Judgment and Corruption (DJ, Nathalie)

WEDNESDAY, 1 AUGUST 2001, 4:07 PM

“The worst prisons were not constructed of warped steel and stone. They were carved out of expectations and lies, judgment and corruption.”
― Kelseyleigh Reber, If I Resist

"Conway. You have a visitor." @Nathalie Wilkins @Gavin

DJ's eyes snapped open and he looked blankly at the guard unlocking his cell, but made no move to get off of his cot where he was laying in a huddled heap. Though largely left alone for the past month, simply sitting here in a thickly walled stone cell in a prison in the middle of the North Sea was exhausting, and intensely depressing. With little human interaction and hardly anything to do except eat the tepid (but at least identifiable) meals and stare out the window at an endless view of dark water, DJ was left with little to occupy his time except to brood, cry, rant, or sleep.

"Come on, Conway, you know the drill," the Auror opened up the door and held out the chained cuffs.

Sluggishly, DJ rolled off the cot and picked himself up into an unsteady standing position. Fortunately this particular Auror guard was patient and just kept the cuffs held out. The slim Slytherin dragged himself over and put a wrist in the first of the cuffs, murmuring, "Sorry, sir."

The Auror just shrugged neutrally. "'ts okay, I knew you'd get here eventually," he said as he closed the first ring. "Other one." DJ pulled his other arm up and let the man lock that shackle tightly, and then followed as quickly as he could manage to the room in the middle of the cell block tower where prisoners were allowed to speak with their visitors.

It wasn't like this was his first visitor - his father had come right away after DJ had been carted off to Azkaban on June 28th instead of packing his clothes up from Hogwarts and preparing to go home. Something had finally roused Robert Conway from his lazy capitulation toward life; it had just taken his son being accused of a capital offense, that was all. And although he had demonstrated some understandably parental doubt about DJ proclaiming his innocence, it was clear Robert wanted to believe DJ hadn't murdered Linnet Willowsong. So there was that, and it had given DJ some hope. Thank goodness he hadn't been surrounded by dementors anymore (Minister Shacklebolt having terminated their use by the government after the Second Wizarding War) or that hope might have been snuffed out too soon.

And then there were schoolmates, other somewhat close family members, Mabel the Squib social worker... plenty of other people who supported DJ, said they believed he was innocent, would testify on his behalf. DJ was grateful he had built up enough of a reputation as a responsible and friendly student that he could rely on his friends from Hogwarts to tell the courts that he hadn't done anything, that this was either a mistake or a frame job -- after all, the vial they had found had a Conway crest on it, circumstantial but damning evidence. But of the visitors he got, none were from the Wizengamot or the Ministry. Nobody telling him when he was going to be let out, or when he was going to be able to state his defense before someone in authority. Nobody making any sort of statement one way or the other in regards to the Ministry's position on the event. Not even a smidgen of rumour from the Aurors who guarded Azkaban Prison that maybe someone was looking into either the murder or the indictment.

So when the guard opened the door to the conference room and the first thing that DJ saw was a Ministry robe, the young man didn't know whether to smile or be afraid; regardless there was a sense of relief that, even if this person told him there was no change to his situation, at least he was hearing something official. Then he looked up into the face of the woman wearing the robes and his face lit up in surprise. "Hullo, Nathalie," he said as he sat down across from her, wondering what his former Housemate two years older than him had been sent to Azkaban to tell him.

“You think you’ve seen it all, don’t you? And then this.”

Azkaban had a particular dull murmur that had been troubling Nathalie since she had arrived. A dark alto growl that seemed to be just at the edge of hearing, and provided a backing soundtrack to everything; the click of their shoes upon the old worn stone; the whispers behind locked and bolts doors; the squawks of the gulls that now and again pierced the air.

She wondered if her father had ever noticed it.

“I’m sorry, what?”

The Auror was a man in his late forties, she would have guessed, judging by his movements. But his face looked older; worn as it was by time and despondency. He was called Routledge and he had a good heart behind his wizened shell. She could tell, because he had seemed to be genuinely worried about her wellbeing since she first arrived, telling her exactly where and where not she could walk and which alarms were serious and which could be ignored. He led her along corridors throughout the prison, ensuring that she would not meet any of the other prisoners as he took her on her way to DJ, opening huge ancient doors that creaked with decay and rot and locking each one as they passed through, always waiting for a moment with his hand pressed against the wood, as if to confirm to himself that yes, indeed, the door was secure. She wondered if extended time at Azkaban was the begetter of strange tics and habits; the antagonistic stillness and atmosphere of foreboding was bound to take a toll on even the strongest of psyches.

He walked quickly, with a limp that made his left side roll about his hip, with his left hand always on his thigh as if in pain. She walked behind him half worried he was about to fall over at any moment.

