Conviction

Chapter 77: Conviction

May 2031

Age 53

Annie and George were startled awake early one spring morning by vigorous pounding on the back door of their house.

"What the bloody hell?" mumbled George, lifting his head slightly, momentarily, but otherwise not moving.

The pounding continued – even louder now. The window of the door rattled with the abuse.

"Allow me, you lazy git," Annie scolded as she rolled reluctantly out of bed. She dressed quickly and trudged halfway down the stairs before discovering with irritated disappointment it was Ron at the back door. He smiled and waved at her, encouraging her to hurry up and let him inside.

"It's your idiotic baby brother!" she called back up the stairs, tempted to go back to bed rather than deal with him. It was far too early in the morning to be faced with Ron in such an excited state.

"No brother of mine is stupid enough to wake me this early on a Saturday morning, not even him," George replied, his voice sounding muffled, as if his face was pressed against a pillow.

"Think again," Annie replied. She reconsidered leaving him there – Ron did look rather agitated, after all – and continued down the stairs, praying no family catastrophes had happened overnight.

"What the hell do you want, Ron?" she asked, bleary-eyed, as she opened the door. Ron had years ago been forbidden from entering Mole Hill via the Floo or Apparition, having interrupted the marital congress of his brother and sister-in-law one too many times, and was instead required to noisily announce his presence non-magically via the doorways.

"Seen the paper yet today?" he asked, waving his copy in front of her.

"No," she yawned. "By all means, do come in," she said sarcastically as he blew past her on his way to the kitchen.

"You won't bloody believe it!" he cried. "Got any coffee?"

"Send him away before I hex him!" George yelled from upstairs.

"Oh, shit... I didn't do it again, did I?" Ron asked, looking stricken and a bit frightened. The consequences had been severe, last time. His nose was still slightly off-center.

"If you had, I wouldn't be nearly so pleasant to deal with right now," she retorted, scowling with a sleep hangover and straightening her hastily donned pajamas.

Ron grinned at her, apparently amused at the state of her hair (as most people were when they caught her before her morning shower). His smile did little to appease her aggravation at being so rudely awakened so bloody early.

"One more time – Ron, what the hell are you doing here?" she asked impatiently.

"Read the headline of today's Prophet," he said while filling the teakettle with water, jerking his head toward the paper he had tossed onto the dining table. "I reckon that'll make it clear enough. How do you turn this ruddy thing on again?" he asked, jabbing at her stove with his finger.

"Try turning the knob," she said in exasperation. "You can figure out how they all match up, can't you?"

Ron smirked. "Just read it," he commanded.

Annie took a seat at her dining table and unfolded the paper. What she read there made her eyes bug out. "George – get down here now!" she cried.

"See? I told you!" said Ron triumphantly.

"Have you got rid of him yet?" George asked loudly.

"He's making coffee," Annie called up. Just then, telltale green flames flared in the fireplace, announcing the arrival of another visitor.

"I cannot bloody believe it! Have you lot read the paper today?" yelled Ginny as she bolted out of the hearth across the living room, holding her copy aloft like a torch.

"Did I miss the memo declaring my house a bloody common room?" bellowed George from the bedroom.

"Get your lazy arse down here!" Ginny yelled back. "Harry's on his way, Annie. He offered to pick up some pastries from the bakery for breakfast – I told him we'd all turn up here eventually, and you shouldn't be made to feed us."

"Hermione's obviously got a shitstorm to deal with at the office but said she'd be here as soon as she could." Ron added.

Annie nodded in understanding. Bill was likely due here any minute now, she figured. Maybe Fleur as well. She started pulling out enough coffee mugs for a crowd from the cupboard while her eyes were still glued to the paper, reading the lead story.

"What in the name of Merlin's ingrown toenails are you idiots bangin' on about?" George hollered from the head of the stairs. "It is 6:20 in the morning on my goddamn Saturday off!"

"Read the paper!" the three of them cried in unison. Ginny tossed hers at him, almost succeeding in hitting him in the face.

"Jesus Christ!" he muttered as he took in the headline. "Is this for real?"

"It's in the Prophet, isn't it? Must be!" Ron exclaimed facetiously.

"I can't believe it. He's dead?" George mumbled. "Lucius motherfucking Malfoy is dead?"

"Not just dead – murdered!" cried Ginny.

"Poisoned by his own bloody house-elf!" Ron added with a morbid leer. "Kinda poetic justice, innit?"

"Poor Hermione. She's got her work cut out for her on this one," Ginny mused.

"Excuse me? Did you just say, 'Poor Hermione?' I mean, a bloody human being has just been murdered!" Ron sputtered.

"That's being generous with the term 'human being,'" snapped George. "And the son of a bitch had it coming from eleven different directions." George included himself in that elite group but refrained from voicing such a sentiment.

Flames erupted in the fireplace again. "Have you seen the morning paper?" Bill cried as he leaped from the hearth. Fleur darted out of the flames a mere step behind him. But the rest of the crowd ignored them.

"Says here the elf claims it was self defense; that Malfoy commanded her to... Jesus, this can't be right... to kill her own mother? Because she was too old to serve anymore?" Annie cried in disbelief. Her heart twisted at the thought of Winky and Doozy, and she quailed to think of breaking this shameful news to them. Damn Malfoy!

