"And how does he not deserve a fair trial? How is he not fit, because he is a werewolf?" She had asked pompously, as if she could ever understand. Grief and anger clouded her reasoning, and grown men nearly thrice her age would learn to head her word, thankful to place the burden of judgement on the shoulders of a teenage savior. She brought documents and research and proof, ready to carefully drape the noose around his neck in the name of equality. The Brightest Witch of Her Age, they would call her. Those witches and wizards with their white hair and black robes got together to play judge and jury and ignored their own roles in the war.