“I said you think you’ve seen it all, don’t you?” Once more now with more energy. “I’ve seen it all, love. Scum. Death Eaters. Raving lunatics. And then some. I’ve seen them all. I’ve had to look them square in the eye; listen to them ranting and raving. Twenty four years I’ve been here, heart. Two wars. Was just a slip of a lad then, mind.” He stopped dead, turning around to the trailing blonde, meeting her straight in the eye; the heavy hooded eyelids now alive and quivering with passion. “Things you couldn’t possibly believe, heart. Killers. Men who murdered whole families. But this,” and his milky eyes narrowed, his lips curling with disgust, “cold-blooded murder at Hogwarts. It makes you lose hope.” He turned away from her, and opened the final heavy wooden door. “Mind the step, love.”

He led her into a dimly-lit square room, in the centre of which stood a well used wooden table, complete with deep gouges that she dearly hoped were not from fingernails. A chair sat at each end. One barred window faced into what appeared to be the central courtyard of the prison, and the shouts of aurors barking muffled commands at prisoners could be heard from beyond. The Auror gestured to the side of the table that was closest to the door. “For your safety,” he suggested.

She humoured him, seating herself where indicated, and noting how the table was bolted firmly to the worn stone beneath it so that it could not be weaponised. Upon the centre of the table was an iron hook that was screwed down upon a pivot; she assumed that the chains of the convict would be passed through this instrument to prevent any extended movements, literally chaining them to the spot. Thoughts of her father were thoroughly exorcised before she continued.

Nathalie carefully removed a scroll from the inside of her robes, and placed it to the side of the table.

Footsteps clacked towards them and Routledge announced “He’s coming,” as if broadcasting the arrival of royalty. The door was opened, and DJ was brought in, accompanied by a young and well built auror. Nathalie scanned the Prefect’s face quickly, before standing to her feet suddenly and frowning. The Slytherin had said hello, but she did not reply, instead looking at him as if he was a piece of defective furniture she was considering returning.

“He looks pale. Are you mistreating him?”

“No not at all, Miss Wilkins,” replied Routledge. “We treat Master Conway like a bloody king, more’s the pity. You know it’s highly irregular for underage prisoners to be imprisoned at Azkaban.

Nathalie interrupted, still not taking her eyes off the Slytherin. “He is not a prisoner yet, Auror Routledge. He is charged with a crime, and hence you are looking after him. But a full time guest he most certainly is not.” Routledge’s silence in response betrayed his frustration.

“And you can unchain him. He’s not a bloody animal.”

“But Miss Wilkins, that would be in violation of standard operating procedures for prisoner visitations!”

Again she cut across the auror’s words, this time turning fully to Routledge, “And if he lays a finger on me I’ll scream and you can come in here and paint the walls with him!” she shouted. “Is that good enough?!” In the silence that followed, Nathalie took a deep breath to steady her voice, attempting to control herself after her outburst. She felt instantly uncomfortable shouting at Routledge, who had meant well, but it was a necessary part of her act. “I know him. He won’t cause any trouble,” she continued in a more civil tone.

Routledge stared first incredulously at Nathalie, before giving DJ an uncommonly suspicious glance. “Alright, you’re the boss. On your head be it.”

And with a gesture to the younger Auror, DJ was freed from his restraints, before the two Aurors left the room, closing the door firmly behind them.

———

Nathalie pushed her chair so that it was sideways to the table ledge, where she sat herself carefully, crossing one leg over the other and placing her elbow upon the table top. She leaned back whilst unrolling the scroll, pulling one sheet of crisp white parchment out from the grouping and laying it upon her lap. She rested her forehead upon her long fingers, and pretended to read, ignoring DJ for the moment. She already knew the contents by heart.

“Well, this is nice.”

She cleared her throat for effect, and read in an affected official voice.

“ . . . the administration of a Type eight-one-nine poison, causing an irreversible transfiguration in the victim . . .” The blonde looked round at DJ, an eyebrow raised in puzzlement, “Did you make that yourself? Impressive.”

She languidly stood up, and tossed the carefully typed report onto the table in front of him, before beginning a slow walk to the window. “This is the summary of the Auror’s investigation. Nothing too controversial or confidential. There’s a full report also, but we're allowed to see that yet. Not that we would want to go through the last agonising moments of poor little Linnet’s life again, would we?” She rested a shoulder against the high window ledge, watching the student carefully from her new perch.

“Or are you one of those sickos who enjoy that kind of thing?”, she said slowly, smiling callously at him. “You really did a number on Linnet, didn’t you?”

Routledge, unlike the other Auror (whose name started with a P but DJ couldn't remember it for some reason), wasn't the most accommodating of wardens. Older and full of bitterness, hardened by things he had seen before DJ was even born, the senior Auror looked down at DJ like he was a child while looking down on him for the murder charge, like it was an absolute given that DJ was going to be condemned officially for the act. An act, DJ willed all of his captors to realise, that he had had nothing to with. There was a note of biting sarcasm in his dialogue with Nathalie, but whether it was because of DJ or because Nathalie was a Ministry representative, the Conway boy couldn't tell.

