Eromenos

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

THIS IS THE SAME STORY AS "CASE CLOSED." THE TITLE/A NAME IS JUST DIFFERENT :)

Author’s Note: The text between “…..” means a flashback for Hermione, text between “*****” means a flashback for Eromenos.


She was looking out the window, breathing in the scent of the place: the warm musky smell of generations of owl droppings, mixed with the scent of trees and grass flowing in with the breeze. It was warm, a balmy dusk towards the end of summer. The students were still at home, the soon-to-be first years would be having exciting dreams of magic and mischief. The sky was setting, throwing brilliant hues of color across the skies; flamingo pink, tangerine orange, pomegranate red.

The place was peaceful, serene. It was the calm after the storm, the storm called Voldemort which had upset the whole world five years ago. But Harry had succeeded in quelling that storm, and balance and order were slowly being restored to the world.

She heard a faint rustle behind her. She didn’t need to turn around to recognize who it was; they’d met here hundreds of times before, when they had been naïve prefects who couldn’t bring themselves to be civil enough to hold a conference anywhere else. The owls and the view and the breeze were soothing enough to keep the two from blowing up at each other.

He knew she’d be here. She knew he’d be here. There was simply nowhere else they could be.

“You came.”

“You were waiting.”

“I have him.”

“I know.”

It was the resolution of the craziest month that Hermione had had in a long time.


AND IT ALL BEGAN WITH…

.....
“Are you sure you have to go today? Honey, it’s a Saturday for Christ-sake! I mean, why don’t they give you a break; you work all day, all night—”

He cuts off her nagging with a sweet kiss.

“I’ll be back late. Don’t stay up for me. I love you.”
.....


It was just another case; just another case about murder. There was a definite suspect. There was a possible witness, who was being detained nearby. She would just walk into the room, ask the witness a few questions, trick him into telling the truth, and bam. Case closed.

It was nothing Hermione hadn’t done before.

“I can do this,” Hermione muttered to herself firmly, but her ashy face and shaking hands betrayed her mental agitation. “I have to do this,” she said a bit more forcefully, and as soon as she said it, she knew it was true. This had to be done; she had to be strong, she had to bring justice. For him. Some color returned to her face, and her hands fell still. It was time.

Right on cue, a short, friendly looking witch named Mary with curly blonde hair poked her head into Hermione’s office, and, looking apologetic, announced, “The witness isn’t too cooperative…we don’t know what to make of him…Hermione, we need you on this case.”

“I’ll be there,” Hermione said, pulling her curly auburn hair back into a bun, and straightening out her smart black skirt suit as she rose from her swivel-chair.

“Veritaserum doesn’t work on him. It’s like he’s a walking vessel of Antiserum…or…I don’t know. There’s just something weird. Come and see for yourself,” Mary said, looking relieved, but still speaking as if one wrong word would set Hermione on self-destruct mode. Hermione thought about this for a second, and then realized it was probably true. She was way too high-strung lately. She needed to relax. She needed to be cool and authoritative.

She needed to get a goddamn testimony.


.....
Late night, or early in the morning. The phone rings. Hermione groggily pulls the receiver to her ear.
.....


It was a pitch black room except for the light of a single bulb, which hung naked above a steel table in the center of the concrete room; it was almost exactly like a scene in the muggle movies Hermione used to watch. Today, like always, Hermione would play the lead role as the investigator. Her witness was sitting, there, face partly in shadow.

After letting her eyes adjust to the gloom, Hermione was a bit taken aback to find that the witness was so young. She was only a little girl…or…no…was it a boy? It must be a boy, Hermione realized, because Mary had referred to him as, well, “him.”

Hermione turned to the two expressionless guards who had accompanied her into the room, and told them that she would be okay alone. After all, she was a fully qualified adult witch, and he was just an unarmed little boy. She stayed facing the door until the two guards left, and then exhaled slowly. She had to do this. She had to be strong. Composing her face, Hermione turned around, and faced the little boy with something of a smile.

“Hello,” she said, her voice echoing slightly through the barren room. Her heels made clicking noises as she made her way to the wooden chair across from the boy. He just watched her sit, rifle through his papers, and take a sip of the steamy cup of coffee.

Hermione was surprised to see that there was almost no information about him. In fact, there was no official information at all; it was as if he had appeared out of nowhere. There was no birth date, no name, no identification of any sort as muggle or wizard. All there was on the paper was a recent picture of him in the right hand corner, his height (4’2), his weight (60 lbs) his hair and eye color, and his sex. She took a closer look at her witness.

