Returning to the tenth floor for the third time in three days, Carrie found herself wondering what the effects the courtroom had on the three inmates. Was it wearing them down? Did it make them want to confess? Carrie cynically figured most likely not. Nonetheless, optimism pervaded her chest. Feeling a tap on her shoulder, she turned around before entering the courtroom and a smile immediately erupted on her face. Riley Grey stood behind her, a newspaper in hand.
The night before had been very comforting, surreal. Not only had Carrie found herself a friend to release her feelings to, but she had also unearthed a person that was willing to speak about his own. The two had connected more than either of them had thought they ever could again with another person. When Carrie had requested a brief chat about the trial with him, she had in turn received a companion.
He handed her the newspaper without a word, but she noticed that the way he held his posture, something about him wasn’t right. Instinctively she glanced down at the Prophet and almost gasped.
A picture of her and Riley, heads together, speaking at the restaurant from the night before, enveloped the entire front page. A headline that read ‘Prosecutor and Fiancée of Victim Become Friends’ bordered the moving portrait. She read on:
Riley Grey, the prosecutor of the case for the murder of Christian Lowe, was spotted late last night in Muggle London with a very attractive companion who just happened to be Carrie West, the late Lowe’s fiancée. The two were seen dotingly sharing a cup of coffee and juicy small talk. It’s been four months--- could Miss West have finally gotten over her former love and found herself a real match? Or are the two exchanging information that should not be exchanged?
The article continued, but Carrie was too disgusted to read on. Tears, irate and humiliated, welled in her eyes, and she felt the impetuous urge to dash from the hallway to find a bathroom to hide in. How dare the Daily Prophet write something about her. For many years, every time she had glimpsed a major article flowing across its pages, she had sympathized with anyone involved. As it so blatantly showed, the paper obviously did not print the truth. Carrie stood there, torn with the urge to run, to skip the trial, in fear of the prying eyes that had read the article that morning that would wander over her as she sat silently in her pew. And then a real worry twisted her heart--- had Mr. and Mrs. Lowe seen the piece? She clutched at her chest and breathed in deeply, fright replacing the blood that coursed through her veins. She had loved Christian, and still did, truly. All this time, fearing Riley’s reaction, she had not withdrawn from the page, her eyes pretend-scanning to read, when she had only taken in the first few sentences. Finally, when she could stand it no longer, she looked up to see the effect it had had on her friend.
He didn’t seem to know what to say. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, desperately trying to suck in air to form words. Carrie handed the paper silently back to him. Immediately, she turned on her heel and an unwilling sob pitifully came forth from her closed mouth. Riley caught up, grasping her by her trembling shoulders, and turned her around to face him before she could go any further.
“I’m . . . I’m so sorry, Carrie. I don’t really know what to say.”
Carrie nodded, comprehending full well that it wasn’t his fault, but knew that he wouldn’t release her until he was finished. He lowered his eyes to hers and said intensely, genuinely, “I really am, Carrie.” Carrie felt that he didn’t have to declare anything, his eyes said it all. They were pleading, almost begging her to forgive him. But he hadn’t done anything wrong.
“It’s all right, Riley,” she breathed, controlling her tears for a few moments. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault, please.” But no matter how much she concentrated on his eyes, on anything, a stagnant tear still tumbled down her pale cheek. Reaching up to wipe it away, Riley continued in a commiserating voice. She felt rather awkward as his fingers touched her face.
“No, it is. I should’ve thought about the reporters, Rita Skeeter, what’d they say. I was stupid.”
He then wrapped her in an embrace, comforting her. While Carrie appreciated the gesture, something about it didn’t feel right. Besides the curious stares from onlookers passing through, recognizing them both obviously from the newspapers, the hug made her feel almost uneasy. She pulled away from the prolonged hold early, feigning an appreciative smile, trying very arduously not to search the room for additional spectators. He would certainly see and where would that take them? She’d only known him for twenty-four hours, not even that, and while she was familiar with his life story and he hers, it didn’t mean they knew each other.