For a moment DJ almost corrected Routledge for what felt like the fiftieth time, I'm not underage, I'm 17! but stopped himself, because being considered an adult in this case was so much worse. There had been a few times when he wished he really was underage, so that he could be tried as a juvenile and more importantly not held in the middle of nowhere in Azkaban while he waited for the trial.

Nathalie's coming to his rescue was a pleasant thing to hear, even though it made some of the hairs on the back of DJ's neck stand up with a chill. He was no fool, and what's more he was always a little suspicious of everyone. A little paranoia was healthy sometimes. In part, at least, Nathalie had to have an agenda, or she was playing 'good cop' to Routledge's 'bad cop' (admittedly Routledge's part of the routine came naturally to him). He watched her from his seated position as her eyes continued to study DJ, like she was looking for some little tic or fidget that would indicate he really was guilty. If that was the case, Nathalie was bound to be disappointed; DJ was simply too tired to do any fidgeting even if he had wanted to. He just sat there, almost perfectly still; the chain that connected his cuffed wrists was itself cuffed to the edge of the table where he sat and he had no reason, and little range, to move.

'Miss Wilkins' saw that too. When she asked for his chains to be removed, DJ blinked a few times and would have mimed cleaning out his ear with his pinky if his hands hadn't been bound too far away to do so. It was absolutely true he wasn't going to try to run or attack her, even if fatigue hadn't been the thing keeping him from moving more than the bare minimum, but he had remained cuffed every time someone else had come to see him except for his father, who had asked to be taken directly to DJ's cell and had held him like DJ hadn't been held by a parent since he was long pre-Hogwarts.

Routledge objected, as per the regulations of his station, but Nathalie - unsurprisingly to anyone who had been in school with her - lost her temper and insisted he do as he was told. The senior Auror gave the verbal equivalent of a shrug and motioned Auror P (what was his name?!) to remove the chains. First the central cuff on the table, then the cuffs on each wrist, came off. DJ rubbed his wrists, the sensation of cold hard iron difficult to get rid of no matter how long or not it had been on, while Routledge and P went out their separate doors, giving DJ and Nathalie some privacy.

Seeing a familiar face, as with all his other school friends, was a nice experience. But unlike his still in school friends, Nathalie Wilkins was a Ministry representative now. So DJ sat quietly, as though his hands hadn't been unbound, and waited while Nathalie sat herself down and reviewed a parchment. Which, presumably, was either the report of the incident or an official record of the Ministry's indictment against DJ. After a few moments DJ moved his gaze from Nathalie's inattentive face to the floor between his shoes, not wanting to distract her before she was ready to give him whatever proclamation or ask him more questions. Whatever she needed to know so DJ could prove his innocence, he was ready to provide. He'd already gone over the poisoning in his head so many times that he was sure he knew every detail of the day by heart.

———

Her voice startled him into looking at her again, and she cleared her throat and began reading a snippet from the parchment out loud -- all she recited was a bit about administering poison, so DJ still didn't know if it was a report or an accusation. DJ did recognise the "type eight-one-nine," as it was part of his registration placard at Azkaban.

In reply to Nathalie's casual puzzled question and back-handed compliment, DJ's felt a knot form in his stomach and his shoulders tensed up. "I didn't make it," he said firmly, having denied this accusation several times already. Miss Wilkins didn't seem to care one way or the other; she stood back up and tossed the parchment lazily over to DJ's side of the table while she stepped over to one of the four windows peeking out from this floor's visitation room. DJ grabbed at it and skimmed over it while Nathalie tossed out some no-thing description of the investigation.

...adept in the study of all branches of Transfiguration...
...ingested without hesitation by the victim...
...all attempts at reversing the transformation thus far unfruitful...

Then Nathalie's words pierced DJ's tunnel vision and he felt sick, the knot in his stomach threatening to come up as vomit. DJ had barely known Linnet; she'd been in a different House, was a year up from him, and their favoured courses of study had not overlapped often. But she'd been a Prefect in the past, she was a very nice girl and very helpful to everyone around her; DJ had no reason to harm her and in fact he had not harmed her. Did he have any clue who or what did? No. The involvement of poison was undeniable but Potions was his worst subject that he was still taking; if he had done it, it would have been some completely accidental mixture, but he hadn't done it.

From the ledge, Nathalie asked him a rather repugnant question, and DJ was so aghast that he tried to stand up and fell backward on his chair, bruising his ass and banging his elbows on the cold stone floor.

"GOD no!" DJ spat, disgusted that Nathalie would think any such thing. "Enjoy it? I was totally shook up! Do you even know how terrible it was for me just knowing some of my fellow Slytherins -- some of OUR fellow Slytherins -- didn't make it out of the fire at the Start of Term? And I didn't see that, I found out later. Actually having to watch it happen to Linnet..." he rolled over and gagged, afraid he was going to be sick on the floor after all, the lumps in his stomach churning from the memories of the day. For a minute he knelt there, torn between letting it all out and wanting to keep his composure. Finally with a monumental effort he forced the acid back down from halfway up his esophagus, not wanting to empty his stomach when he felt he had hardly eaten all day to begin with.

