It was an evening unlike any other. Harry lay under the canopy of an old oak atop a hill that overlooked Little Whinging and, by this, everything might have seemed to be normal. But then that depended on your definition of normal. The Dursley for instance would have thought it was quite normal that their adopted nephew was calling out from his sleep. They might have thought it alarming that waves of intense heat radiated from Harry's skin as he tossed and turned. The Munrows, who lived a block down, would most certainly have found it odd that the oak leaves were crackling and glowing like embers in the sunset. Even by witches and wizards standards, it was abnormal that Harry should be doing magic in his sleep. So perhaps, everything was not at all normal.
Harry woke up and did so with a yell. There was only one thing on his mind - the image of Cedric, Wormtail and Voldemort in the graveyard. It made him sick, burned into his vision, so stark he could have sworn he saw them standing there, silhouettes against the sunset.
Harry blinked, and his vision swam to its rightful place. There was nothing to fear. He still lay atop the hill just down the road from Number 4 Privet Drive with his spellbook sprawled on the grass beside him, its words exposed, pages turning in the evening breeze. And yet his heart still hammered in his chest... and his cheek…
With a start, Harry's fingers shot to his face. They found tender skin. Sunburn? Just how long have I been asleep? he wondered. Judging by his stiff legs and the crick in his neck from how he lay slumped against the trunk, several hours.
The sun was so very low in the sky now, just a sliver cut by the horizon. He would need to be getting back soon. But as he made to push himself up, he noticed a hole in his jeans. It bore straight through his trousers and exposed the pale skin beneath.
Harry cocked his head and ran a finger along the seared edges. Had that happened when he had cooked the Dursley's breakfast? He wondered. That morning there had been a grease fire on the stove top while frying their bacon. Harry was still forced to make breakfast for the Dursley's. Oddly though, he didn't remember burning his pants. He thought he'd remember something like that.
Harry, frustrated that his limited supply of hand-me-down muggle jeans had just been reduced further, leaned his head back onto the trunk, closed his eyes and gave into his exhaustion. It wasn't the first time he had woken up like this, voice rubbed raw and tired, despite several hours of sleep. Yet this time was worse somehow. He could only relate it to how he felt after a Patronus lesson with Lupin, draining - physically, mentally, magically.
The sunlight winked out. Harry thought that was very odd, he could have sworn there were a few more minutes of sun left. By all means, he was right; the sun had not quite set. For the thing was causing the shadow on Harry's face gave a hoot.
Harry, peeling back his eyelids, saw something flutter through the air before it landed smack dab on his face. He brushed it off and it landed in his lap. Then the owl was gone.
At first, Harry felt a surge of excitement, thinking it must have been a belated birthday card. He was wrong. In fact, he could not have been more wrong. His wrongness knew no bounds, right then and there. This letter was not from any friend of his, but from the ministry, something that became known to Harry once he saw the emblem set into the wax.
He shot up from the tree, feeling wide awake. It had been three years since he had received a letter from the Ministry. And that summer's chaos with Dobbie had nearly gotten him expelled, not to mention it still made Uncle Vernon's blood boil. The last time he had *been* to the ministry - three month ago - Fudge had nearly thrown him from the witness stand. So what in the name of Merlin did the ministry want with him? Whatever it was it couldn't be good, Harry decided. And with that, his wrongness became rightness.
"Dear Harry Potter," it read, "you have been summoned to the Department of the Improper Use of Magic following a detection of underage wizardry at 6:57 on the evening of August 1st. You're hearing has been scheduled for 8:00 am tomorrow morning. In accordance with new strict ministry laws, if you fail to attend or are delayed for any reason, your wand will be confiscated and destroyed, and you will be expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Have a wonderful rest of your evening.
-The Ministry of Magic."
Harry lowered the letter shakily, feeling a bit ill as if he had been hit by the Eat Slugs jinx. A moment later and he was scrambling down the hill. If it was a mistake at the ministry, which it must have been, he needed to know what time it was. He would have checked his watch if it had not been smashed during his encounter with the Horntail. As a keepsake, he still kept it around his wrist. For whatever reason, it didn't want to start again, no matter how many repair charms he flung at it.
