The Trial of the Starlight Witch
The three hours passed in a blur of agonizing silence and the rhythmic, mocking pulse of the blue circle. When the cell door finally groaned open again, Hazel didn't look up. She didn't need to. She could feel the oily residue of the Ministry guards' magic before they even spoke.
Gaelia trembled at Hazel's side and broke the young witch out of her melancholy for a moment. Hazel took a deep breath and calmly watched the guards enter the cell. Her magic was thoroughly cut, but her connection to the Dreamscape was still strong and her innate divination was active. She could smell the arrogance of the guards and the fact that they had already judged and convicted her.
They didn't touch her. They didn't have to. With a flick of a wand, the blue-black chains of light snapped taut, hoisting Hazel to her feet. Her muscles, stiff from the curse-laced dampening field, screamed in protest. She felt like a marionette being yanked by a cruel child, her feet barely brushing the cold stone as she was floated out of the cell and into the dimly lit corridor.
She could sense Gaelia's magic swirling around her, and her senses moved over the guards—via the Dreamscape—to determine if they sensed anything. One of them did have a reaction, as if he were allergic to Gaelia's magic, but he merely tapped his nose as if he were used to the constant nuisance of allergies.
The descent to Courtroom Ten was a journey into the earth's cold heart. The elevator ride was silent, the only sound the rattling of the golden gate. Hazel kept her head bowed, the runic blindfold still stinging her forehead, but her connection was wide open to the Dreamscape. She could see the layers of the Ministry—the gray, stagnant energy of bureaucracy clashing with the vibrant, jagged sparks of fear that permeated the building.
When the doors to the courtroom finally creaked open, the temperature dropped ten degrees, and a slight shiver drifted along her spine. Suddenly, she did not feel ready for this. She wanted to back away, and the shiver was replaced by warmth as Gaelia responded to her moment of hesitation.
Hazel stepped into the room with quiet, hidden thoughts of Gaelia calming down and not getting caught. But she was the one who needed to calm and focus herself. Unfortunately, all she could truly focus on were unbidden memories of her father and thoughts of never seeing him again.
The room was a vast, subterranean amphitheater of dark stone. High above, seated in tiered benches that felt like a cliffside, were the members of the Wizengamot. Fifty witches and wizards in plum-colored robes, their faces obscured by the shadows of the high ceiling. In the center sat Cornelius Fudge, looking bloated and frantic, and beside him, the pink smudge that was Dolores Umbridge.
But Hazel's breath hitched for a different reason.
In the front row, near the defense podium, sat an empty chair. The one set for her adoptive mother, the only mother she had ever truly known—Minerva, who was likely currently standing over a cold body in a different dimension. And beside it sat Professor Sing, her Star Academy representative. The sight of her Divination professor taking the place of the only father she had ever known hit Hazel harder than the Ministry's chains ever could. It was a physical manifestation of her loss, a hole in the universe where her father's laughter used to be.
"Hazel McGonagall," Fudge's voice boomed, though it lacked its usual confidence. "You are brought before this court to answer for the high crime of unregulated dimensional travel, the unauthorized use of foreign magics within a restricted residential zone, distributing unregulated dimensional items, underage magic usage, and the creation of untested magical items or techniques without a license."
The blue-black chains pulled Hazel to the floor; her arms were pulled forward and then out wide, forcing her into a position of supplication in the center of the floor. She didn't look at Fudge or any member of the Wizengamot, her mind distant and unfocused.
"Where is your counsel, child?" Umbridge's voice was a sugary needle, as she pretended not to know Hazel would represent herself. "It seems your supporters have... thinned out. Will you plead guilty to all charges and allow us to move straight to sentencing?"
Dumbledore moved to stand just as a stir came from the back of the room. The heavy oak doors there swung open with a force that made the Ministry guards jump.
Frank Longbottom stepped into the light, followed by Alice and Madame Pomfrey. Both Frank and Alice were wearing high-tier Auror leather. Frank's shoulders were broad and his eyes burning with a clarity that silenced the murmuring Wizengamot. The three marched into the chamber, purpose in their steps and determined intent on all three of their faces.
"She is not without counsel, Dolores," Frank's voice rang through the stone chamber, deep and resonant. There were whispers and gasps throughout the space. "And she is certainly not without witnesses." The murmurs intensified as Umbridge pursed her lips at Frank and then slowly looked to Hazel with a sweet smile.
Hazel felt Gaelia stir beside her. She forced her mind to clear. She had people here ready to fight for her—it was time that she fought for herself. She brought her arms together with great effort, rose to her knees, and rested her hands on her lap. Beads of sweat shimmered on her forehead. The ends of the blue chain of light locked to the floor before her. She may not be able to stand before them, but she would meet them all with dignity. She would behave like the witch her parents taught her to be.
She looked to Mr. Longbottom with a grateful nod and then to the members of the Wizengamot. "I will be representing myself, Madame Umbridge. We can begin."
The trial had begun—on Hazel's terms.