"I will tell you anything you need to know about that day," DJ said to the floor for Nathalie's benefit, not having the strength yet to get out of his kneeling position. "I will take Veritaserum voluntarily if I need to. Anything that can help you find what actually did that to Linnet, because it wasn't me. I swear." He didn't realise that, overcome as he was in the moment and the memory, he had begun crying. His face was too numb to feel the first tears anyway. "I just... want to go home."

When DJ fell backwards, Nathalie jolted, not expecting his sudden movement, her blue eyes wide with shock. For a brief moment she considered calling for a mediwizard as his face went a near-green colour and he genuinely looked close to throwing up. His unadulterated disgust at the very mention of his involvement in the tragedy was clear to see; it was blatantly obvious how dramatically he was moved to sheer physical anguish at the very accusation.

It confirmed everything she had suspected; from the first time she had heard the news at the Ministry; another tragic occurrence at Hogwarts, and after a year that had caused so much grief and sorrow already to the pupils. The initial report had been of an accident, but, as the news had a tendency to reach the Ministry through the Office of Public Information services first, it quickly appeared that there was foul play involved, and almost immediately talk and rumours moved on to a strange, bizarre tale of poisoning. Within a few hours, the nefarious nature of the deed was clear. However, the name of the supposed assailant, DJ Conway, immediately struck a discordant note with the former Slytherin.

Nathalie had never been much of a friend to DJ, (in fact there were few during her time at the school who could have claimed that accolade), however she considered him one of the “authentic” Slytherins, which could be roughly translated from Nathalie’s twisted worldview as ‘pureblood, and not a complete idiot’. DJ had spent his years working hard, being a fundamental part of life in the dungeons, and in general being responsible enough to have been considered for the Prefecture. If he had one fault in Nathalie’s eyes, it would be that he seemed too “nice”; a solid core of decency existed within DJ; he was neither petty nor prone to selfishness. Chivalrous to a fault, he would be the last person in Slytherin house (or any other house, for that matter) that Nathalie would ever have suspected of stealing something from Honeydukes, let alone carry out something as grand as murder.

Immediately after the rumours of DJ’s involvement, Nathalie was on alert. During her latter years at the school, the blonde had constructed a list of students within her head; a tally of trustworthy purebloods. Ideology was irreverent; ideology could be bought and sold, she had often thought. But good stock and an inherent sense of responsibility was essential. DJ had spent an awful lot of time on Nathalie’s list. Events over the past months had cast the list in something of a new light to Nathalie - new purposes could be found for such people. And so, when one of the principal characters was suddenly thrust into the limelight, in what could only be described as unforgiving terms, Nathalie was, naturally, extremely interested. And there were always opportunities to be found in times of crisis . . .

The Ministry official slowly helped DJ back to his chair, her hands upon his shoulders. The Slytherin was in tears now, and for an unguarded moment, she pitied him. He was an unwilling prisoner, presumably of someone else machinations, and all he could see right now was despair. The world was no longer his friend; no longer his guide.

“Don’t cry, DJ,” she said softly, crouching down to his eye level, one hand upon on his shoulder, other on his chin, “look at me . . . DJ, look at me,” her lavender coloured Ministry robes gathering about her feet in folds. “I believe you. I believe that you did not do it; that you had nothing whatsoever to do with it. To be honest, I knew it from the first moment I heard your name mentioned along with this whole sorry affair. There was no one more unlikely to harm Linnet Willowsong than you. I'm sorry, I just wanted to be sure.”

She stood up, and pulled her chair to his side of the table so that they could sit face to face with no obstructions.

“First, let’s get the official business out of the way. Officially, I’m here as a representative of the Ministry’s Public Information Service. We’re usually not involved in legal matters, but because you were technically a Hogwarts student when you were arrested, and we are responsible for selling the actions of Aurors to the public, things are a little more complicated. Officially the Auror department have been investigating the incident, and now believe that they have a case against you. It will happen soon - they may not give you much warning, unfortunately.”

“Right now, I’m not sure the scale of the hearing, perhaps with will be with the Council of Magical Law - I certainly hope the Wizengamot won’t get involved, because that could drag things out, but I have no further information on that front, sadly. I’m here to tell you that you will, naturally, be provided with a defence counsel by the Ministry, should you require one. Perhaps your father, or your social worker friend will will want to organise something else on their own.”

She adjusted herself in her chair, as if requiring different posture before she made her official statement. “The Ministry is, naturally, appalled at what happened in June at Hogwarts, and will leave no stone unturned in the search for truth and justice. As such, you will be detained here for the duration of the investigation and any further legal processing that is required. Any communication between yourself and the Ministry and it’s legal representatives can me made through the Office of Public Information Services, which means me, basically.”