It raddled lifelessly on his wrist (it had always been a size too big) as he ran to Number 4. Halfway down the hillside, he realized that he had forgotten his spell book. It was amazing how when one thing went wrong, the world seemed to throw a few more obstacles at you. And so he spun around and sprinted back up to retrieve it...when he halted.
Harry thought he was imagining things in the graying dusk. The leaves of the oak atop the hill were black and shriveled. The trunk was ashy and burned. And the grass around him flaked as his feet crunch down upon it. He couldn't remember if the hilltop had been this way when he arrived there that afternoon. But he could remember. He couldn't remember an awful lot lately with the days bleeding into nights.
It hit him like a punch. The hole in his pants had not been from the grease fire. The burn of his cheek was not from the sun. And the tree definitely not been like that before he got there. It was him. Somehow, he was doing magic in his sleep. Well that was wretched news. How was he going to explain that to the ministry? *Oh, well, I have these nightmares, you see, and they cause me to do magic.* Dangerous magic from the looks of the now dead tree. That was unlikely to convince anyone, especially a ministry who had made it very clear that he was not to be trusted or believed.
Another shadow passed overhead.
Harry looked up to see a familiar tawny owl with a letter in its beak. It swooped down and skidded to a halt in front of him.
"Errol?" puzzled Harry as he belt low.
The owl gave a confirming hoot before presenting the letter to Harry. He then nipped at Harry's fingers, eager for his reward.
"I'm sorry. I don't have any treats," Harry told the owl guiltily as he undid the seal. At that, Errol narrowed his eyes at him, ruffling his feathers and swooping off.
Harry made a mental note to pick up some treats at Diagon Alley for Errol in the coming days.
"Harry, I'll make this short," it read. "I'm coming back early from Romania to bring you to the ministry first thing in the morning. I've already sent a letter to your Aunt and Uncle letting them know I will be arriving early in the morning to get you. There's no need to explain, I'm sure that whatever the reason was for your use of magic, it was necessary. Just in case the ministry does not see it that way, stay where you are, and don't do any more magic, do you understand? It will only make a bad situation worse.
- Arthur Weasley"
At least he wasn't going to the ministry alone, he thought. THough he wasn't at all sure he could promised not to do magic again. He had not meant to the first time. His nightmares were beginning to spill into his every say.
Morbid thoughts of his wand being snapped in front of him, following him across Little Whinging and up the stair to his room. Once he was there, he shut the door behind him and sat on his bed, feeling numb. How he wished Hermione and Ron were there with him. Hermione would know a way out of this. And Ron, well Ron could make any mortifying situation feel bearable.
Harry picked himself up and came to a stack of well-worn letter at his desk. If he could be with his friends, then their words were second best. And so he picked up one from Hermione and turned it in his hands. It was wrinkled and stained with birthday cake, to the point of illegibility. But Harry didn't need to read it again; he had read it enough times to know the words by heart. Already, he was smiling, and great butterflies flapped around in his stomach.
Maybe it's best if you don't read hers, he decided, before returning it to the pile and drawing up Ron's. He needed a good laugh and Ron always had a bit a humor in his letters. So settling in under his covers, Harry read.
"Dear Harry,
I'd say happy birthday this year, but we'll be celebrating it soon enough.
I'm still writing from Romania. Been wondering recently how dad was able to afford this trip, but he won't say. Been keeping that information locked tighter than Merlin's sock drawer.
Last week, we visited Dracula Castle. Bloody hell it was scary. Fred nearly pushed me into a five-hundred-year-old jinxed corridor that drains the blood out of your eyes - at least that's what he told me. Don't know if I'd trust him though.
Today we traveled to the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary. Charlie invited the whole family to see the work he's been doing with exotic dragons from around the world. Ridgebacks and Chinese Fireballs! You should see them… but I guess you already have at the Triwizard tournament. Sorry Harry, I know I shouldn't have mentioned that. Wish I could use the erase ink charm. Mom already gave us a lecture about what we should and shouldn't mention when we're with you and the tournament was number one on that list.
Look, I should probably stop writing, the family is outside with Charlie. Fred says he is going to let us ride one of the dragons!
PS. I have something big to tell you and Hermione. Nobody really knows about it yet, except Ginny cause she is a sneaky git.
-Ron"
Harry folded up the letter, set it aside and thanked Mrs. Weasley silently. Though he didn't like the idea of his friends measuring their words around him, the last thing he wanted to do was bring up the Triwizard Tournament and what it led too; it was difficult enough having to relive it in his sleep.