Upon closer observation, it was no surprise that Hermione had mistaken him for a girl. He had a pale, thin face with big, dark blue eyes surrounded by long downy eyelashes. His hair was black, and had not been cut for quite some time, for it flowed down his slender back in a luxurious half pony-tail and feathery bangs framed his delicate face, contrasting strongly with his ruby lips. His body was long and thin and delicate; indeed, had she not been told previously, Hermione would have been certain that he was a girl. On top of everything else, they had given him a dirty white nightgown for clothing.

Hermione glanced down at the paper again, clearing her throat. In a little corner of the paper, someone (probably his previous interviewer) had scribbled “Eromenos (?), age 12 (?).”

“Hi…Eromenos is it?” Hermione said, looking calmly at the boy, when all she wanted to do was grab him by his skinny shoulders and shake him until a confession poured out of his pretty little mouth.

The boy just looked at her silently, his face a blank page. Alright, so that’s how it was going to be.

“My name is Hermione. Do you know why you’re here today?”

The boy looked her directly in the eye, his dark blue eyes somehow piercing past her chocolate colored eyes and straight into her soul. “I’m here because you want me to incriminate my master.”

Hermione blinked. True.

“Of course that’s not true. Today, we’re here to chat…let’s get to know each other.”

He just looked at her, with the slightest hint of skepticism on his blank face. Hermione sighed.

“So…how old are you?” Hermione asked, putting the tips of her fingers together, elbows on table, and leaning forward. Her aggressive position.

Eromenos gave her a look, as if to say, “Fine, I’ll play your games. I’ll humor you.” However, aloud, he just said, “I think I’m twelve. I’m not sure.”

“Oh… well when is your birthday?”

“We celebrate it on February 26th, the day we first met.”

“We? As in you and ‘your master’?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. I see. So you don’t know your true date of birth… how about your name? What is your last name?”

“I have no last name. I am Eromenos. I have been since February 26th.”

“Can you tell me how you met? What happened on February 26th?” Hermione asks, leaning in closer. Could it be that this boy was Draco’s…well, former Death Eaters were known to engage in many illegal and despicable actions… maybe there was an underground network where Death Eaters bought and sold little boys…pretty little boys, dressed up like girls. It was possible; she wouldn’t put it above the Death Eaters.

The boy looked at her carefully. As if measuring her up.

“He became my life that day.”

And that was the last thing he said to her during that session.


.....
“Is this the wife of Mr. Ronald Weaseley?”

Hermione’s heart skips a beat. Or two. She’s suddenly sitting up, trembling and alert. “Yes…what…what happened…?”

“Mrs. Ronald Weaseley, are you sitting down?”
.....


Hermione pressed her fingers to her temples, squeezing her eyes shut. Things were not going so well. The witness wouldn’t say anything incriminating at all, and they had already had two more sessions after the first. In fact, he barely said anything at all.

All she knew was that they met on February 26th.

What happened on that day? Why was that day so important to that little boy? What could have happened between him and the suspect – what was their relationship?

Hermione sunk deeper into the warm water of her bathtub, until she was completely submerged in soapy water. She let a stream of bubbles escape from her mouth. In each bubble was a beloved face. Hermione felt her heart clench.

She quickly surfaced, and rubbed her eyes. They were tearing. “It’s because of the soap,” Hermione said to herself sternly.

The house was much too quiet. She desperately needed another human being to be there with her.


.....
Hermione’s hands shake violently and she drops the phone onto the milky white bed sheets. She looks down at it silently for a few moments, her mouth gaping open, her heart beating like a war drum. She begins to shake her head.
.....


Fumbling with the keys, Hermione quickly entered into her office. It was neat, orderly, and impeccable as usual. Something about the very corporate aura of her office was soothing.

She sat in her comfortable black leather swiveling chair, and leaned back. She closed her eyes. The clock flashed 3:00 AM, as she fell into a dream about falling endlessly into a black abyss. Her tears flew upwards from the corners of her eyes as her body hurtled into the darkness.


.....
She begins to scream at the telephone, which rests on her lap like a mousetrap ready to spring a mouse’s head off its shoulders. “He’s…what? He’s…NO! No you’re lying. This is a cruel joke—”

“Mrs. Weaseley…please calm down. You need to come here right away; soon they’ll move his body.”
.....