She allowed a silence to descend, the business of her pointless message complete. There was nothing new, just usual Ministry bureaucracy that had plenty of words to say but very little meaning. The blonde pulled the scroll across the table, leaving it near the Slytherin. “This says the same thing. Simply a formal notice from the Ministry of the accusation. Nothing new, unfortunately.”

She leaned forward, placing a hand upon his shoulder. Her eyes buried into DJ’s steel blue orbs.

“When your name came up in all this, I made sure that I would be the one they sent to see you. Better me that one of those old stuffy jobsworths in their cheap robes and cheaper platitudes.” She leant closer still, as if she was worried the walls themselves could hear them.

“Let me be very honest with you. From the outside, it doesn’t look good. I think the evidence they have is quite circumstantial, but they will do everything in their power to discredit you. Why? Because, unfortunately for you, in the current climate you’re the wrong sort. You’re a pureblood, and even worse, a Slytherin.” She dragged the name of the house out slowly like a snake, hissing the ’S’, like an obscene word that would make ordinary people blush.

“People don’t like us. And I have the curious feeling that the Ministry would like to throw the book at one of us. Make an example, you see. There goes the bad, evil pureblood, doing something unspeakably awful to a poor little Hufflepuff whom everyone loved and adored. I knew Willowsong; adorable, heart of gold, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth type, Mud-,” catching herself,  “Muggleborn, all round golden girl. Basically, the perfect victim. And you a Slytherin prefect, the perfect villain.”

“So we really need to prove your character. I know you didn’t do it, half the world knows that, but we need to reinforce that. We need to show the Ministry and the Aurors that you are the farthest person away from a murderer. I’m sure you can drag a couple of classmates to speak up for you, but, let’s be realistic, they’re children. No one listens to children.”

Nathalie looked to the ground, to the grey worn stones of the room, thinking of all the hushed conversations and forced confessions that had occurred in this very space over the years. How her own father had probably been dragged into here by them.

“We’re Slytherins, and we stick together. I wouldn’t stand by and see them have a field day over this. So what I want to offer, is that I can speak up for you too. Be a character witness, if you need one.”

She sat upright, hands on her lap, away from him once more. “If you want, of course.”

Through a fog of emotion and tear-filled eyes (how embarrassing), DJ was vaguely aware of being helped back up, and after a moment he registered that Nathalie was holding his chin up and talking to him -- and was being a lot more compassionate suddenly than she had been. The change in her tone was at first confusing, then for a split second comforting, but quickly DJ was suspicious. What was her game? And yet... a voice in the back of DJ's mind told him that this was sincere, that as Nathalie had said, she just had to be sure for herself and gauge DJ's own reaction.

DJ listened impassively - out of exhaustion more than out of any real indifference - as Nathalie sat back down next to DJ and went over all of the necessary Ministry information that her job required her to convey. DJ had known Nathalie went into the Ministry after graduation but, since they hadn't been close at all during school, he hadn't known more than that such as what department she worked in. The Public Information Services were in charge of circulating whatever news, events, or advisories was necessary to wizardkind at large. Of course, it made sense that they were also the channel through which such news and events were received by the Ministry. DJ imagined suddenly that they had a hotline for anonymous tips and a phone bank somewhere in the Ministry Headquarters in Whitehall.

The Aurors believe they have a case against you, Nathalie said. Well, yes, unfortunately that was all too clear. The rational part of his mind knew that Nathalie was just warning DJ about the extent of their investigation. But DJ knew (or thought he knew) enough about law enforcement to realise that they wouldn't have even held him this long unless there was something truly damning, or at least something that appeared so. If the evidence was based entirely on that damnable vial, then (1) they couldn't be more wrong and (2) there was no way DJ could really prove he was innocent. He didn't know exactly how common a red griffin was on family coats-of-arms, but he doubted they were really too common as tattoos. Silently he cursed his idiocy at getting the Conway tribute done on his back and the Chitileanu trident done on his chest back in August.

Nathalie offered that his hearing might not be under the full Wizengamot after all, but DJ couldn't shake the feeling that with a murder charge, he couldn't avoid such a monumental trial regardless of any other circumstances. Still, if they hadn't decided for sure by now where or when he would be prosecuted, maybe there really was hope. The provision of a defence counsel lightened DJ's heart considerably too, because there was no way that Robert or Mabel could manage something like that on their own (or even together). It was enough to keep the ex-Prefect from falling back into resigned despair as Nathalie relayed the Ministry's "official" position on the incident and the ongoing investigation. At least DJ would know his channel of communication to the Ministry -- Nathalie herself. Even a face he only knew in passing was better than imagining only a faceless entity of authority looming over him.

Then the Slytherin alumnus leaned in close and gently grasped his shoulder. Startled, DJ looked right into her eyes - which he was surprised to see had a similar grey-of-blue colour to his - and saw intensity of a personal nature in them. She wanted to come see me personally? he asked himself, the tone of his mind's voice a combination of pride, relief, confusion, and suspicion. Does she have a private stake in this after all, or is it some sort of House solidarity? The answer came right after the thought went through his head, or at least so she claimed - House solidarity.