He knew he shouldn't feel that what happened was his fault. He couldn't have known that by sharing the glory of the Triwizard Cup, Harry had sentenced Cedric Diggory to death; he couldn't have known that Mad-Eye Moody had been an impostor that had fooled even Dumbledore; he couldn't have know that by sparing Peter Petigrew's life, Voldemort would gain an ally that would raise him to his full strength; he couldn't have known that the Triwizard Cup was a portkey meant to deliver him to the Dark Lord so that he could take Harry's blood and fashion a new, more terrible body than before. And even though he knew all of this, his emotions still denied all reason.
~|0|~
Eventually sleep took his mind, and dreams came.
He was in the graveyard, the Triwizard cup clutched in his hand. Cedric was beside him, alive. Alive.
Tears pooled in Harry's eyes. He remembered what was going to happen. Cedric was in danger.
Cedric out of there! Harry couldn't watch it again - helpless. Not again.
Harry grabbed him. "Cedric! You need to leave! Take the port key and get out of here."
"It's a portkey. The cup…" Cedric ignored Harry as if he couldn't hear him.
Cedric frowned over at the worn headstones and matted grass like he had done so many times before. It was like a play, an unchangeable script where the ending was inevitable. And Harry knew so deep down inside that he could never save Cedric.
"What is this place?" Cedric asked.
"I'm sorry," Harry cried.
"Kill the other," a high-pitched voice, hissed out from the darkness.
Cedric turned to Harry, confused and frightened. And a flare of green lit the night.
"No!" Harry scream, as he clutched Cedric's limp body. Still hoping beyond hope that this time would be different. Yet for what felt like the hundredth time, he watched as Cedric thudded to the grass, limp and lifeless. It was all so real. The loss. The Dark Lord's cackles. The unbelievable pain that seared his forehead.
Then Harry was no longer in the graveyard, holding Cedric, but was standing in his bathroom at number four Privet Drive. It might have been a shock in reality, but this was the world of dreams, and space and time were fluid here. Before him was his bathroom mirror, but instead of his own reflection staring back at him, it was a figure cloaked in darkness. Voldemort. From under a hood, Harry saw his ashen face cut by slitted nostrils and scarlet eyes, a mouth was twisted into unfathomable malice.
Harry felt the blood drain from his face and someone gasped just beside him.
Startled, Harry spun to saw a girl with fiery red hair, her cheeks brushed with the telltale Weasley freckles.
"Ginny?"
Harry felt like he had seen her here before. In his dreams.
"Harry look," Ginny urged him, her voice trembling.
Harry turned back to Voldemort and took note of the the Dark Lord surrounding. He was in a castle of some sort, with great greystone walls and wrought iron chandeliers. But before Harry could see any more, Voldemort lifted his phoenix feather wand to the mirror and his scar ignited in white-hot pain.
Then the castle fuzzed. It was replaced by the very bathroom Harry stood in - his bathroom in Number 4 Privet Drive.
The then mirror splintered. A crack spidered down from the right corner and cut across the Dark Lord's triumphant smile.
"I'm coming for you," he hissed.
Voldemort laughed. It was a great, high pitched cackle that stood his every hair on end.
~|0|~
The beeping rang horribly in Harry's ear. It chimed in rhythm with his headache. If that was possible.
Beep.
Harry swatted at his bedside table. The beeping stopped abruptly.
He lay there and stared up at the ceiling. His heart hammered in his chest. And for the first time in his life, he was relieved to find himself at the Dursleys. He had escaped the graveyard three months ago and yet it kept calling him back, whispering in his ear. But they were just dreams.
Harry ripping off the covers and thumped his bare feet to the floor, orienting himself with the steadiness of the floorboards. Then, aching all over, he pulled out his finest muggle clothes for his hearing that morning: a pair of his uncle's old socks, an over-sized sweat-stained button-down courtesy of Dudley, khakis from a garage sale, and a rather ridiculous banana yellow tie. However, somewhere along the way of navigating his tie, his unsteady fingers had looped it into a knot. And not the correct kind.
After trying and failing to unravel the mess several times, Harry decided that perhaps the bathroom mirror might help.
