Chapter 1

-HP-

It was a week before his 18th birthday, and Harry was feeling out of sorts. He supposed it was only natural, given the train-wreck that was his supposed final year at Hogwarts, but this felt different. Problem was, Harry didn't want to think about it too deeply, because he was fairly sure that his sense of disquiet was linked to that fact that this was the first summer he hadn't gone to the Dursley's.

This was unsettling, to say the least. It wasn't that he missed them – that notion was ludicrous. It was more a sense of displacement, homelessness. Aside from Number 4, Privet Drive, the only place he ever called home was now a smouldering pile of rubble.

Well, the latest reports suggested it was no longer smouldering, which he supposed was a good thing. Not that he'd know, being currently under house arrest at Grimmauld Place. Harry felt another uncharitable surge of rage as he thought of Ron and Hermione and his other friends, all of whom were currently camping around the outskirts of Hogwarts and helping to restore the castle to something approaching its former glory.

Although, if he tried to think back to whose fault it really was, he supposed the blame lay squarely with Kingsley. The newly appointed Minister of Magic was taking a "personal interest" in him, which in reality meant inserting himself into Harry's affairs and ordering him about like an unwanted father figure.

Harry checked his watch – the same battered hand-me-down from Dudley that he'd worn for years – and saw that it was nearly 10 o'clock. He'd promised Arthur to meet him outside Grimmauld place at 10, so they could apparate to the Ministry. He'd gotten his license soon after the battle, but it was still considered unsafe for him to be seen about town by himself.

Grabbing his wand and rucksack, Harry bounded downstairs – being careful not to wake the banshee portrait of Sirius' mother on his way down. The house was looking marginally better than it had, thanks to a few visits from Mrs. Weasley.

"Oh, ello Harry. Right on time." Arthur was already waiting outside the door when he opened it. They always showed up early, rather than risk having him stand outside by himself for too long. Amusingly, they all still thought they were being subtle about it. Harry sighed a long suffering sigh, trying to shake off the 'woe-is-me' funk he'd settled into.

"Hello Arthur. All alright?" Harry engaged conversation as they made their way down the street and outside the anti-apparition zone.

"Brilliant. Just brilliant. Been a busy week at the Ministry."

"Busier than usual? What's been going on?" Harry sounded like a starving man begging for food, but the truth was he was that desperate for news. Either the Wizarding World had become exceptionally dull since the battle, or he was being blatantly lied to. He had a distinct feeling it was the latter.

"Oh you know, lots of bureaucracy, lots of vacancies still to fill. It's all paperwork really." Harry bit down the scathing response he'd been itching to make all summer.

"And the remaining Death Eaters?" Harry was fishing for gossip now. Arthurs face twitched.

"They're still out there Harry. We pick up one, maybe two every other week. But it's slow going. They're slippery little weasels."

"I can h…."

"Harry." Arthur interrupted, and Harry fought down the spark of frustration. "You know you're in danger out there. We can't risk you."

Of course you can risk me. I'm dispensable now remember? I've done my job. Harry thought bitterly, knowing he was being childish.

"I know, I know." Harry waved the conversation away as they slowed to halt. "Shall we then?" They were going to be late to the hearing if they dallied any longer, and he had decided he really wasn't enjoying the conversation.

"Yes, yes. How about you lead us this time – I'll side along." Arthur said this like he was doing Harry a favour. Throwing him a bone. If I let the boy apparate us then he'll feel useful, involved.

"Sure." Harry gritted out a smile, holding out his arm. Feeling the weight of Arthur's grip on him, Harry flicked his wand while holding the mental picture of the Ministry atrium in his mind. He fought the familiar queasiness as the world seemed to constrict around him, instead holding his wand steady and keeping the image clear.

A few painful, tube sucking moments later and they were standing before the reconstructed fountain – now depicting a wizened version of Dumbledore that Harry personally thought looked a bit fat and dopey. Harry gave yet another world weary sigh. Here we go again.

-HP-

The trials had been going on for weeks. When he had first been told about them by Kingsley, Harry had chucked what he now, in hindsight, admitted as a temper tantrum.

