My Father

"George, look at this-" I began one morning, taking a break from my bowl of cereal.

The said man came over and stood behind me and read the Daily Prophet over my shoulder.

"Rodolphus Lestrange Court Hearing Tomorrow," he stated. "It says here, "All family of his are required to come". Did you-?"

"Know? I had no clue. But I guess I have to go then, don't I?"

•••

The next morning, I found myself sitting in one of the courtrooms at the Ministry of Magic.

I was wearing a black pencil skirt and a simple flowing green shirt with black heels. My dark hair was curled and I decided to leave it down. With a little bit of natural make up, I would say that I looked quite appropriate for a court hearing. Quite appropriate for my father's court hearing as well.

Anyway, I was seated with Draco, Aunt Cissy, Aunt Andromeda and Teddy. On the other side of the court room, Hermione, Harry and Ron and Neville all sat.

Neville had a look of anger etched on his face. I would not blame him for that look; my father was the husband of the woman who tortured his parents to insanity.

In the middle of the round courtroom, a man sat in a chair, his hands in chains and tied to the chair. His feet were in the same situation as his hands.

The man had dark, shaggy hair that fell down across his eyes. He shook his head; I was able to see his eyes. His eyes were a deep obsidian color, and I could read his emotions through them.

He felt regretful and empty. His face was pale and gaunt; he had obviously not eaten a proper meal in a long time. I could see some of his bones through his black and white striped prison jumper. It was hard to believe- or, maybe I didn't want to believe- that this man in front of me was my father.

Kingsley Shaklebolt, the newly elected Minister of Magic, was sitting at a desk that was similar to what Judge Judy sat at.

Everybody in the courtroom watched as some man cautiously dunked a whole bottle of Veterisum down my father's throat. The silence was eerie, and before I knew it, Kingsley had asked my father the first question.

"Your name is Rodolphus Lestrange, correct?"

"Yes," the man in question replied, his voice raspy. He had obviously not had a clean cup of water in a long time. It could have been the side effects of the potion, though. I wasn't paying any attention during that lesson with Snape, so I'm not sure it if was or not.

"And you are the widower of Bellatrix Lestrange, who was killed by Molly Weasley at the Battle of Hogwarts on May 2, 1998?"

"Yes," he replied, no emotion evident in his voice.

"And you are the father of Elenore Narcissa Lestrange, correct?"

"Elenore? Is she here?" Dad looked up, hopeful.

"Answer the question," Kingsley forcefully demanded.

"Yes," dad began. "I am her father."

Kingsley nodded in approval; this man was in fact my father.

"I now allow the citizens of the Wizarding World here to ask questions. Who would like to go first?"

Neville Longbottom raised his hand high in the air.

"Go ahead, Mr. Longbottom."

I had a feeling that I knew where this would be going, and if I was proven to be correct, it would not be good.

"Why did you torture my parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom?" Neville asked, almost as if he wanted to ask this question for a long time. He was in need of an answer, and perhaps only then he would get the closure he deserved.

"My wife," dad began. "Ordered me to do it. Imperious curse... Said if I didn't do it- torture them- our daughter would die. And Elenore, oh, she was my ray of sunshine. I couldn't let her be killed... And I am sorry, so sorry, about what I did..."

Neville looked convinced; my dad was under the truth serum after all. He sat back down. Hermione got up and began to speak.

"Have you tortured anybody, er, willingly?"

He was quiet for a second.

"Yes," he said in his raspy voice. "But not in the way... Not in the way you're thinking..."

"Then how?" Ron asked the man.

"I... I... Tortured my younger brother... I stole his socks and hid them for him. I cut holes in his shirts when I was younger. I was angry at him for crashing my broom and splitting it in half."

"That's not exactly torture," Harry spoke up.

Nervous, I stood up and hopped over the safety bar. I got looks of terror from the Golden Trio and Neville. Kingsley looked at me, curious. My two aunts gave me a look of confusion; Draco looked almost as if he just didn't want to be here.

I walked in front of the chair my father was chained to.

"Are you sorry for the pain you caused?"

"Yes," he replied, not looking up.

"Are you sorry for the loss of Neville's parents?"

"I am."

"Are you sorry for leaving your daughter?"

"I am, I really am," he admitted, still not looking up.

"Do you regret becoming a Death Eater?"

"I do."

"And most importantly, to me at least, do you regret not being there for your daughter? Do you regret not being there for me?"

Dad finally looked up and managed to get his hair out of his face.

"Yes. I do."

"My name is Elenore. I'm your daughter."

"Elenore... You look so grown up."

"Well, that just might be because the last time I saw you, I was three years old. It's been seventeen years. SEVENTEEN YEARS!"

"Elenore..."

"DO NOT 'ELENORE' ME! I WENT THROUGH PAIN. LUCIUS TORTURED ME EVERYDAY WHILE I GREW UP THERE!

"HE MADE ME FEEL SO BAD ABOUT MYSELF THAT I CUT! AND THEN VOLDEMORT RETURNED! AND I WAS SIXTEEN WHEN VOLDEMORT BEGAN TO STAY WITH US AT THE MALFOY'S! AND THEN BELLATRIX ESCAPED AZKABAN!

"They both had their share in torturing me. I have scars on my back to prove it. And, hell, if Harry, Ron and Hermione didn't show up that day at Malfoy Manor, I would probably be dead.

"And where the fuck where you for all of this? IN AZKABAN! I believe you are sorry, because you're under Veterisum. Okay, maybe you aren't guilty. Or not as guilty as we all thought.

"But I could never forgive you. I didn't really have a father growing up. Nobody to play Quidditch with. I didn't have a mom or a dad to wake up on Christmas morning and be told that it's too early. I didn't have a parent that made me a birthday cake.

"I wasn't able to sleep in my parents bed when there was a really bad storm or if I had a nightmare. Maybe a letter- do they do that in Azkaban?- would have been thoughtful. Or maybe a notice saying that my father wanted me to visit. I don't know, but something. Anything.

"So if you are cleared of any charges, which I doubt will happen, you can try all you want to receive my forgiveness. But I won't give you any. You don't deserve it."