It had been so long since he had dressed up in fine muggle clothes. He had never gotten around to buying formal wizarding clothes: a billowy robe, maybe a pointy hat and a casing for his wand hilt. But catching his reflection in the mirror – shaggy hair, overly sun-kissed cheeks, and a faint lightning scar – Harry decided against those ornaments. He probably looked ridiculous in fancy clothes. It didn't suit him. His hair, standing on end as it was, rebel against the idea. Even his bathroom mirror seemed to tell him what it thought of that with a big crack that cut across his face.
Harry went very cold. The mirror was cracked, cracked in the very same places as his dream.
Voldemort. Harry expected to turn his head and see the Dark Lord standing beside him, but when he looked there was only his toilet paper stand.
Eventually a bit of sense came back to Harry. Voldemort couldn't have cracked that mirror. There was a protective charm that shrouded Privet Drive keeping the Dark Lord from getting to Harry while he was away for the summer. There was no way Voldemort could break those enchantments; they had held strong for fifteen years. And let's not forget you're doing magic in your sleep not, Harry though miserably.
A few troubling words drifted into his mind. Don't do anymore magic, Mr. Weasley had explicitly told him. Already Harry had failed without even being awake to stop himself. What would he tell the ministry? That was two breaches in twenty-four hours. And his excuse was that he couldn't help it because he was asleep. That was unlikely to go over well.
The doorbell rang
Harry drew back from his thoughts and listened.
A moment later, Uncle Vernon's thunderous voice rumbled throughout the house as he swung open the door. Then it slammed back shut.
Again, the doorbell rang, a sort of timid ring if that was possible.
"What do you want?" snarled Vernon, wrenching open the door.
"Ah, didn't you get my letter?" It was Arthur Weasley's voice!
"Oh, I got it. And I put it right where it belonged - in the fireplace," jeered Vernon proudly.
"Ah," began Mr. Weasley. "I must inform you then that I am here to take Harry to his hearing." There was a nervous edge to his voice.
Uncle Vernon's mouth stretched with delight. "Hearing, eh? Ha, gotten himself into trouble with your lot too, has he?" He relished the idea.
Harry clench his jaw; he had had enough eavesdropping. Grabbing his luggage and Hedwig's cage, he quickly barreled down the stairs before his uncle could say anything else that might hurt Mr. Weasley's view of him.
"Harry," said Arthur, looking relieved to see him. "We need to be going."
Harry slipped past Uncle Vernon's boulder-like shoulders and greeted Mr. Weasley with a hug. It stayed like that for a good while, Harry not wanting to let go of the middle-aged man.
The summer months had truly been some of the worst he had ever known at the Dursleys. He had been cut off from the world. He wasn't receiving the prophet. Dumbledore probably wanted it to be a relaxing summer for Harry, but the result was Harry being trapped in his head all hours of the day. And trapped in the graveyard. Now to see a friendly face- It was a relief, a return to normalcy even if magic was anything but normal. There was life outside his head.
Mr. Weasley stiffened before he melted into Harry's iron hug.
"How did you know?" Harry asked him, referring to his letter. It had come so swiftly after the ministry's. Impossibly swift.
"Dumbledore has eyes and ears throughout the ministry. The Order found out as soon as the ministry did." Mr. Weasley looked to the sky. "Sorry if Errol was a tad delayed. Even with the expiditius charm, Errol is somewhat of a slow bird."
Harry released him. "The Order?" Harry asked, stuck on the name. He had never heard of it before.
"We'll discuss that some other time. For now, we have your hearing to attend," Mr. Weasley waved away his question. "Are you ready then?"
"I am," managed Harry. Ready to take on the ministry, however, was far from what he felt.
After they had walked a fair distance, Mr. Weasley tapped Harry's luggage with his wand. "These will be safe at the Burrow."
The trunk, along with Hedwig's cage, shimmered and then faded out of existence. Then the balding man put a fatherly hand around him and disapparated with a crack.
The empty suburban street slurped away. Then bit by bit, the world slid itself back together, wobbling like a bowl of Jell-O desperately trying to hold on to its shape. Harry would have thought the sudden change might make him sick, but not in the slightest.
He loved magic.
When everything settled into its rightful place, Harry was standing still in a busy metropolitan sidewalk in the heart of London.
Mr. Weasley was not standing still, however, but hurrying toward a brilliant crimson telephone box.