The Ministry had been reduced to a motley collection of rapidly promoted juniors, new faces, and only a handful of veterans that had managed to survive unblemished. Predictably, this left a lot of open vacancies, and a lot of unanswered questions about what happened when Voldemort had taken control. Distrust was rife, and that was before you counted the Death Eaters who had been captured and were now trying to worm their way out of punishment.

So Kinglsey had dragged Harry into the mess. Harry personally thought it was more to do with a PR tactic than a genuine interest in what he had to say, which was why he had resisted to begin with. Particularly when the alternative was going to Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione.

It had taken one trial to change his mind, and Harry knew why Kingsley had done it. Dolores Umbridge, the smarmy little cow, had almost escaped punishment if it hadn't been for Harry's testimony. It was no secret how little regard Harry and the general Hogwarts population had for the toad-like ex-Professor.

Since Dolores, Harry had suffered a further 12 trials that contained a mix of obvious Death Eaters, possible Death Eaters, weak men who had sold their souls to keep their jobs in the Ministry but weren't actually Death Eaters, and "the rest". Harry didn't always testify – but he found he could often validate a lot of their statements based on what he knew of Voldemort.

"Who have we got today then?" Harry asked as they bustled into a lift with two other Ministry employees. Arthur eyed them warily, and waited till they exited on Level 5 (Department of Reparations and Reconstruction – newly created following the war) before answering.

"Well, we've got three lined up for today – seemed only natural we try them together." Arthur was being deliberately vague, and Harry was not one bit fooled.

"Three all at once? That's a bit strange. Unless they're fam…" Harry stopped abruptly as an unsettling thought crossed his mind. Arthur gave him an apologetic grin. "Surely you don't mean…"

"Yes, I do."

"But they're…"

"They're what Harry? Guilty?"

"…a little too close to home." He finished lamely. Harry recalled the events that took place in their 5th year, not far from where they were walking now, and felt his blood sizzle under his skin. Too close indeed.

"Harry. If you can't be objective in there today, you'll be removed from the Wizengamot." Harry scowled darkly but stayed quiet. He suddenly felt oddly clammy, as if he were excited and frightened all at once. He simply could not, would not, let himself get emotional today.

"Okay, okay. I'll be objective." Arthur gave him a genuine smile, and Harry was temporarily cheered. The older man clasped him on the shoulder warmly, using the gesture to also halt Harry's progress down the corridor.

"We're here." Arthur pointed at a wooden door, identical to the others that lined the corridor. They changed the location of the trial every time. When Harry questioned this he was told it was to "keep 'em guessing." Although who exactly "them" referred to was never explained.

"Right. Thanks Arthur. See you at 5?"

"I'll be right here waiting for you." The Weasley patriarch smiled another warm smile, and Harry temporarily forgot what was on the other side of the door.

The feeling didn't last long. As the iron hinges groaned shut behind him, Harry was distinctly aware of several pairs of eyes following him as he strode into the room and took his customary seat on the right of Kingsley. Again, Harry tried not to think too hard about what image the Minister was trying to project by having The Chosen one at his right hand side.

Clearly, Harry was having post-war trust issues.

-HP-

"Good morning ladies and gentleman. Thanks again for your time today. Bring forth the first defendant." Kingsley was never one for pleasantries.

The double doors at the back of the room opened, and two guards entered escorting Narcissa Malfoy. Well, start with an easy one at least. Mused Harry darkly as she took her seat in the centre.

She had clearly pulled herself together for the trial. In the photos of her following the battle, she looked tired, drawn and pale – especially next to her equally decrepit looking husband. But alone, she almost seemed stronger, healthier. Not for the first time Harry wondered what the relationship between Lucius and Narcissa was really like.

"Narcissa Black Malfoy. You have been brought before the Wizengamot to stand trial for your actions during the Second War." Harry held back a snort at the term. "Do you understand the seriousness of the allegations brought before you?"

"I do." She said, firmly. Harry felt a begrudging respect for how calm she appeared.

"Very well. Let us bring forth the first witness."