“What is your relationship to ‘your master’? Has he ever…touched you in any way that you don’t like…hit you? Hurt you?” Hermione was getting tired of this; his stubborn silence, her endless attempts at small-talk. There was going to be no more beating around the bush. She was going to find out what happened today, or she would die trying.

“Never,” Eromenos asserts immediately. “He would never.”

“Why do you call him ‘master’? Were you a servant of his, a slave of sorts?”

“He was my life—”

“—You’ve told me that a million times now. Look, don’t you understand what’s happening here?” Hermione exclaims, her patience worn thin. “Your master is accused of murder. Do you understand that? Murder. There is a high probability that your beloved master killed another human being. Don’t you understand the gravity of this? Do you know what you’re in the middle of? We need to find out if he was the murderer or not. You haven’t been cooperative at all. You- you’re inhumane. You’re cruel, you’re wrong, you’re selfish. How can a decent human withhold valuable information that could help another, how can a human not feel a sense of justice, of righteousness? You’ve just been toying with the whole judicial system, avoiding questions, staying silent, being unhelpful; but you can’t find a way out of this mess. I won’t let you – not until you answer my questions, and answer them the way I want you to. You need to tell me about what happened. Someone’s beloved was killed by your master. Bring justice. Bring peace. Let the dead rest in peace, let justice be served. Let the living rest in peace. Tell the truth. Talk to me. TALK TO ME.”

Eromenos merely gazed steadily into her eyes.

“UGH! HAVEN’T YOU EVER LOVED ANYONE BEFORE? DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT IT WOULD FEEL LIKE TO HAVE YOUR WORLD RIPPED AWAY FROM YOU IN ONE SECOND? BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT YOUR BELOVED MASTER DID TO ME. HE TOOK MY WORLD AND BLASTED IT INTO SMITHEREENS WHEN HE KILLED MY HUSBAND,” Hermione was white-faced, trembling, standing up and glaring at the boy who calmly gazed back at her. Her voice dropped in volume, and in a rather defeated voice, which trembled with tears, she asked, “Why can’t you understand? Haven’t you ever loved? Haven’t you ever been loved?”

“Yes.”

Hermione wiped away her tears, and looked up in surprise. “What?”

“Yes. Yes, I have loved. And I have been loved.”

Taking a deep breath, Hermione tried to compose herself again. She hadn’t lost her cool like this in a long time…it was almost relieving. “I’m…sorry…for the outburst…please, tell me more.”

The boy looked at her steadily for a few moments. The look on his face was inscrutable. Finally, he nodded, and gazed down at the table, with an intense look in his eyes. Hermione looked at him curiously, waiting for him to begin speaking, when something caught her eye. Following the boy’s gaze, Hermione looked at the top of the steel table, and was shocked to find that upon the metallic top of the table, there was a tiny recreation of a small village, in perfect scale, with tiny human beings walking around. It was like a three-dimensional muggle television screen. Hermione looked closer, amazed, speechless.

It was winter in the projection world, and the wind blew harshly, swirling up eddies of the thick snow and throwing ice into the faces of villagers who hurried back into their cottages, returning to the warmth of a fire and the love of their families. It looked like an ordinary little town. Suddenly, the image zoomed into a small alley between a bakery and a restaurant. The alley was relatively empty, except for a few pieces of garbage strewn here and there. But wait—Hermione looked closer, and realized that one small mass of tattered clothing was shivering. Upon inspection, Hermione was shocked to realize that the mass of clothes was really a tiny, frail looking boy.

He was pressed close to the wall of the bakery. Knees held close to his chest, and his arms and legs barely covered by the torn, dirty clothes. A few moments later, he stopped shivering all together. His lips were blue and split and bleeding from the cold and his face was marked with all the signs of extreme hunger; dull eyes, sunken cheeks, wildly accentuated cheek bones. Hermione’s stomach convulsed in pity. He was dying, and people walked back home to their cottages, passing by the poor boy without a second look.

It began to snow heavily, as if the skies alone acknowledged the slow death of a boy. The boy’s brilliant blue eyes slowly began to close. A snowflake landed on one of his long eyelashes. He didn’t bother to brush it off. The snowflake didn’t melt.

From the dark corners of the alley, beady black eyes observed the dying boy. Perhaps the snow wasn’t the only thing aware of his weakness. The great grey rats began to crawl out slowly, leisurely, knowing full well that the boy couldn’t put up a fight; wouldn’t put up a fight.

The boy watched them approach him. His eyes were dull, hollow, lifeless. He knew what was going to be his fate. He had accepted it a long time ago.