There was no denying her words; their Hogwarts House had always had a bad reputation. Even though not every Slytherin who graduated turned out to be a "bad sort", nearly every "bad sort" of graduate had come from Slytherin. It had been that way for years, just kind of a byproduct of Salazar Slytherin's legacy and the platitudes he and his House espoused. But between Voldemort, and the Death Eaters of the seventies and the nineties, mere bad gossip had turned into an entire culture of what was almost hatred and complete distrust.

"You're damn right nobody listens to children," DJ muttered, and was almost surprised how quickly his ability to converse with Nathalie had become casual. Automatically he glanced around at the doors that Routledge and P had gone through, but there were no faces at the windows and the soundproof doors remained shut tight. Turning back to Nathalie, he thought about adding something like, 'If they did I wouldn't be in here,' but it was a redundant thought, so he kept it to himself. Absent-mindedly he realised his face was still streaked with drying tears, and tried to subtly wipe the trails off of his cheekbones.

Nathalie finally explained her play, and inside DJ was delighted. Someone who was graduated who believed him and would speak on his behalf! Outside, however, he contained his expression to just a raise of his eyebrows and a slight smile. Nathalie folded her hands and backed away, adding 'If you want, of course,' and DJ chuckled.

"I don't look any gift horse in the mouth, ever," he replied. "I didn't know you had watched me so closely while we were both at Hogwarts, but if you can convince the Ministry that I didn't do it, there's no way I would refuse your help." He frowned slightly, not at Nathalie but at the thought of the Ministry again. "But, forgive me for asking, how much more will your testimony mean than that of our schoolmates still in school? You've only been one year out of Hogwarts, right? Will it be enough?"

He stood up, slowly and carefully, so Nathalie would know (though she already seemed to) that he had no intention to hurt her and never would. Instead he crossed over to a different window, looking out over the broad expanse of the North Sea, and stood there silently for a few moments to gather his thoughts. "If you've watched me for a few years now, I'd imagine the Hogwarts professors had done the same. After all, they made me Prefect, didn't they? But not a single one has come to see me, or sent a letter. Not a single one vouched for me. Not even Professor Bane," he referred to their Head of House. "I mean, nobody spoke against me either, but nobody stopped the Aurors from taking me away. A few nights in holding at the Ministry, and a month here, and Hogwarts is as incommunicado as the Ministry. Well, more so now," he looked at Nathalie again and nodded in her direction.

"I didn't kill Linnet. I didn't even poison her. They checked my wand," and boy did he miss having it, "and saw I didn't cast any spells, not even to conjure those cups, but they still think I'm responsible somehow." He clenched his fists and his dirty fingernails dug into the meat of his palms. "It's that fucking vial, Nathalie. It's the only thing keeping me here. Why? Why would someone do it and why would someone frame me?" He knew Nathalie didn't have those answers, but he couldn't help but ask anyway.

She found his initial query brazen, and reacted proportionately by leaning away from him with narrowed eyes, giving the impression that DJ had done something bizarre and impolite; like a dog that had just relived itself upon one’s expensive carpet in the presence of visitors of a sensitive nature. Of course, Nathalie considered his question to be a very fair and reasonable one. She, naturally, had very little, if any, clout at the Ministry. Nevertheless, to play this game with DJ correctly, and to have him very much considering a debt that would one day have to be paid in full and with interest, she thus wanted to level any little vestige of advantage she had over the Slytherin - Nathalie wanted DJ to feel indebted and grateful to an imaginary power that the witch was now claiming to have. She wanted DJ to trust her - perhaps the greatest ask of all. Thus, she would shoot down his suspicion, acting like he had carried out an unimaginable faux pax by even suggesting something so bizarre. “To be perfectly frank, I have no idea,” she replied curtly, still sizing him up. “But, all we can do is try. I would presume that the worst for you would be for only a couple of your Slytherin comrades to turn up and plead for your innocence.” She fell silent, gazing to the dark corner of the room, allowing him to stew in his thoughts. As if she had scripted it, DJ had gotten to his feet and walked away.

She watched him stand, and slowly, almost delicately, move to the window. Whilst pitying him, and she certainly did right now, she couldn’t help the feeling that the whole affair was somewhat odd. Such a dramatic incident, carried out so publicly, with some rather helpful evidence laying nearby. This was no crime of tempestuous passion, red mist and bile and hate; none of that. That could almost be excused - a simple schoolyard fight gone too far, perhaps. But to go to the elaborate theatre of a poisoning, and to cause a ridiculous and rather imaginative transformation into a tree; it seemed to the blonde a little bit overelaborate. And as for the supposed perpetrator and victim; two calmer souls one would be hard pressed to find in the whole of Hogwarts.