The witnesses were few, and wobbly at best. They were clearly trying to throw as much crap at her as they could, hoping something would stick. The worst they seemed to be able to pin on her was witnessing crimes and not doing anything about it. Macnair, who they'd managed to manipulate into ragging on his fellow Death Eaters, told a slightly more colourful story, involving Narcissa opening up her home and hosting Voldemort for several weeks. It was nothing Harry didn't already know.

"Thank you Macnair." Kingsley could not hide the disdain in his voice. "You may step down. I now call our final witness, Harry Potter." Harry swore loudly and colourfully inside his head, but to everyone present he appeared to calmly get out of his chair and walk to the witness stand.

"Harry Potter, do you agree to be bound by the truth spell cast on this chair, and do you swear that you have taken no magical potions or remedies that would make you immune to the effects of the spell?"

"I do." Harry said calmly, a storm inside. He had never bothered to explain to Kinglsey that, in a very similar way to the Imperious Curse, Harry could theoretically throw off the truth spell. It just wasn't worth the heart ache.

"Very well Harry. Now, during the period of the Second War, did you have any direct contact with the defendant?"

"I did." Harry was used to the cat and mouse game. He had tried to be a smart arse the first time and was duly punished for it afterwards with some stern words from Kingsley. Now he just played the game like a good little soldier.

"Can you briefly describe these interactions for the Wizengamot?"

Harry took a deep, drawn out breath.

"I met her twice. Once was at Malfoy Manor. We were captured by Fenrir Greyback and a few other Death Eaters and taken to the Manor. Fenrir suspected I might be, you know, who I am – so he took us to the Manor to be identified."

"Can you please clarify for the Wizengamot who you meant by 'us'?". Pompous arse. Harry muttered under his breath.

"Ron, Hermione and myself. Hermione had cast a transfiguration spell on me – I forget which one - so that my face blew up and wasn't immediately recognizable." Kingsley nodded for Harry to continue. "So we were taken there, and Narcissa and M…Draco were there. Fenrir asked Draco if he recognised me and… and he said he didn't. Narcissa just stood there, she didn't say anything. She didn't do anything. They didn't think to ask her, although I'm sure they both recognised me."

"Speculation." Someone shouted from the crowd, but Harry ignored it. He had learnt the hard way this was not like the TV court dramas he used to watch in the early hours of the morning at the Dursleys.

"We – Ron and I that is - were locked up downstairs by Fenrir, but Dobby appeared…"

"Can you clarify for the court…"

"He's a house elf." Harry interrupted, giving Kingsley a sheepish smile at the obvious interruption. "He used to be Mr. Malfoys, but he was freed, and now works at Hogwarts. He is a friend of mine, and he had been sent to help us by Aberforth Dumbledore." A few whispered mutterings from the crowd broke Harry's concentration. This part of his tale they had not yet heard.

"Dobby apparated us out of the cell we were locked in. But we had to go up to get Hermione, she was being tortured by Bellatrix." Not for the first time, Harry was supremely grateful that Molly had done away with the bitch. He would definitely have had to excuse himself from THAT trial.

"I scuffled with Draco, took his wand. Again, Narcissa was in the room but did nothing." Harry felt like perhaps he was trying a little too hard to clear her name. "Dobby got us out of there in the nick of time, but not before giving up his own life." Pain and regret curled around his heart at the thought of the elf, but he was so used to the feeling over the summer that it felt almost comforting.

"Very well. And the other time?" Harry had already sat down and given Kingsley a blow by blow of his last year weeks ago, so he wasn't surprised that he was trying to move the story along to get to the good bits.

"The second time, was when I walked into the clearing the last night of the battle." The silence was deafening in the courtroom, and Harry felt a little guilty thrill at still being able to hold an audience captive, even if his tale was a little morbid. So, this one time, I died. He had thought he'd hate talking about it, but truthfully this was one of the least painful memories. Now any mention of Snape, or Lupin, or the others that had died, and he closed up like a clam.

