The chamber of the Magitorium Arcanum was hewn from obsidian stone laced with delicate veins of silver, a testament to both nature and artistry. It exuded an air of hushed reverence, where silence reigned unchallenged. Here, there were no echoes to betray secrets, no whispered thoughts of mercy to distract from the gravity of judgment. Only the penetrating gaze of the tribunal, the low murmur of deliberation, and the weight of law suspended in the air.
Severus stood resolutely at the center of the crescent-shaped floor, flanked on his left by the imposing figure of Cassian Locke, whose steady demeanor suggested a wellspring of confidence, and on his right by Professor Langford, who bore an expression of concern tempered by wisdom. Behind them, a massive scrying pane loomed, its shimmering surface a magical tapestry ready to display critical evidence at a moment's notice, glowing gently with the anticipation of the unfolding proceedings.
From the elevated benches that loomed above the chamber, five tribunal judges observed with watchful eyes. Their stillness was unnerving; they hung on every detail, every shift in the air, listening intently for the truth hidden within layers of argument and defense.
"Begin your defense," commanded Thaddeus Skye, infusing his words with a gravitas that echoed like the creaking of ancient wood or the rumble of distant mountains.
Cassian stepped forward with purpose, his tone even and measured, resonating through the silence. "We respectfully request permission from the court to present live material evidence, which includes the defendant's comprehensive alchemical logs alongside the records of ethical testing conducted throughout the investigation."
A ripple of murmurs coursed through the spectators, a collective intake of breath at the weight of his request. Indira Vale, her expression unreadable yet steady, offered a single nod. "Granted."
With a decisive gesture, Cassian signaled the beginning of their case, setting the stage for what was to come.
The court lights dimmed, casting a soft, shadowy glow over the chamber as Severus stepped forward, his presence commanding attention. He remained composed, his voice steady and calm; he didn't need to raise it to convey the weight of his words.
"The potion that the British Ministry presented to this court was taken directly from my private laboratory without my consent," he declared, his tone resonating through the hushed room. "It was merely a prototype—one among many I've developed. It was not the final form, nor the published draft, and certainly not what I submitted for ICW review."
With a subtle yet deliberate motion, he raised a hand. At his command, a shimmering stack of rune-bound pages gracefully floated upward, suspending itself in the air as the pages slowly turned, one by one, like a delicate display of artful magic.
"These are my potion logs," he asserted, his expression serious and focused. "They are sequential and sealed with time-encoded runes, ensuring their integrity. I invite the court to review their authenticity."
As he spoke, the scrying screen flickered to life, revealing pages of handwriting—his own meticulous notes on each potion's progress and formulation—bearing testament to his expertise and the true nature of his work.
Neatly annotated, the pages were filled with intricate details on chemical compositions, magical convergence ratios, and observations such as:
Trial 43: exhibited an elevated magical surge; noted increase in irritability. Potential signs of dependency arose.
Trial 46: utilized a split base to achieve divergent effects. Hypothesis: separation of stimulant and relaxant properties is essential for clarity.
Severus raised a second hand, commanding attention. Two enchanted cages floated forward, gliding effortlessly through the air—each housing a small, magically sustained test creature. One creature twitched erratically, its movements frantic and chaotic, while the other sat serenely, breathing rhythmically with an air of tranquility.
"The first cage contains the unrefined version," Severus explained, gesturing to the agitated creature. "The second, however, showcases the result post-separation. Pay close attention to the difference in the stability of their magical pulses."
One of the judges, Octavia Melrose, narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing the display. "You performed the separation before this public demonstration?" she challenged.
"Yes," Severus replied unwaveringly. "Fifty-three days prior to today."
Professor Langford stepped forward, her posture proud and chin elevated, her voice cutting through the tension with precision.