For a moment she considered what would happen should they fail, and DJ be found guilty in whatever trial awaited him. DJ, alone, rejected by society for his supposed cruelty, sent to Azkaban indefinitely, hard labour and no promise of ever leaving the wretched prison. She imagined visiting again, perhaps in ten years, and sitting down with an older DJ; harder, tougher; calloused by brutality and an unforgiving, feckless society. How easy then he would be to take hold of; to guide. He would surely want any path that she could offer him. He would be perfect.

DJ had interrupted the blonde’s trail of thoughts with his question regarding Hogwarts. Nathalie turned her proud head to him. “Oh, I would forget about Hogwarts sending the cavalry,” she scowled, face twisted in disgust. “You’ve broken the cardinal rule, I would imagine. Dragged their saintly name through the muck, and all that. McGonagall must be beside herself. You know they’ve been on something of a charm offensive since all that nonsense and destruction in nineteen-ninety-eight, and then what with the awful fire this year. Too many deaths, you see. Too many parents up in arms, Board of Governors probably screeching their heads off as we speak. The school’s been less a place of education and more a mortuary this year, hasn’t it? You were there in September. You know what I mean. In fact,” she continued, adding a little extra despair like a chef would apply garnish, “I would expect Hogwarts to now close down the barricades and burn its bridges with it’s new public enemy number one. Hogwarts is the holy of Holies to the Ministry, after all, and I don’t think it can’t take any more bad press. Especially not from a Slytherin. You were off to a bad footing from day one, unfortunately.”

Nathalie slowly got to her feet, allowing the words to gently sink in. She simply had to sell DJ a worldview, nothing else. An aspect; a change to the way he would usually see things. Already, she would have imagined, the Slytherin prefect had already experienced something of a culture shock, torn from his cosy normality of the school and suddenly faced with a spiral of chaos and accusations. What she wanted was to knead this a little, and see what came out the other side. She wanted to be his light in this time of darkness.

She stepped languidly to him, her heels echoing throughout the dingy stone room. The blonde stopped a hair’s breadth from DJ, allowing the silence to cloak them once more. When she spoke again, it was low and almost a whisper, and was practically to the skin upon the back of his neck. “Yes, the strange vial, suspiciously damning for you, and suspiciously handy for the Aurors, who usually couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery. I should know, I have to work with them. You could spend the rest of your time here, at Shackelbolt’s pleasure, wondering who exactly you annoyed enough to earn this retribution. Or perhaps you’re just a poor victim of circumstance, and the universe has decided to play you a particularly vicious set of cards this summer. Personally, I wouldn’t worry too much about it; however . . .” and she placed her hand upon his strong shoulder, “. . . I would have thought that, for some students, those of a particular fanatical bent, perhaps, the pureblooded Slytherin Prefect makes a particularly delicious target. We both know that there are no shortage of those sorts at the school.”

She cocked her head, trying to catch his expression from the side of his face as it was illuminated in stark profile from the little weak light that crept through the barred window, the same portal that almost cruelly offered the viewer a pathetic view into the stark bleakness of the ocean. She enjoyed the little pauses; moments of reflection where she could study the effects of her words upon people; how they would flinch if she was cruel, or look confused if she was pleasant, or colour and flush when she got too close.

“So, we are agreed?” she asked carefully, and with her free hand upon his jaw she softly guided his head until he faced her, leaving her touch there a beat too long.  “I’ll do all I can to help you. We can’t allow them away with this, now can we?”

A sudden rattle in the lock gave Nathalie enough time to swiftly retreat from the Slytherin, crossing the floor to the table quickly, and by the time Routledge had the door open, squealing like a pig as it did upon it’s hinges, Nathalie was rolling up one of the scrolls and retying the little crimson ribbon across it’s midpoint.

“Ah, perfect timing Auror Routledge,” she said spiritedly, “and just when he was about to disembowel me. You are frightfully good at your job I see.” She smirked at the Auror, who gave her a scathing look.

“Are you finished with my prisoner, Miss Wilkins?” he asked darkly, quickly taking a dislike to the blonde. “We have a job to do here, you know. We try not to swan about wasting everyone’s time like quite a few Ministry workers.”

Nathalie smiled to the Auror falsely, “All finished. Try to see to it that nothing unfortunate happens to my friend until his trial, won’t you Auror Routledge? Naturally, if he is missing so much as a hair, we will hold you personally responsible.”

“I’ll treat him like one of my own, heart,” he replied, casting a shadowed harsh look at DJ. In turn, Nathalie followed the Auror to the door. “Conway, someone will be here to collect you in a moment," stated Routledge curtly as he went.

“We’ll be in touch,” she spoke over her shoulder to the Slytherin as she walked. “If you need me, you are allowed to write to me. They’ll read it, naturally, so try not to make it too graphic, won’t you? Don’t want to give old Auror Routledge a shock. He’s a respectable man.”