"I, well as you know I had to confront Voldemort. The whole horcrux thing and all that." He was being purposefully flippant – it was the only form of rebellion left to him. It was a petty revenge, as everyone in the room knew the story. Fucking Kingsley couldn't keep his mouth shut. "So Voldemort aimed the Killing Curse at me, and I was knocked out." A small white lie, but it had saved a lot of explaining. "When I came to, I was still in the clearing. He had clearly been knocked out by the same attack – because of the connection we had. He was concerned I wasn't dead, so he sent Narcissa to check. She walked across the clearing, and knelt beside me. He, Voldemort, asked her if I was dead. She checked my pulse, she knew I was alive. She asked me – asked me about her son. I told her he was still alive, which was true. I had run into him inside the castle." Ha, run into him. Wait till his trial. It took Harry a few seconds to realise that Malfoy's trial was in all likelihood coming up next, and it made him feel queasy. "She stood up, and told Voldemort I was dead. It was a lie. She protected me to save her son, but either way it was a selfless act. Whatever this woman has done, she's not a criminal." More silence.

"Very well Harry. Is there anything else you'd like to say on behalf of the defendant?"

"No, I… I think that's it." Harry faltered, wandering if he'd said enough. Don't send this woman to Azkaban you heartless bastards. He thought viciously, stepping down from the dais. He'd done all he could.

"Very well, let's take the vote." The process was efficient, if a little barbaric. Harry stood with most of the other members of the Wizengamot when Kingsley called "not-guilty", and sure enough she was saved from a prison sentence. It wasn't a complete white card, of course – Kingsley handed down his usual sentence for those affiliated, but not actively involved in the Death Eaters. Forbidden from taking Ministry jobs, forced to report to a parole wizard once a month and to report on their financial undertakings once a year – it was considered harsh but necessary. Harry wasn't so sure.

After Narciassa's trial the Wizengamot broke for lunch. Harry headed out of the trial room as quickly as he could, avoiding eye contact as he walked back to the lift and ascended to the Atrium. He had made the mistake of lingering the first few times and being stuck in boring political conversations with Ministry officials, or fending off advances from young witches who wanted his autograph.

Seated next to the dopey looking Dumbledore statue, Harry tore through the pumpkin pastie he had bought as he churned through his thoughts. In a way he was glad Narcissa had gotten off lightly. He could not truthfully recall any moment where she had acted savagely or criminally. It seemed, in the end, that all she wanted was to protect her son.

Not for the first time, Harry reflected on how much a mother's love had defined his destiny, despite the fact that he'd never had one. His own mother had died protecting him, and in that act protected him for decades after. And Narcissa, in her small way, had saved them all. Harry fully believed, as he never had while Dumbledore was alive, that love like that truly was its own source of magic.

"Goodness Gracious Harry, if you don't slow down you'll give yourself a stomach ache." It was Slughorn, of all people, and it was a testament to how much he missed the castle that he was glad to see the potions professor. He held off taking another ravenous bite of his sandwich.

"Hello Professor. What's brought you to the Ministry?"

"Oh, you know, a bit of this, a bit of that." The pleasure at seeing the professor withered instantly with the obviously evasive comment. So. You're in on this too are you?

"Going back into retirement then, now that you're out of a job?" Harry said, somewhat savagely.

"Ah, well… yes I suppose I am." He stuttered out, looking shifty.

"Right then. Well, I better go then. I'm running late." With a wave as awkward as his comment, Harry sprinted away to the lifts. As he headed back to the trial room, he thought back on everything he'd heard, or not heard, over the summer. Something was definitely going on, something he was being kept out of the loop on.

-HP-

"Bring in the next defendant." Kingsley was all business today. It turned out to be Lucius next in line, which Harry found odd. He was sure they'd save the cream of the crop till last. The man strode in looking like he was at a banquet in his honour, straight backed and still clutching his familiar skull-topped cane. His eyes though, looked as dead as they had in the papers.

Malfoy seniors' trial was long, but entirely one sided. Unlike his wife, the accusations thrown at him stuck like glue, and after the first few testimonies he was covered in it. Most of it was new to Harry, as it occurred during the time he was searching for Horcruxes and was out of touch with the Wizarding World.