Suddenly, out of seemingly nowhere, a flash of green light broke the calm and struck the rat square in the chest. The boy blinked slowly, and looked up, to find that he was looking into cold grey eyes. The cold grey eyes were part of a pale, pointed face, framed with white-blonde, sleek hair. The face belonged to a tall, lean body, wrapped in a dark green cloak with silver fur for lining.

The two looked at each other, and a universe lived and died within that single exchange of eye contact.

The tall blonde man crouched down, until he and the boy were of equal eye level. He took the boy’s stiff, lifeless hand, and flipped it over. On the boy’s wrist was a small blue mark that resembled a rose. The man said nothing. He simply scooped the little boy up into his arms, in the warm shelter of his large, forest green cloak, and began to walk and walk away from that cursed alley, fading into the falling snow…fading…fading…fading…

Until Hermione was looking at only the steel top of the table once more.


.....
At the scene of the crime, the Department of Mysteries, his office is drowned in thick red blood. Some of it is still glistening; it has not yet dried. It’s fresh.

But Hermione is oblivious to everything but the man who lay sprawled on the middle of the floor.

They won’t let her hold him.
.....


There was a long silence.

Hermione finally looked up at the boy.

“You’re a Magikai.”

“Yes.”

Magikai were not humans. They were magical beings that looked exactly like humans, only they had magic flowing through all their veins, and it was laced in the fiber of their beings. Magikai were born with marks that looked like blue roses on their left wrists. Magikai were like wizards and witches, but did not need wands to create magic; magic was theirs to manipulate and do with as they pleased. Magikai were extremely rare, to the point where they were largely considered to be extinct. For all Hermione knew, she could be speaking to the last living Magikai.

So this little boy was immensely valuable. One who had the allegiance of a Magikai would have the world in the palm of his hands, so long as the Magikai were willing to follow his instructions and learn how to master magic completely.

“So…that’s why he wanted you. I see now. You’re his tool. He threw you away, like a dispensable toy when he didn’t need you anymore.”

For the first time, the boy’s face flashed with emotion. Hermione couldn’t tell what it was; anger, joy, sadness, pain, frustration, love? “Perhaps I am just his tool,” he said calmly, the storm of emotions passing as rapidly as it brewed. “But as such, I am perfectly happy. He is my life. I would do anything for him. It doesn’t matter if I’m just a tool to him; so long as he can use me, and I can be helpful to him, I am happy. He is the reason I exist.”

Hermione sighed. She would have to try a different track.

“Look, if you’re a Magikai, why didn’t you escape from here already?”

“My master didn’t tell me to.”

Hermione sighed. That wasn’t a real answer. His reason for not escaping could be significant. She made a mental note of it.

“Alright, so we can talk about that later. But first, Eromenos, you have to tell me. What did your master use your power for? Did he use it for good? For peace? Or did he use it…for bad? Did he use it to hurt people, make people sad…did he use it to kill people?”

Eromenos didn’t say anything.

“Answer me, Eromenos.”

“I would do anything my master tells me to.”

“Even to the point where you have to hurt other people, Eromenos? To the point where you can let a murder happen, to the point where you can be the murderer?”

“He is all that matters.”

“Eromenos! Please! You’re being unreasonable! Did he or did he not commit the murder? DID OR DID NOT YOUR MASTER KILL MY HUSBAND?”

“I don’t know.”

“Answer me.”

“I don’t know.”

“ANSWER ME, GODDAMNIT.”

“Haven’t you ever loved someone?”

Heaving with emotion and trembling so much that she could hardly stand straight, Hermione pulled out her wand and pointed it at Eromenos.

For a long time, he gazed at her steadily.

Finally, Hermione slowly put her wand down.

She turned around and left the room without another word.


.....
Her world comes crumbling apart.

She’s sobbing wildly into the arms of a complete stranger, who uncomfortably pats her on the back.

Her senior adviser walks up behind her, and sternly but somberly says, “Miss Granger, please, pull yourself together. There’s something you have to know.”
.....


“Yes, we understand these are special circumstances. I suppose we’ll have to catch him unconscious. We’ll do it by muggle means; he’ll be able to deflect a magical attack easily.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll talk to a muggle doctor who’s a friend of mine. I’m sure he can supply me with some kind of tranquilizer.”

“Great. And don’t worry about it; there’s no one who could oppose this, anyway. He has no parents or guardians, according to his barely-present official records. We’ll slip the tranquilizer into his food. We’ll have to make it a strong dosage, too. He hardly eats.”

