam Bones nodded slowly, her expression carved from stone—revealing nothing. "Thank you, Officer Gerald. I have no further questions at this time."
Across the room, Cassian Vale sat silently, legs crossed, fingers loosely laced. His eyes were not on Jerry, but on Madam Bones. She was withholding judgment, as expected. No tells. No flickers of emotion. The Head of Magical Law Enforcement was a practiced player in court politics.
“Does any other member of the council wish to question the first witness?” Fudge asked hastily, as if hoping to conclude before the scene grew legs.
“I have an inquiry.”
A hush swept the room.
The voice was smooth, melodic—and chilling. Several Wizengamot members flinched.
Lady Evaline Greengrass rose with elegant precision, her robes falling around her like black water. She didn’t bother acknowledging Fudge. Her gaze was already fixed on Jerry Gerald, her expression glacial and precise.
“When you arrested Lord Fae,” she said, each word dipped in venomous civility, “what definitive proof or direct evidence did you have that tied him to the aura projection you now claim caused the dementors to lose control?”
Jerry’s jaw clenched. “He was the only one outside the compartment,” he said, raising his voice unnecessarily. “And while he didn’t name the dementors directly, I interpreted his wording as an admission of guilt.”
Evaline’s brow arched gracefully. “So—an assumption. Based on presence and implication. Not hard evidence?”
Jerry leaned forward, anger flashing in his eyes. “His aura sent them into a frenzy! Any sane wizard would’ve—”
“I have no further questions, Officer Gerald,” Evaline cut in smoothly, her voice dipped in ironclad amusement. “Please. Rest your voice.”
A muted ripple of laughter moved through the gallery, though no one dared to let it blossom. Jerry’s lips snapped shut as he realized he’d been baited into overreacting. His face flushed crimson.
“Does any other member of the council wish to—”
“I have a question for the fine officer.”
Cassian’s head turned sharply toward the voice. He didn’t need to see the speaker to recognize it—and his stomach twisted with the cold satisfaction of seeing the first card played.
Lucius Malfoy rose slowly, his appearance immaculate as ever. His robes shimmered with understated wealth, his pale hands folded like a chess master who already knew the next twelve moves. His smile was effortless, but Cassian could see the venom behind the charm.
“Officer Gerald,” Lucius began smoothly, “for the benefit of the council, would you be so kind as to summarize the typical behavior of dementors?”
Jerry blinked, briefly thrown off by the simplicity of the question—then realized it for what it was: an assist.
“Yes, sir,” Jerry replied. “Dementors are classified as semi-sapient dark creatures. They can comprehend basic instructions and enter into limited agreements—usually with the promise of feeding on strong emotional energy or, in more extreme cases, human souls. That’s how we secured their assistance. Since Sirius Black’s escape, he’s been cleared for the Dementor’s Kiss. Any dementor who encountered him would be allowed to extract his soul.”
There was a ripple of murmured discomfort through the room. Lucius dipped his head solemnly.
“And Officer Gerald,” he continued, “are dementors sensitive to strong magical fluctuations? Particularly, powerful aura emissions?”
“Yes, sir,” Jerry said, bolstered by the support. “They’re highly reactive. Strong magic can trigger aggressive behavior—especially when mixed with intense emotional output.”
Lucius nodded slightly, casting a sidelong glance toward Cassian before delivering the next strike.
“And in your professional opinion, would the dementors deployed on the train—under contract with the Ministry—pose any threat to individuals beyond their authorized targets?”
Cassian narrowed his eyes. There it was. The ploy laid bare.
Jerry hesitated for a breath before shaking his head. “No, sir. Dementors know they’ll be returned to Azkaban if they attack anyone not approved by the Ministry. They value their food too much to risk it.”
Lucius smiled coolly, as though wrapping the entire argument in silk.
“So, by your expert evaluation, the dementors were never a threat to the students aboard the Hogwarts Express—because they had neither the motive nor the permission to harm anyone beyond their assigned quarry?”
“Yes. That is correct,” Jerry confirmed, nodding emphatically, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Lucius turned his gaze toward Fudge and dipped his head. “No further questions.”
“Does any other member of the council wish to question the witness?” Fudge asked, his voice practically humming with triumph as his eyes scanned the chamber. When no one spoke, he beamed. “Excellent. Officer Gerald, you are dismissed. Plaintiff, please summon the next witness.”
Jerry stood so quickly it was nearly a stumble, gave a shallow bow toward the Chair, and exited the courtroom with something dangerously close to a swagger.
Then the doors opened again.
The next witness strode into the chamber with his chin high and a smirk carved into his pale face. Blond hair slicked immaculately back, Draco Malfoy practically glided across the courtroom floor, dripping arrogance with every step.
Cassian sighed, resisting the urge to rub his temples. Draco Malfoy: a court-ordered “key witness” to the alleged events. The son of a puppetmaster, walking proof that strings had been pulled behind the scenes.
The boy took his seat and fixed Thane with a smug, expectant look.
Thane, true to form, didn’t spare him so much as a blink.
Cassian shifted his stance and exhaled slowly, already feeling the first ache of the headache to come as he prepared his next move. If this trial was a game of chess, then Draco Malfoy was an unknowing pawn—smiling smugly, unaware he was being positioned for sacrifice.
“Witness, please state your name and occupation for the court,” Minister Fudge intoned, though his voice had noticeably softened. There was an almost paternal glee laced through the words, as if welcoming a favored guest rather than overseeing a trial.
Draco Malfoy stood a little straighter in the witness chair, his pale hair slicked back in a precise, rehearsed style. He gave a small, practiced smile before speaking clearly and with well-feigned humility.
“My name is Draco Malfoy,” he announced, his voice carrying across the chamber, “Heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy—and I am currently a Third-Year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
He gave a half-nod as if expecting applause for the title alone.
The pride radiating off the boy was palpable. Even seated in a room filled with centuries-old bloodlines and towering legal minds, Draco sat as though he belonged at the center of attention—as though he were the most significant figure present, and everyone else merely background.
Fudge smiled broadly from the elevated seat of judgment, the expression looking far too warm for the setting. “Very good. Excellent,” he said, as if he were congratulating the boy on reciting a family lineage at a tea party.
Then, turning ever so slightly in his seat, Fudge made a vague gesture toward the defense table. “Counselor, you may now question the witness.”