Her eyes stared at the floor in front of her idly, thinking with her jaw clenched, clicking her tongue. He stared at her, awaiting a response.
“What kind of information do they mean? The kind that they think we exchanged?” she asked.
He sighed, obviously remembering that just because he had informed Carrie of the situation didn’t mean that it was resolved. “The passing of information from the prosecutor, which is the lawyer, of the case, to anyone besides the Wizengamot is strictly prohibited. If caught, I could lose my license to practice law. That also means that my time will have run out to find Andrew’s murderer. I can’t have that happen.”
“But won’t you be facing some kind of inquiry, just for this being put in the paper?”
He chuckled. “The Court is fully aware of the harsh allegations made by that ridiculous paper, whatever it’s called. They don’t trust it.”
Carrie breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s one good thing. At least you won’t lose your license because of me.”
Narrowing his eyes, he searched hers with uncertainty. “What do you mean, Carrie? None of this is your fault.”
“I’m the one that asked you in the first place to speak to me.” She vacillated, fearing the answer. “Did you say anything that you weren’t supposed to say?”
“No. I only told you of my personal history, of my son, of Tyler Mathews. I told you nothing, if you remember, about the case itself. You asked nothing about the Wizengamot’s opinions, of mine, about Christian Lowe’s suit.”
Nodding, Carrie slowly began to smile. Maybe more people deemed the Daily Prophet as rubbish than she thought. Maybe no one of consequence read the paper in the first place. But as she walked into the courtroom and sat down at her usual seat beside Mr. and Mrs. Lowe, she received no welcoming greeting or smile. Not even a glance that she existed. Carrie dismissed it and decided not to dwell on such a thing. Maybe they just didn’t realize her seated there.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Lowe,” she said, giving them a warm smile and a wave, uncrossing her legs when she finally gained the nerve to lean over and speak to them.
“Hmph.” Mrs. Lowe’s eyes were hard and cold, unlike the soft, affectionate ones she was so used to. Mr. Lowe said nothing, only shifted in his seat as he gazed toward the front of the room.
Suspicions confirmed, Carrie fought the urge not to just robotically plead with them to forgive her. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but to lose her friendship with these two wonderful people, her only remaining connection to Christian, because of a faulty article in an even faultier paper would be for naught. Her face stone, her feelings damaged, she returned to her usual place in her seat and forced herself not to think about it. She would speak to them with regards of the subject at another time.
Riley Grey crossed the room, returning to his customary place in the center of the room, in his natural stance, legs straight, hand stroking goatee, mind deep in thought.
~ * ~
“Your friends in school, Tyler,” Grey began. “Who were they? Before you departed Hogwarts, I mean.”
Tyler seemed to calculate something inside his head. “Many of them. Hard to remember their names, didn’t care for many. But my best mates were Draco Malfoy and . . . and Andrew Grey.” Mathews narrowed his eyes toward Grey, almost as if mocking him.
Faraday immediately jerked his head toward the prosecutor as a warning. “Grey, you better get to where you’re going with this. I’m not crossing cases.”
“Yes, sir.” He then began to pace the room, hands clasped together as if praying and their tips under his chin.
“But they were both in very different groups of friends. I hung out with each of them separately.” Grey nodded.
“Why did you leave Hogwarts to become a Death Eater?”
Mathews voice faltered, shock showing in his face from the question asked. “I---”
“Come on, Tyler,” Grey said ruthlessly, placing his arm behind Mathews and onto the chair he sat upon, pressing all his weight on it. “Come on. You know what I mean. Before you joined Lord Voldemort, the one you all call the Dark Lord. Before you got that mark, there, on your arm,” he said, pointing. “We already know you’re one of them, may as well gloat.”
Ignoring the outcries of some of the jury, Mathews went on. “Don’t say his name,” he told him, almost reluctantly, “Do not mock my master. He’s the only reason I am alive.”