“Alright. Thanks again.”

“Let’s hope for everybody’s sake that this works.”


.....
“Here, this is what we found nearby the entrance of this scene. It’s a wand, and it’s covered in matching blood. The wand will be identified shortly. We’re not sure yet why the murderer would have left his wand, but I’m sure we’ll have it figured out soon. You’re an investigator, Hermione. You know that this evidence is gold. Don’t worry. We’ll bring justice.”
.....


Hermione stared down at Eromenos' limp form, which was comfortably tucked into a warm bed. She had about thirty minutes, before her time was up. She needed to hurry.

She never particularly enjoyed doing this; she completely understood how much of a breech it was of one’s personal security, one’s thoughts and identity. But it was necessary; for him. Pulling out her wand, Hermione waved it in the complicated, necessary pattern.

“Legilimens.”

It was like falling headfirst into a pool, and Hermione was rapidly swimming through the swirls of nothingness to reach the surface. Flashes of images began exploding through Hermione’s mind; a screaming man, blood, cold grey eyes, blood, a woman sprawled across the floor, blood, blood, blood….

Hermione took a deep breath. She needed to slow down; she couldn’t process information this quickly, and probing too quickly would result in a mental breakdown for the both of them. She needed to take her time, move slowly, move cautiously.

Again, she fell into the abyss, but this time, she plunged more carefully, with eyes wide open.


*****
A blinding flash of anger; something silly, like a toy taken away, or bedtime much too early. And then everything goes spiraling out of control, things go flying, the air around you turns thick and vibrant with magic, and the magic is angry and it’s all directed at her…

Everything goes black.

When you regain consciousness, you’re holding the bloody form of a woman, who breathes shallowly for a few moments, and then stops breathing all together. Her dark blue eyes remain wide open.

You’re shaking. You’re frightened. You don’t know what to do. Something inside you is breaking, you’re overwhelmed, you’re angry at yourself, you’re lost.

“Mommy…mommy…wake up…please…wake up…”

She won’t move. You shake her, but she remains as lifeless as her long red hair.

“MOMMY. MOMMY. WAKE UP. WAKE UP NOW. MOMMY! MOMMY! I’M SORRY…I’m sorry mommy wake up…”

And your heart is aching and tears are streaming down your face. Your hand clutches your chest, right over your heart, in a desperate attempt to keep the pieces of your heart together.

“What the…”

You turn quickly to the source of the deep baritone voice.

“Father…” you choke, as dad stares dumbstruck at the debris that surrounds him; the broken furniture, the wholes in walls, the splattered blood. His wife. Dead, in the arms of his child.

“You little freak. You FUCKING LITTLE FREAK.”

Father lunges towards you to strike you, to beat you senseless, to maim, to kill. Father has an insane gleam in his eyes; an anger, a madness, a hatred. You stares up at your approaching father speechless, unable to move or do anything other than cry.

And just as father is approaching within five feet—he’s thrown violently backwards by an invisible force that radiates from you, always protecting you.

Father hits the wall, hard. Blood oozing from the back of his head, he stands up with difficulty, and stares at you with nothing but pure and complete hatred.

“Get the FUCK out of my house, you FUCKING piece of shit. GET OUT. GET OUT NOW! DON’T EVER COME BACK! GO FUCKING KILL YOURSELF! I HATE YOU! YOU FREAK! YOU FREAK YOU KILLED YOUR OWN MOTHER GO FUCKING DIE! YOU KILLED HER! You killed her! You killed her…”

And father is sobbing and bleeding everywhere, and the light slowly goes out of his eyes, too. And you are running, running, running as far as your shaking little legs can take you, far, far away.
*****
You slowly fall asleep, lulled by the warmth of a big, billowy cloak, and the security of strong arms around you.

Before you lose consciousness, you tell yourself that no matter what, from now on, this man will be your life. This man will be your strength, your reason for living. You will devote your life to him. No one, no one will ever take him away from you.
*****
It’s a warm summer day. You’re wearing clean clothes, you ate a good lunch, and your master is praising your for your quick progress in the mastery of magic. Master tells you…that he’s proud.

You’re walking on sunshine.

Cautiously, emboldened by the sun and the bubbly feelings of joy welling up inside you, you hesitantly slide your hand into the slender hands of master. You’re blushing, looking away; afraid, but thrilled.