"This way. Come on," he waved him in.
Once inside, Mr. Weasley pressed a series of numbers on the dial pad. The telephone gave a ring and - without warning - the floor fell out from under Harry.
His stomach lurched. There was some magical force that pulled at his feet with an incredible strength. It was guiding him downward toward a collection of thin pipes. One particularly tiny pipe consumed Mr. Weasley, sucking him in, smooching his body into a tube no bigger than a straw.
Next, it was Harry's turn. Air squeegeed from his lungs as every bit of him was compressed and vacuumed up. Through he went, passing several forks in the pipe, going this way and that. Up and down. Side to side. Until air finally returned to his lungs as he regained the shape of his body.
But not all was normal; Harry's feet were dangling some fifty meters above the ground and a monstrous marble chamber as wide and as long as the entirety of King's Cross lay beneath him.
He had never seen the ministry from this height before. Floo connected fireplaces speckled the walls; Aparation platformed cracked as wizards popped into existence; and portkey stations lined with nasty old socks sent witches spiraling upward through the great ivory ceiling. Harry wonder just how many different types of magical commutes there were to the ministry. Several from the looks of it, and many more than were shown.
A wave of freshly Floo-ed ministry worker bustled past Harry and Mr. Weasley as they landed, all intent on the elevators on the other wall.
They looked haggard and worn and...scared. It was a stark contrast from how he had last seen members of the ministry, which had been in a state of business as usual, only breaking from their routine to scowl at Harry as he left the building. From the looks of it now, they didn't even have time to show Harry what they thought of him. And you know what, he preferred it that way.
"This way," Mr. Weasley was several meters away and gesturing for him to follow him.
But Harry wasn't able to. A flare of green light had illuminated the chamber; the fireplaces had roared to life and a new wave of ministry workers were pouring into chamber. They barreled past him, one after the other, until he could no longer see Mr. Weasley.
It was all Harry could do to push through a set of bodies and call out for Mr. Weasley. But his shouts were no more than a whisper compared to the clatter of several hundred feet clicking on marble. They bumped into one another, not even stopping to apologize. There destination was far more important than pleasantries.
Then someone smashed into Harry. The old man hit Harry's shoulder, hard. It was enough to send him flying backwards and onto the ground, where his knee smacked against the marble.
Any gasps of pain, were swallowed by the crowd that herded past him.
His knee was sprained. Harry was sure of it. It throbbed and when he tried to move it, produced a sharp pain that shot up his leg. Definitely sprained. But he couldn't think about that, not now, not when his place at Hogwarts hung in the balance. He needed to make that hearing. He needed to find Mr. Weasley.
But he could not see Mr. Weasley. In fact, all he could see was a solitary man, old and frail, in grey ministry robes. He was the only person truly visible because of his relative stillness. Bug bushy eyebrows drooped over his eyes that were looking directly at Harry, and it was clear that the old man recognized him.
"It's Harry Potter," he whispered.
"That's alright," said Harry as he tried to stand. When he put weight on his leg to stand, his knee buckled.
The man saw and knelt beside him, knees popping, and yet the old man seemed to think that helping Harry was worth ignoring his ailments. He offered Harry a liver spotted hand. Harry pretended not to notice the gesture and tried to stand on his own.
"Please, allow me. It would be an honor to help the likes of you, Harry Potter," insisted the old man.
He said it just a little to loud. People were beginning to take notice. Once they did, they began to wonder why a boy was lying on the floor of the ministry. And why that boy looked strikingly like Harry Potter. Several, who had been barreling past them, halted mid run out of curiosity. And one by one, the stampede of people slowed to a standstill, all staring at him.
Gasped burst out in pockets and whispers spread like wildfire throughout the chamber.
"Harry Potter," one of them said.
"What? Oh my, Harry Potter..." another repeated.
"Merlin's Beard," said a portly woman with a great pink witch's hat atop her head.
She was closest and looking down at him as if it were some miracle that Harry was there; it was an sentiment echoed by many that surrounded him as if Harry was liable to grow wings and fly away - like he shouldn't exist.
Harry squirmed under the heat of so many eyes. Being the center of everyone's attention had never been something he enjoyed, and now was no exception. Especially when he wasn't sure if they were going to start stoning him or not.