"I have carefully reviewed these findings," she stated with conviction. "Severus Shafiq approached me on his own initiative prior to the Vienna Summit. He expressed concerns about signs of magical dependency and voluntarily commenced the intricate refinement process. I granted my approval for his International Confederation of Wizards draft only after the stimulant variant—known as Vigorem Draught—was rigorously tested and deemed safe for short-term use."
"Mr. Shafiq, what prompted you to separate the potion?" inquired Judge Indira Vale, her tone inquisitive but firm.
"The original formulation proved to be unstable," Severus responded, his voice steady and resolute. "I refuse to release any potion that I can't ensure is safe and controlled."
Cassian Locke moved forward once more, his movements deliberate as he crossed the courtroom floor, the magical logs swirling and shifting behind him, capturing every nuance of the proceedings.
"This isn't merely a tale of a weapon," he declared, his voice steady yet cutting through the tension in the room. "It is a narrative about a wound being stitched together in real time. The basis of your charge relies on an early formulation—an experimental prototype, taken while still in the developmental phase."
He paused for effect and shifted his gaze towards the judges, his expression unwavering.
"Every healer, every inventor, every researcher in this room understands one fundamental truth: the floor of any laboratory is stained with blood. Yours, your work's, your failures. That is the source of this accusation—blood scraped from the cold, unforgiving floor."
A tense silence enveloped the room, each person wrestling with the weight of those words.
Judge Vale meticulously examined the projected logs, her brow furrowing in concentration as she pieced together the implications of the evidence laid before her.
Then, her voice cut through the stillness, cool and controlled, "If this potion was indeed already refined…"
Her gaze sharpened, a frigid intensity radiating from her piercing eyes.
"…then what exactly did the British Ministry submit to this court?"
The air in the room thickened, stretching out the moment into an eternity. No one dared to breathe, each person transfixed by the gravity of her inquiry.
Even Thaddeus Skye, usually so brimming with confidence, fell silent, recognizing the enormity of the situation.
And Severus, after holding his breath for what felt like an age, finally allowed himself a single, unhurried exhale.
Because now… the real trial had truly begun.
In the cavernous silence of the Magitorium Arcanum, the defense led by Severus had barely begun, yet the ripples of its impact were already spreading through the crowd like wildfire. Cassian Locke, armed with a silver tongue and a mind as sharp as any blade, swiftly dismantled the prosecution's initial assertion with a powerful gesture toward the comprehensive potion logs displayed nearby.
In the gallery, the sound of quills scratching against parchment came to an abrupt halt, as if the very air had become charged with anticipation. The audience leaned forward, caught in the magnetic pull of the unfolding drama.
Seated with deliberate elegance in the second tier, Lord Arcturus Prince let out a soft breath through his nose — the closest he ever came to a laugh in public.
What a delightful performance, he mused, his eyes gleaming like polished jewels beneath hooded lids. Cassian is better than I remembered; his talent is a rare gem in this sea of mediocrity. I shall have to express my appreciation to his father with a bottle of the exquisite 1729 from the Shafiq wine reserve.
He observed as one of the ICW judges frowned deeply, hastily flipping through the meticulously crafted documents that Cassian had conjured into existence. The judges clearly hadn't anticipated this turn of events. They had envisioned a terrified boy, likely breaking down in tears or perhaps offering a desperate confession. Instead, they were confronted with a calm, surgical counterattack that left no room for doubt.
Let them squirm in their seats. Let them all vividly recall that House Prince honors its commitments — diligent in settling its debts. The British Ministry ought to have considered twice before attempting to sacrifice one of ours at the stake.
His gaze shifted down two rows, where he spotted Lord Abraxas Malfoy, looking pale and rigid in his ornate embroidered robes. A slow smile crept across Arcturus's face, an expression of triumph and delight. Oh yes, this was shaping up to be a truly exceptional day.
Abraxas Malfoy cursed himself for the hundredth time that morning for having responded to Heir Romulus Lestrange's owl two months prior. The memory of Lestrange's insistent words echoed in his mind: "All we need is your name, Abraxas. Your endorsement. The boy's unstable, and this will solve the matter before he grows into a real threat."