Master looks down at you in surprise. For a while he looks at you with an unfathomable expression, but that look is soon replaced by a small smile.

That smile is your sun, your universe.

You have never, ever felt happier.
*****
Master is scolding you. You’re ashamed. Your head hangs low, and your eyes fill with tears. You had questioned master, when master told you to kill that man.

It was not your place to question his master; hadn’t you fully devoted your life to him?

Master stops for a moment, and looks down at you. Master sees how devastated and truly sorry you are. Master says, “Alright. Forget about it. Just don’t question me again.”

It’s like redemption. It’s like being born again.

You resolve never again to question his judgments. His word is law.
*****
“Crucio.”

The pain of a thousand needles, a thousand swords, a thousand burns and stings and more seizes your body, and you’re on the floor writhing uncontrollably. The pain goes on and on and on and on…much longer than ever before. This is not a punishment, of course. Today, master is stressed, you’re not exactly sure why. But you are master’s vessel of stress relief, and as such, you couldn’t be happier. There is no where else you want to be, than by your master’s side. Even if it means being tortured.

Finally, the pain goes away.

Master scoops you up in his strong, warm arms, and holds you close.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”

You hold him back closely, with a body that trembles from the aftershocks of the pain.

“It is my honor. You are my life.”
*****
A small, pale hand clutches the forest green robes.

“Please— don’t…”
*****


“NO!”

Hermione violently flies backwards, landing on her bum about five feet away from the bed, where Eromenos was glaring down at her ferociously. Flames of purple…could it be magic?...were surrounding his small flame, and his hair was floating upwards, rippling with a kind of electric force. His eyes were like chips of ice, the dark blue hardening into a substance harder than diamonds.

The Ministry had of course placed Anti-Magic devices all across his body, but they just snapped away like cheap plastic bracelets and anklets. Hermione had no defense, her magic would be useless against his. Hermione literally felt afraid of the boy, and she shrunk back away from him.

Eromenos floated up out of the bed, and blasted a hole through the ceiling. Chunks of cement and plaster came raining down on Hermione. He was escaping!

And just as the last tip of his white nightgown was flying out the window, something went flying through the air, and lodged itself in his ankle. Slowly, the fearsome purple flames receded into his body, and the boy cam floating down through the ceiling like a fallen angel.

Hermione tore her eyes away from him, and saw two armed guards, one holding a tranquilizer gun.


.....
“Hermione, the results of the wand testing came back. Without a doubt, this is Draco Malfoy’s wand, and the last spell that he cast was ‘Avada Kedavra.’”

Hermione clenches her fists. Draco. She should’ve known; sure, he’d come to their side halfway through the war as a spy, but she’d never fully trusted him.

“But don’t worry, Hermione. We have a witness. We searched his manor, and we found a little boy there. He’s gold, Hermione. I’m sure we can get a good testimony.”
.....


The ominous silence in the room was only broken by the steady dripping of water through the cracks in the cold stone walls. Every face in the room, which actually looked more like a stadium, was pointed towards the little boy who was shackled to a chair with the strongest kind of Anti-Magic chains.

Hermione noted to herself that the boy didn’t even look like he needed to be chained down. He had no intent of going anywhere. He was still wearing that dirty white nightgown, and his hair flowed beautifully, flawlessly, like a river, despite the fact that he must have been manhandled quite a bit. His head was bowed.

“Little boy, you are charged with assaulting the investigator Hermione Granger at 20:46 last night, while attempting to escape the law. You are also charged with refusing to cooperate as a witness. As the laws from wartime against Voldemort still stand, this could result in your being forced to several years in prison, along with serious investigation. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Hermione groaned. The judiciary system after the war was still stringent and unfair. She was frightened for Eromenos; what would be his sentence? Somehow, she had grown somewhat attached to him, as much as she refused to admit it to herself.

“Please, don’t say anything stupid,” Hermione begged him mentally.

“Yes, I do have something to say,” he said tonelessly, not bothering to raise his head. “I was the one who murdered Ronald Weaseley.”

A collective gasp came from the crowd, the judges, and the jury. Everyone was turning to mutter at their neighbor, and there were even shouts of “impossible!” and “liar!” Hermione stared at him in disbelief. Was it…could it really be…

“Order!” called the judge, and the room slowly quieted. “Eromenos, is it…do you realize what you are saying? Do you know that you are charging yourself of a horrible crime?”

“Yes. I took my master’s wand in the night, and used it to slay Ronald Weaseley.”

