The Pretender | Tom Riddle

22| the smell of vanilla

22| the smell of vanilla

    "You say you have names for us, Karkaroff," a voice spoke with the hint of an accent, "Let us hear them please."

Seren looked around. She was at the Ministry, that she knew just well enough. She could only recognize a handful of faces, though they looked much older than she remembered them to be. The surprise that came from seeing Dumbledore, slightly older than how he looked in her time—white slightly younger than she had seen with Harry. Next to her sat Harry, he was trying to speak to Dumbledore with to no avail. An arm came right through him, reminding her of how she was at the moment as well.

At the center of the packed room was a man caged up, clearly dressed in prisoner clothing, sent from Azkaban she presumed. It was like they were watching a trial, the whole lot of them.

"There was...there was Rosier! Evan Rosier!" The man, name Karkaroff, shouted after some of his name failed.

"Rosier is dead."

Seren bit her lip nervously, wishing to see that something would happen. She had no idea who this Karkaroff was, but clearly he had been working as one of Tom's followers. The fear in his eyes as more and more realization set in that he might not be succeeding in this trial.

The atmosphere around Seren began to change, a small tinge of pain she had begun to get used to after all the dreams she's had in the past. It came a surprise to see Harry there next to her this time around.

It was the same room, only much gloomier than when Karkaroff was inside. There was total silence, broken only by the dry sobs of a frail, wispy-looking witch in the seat next to the man at the podium. The man himself, who she had heard someone behind Professor Dumbledore refer to as Crouch, looked gaunter and grayer than before.

Six dementors entered. She'd never come close to seeing one in person, what reason to. She'd only read about them in books in her father's dark library. They were similar to bounty hunters for the prison, only much worse and evil. They placed four people down in chairs with chained arms that now stood on the dungeon floor. There was a heavy set man, a thin worried man, a women with thick black hair similar to Seren's, and a boy in his late teens.

Crouch stood up, looking down at them with nothing but pure hatred in his eyes. The witch beside him seemed to cry harder into her handkerchief at the sight of the younger boy chained down. "You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law," he said clearly, "So that we may pass judgement on you, for a crime so heinous—"

"Father," said the boy with straw-colored hair. "Father please..." Seren leaned forward, attentive to what she was witnessing in front of her.

"—That we have rarely heard the like of it within this court," Mr. Crouch said, speaking more loudly drowning out his son's voice.

"We have heard the evidence against you. The four of you stand accused of capturing an Auror — Frank Longbottom — and subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse, believing him to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your exiled master, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—"

"Father I didn't!" Cried the boy struggling against the restraints, "I didn't, I swear it, father, don't send me back to the dementors—"

"You are further accused," bellowed Mr. Crouch, "of using the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom's wife, when he would not give you any information. You planned to restore He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to power, and to resume the lives of violence you presumably led while he was strong. I now ask the jury—"

"Mother!" Screamed the boy, the wispy witch next to Mr. Crouch seemed to cry harder, "Mother, stop him, Mother, I didn't do it, it wasn't me!"