"Bloody Malfoy piece of shit," growled Ginny, echoing Annie's sentiments and shaking her head in disgust.

"That poor creature deserves a medal, as far as I'm concerned," George swore, throwing Ginny's copy of the paper back at her and dashing back into his bedroom. "A parade! A statue in the Ministry Hall of Heroes! Some small reward for services rendered above and beyond the call of duty to humanity for ridding the world of that scum-sucking dirtbag!" he called out.

"How do you really feel about it, George? And don't mince words this time," Annie chuckled darkly.

"What she'll get is a one-way ticket to Azkaban," Ron argued. "Any way you look at it, poisoning's premeditated. No matter how justified it might've been, they're not going to let an elf get off with murder."

"Not if I can bloody well help it, she won't!" cried George. "You said Hermione's at the Ministry this morning?" he asked, wiggling his feet into shoes. He had just reemerged from the bedroom and was still pulling on his shirt at the same time.

"Yeah – so?" Ron answered.

"Annie, I've no idea how long it might take. But I'll ring when I can and keep you posted," George said, plunging down the steps two at a time.

Annie had a good idea what George had in mind. "You can have all of what's in the Ottery bank, too – if she needs it," Annie told him as he kissed her goodbye.

George smiled at her in understanding and gratitude. "Come on, Ron – let's go."

"But I haven't had any coffee yet!" his younger brother whined. "Where are we going?"

"To bail out that elf. Legally or otherwise," George announced as he grabbed his brother by the arm and marched him toward the fireplace. "Thank God I happen to know an Auror or two, as well as an excellent solicitor...."

*

It turned out to be the trial of the century. Not since the second fall of Voldemort had the wizarding world been whipped into such a furor. Every wizard in Britain talked about nothing else for months. The whole thing quickly moved beyond the simple question of Dippity's guilt or innocence in the murder of her master, but to the very heart of wizard-elf relations. What constituted too much to ask of a being under enchanted servitude? Was it the duty of an elf to obey its master unquestioningly in all things, or was it instead reasonable to expect it to refuse to commit a crime as heinous as matricide?

Hermione was, of course, thrilled that the discussion of elf rights was on everyone's lips. Donations and memberships to S.P.E.W. soared. But while many magical folk seemed to agree the little creatures deserved some recourse from abusive treatment, no one was willing to abandon the practice of elfish servitude completely – first and foremost, the elves themselves. Hermione was disappointed by this, but still and all considered the whole situation to be the first in a series (hopefully) of small victories for the rights of non-wizard kind.

The fact that the elf's late master was none other than Lucius Malfoy actually helped rather than hurt her. While he'd been alive, Lucius's money and dastardly reputation had worked extremely well for him, getting him out of many legal scrapes as well as greasing the wheels to promote his own subversive agendas. However, now that he was dead, he was much less of a threat. Wizards and witches previously intimidated by his wealth or status or power now found themselves in a new position: free to make up their own minds without coercion.

Draco had little success trying to convince the Wizengamot – or the press, for that matter – that his father had been an innocent victim. Ron wasn't the only person who viewed the murder as a form of poetic justice: everyone knew the family's Dark history, and no one was willing to give the Malfoys the benefit of the doubt yet again. Lucius was bewitched into joining the Death Eaters the first time, then somehow had a change of heart after rejoining them for the second go-round? "Not bloody likely," was the general consensus. He might have escaped a sentence in Azkaban, but Lucius Malfoy was the furthest thing from innocent.

Not to mention the fact that for the first time ever, a Malfoy found himself up against pockets that were just as deep as his. No matter how much money Draco spread amongst the more shady denizens of the Ministry's halls, someone else inevitably countered with more. Mysteriously, no expense was spared in the defense of Dippity the house-elf – all of it put up anonymously, of course.

While Janie had made far too many political enemies during her time at the Ministry to take a public role in Dippity's defense, it was her brilliant legal mind that came up with the strategy used to defend her. The elf's defense team successfully argued that since elves knew right from wrong, they could not expect to avoid legal punishment for any crimes they committed. However, since elves were magically bound to obey their master, a master who commanded them to commit a crime must be held responsible as well. By illustrating how Dippity understood that if she refused her master's command, he would just order another elf to do the job – and she since she had no legal recourse outside the family she was bound to serve – the only way for her to stop a murder from happening was to kill the murderous master who ordered it.

The argument didn't get her off completely. The elf was still found guilty of murder, but rather than condemning her directly to Azkaban, the Wizengamot agreed to charge her with a fine of one thousand galleons. The older, more conservative members all figured that since no elf had money of his or her own, it was as good as a death sentence, and justice had been served. However, an anonymous wizard came forward to pay the fine that very afternoon. The elf was released into the mysterious person's custody without setting foot inside the prison and was never heard from again.

Interestingly, the Wizengamot, in its infinite wisdom and sense of justice, found Lucius posthumously guilty as well. Eager to get their hands on the Malfoy fortune one last time, his fine was exorbitant, since imprisonment was an impossibility. For the rest of his life, Draco Malfoy subsequently whinged about his supposed penury to anyone who would listen.

Coincidentally, on the first Monday following the trial, a free elf named Dotty came to work at the Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes production facility. She and her aged mother took up permanent residence in the closet of an executive office on the premises. For the remainder of their lives, the devoted elves would sing the praises of the good and generous Mr. Weasley to anyone who would listen.