Routledge seemed not to know whether to scowl or laugh, and so stood confused, wondering if the blonde had somehow demeaned him. Nathalie stopped short at the doorway, as if suddenly something lost had just now come into her mind. She half turned her head to DJ; the expression on her face was virtuous and completely professional. She looked as trustworthy as she could ever be.

“You know," she announced, her voice overflowing with innocent excogitation, “the Ministry is a very big place, and things can have a tendency to go missing. Particularly small things. Goodbye, DJ.”

A still confused Routledge closed the door, and the silence that followed was only broken by the snap of the lock.

The sound of designer heels clacking on the stone floor of Azkaban prison sounded behind him and warned DJ before he felt Nathalie come up behind him. That same mixture of confusion and suspicion, now combined with loneliness and depression, prevented him from actually turning to look at the ex-Slytherin girl... er, woman, even as she leaned close and whispered words that might have been meant as encouragement (or might not have, knowing Nathalie) but instead came out as a neutral, frank and damning description. The message was clear, of course; no matter what the real story turned out to be, DJ was a Slytherin and now he was in Azkaban, where a lot of wizards thought "his kind" belonged anyway.

A hand tenderly laid on his shoulder made DJ tense slightly, as well as feel somewhat self-conscious. Prior to his imprisonment, DJ had been in excellent shape - an avid runner with some sort of genetic predisposition for sculpted muscle, lean and teenage though it may have been. Now "lean" was an understatement. A month with little opportunity to exercise in earnest, combined with the rigorously controlled food portions far different from his self-designed athlete's diet, was beginning to take its toll on the body he had once been so proud of. Muscles were in the early stages of atrophy, and of his former solidity only his back and shoulders truly remained.

But the comforting hand didn't pull back in disgust (not that he was that far gone already) or just rest there apathetically. Nathalie literally held his shoulder as she commiserated with the fact that he was, unfortunately, an ideal target. She was (whether from genuine feeling or to manipulate him) actually trying to comfort him, not just with words but with human contact. There was a pause that was long but not awkward, as DJ just stood there continuing to gaze out at the water, until the light touch of another hand slid under his jaw and gently turned his head to the side. DJ didn't resist, and found himself looking deeply into Nathalie Wilkins' eyes. You know, she's really quite stunning, he found himself thinking wildly. Why did I never notice before?

She murmured quiet words assuring him of her support and promising not to let the establishment "get away with this," and DJ wasn't certain where things were going to go from here, but he was spared too much thought on the matter as the telltale jiggling of the ancient doorknob warned them both that the Auror guards were about to come back in. It seemed to the Conway boy that he in merely the blink of his eyes, Nathalie had already gracefully leapt back across the room and was back in her professional appearance and mannerisms. DJ was not so quick to react, and he remained somewhat slack-jawed and confused-looking as Routledge came back into the room. Nathalie finished gathering up her things with a few well-disguised gibes shot at Routledge, and in the back of his mind DJ registered, Ah, that's why I never noticed before. She always has her guard up and her barbs out.

Still, Nathalie's clear support of DJ - clearer now than when she had first arrived - cleared DJ's mind and put a faint smile on his face. "Thank you for the visit and the update on the investigation, Ms. Wilkins," he called across the room to her as Routledge began to escort her out, matching his tone of voice nearly to Nathalie's while still maintaining the demeanor of a victimised prisoner. He stayed by his window as the opposing door rattled and opened to reveal the other Auror. The younger guard stepped over to DJ with a fresh set of shackles and DJ automatically held his hands out, ready to be taken back to his cell and ruminate on everything that he and Nathalie had talked about.

Before she left though, Nathalie called something back over her shoulder, and DJ had to stifle a snorting laugh. The young Auror looked at DJ with a very clinical look that nevertheless communicated his curiosity, and DJ shook his head and spoke the first dismissing thing he could think of, "I'm sorry. She just has a way about her, you know."

The Auror looked after the retreating form of Nathalie Wilkins and said emphatically, "Yes, I can see that she does. I'm sure she's quite a handful at the Ministry."

"She always was. At school," DJ added hastily, though unnecessarily, and then said, "Anyway, thank you. I'm ready to go back now, I guess."

"For what it's worth," the young man said as he walked behind DJ back down the short passage to his cell in the Q wing, "I'm glad her visit cheered you up. Routledge is a tosser for sure, but I'm of the mind that everyone should have friends to talk to, even prisoners."

"Thank you, Mr. Parrish," was DJ's genuine reply, grateful that he could finally remember the young man's last name. "I appreciate that." He turned around for Parrish to unshackle him, and then crossed over to his bed and laid down while the Auror re-locked his cell door. He had a lot to think about - including, what exactly he was going to write to Nathalie when he penned a letter in a few days. Her not-so-veiled warnings about his correspondence being read by the guards had not slipped his notice, and he was sure that using school jargon, his newest ally placed in the heart of the Ministry would be able to read between the lines where the Aurors reviewing his outgoing missive would not.

☙ fin ❧