"Harry! Get up! We don't have much time. We need to get you to your hearing." It was Mr. Weasley. His balding head was poking out from behind the witch's pointy pink hat. But he could not get to Harry. The crowd had formed a kind of circular wall around Harry.
Mr. Weasley struggled to get through, but did not succeed. It seemed everyone wanted to get a look at Harry. So it was up to him to go to Mr. Weasley. He's curse his way out if he had too. That was of course being dramatic. Harry was well aware that even a whisper of magic from him would definitely mean his expulsion. But there were no such rules about using his shoulder to ram his way through.
He made to do just that, but when he put weight on his leg, he began to stumble backward. And someone caught him.
Harry looked up at a man. Just an ordinary man in grey ministry robes with a handlebar mustache. What he found in the man's eyes, was not loathing as Harry had expected, but kindness there in his deep brown eyes, Even admiration, as if he were looking down at his son.
Harry did not know what to say, except for, "Thanks."
"Come on, Harry," Mr. Weasley called to him again. He had given up on trying to get through and seemed to think that Harry would fair better.
Tightening his fist and hoping beyond hope that they would let him through, proved Mr. Weasley right. He took a step towards them, and wince. Then he took another step and something extraordinarily unexpected happened. The crowd stopped jostling and went still. Then the witch in pink removed her hat and rested it on her breast, before bowing. To him. Her smile was not malicious or ill intended, but disarming.
She straightened and then stepped aside for him to pass. She made sure to give the others a look of, where-are-your-manners.
Harry took another step forward, towards the gap that she made. Another man in grey ministry robes beside the pink witch, removed his cap, ran a hand through his greying hair and bowed, almost reverently. He then stepped aside. One by one, robes rustled to the floor as one by one every memeber in the chamber bowed, and a path opened up before Harry, who felt his cheeks burn.
"The Boy Who Knows." someone whispered. It sounded loud in the silence.
"The Boy Who Knows," others whispered, until it was thing being uttered.
Harry didn't know what to think. He was confused and embarrassed, not understanding what had changed at the ministry and what he could have done to make people act this crazy. Fingers even trailed the lining of his shoulders, as if by touching him they might be healed from some affliction. Harry shied away from these hands.
It was a relief to finally reach Mr. Weasley and be led away. He thought he might find some explanation for everything with Mr. Weasley, but Ron's father looked hard to a gaping double door on the far wall, determined to get Harry to his hearing within the hour. Finally when they made it through, Harry grimanced up a set of steep stairs.
"It something wrong, Harry?" asked Mr. Weasley.
"It's my leg. I think its sprained," explained Harry. He was tilting his head down and trying to hide the color of his cheek form Mr. Weasley.
"Oh, well, let's get that leg taken care of," said Mr. Weasley simply.
Harry winced as Mr. Wealsey tapped his wand to the bum knee and muttered some inaudible spell. Instantly, the throbbing diminished to a faint ache and then to nothing. Then Mr. Weasley guided him up the stairs and to a booth. It was not unlike an old ticket booth at a theater. A sign above the glass read, Department of the Improper of Use of Magic. And behind the class was a woman working tirelessly on a stack of documents.
She didn't look up as they arrived. Nor did she greet them, but continued on with her work. She wore a garish brooch pinned to her grey cardigan and had balanced great black winged glasses atop the bridge of a thin nose. Judging by the plaque on her desk, her name was Gilde. It was a fitting name.
"May I help you?" The witch still did not look up.
"Ah, yes," answered Mr. Weasley, "I am here for an appointment."
"Name?" said Gilde, scribbling away.
"Harry Potter," said Harry weakly, coming up to the glass.
Gilde's eyes shot off the page and onto him. She looked shocked. Her eyes worked furiously behind her winged glasses, blinking and looking from Harry to Mr. Weasley.
"What on earth are you doing here?" the witched asked him, as if Harry showed signs of spattergroit.
"I have a hearing…" Harry hesitated when she looked at him as though he had gone mad. "Don't I?"
Gilde, regaining some semblance of composure, riffled through a drawer before pulling out a small booklet and leafing through it. Her finger dragged down some list and stopped at a name.
"Oh, um, it appears Harry Potter does," she blinked at the page. "Wait just a moment."
She snapped the booklet shut, and Harry felt the wind pass through the slots on the glass as she bustled away with speed.
Mr. Weasley leaned up the glass and frowned down at the booklet.