“Why? Explain yourself,” the judge said, looking uncertain. However, there were the beginnings of a maniacal gleam in the corner of his eyes. He loved it when defendants started admitting to crimes; this would look lovely on his record of victorious cases; why, his mere presence had convinced a youth to come clean.

Speaking to the ground, Eromenos calmly said, “My master was suffering. He was being harassed by several Death Eaters for changing sides during the war, and he was tired of being seen as a double-crosser, even after the war ended. He wasn’t…no, he couldn’t be happy as a living man. So I took his wand in the night, and used it to kill Mr. Weaseley. I knew that Mr. Weaseley and my master had been enemies in the past. No one would doubt that he was the murderer. I left obvious evidence, so my master would surely be sentenced to death. I know that the Ministry puts wizards given the death sentence to death painlessly. This is what I wanted for my master.”

Again, an outpour of murmurs and whispers broke out across the court room, but this time, a little louder, a little fiercer. Hermione was in shock. Did Eromenos really kill her husband? Could he have? Why? Why would he? It…didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be true… it…

“That doesn’t make sense. If you are capable of stealing your master’s wand, and using it to kill a full-grown wizard man, then why are you not capable of killing your master with your own hands? Why leave it to the Ministry to do your work?” The Judge was sitting up higher in his chairs, his face alight with passion and glee, an almost perverted joy upon his face.

“My master is much stronger than I am. That is why he is the master, and I am not. And I could not bring myself to kill him with my own hands. As I told you before, he could not be happy living. And when the one you love is not happy when he is living, neither can you be.”

The murmurs grew louder. “Pedophile!” “Homosexual!” People were growing angry and uncomfortable.

“Alright. Little boy, you are now accused with the murder of—”

“But that’s not all. I’m not done yet.”

A deathly silence filled the room, as everyone stared in shock at Eromenos. His long black bangs were obscuring one eye, his head still bowed, as if in defeat.

“I am also guilty of coercing Draco Malfoy into becoming a Death Eater, which resulted in his murdering, may I add, with my assistance, a total of twenty six people.”

This time, people were shouting, their eyes wide open in disbelief, their mouths and tongues filled with fury and hatred for the little boy who was shackled to a chair, in the middle of a stage dimly lit by torches.

“Order! Order!” the judge cried futilely, as the crowd roared in fury.

Eromenos raised his head, his dark blue eyes piercing, wide open. He calmly shouted over the chorus of angry shouts, “I helped Draco kill people. I told him to torture people to death, people like Mr. Growchins, Mrs. Parywets, Mr. Moonfly, Mr. Timbelwink, Mrs. Marinks…”

Now there was outright chaos in the courtroom, as relatives and friends of the deceased stood up and shouted, pointing at the boy, pounding their fists into their hands, screaming all their hatred, their fear, their sorrow that had been caused by the reign of Voldemort, pouring all their bottled up emotions at the little boy.

Hermione suddenly realized what was happening. She shook her head slowly in disbelief. Her voice was frozen. He was a genius; everything was going according to plan.

“…Mrs. Jenkins, little Gregory…I told him to rape women, to kill men by hanging them by their toenails and bleeding them slowly to death with pins and needles, I am, in fact, the one that whispered dreams of domination into Voldemort’s head from the very beginning! I am the child of Lord Voldemort! I am merely waiting for the chance to gather the Death Eaters again and reestablish a reign of terror, of complete and absolute power! I killed Albus Dumbledore, I killed Harry Potter, I killed—”

“AVADA KEDAVRA.”

Complete and total silence filled the room. About fifty witches and wizards had their wands pointed at the boy who was still chained to the chair, whose head now lolled forward onto his chest; lifeless.

The judge cleared his throat, looking around uncomfortably. The crowd all sat down together as one, everyone looking slightly bewildered, but savagely satisfied.

“The jury has sentenced Eromenos, no last name, to death. The sentence was carried out. Draco Malfoy is cleared of all charges. This case is to be considered first-class confidential. Case closed.”

…OWLERY, HOGWARTS, GREAT BRITAIN
“Why did you kill him,” Hermione’s voice was low and hollow. She didn’t know what she knew anymore.

“I didn’t,” Draco replied, sounding tired.

“Then who did.”

“My father.”

“What?” Hermione cried, whipping around. Lucius Malfoy had been on the Most Wanted list for nearly five years now, always managing to escape capture. He had been a fanatic Death Eater until the day Voldemort was defeated, and had fled when news of Voldemort’s death spread across the world.

