Lockwood arrived only moments after he and Manpreet had settled in. He watched her from his seat cautiously. For a moment, he wondered if she would side with the Wizengamot. Perhaps he had misread her; but she surprised him. Her defence was crisp and polite, but pure logic. No bullshit. Oliver appreciated that. 

He studied the Wizengamot as Lockwood spoke. Several, mostly those he recognized from Manpreet’s original trial. Several of them had fixed his manager with foul looks. He grit his teeth, squeezing her shoulder. She looked so pale. She sat ramrod straight, her hands folded in her lap. 

When the court called for their testimony, Manpreet rose quickly, before he could stop her. Her heels clicked down the steps as she reached the courtroom floor. Oliver swallowed, every muscle in his neck rigid with tension.

“State your name for the record,” a woman called coolly, her quill suspended above parchment in midair.

“Manpreet Bellamkonda, Manager for Puddlemere United,” her voice was calm, and Oliver was reminded just how lucky he was to count her among his friends. 

“And how do you know the accused?” A large wizard, with a moustache that reminded Oliver of a walrus, queried. Oliver didn’t recognize his face, but he didn’t appear to be hostile.

“I’ve worked with Kearney for seven years, when he first joined Puddle—“

“Mrs. Bellamkonda, you were recently released from Azkaban yourself?” The same woman who had derided the Kiss interjected, her eyes sharp. Oliver wanted nothing more than to hex her.

“Yes,” Manpreet’s voice took on a small edge, her shoulders stiffening. “I was imprisoned for refusing to submit muggleborn players to the registration committee.”

“So you knowingly broke the law?” The woman scoffed, exchanging looks with some of her fellow members. Oliver counted nearly eighteen of them. How many blood maniacs still sat on the court? How many of them would be tried for war crimes in the years ahead? 

“Yes,” Manpreet held her head eye, black eyes blazing. “My players were all law-abiding citizens, none of whom had ever been charged with a crime. I had been urged to refuse submission by their teammates due to rumors of inhumane conditions at Azkaban. Charges which have recently been confirmed by no less than three independent investigations—“

“The Ministry has failed to substantiate these charges,” the same woman insisted. The walrus-moustached man spoke up suddenly, his eyes dark.

“Mirren, the Commission is still in progress. These reports are, until the completion of the investigation, valid as evidence.”

Oliver watched as the large man looked to his compatriots. Rather more of them appeared to agree with him, and he began to feel the stirrings of hope. An elderly dark skinned witch leaned forward—a Shacklebolt, he recognized suddenly, Regina if he remembered correctly. [i]Thank Merlin[/I]. As one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, her voice carried the weight of pureblood privilege. If she was anything like Kingsley, he mused, they were in good hands.

“Mrs. Bellamkonda. You said you had worked with Mr. Stevens for seven years. What kind of man did you find him to be?” She spoke smoothly, watching Manpreet with polite interest.

“Dedicated and kind. Kearney always looked out for his teammates. He often mentored new players and helped them integrate into the team.”

“Thank you,” Regina Shacklebolt nodded regally, looking up to Oliver. [i]We might just get him out,[/i] Oliver realised. “Mr. Wood, if you would please?” He nodded, descending and smiling tightly at Manpreet as they passed each other. 

“Oliver Wood, Keeper an’ keptin fer Puddlemere United,” he stated as instructed, willing his temper to calm. Luckily, Shacklebolt had appeared to have taken over the proceedings. The vicious witch, Mirren, seemed to have been neutered.

“Mr. Wood, how long have you known Mr. Stevens?”

“Five years. He welcomed me tae Puddlemere when ah first joined th’ team.”

“And you found him to be a good man?”

“Th’ finest,” Oliver insisted, “Ah consider him one a th’ bravest men I’ve ever mit.”

“And why is that?” The walrus-moustached man asked, reading through a sheaf of parchment. 

“Kearney insisted oan playin’ th’ season wi’ ouir original team, even efter muggleborns had bin banned frae th’ League. He knew he was riskin’ his life, but he wanted tae send a message. He wanted other muggleborns tae know they hud a reit tae be a part a our warld.” Oliver stared down the vicious little witch, eyes scanning the crowd. 

Where Manpreet’s testimony did not seem to have convinced them, Oliver suspected his did. He, after all, was a Quidditch hero, a pureblood, and a darling of the public. It was an awful truth to realise.