"It said eight o'clock. Dear me," Mr. Weasley said, sounding troubled.
Harry's stomach flipped. The ministry couldn't change the time of his hearing, could they? He answered hsi own question when he though of who ran the ministry: Cornelius Fudge. And where he was concerned, anything was possible.
Gilde returned and was not alone. She was accompanied by a tall, thin man. Despite his stunning white suit and well kempt bow-tie, the man looked ill or maybe just extremely exhausted. Great greenish rings drooped around his eyes and his skin had a greenish tint to it.
Harry gave an inquiring look up to Mr. Weasley, who had gone ridged. Whoever the man in white was, he was important.
The White Wizard dragged his wand through the air and the booth's glass panels dissolved. Then he stepped through to greet the two of them with tired, ringed eyes.
Mr. Weasley gave a stiff bow. "Minister, I did not know you would be joining us," he said.
"The minister!" Harry blurted. He didn't know how many more surprises he could handle in one day.
"Weasley," the minister greeted him first, before turning his attention to Harry, "…and Harry Potter." he gave a grave sort of bow. "Yes, I am the minister."
"But where's Fudge?" Harry burted again, and then winced at himself. He was being rude.
"Mm," the minister grunted at Mr. Weasley, who away guiltily, "Cornelius Fudge resigned two months ago, shortly after the incident at his estate. Surly you know this."
"Dumbledore thought it best that Harry should take a break from the news over the holidays," explained Mr. Weasley.
"Dumbledore. I see," the minister said with little love for the Headmaster.
"Did Vol- Did You Know Who attack Fudge?" Harry asked breathlessly. "Is he alright."
"It seems you know more than you let on, Mr. Potter." He gave a curt nod. "He Who Must Not Be Named did attack Fudge. After Cornelius condemned your testimony, he – being paranoid as he is – secretly re-enforced his estate guard with Aurors. Mm, it wasn't long after the start of the summer holidays that You-Know-Who broke into his estate, in person. However, You-Know-Who made one oversight; he had not been expecting ten elite Aurors. So yes, Cornelius survived, unharmed, but declared his resignation the next day. Mm, all for the best, I think." The minister grunted.
"How did Voldemort get into his estate?" Harry felt silly for asking so many question, but his will to know overwhelmed his good senses. "It has to be protected? He's the minister."
The minister smiled, seeming amused at Harry's question. "Mm, you ask the right questions, Harry Potter. Fitting. When elected, a minister is required to remove any wards on their estate unless a state of emergency has been declared by the ministry. Of course, ministers can still have guards," The minister quickly added when he saw the expression on Harry's face. "It is an old law and was meant to allow any citizen to reach the minister at any time. A law that we are revisiting." The minister grunted again. It sounded like he had a stubborn bit of phlegm in his throat that he was constantly trying to get out.
"You know, without you, Cornelius would have never stationed Aurors in his home. And without them Cornelius would likely be dead and no one would know of the Dark Lords return." The minister gave Harry a proud smile. "To that we owe you a great debt, Harry Potter. Because of your testimony, because you performed a valiant deed despite Cornelius' foolishness, we know. And I can assure you we are taking every necessary step to bring You-Know-Who in."
Harry stared down at the floor. The new minister mght have assumed this was the humility of the Boy Who Knows he had heard so much about. But that was not what it was. It was Harry's insides that twisted in his gut. It was the shame he felt. It was the knowledge that Voldmeort was only back because Harry had screwed up, had let Wormtail life. He knew so deep down that he didn't deserve the minister's praise.
Harry decided to change subjects. "So what about my hearing? Am I going to be expelled?" Harry asked hoarsely.
"Mm, yes. I must follow at least some protocol." The Minister thought to himself, before going on, "But, these are special circumstances. Let me ask you this, did you mean to do magic? You do, after all, have a history of accidental magic."
"No, of course i didn't mean to. I was asleep when it happened," blurted Harry.
"You mean to say, you didn't do magic," the minister said, his voice thick with skepticism, "Because you were asleep when it happened. I wouldn't call that much of an alibi."
"I-" Harry began. He felt so small telling the minister that his nightmares were the cause. "I've been having nightmares ever since-" Harry swallowed. Mr. Weasley glanced worriedly at the minister, who was looking intently at Harry. "Well they've only gotten worse. But yesterday and last night were the only times it caused me to do magic. I swear," Harry insisted desperately, "I couldn't help it."