“My father hates me for changing sides during the war. He planned to frame me for killing a prominent Ministry member; of course, he thought it was an ironic and clever ending for his treacherous son: to be killed by the very people for whom he’d turned his back on his upbringing.”

Hermione sighed. That sounded feasible enough.

“Why didn’t you take him when you ran away?”

Draco looked at her suspiciously. Hermione was wearing a deep rouge colored blouse with a black skirt that just touched below her knees, looking as Gryffindor as ever. He was wearing a black dress shirt, tucked into black dress pants. The folds in the pants stood out in perfect lines.

“How much do you know about him?”

“Enough,” Hermione replied shortly.

“It…that doesn’t matter. Just give him to me.”

Hermione looked at him sternly for a while, and then sighed, giving in to his request.

She waved her wand in a complicated manner, causing a door to appear in the air. She opened the door, and gently pulled out a small, fragile looking body.

“I’ve performed the necessary preserving spells on him. You can cremate him or bury him as you wish,” Hermione said, her voice a little husky. She’d told the Ministry that she needed his body to check for curses or spells that could possibly have been activated by his death; to check for boobytraps, in a manner of speaking. They’d complied without much complaint.


*****
Draco looked down at the sleeping boy, and smiled sadly. He brushed the boy’s hair out of his face. Eromenos sighed, a faint smile on his peaceful looking face.

Could the little boy know that he had saved Draco’s life, as much as Draco had saved his?

While Draco had been traveling the world aimlessly, he had heard rumors about a Magikai in a foreign village. Interested, he’d gone to the village and found the boy. Little did the boy know that the man who would save him had been just a few steps away from committing suicide.

Life had seemed so pointless and empty for Draco; he had ended the war on the victorious side and had significantly contributed to victory, but he was still known as a double-crosser, and the mark that was still faintly visible on his arm caused people to look at him with disdain. He loved no one, and no one loved him. His mother had been killed in the war, and his father was trying to escape from the Ministry. No jobs interested him, yet he was wealthy enough to become a hermit for twenty lifetimes. But the money didn’t buy him happiness. Everything felt fake, everything felt pointless.

But when he looked into the eyes of that little boy, he saw something there.

Something that told him life was still worth living.

Draco loved Eromenos more than anyone could ever know.

And that was why he had to leave him behind. Eromenos could never be safe living with Draco from now on. He would never get a real education; never have real friends his age. He would always be on the run, hiding, and probably hungry. It was better if Eromenos was found by the Ministry, then given to a foster family. The Ministry wouldn’t convict Eromenos of anything, he was too young.

On his way out of the house, he felt a tug on the back of his cape. Surprised, he turned around, to see the tear-filled eyes of Eromenos.

“Please—don’t…”

Draco turned back around, and continued walking.

“But if they took your wand…what are you going to do?” Eromenos asked softly.

Draco didn’t stop walking, but instead, pulled his robes out of Eromenos' clutching hands with a swish.

He kept walking.

Eromenos would understand.

When Draco was far away from the house, he wiped a tear away from his eye. This was better for Eromenos. He would hide until the whole thing blew over, living as a fugitive.

As long as Eromenos was safe and happy, everything was going to be okay.
*****


Draco took the boy into his arms. He brushed the hair out of the boy’s delicate face with unsteady fingers, then, after a moment’s pause, drew the cold body close to his chest.

“Fool…you little fool…why…what am I supposed to do without you?”

Hermione wiped the tears from her eyes, and turned away from the grieving man respectfully. Draco was shaking with grief. “How can you leave me?”

Suddenly, Draco was seized by a golden memory of a small hand slipping shyly into his, as the two walked in a sunny meadow. And another memory, of Eromenos' utter delight upon discovering the joys of smores. And another, of Eromenos cuddling close to him at night. And another, of Eromenos working so hard to control his magic, that he would collapse into bed at nights, teeth unbrushed. And another, and another, and another…

“Thank you.” Draco was sobbing and laughing, clutching the boy close to his chest. “You saved my life in so many ways. I love you, Eromenos. Thank you.”

As tears ran down Hermione’s face, she realized that her life had been shattered by Lucius Malfoy, but that she wouldn’t stay down. She would stand up, and pick up the shards of her life, and put them back together. She wouldn’t look back. She would say “thank you,” and keep on living, for Ron. And for Eromenos.

And that was a case closed.




A/N- Reviews of all types are greatly appreciated. :)