Damn Lestrange, with his incessant arrogance and reckless schemes. Abraxas, trapped in a web of political pressure and desperate to find a way to elevate his standing, had foolishly agreed to lend his name, believing it would be a harmless gesture.
Now, he found himself seated in the front row of the British delegation, painfully aware of the weight of expectation that hung in the air. He was forced to witness the unraveling of their carefully constructed case before the gazes of hundreds of international delegates and esteemed magical dignitaries. This was not just a meeting; it was a trial under the watchful eyes of the wizarding world, and Abraxas could almost feel the heat of judgment as it bore down on him.
And worse — enchanted lenses. The Prophet's enchanted lens had already captured his expression once, and in that moment, he had nearly hexed the operator out of sheer panic, his heart racing with the fear of exposure. The Dark Lord will not be pleased. He entrusted us with the crucial task of monitoring this burgeoning threat, and now that very threat was parading around in a sharp three-piece suit, making us look like utter fools.
Severus Shafiq — or was it Prince? Or whatever he chose to call himself now — had never seemed more formidable. It wasn't because he was a loose cannon or reckless in any way. No, it was because he exuded a cold, calculating control that made him all the more menacing.
This was supposed to humble him, to keep him in his place. Instead, we had unwittingly handed him a grand stage upon which to showcase his power. Abraxas felt a sinking dread in his gut, a growing apprehension that somewhere, in the shadowy depths of a dark chamber, Lord Voldemort was watching their every move, his eyes glinting with sinister interest.
Albus Dumbledore sat in quiet contemplation, his hands delicately folded in his lap, an unreadable expression etched across his features. To those who glanced his way, he appeared calm and wise, perhaps even slightly pensive. However, only those who truly knew him could detect the faint furrow that marred his brow — a subtle crease of inner conflict that spoke volumes.
He had chosen not to cast his vote in favor of this trial. Not openly, at least. Yet he had also refrained from opposing it. When the British Ministry embarked on its persuasive campaign to influence the International Confederation of Wizards, Dumbledore had observed from the shadows, a patient sentinel who watched and waited, his thoughts swirling in a tempest of uncertainty.
A part of him clung to the hope that if Severus were to be humbled in the public eye, he might find his way back to him. Perhaps he would recall the guidance offered in his formative years, the protection extended during the darkest of times when no one else stood by him.
But in stark defiance, Severus remained unyielding. He had risen, steadfast and resolute.
Dumbledore's gaze swept across the dimly lit courtroom, taking in the varied reactions of those present. Arcturus sat in triumphant arrogance, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips as if he had already claimed victory. In stark contrast, Abraxas was pale and trembling, his composure cracking under the weight of the moment, as if the very air around him had grown too heavy to bear.
The judges of the International Confederation of Wizards looked increasingly unsettled, their expressions a mixture of confusion and apprehension. Meanwhile, a horde of journalists hovered like vultures, eager to pounce on any morsel of news, their pens poised with fervor. And then there was Severus — young, poised, and extraordinarily brilliant, his intellect radiating a power that rendered him unmanageable, a force of nature beyond anyone's grasp.
The Dark faction was stumbling, their carefully laid plans unravelling before their eyes. The Ministry was set to lose considerable credibility, its authority challenged in the court of public opinion. Yet, amidst the chaos, no one a true victor could be declared.
He sighed deeply, the weight of his thoughts hanging heavily in the air.
"If only you would allow yourself to be guided, Severus," he mused quietly. "You are like an uncontrollable fire, a force of energy that cannot be tamed — and that very fire will consume you one day, sooner or later."
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, collecting his thoughts and steeling himself against an impending sense of inevitability. When he opened them again, a steely resolve settled within him.
"But it will not be me who intervenes to save you. Not anymore."
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