He left out the part about Voldemort. It was already embarrassing enough telling Mr. Weasley and the new minister that he was having nightmare's severe enough to cause accidental magic.
Perspirant had formed on Mr. Weasley's balding scalp. "You did magic again?" he said, sounding alarmed.
Harry nodded solemnly.
The minister nodded. "I believe you."
"Last night?" Gilde pipped in, as if she knew something they did not. "You must be mistaken."
"What do you mean?," Harry frowned at her. "I crack my bathroom mirror last night."
The minister turned to the woman in the booth. "Gilda, Harry's case file, would you?"
Gilda did as request and slid over the manila folder. The minister flipped it open and read, grunting every so often.
"Mm, there is no record of a second breach in the statute of underage wizardry. Just the once at 6:57 am on August 1st," he said. "Are you sure you cracked that mirror with magic?"
"That can't be right" said Harry. He wondering why he was so adamant that he had broken the law not once but twice. Maybe it was because the alternative was far, far worse.
"I can assure you. The ministry does not make mistakes. It was not you who broke that mirror, not with magic."
Harry felt dizzy.
"Now that's settled, there is still the issue of these dreams. I believe Professor Snape could concoct a Dreamless Sleep potion that could help you. I will see if I can have him make a weekly supply for you. Other than that, I see no reason to keep you, Mr. Potter. You are free to go."
"That's it?" said Harry.
The minister nodded. "That's it," he repeated, "You are free to leave. You may also use the private fireplace in my office to return home. Someone such as yourself, should not be walking around among the lower ministry workers."
"You have been very kind, Destaunt," said Mr. Weasley, fatly.
The minister gave a tired nod before turning a most curious eye at Harry. "It is no more than The Boy Who Knows deserves."
There was that name again. The Boy Who Knows. It was a terribly ironic name for him. Not knowing things seemed to be his curse.
Mr. Weasley escorted him into the minister's office and Harry stepped into the fireplace, his mind muggy and confused. It was 10 am and he was already exhausted. And yet the crack in his bathroom mirror still gnawed at him like some flesh-eating maggot that had lodged itself in his ear.
The crack must have been there all along, Harry thought as he grabbed a handful of Floo powder. He stepped into the minister's fireplace, threw the powder down, said, "the Burrow," and then disappeared in a rush of green flame.
~|0|~
Mysteries and their Origin: A Recount from the Great Wizarding War:
The time ahead would prove to be a difficult one for the wizarding world and many regarded truths that were long held by wizarding-kind would be called into question. If you asked several wizards who survived the war what they had learned from it, most would tell you that truth is but a word. Famed Wizarding Philosopher and Poet had this to say on the recollection of the Great Wizarding War, "Over the period of several hundred years, Muggles became very good at deny the existence of magic. Previous, they had the capability to see it, but their fear of the unknown made them blind. They did not want to see it. Their very society and culture molded them and ingrained in them a certain set of boundaries that limited the comprehension of magic - the comprehension of the unknown. We wizards thought that this blindness was only found in their kind. This was hubris. It was only after the events of the Great Wizarding War that we came to see just how wrong we were and it led to disaster. To close with a few poignant word, I have this to say, that dreams, my dear reader, dreams became reality that year when the Boy Who Knows finally left this world. And reality, reality became a nightmare."
Author's Note:
Hi. This is, uh, my first fanfiction. I grew up on Harry Potter and I have reread them more times then I can count. There is so much...well, magic and so many possibilities that it presents. So i thought, what if I could take the magic system further, flesh it out, and xpand upon brilliant world. So the World Beyond started with the basic idea that Harry's world was not the only one that exists. It was inspired by a fascination with mirror and their supernatural qualities throughout pagan history and of course 10th Kingdom which was one of my favorite made for TV series growing up. There was so much that J.K. mentioned in the books, that, for whatever reason, she didn't explore with the reader. So this is my own take on those little bits.
I'm so excited for you all to read it.
Well I suppose this is it then. *breathes* Enjoy the World Beyond!
Update: I compiled both chapter 1 and 2 because of it resolves the problem with the ministry as well as Harry's dreams and it didn't feel right to separate the two just for the sake of a cliff hanger.