“Really? He’s also the reason you’re almost dead. You enjoying your stay with the Dementors? Only a matter of time until they---” But Faraday cut him off. The hate that Grey personally felt for Mathews was shining through obviously to anyone who glanced his way.
“Grey! Get on with the case!”
Muttering a quick apology, Grey persisted once again. Straightening his tie, he continued. “Tyler, continue. Please tell the Wizengamot why you chose to become a Death Eater.”
“There . . . there wasn’t really a reason. It was my friends’ decisions rather than mine.”
“Which friends?”
“Draco.” Mathews avoided eye contact now, as Grey had traveled to the front of the room and was observing him suspiciously. “Others, too.”
Grey didn’t push the question as to who the ‘others’ were. “If you really didn’t want to be a Death Eater, you could have resisted their urges for you to join them.”
Mathews nodded, seeing the end of his part of the argument.
“But why? What convinced you to go with them?”
“I went with them reluctantly, I said.”
“But why? Why didn’t you just stay at Hogwarts, like the good student you were? Let them go on about their own business?”
“Because I would have been left alone. It was only a small handful of us leaving. You know that no sane person, student, anyone, can dwell anywhere, even at Hogwarts, without a friend. If most of my companions were leaving to join the Dark Lord, what few I had, why shouldn’t I go with them? They promised me that being on the Dark Side reaped more rewards than being good. I couldn’t say no.”
Grey nodded, empathizing, though he knew it to be a poor motivation. He avoided asking who all he had joined in leaving, instead dwelling on what tasks he had accomplished.
“What did the Dark Lord ask you and your friends to do?”
Mathews shook his head. Grey sighed, chuckling ever so slightly.
“Tyler, you’re already going to prison for being a Death Eater. You might as well confess to what you were up to then.”
This seemed to change his view on the situation, for Grey’s plan of inadvertently causing him to confess to other acts seemed to not resist his mind. “He started out small. Robbing stores or homes of what he called priceless artifacts. They were only flimsy pieces of junk. I don’t know of the value they were. After we pleased him, he began to recognize us as trustworthy, someone to be confident in.
“I was paired with Gaston at one point, so the Dark Lord could assess just how trusting we were, without the others to hide behind. He wanted to see who was the bravest, the one who actually did all the work. He matched us all up with someone else and Avery became my mentor. Nicholas joined us shortly after. They became more friends to me than the others, and they were also older, wiser. I soon forgot about my gullible friends from Hogwarts, all except Draco, who stayed in contact secretly, for he was on some other mission I’m not sure that he could reveal to anyone. Something that had to do with Hogwarts, I think. I always followed the Dark Lord’s plans, and with that his faith and conviction in me has never wavered.” He paused. “Gaston and Nicholas soon became my loyal partners, a trio of sorts we were called, you could say, that did bidding for the Dark Lord. But soon after, he gave us orders to murder for him.” He eventually realized that he had gone too far, absorbed with the telling of his story.
“Go on,” Grey told him, waving him forth with a hand.
Mathews shook his head.
“Tell the Court who was murdered by your hand.”
He repeated the same movement, progressing his head left and right more slowly this time, as if trying to control his anger, his humility. Grey sighed vociferously, the one breath echoing off every wall. Avery and Foreman stared at Mathews as if he were a complete idiot, dumbfounded that he had told the court so much. This proved his reliance to the Dark Lord, they reflected. Just wait until he once again rewards all of those that have stayed faithful to him. He won’t be included, Foreman thought. It was the edited version of Avery’s opinions. Avery’s face was a new shade of crimson. Gritting his teeth as hard as he did only ensured that they’d fall out sooner.
“Who was murdered at the hand of Gaston Avery and Nicholas Foreman?”
Mathews hid behind his hair. “I will not betray my friends.”
“You’ve already betrayed the Dark Lord. It’s all that matters, I assure you.” But Mathews still shook his head, and Grey no longer felt the need to push the subject.
-*Of course, thanks to Fresca!