Halfway through Dwayne Forthwrights testimony – an employee of the Ministry who had been cursed by Lucius - the clock on the wall behind Harry chimed loudly. It was 5 o'clock, and the day was done. Kingsley stood, and announced that they would break for the day, and continue the trial tomorrow.

As they escorted Lucius out, Harry risked glancing in his direction. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and Harry saw straight through into the man's soul. The hatred there was so over-powering it made him ill, and he was forced to look away. Harry had expected him to make threats, protest, offer to testify against his comrades –anything other than the chilling calmness that seemed to have gathered around both husband and wife.

Still rattled by Malfoy Seniors' demeanour, and wondering what it meant, Harry let himself be steered by the crowd towards the exit. Sure enough, Arthur was there waiting for him.

-HP-

That night, Harry couldn't sleep. His mind's eye was filled with gruesome scenes of the Malfoy's being tortured by dementors, of Lucius cackling maniacally as he shot curses at Sirius, of blinding green flashes. He woke in a familiar cold sweat, unrested and unsettled, to the familiar tapping on the window that signalled the arrival of the Daily Prophet.

The owl swooped in, dropping the paper neatly at Harry's feet, before swooping out again. After nearly being pecked to death by an owl earlier in the summer because he couldn't find a knut, Harry had bought a subscription in advance so that he didn't have to keep paying.

Harry was just about to close the window when what looked like a furry brown cannonball shot through the opening, hitting him squarely in the stomach. Harry dropped to this knees, fighting the nausea. It was, obviously, Pidwigdeon, and he looked like someone had fed him Pepper Up before sending him on a delivery.

"Calm down you stupid bird." Harry growled, wrestling with the letter it was clutching in its beak. The bird let go rather suddenly, causing Harry to fall back and slam his head into the wooden floor boards. It seemed owl post was something of a dangerous past time these days.

Clutching his sore head, Harry ripped open the letter one handed as Ron's owl soared away, almost missing the window on its way out.

Dear Harry,

How are you going? We've missed you so much. It's so unfair you haven't been allowed to come visit us – the atmosphere here is just amazing. Some of the sixth year students (well seventh years now, I suppose) have showed up too, and we're making real progress. The entrance and dining hall are both up, although the enchanted ceiling hasn't been fixed yet. Flitwick's tried a couple of charms but he hasn't got it quite right yet. It still seems to hail sporadically, which isn't ideal for the students who are camped in the hall.

You'll never believe it – we're staying in the dungeons. Seems they got off with limited damage (no surprises there) so they were quick to restore. Ron swears he's sleeping in Malfoy's bed, but I've told him to just get over it. I mean honestly, after everything we've been through, you'd think he'd learn a bit of tolerance.

Harry smiled to himself, secretly agreeing with Ron. Tolerance or not, the idea of sleeping in a bed previously occupied by a Slytherin was still gross.

Gryffindor tower is still a bit of a mess. It got hit pretty hard. McGonagall thinks we'll be able to re-open come September 1st, and we'll just have to make do with whatever classrooms and dormitories are available. No word yet on what they'll do with us – the eighth years or whatever they're calling us. I hope we'll be able to attend – how are we expected to find jobs without NEWTS?

Another smile – of course Hermione would be worrying about that. Like she, or Ron for that matter, would ever have trouble with employment. They were almost as famous as he was.

How are the trials going? It must be simply awful. But you're doing the right thing Harry, do try to remember that. I know you hate me saying this, but they need you. You're still a symbol of hope, and everything's still up in the air. There's been a bit of disquiet even here, when the Ministry comes to visit. They want control over every little detail – like they're afraid of losing it again. McGonagall actually swore at one of them the other day. Ron found it hilarious, but it was pretty scary.

Have you heard from Andromeda yet? How is Teddy? Send my love.

See you real soon.

Hermione and Ron

He hadn't received separate letters from them all summer. It was only natural, now that they were a couple, he supposed. Be happy for them Harry, come on. In some ways he was grateful that they were together during this 'honeymoon' period, and he was at Grimmauld. In his volatile, self-deprecating state he's probably ended up saying some he regretted. Like what happened with Ginny.

Another surge of emotion shot through him as he remembered the last time they spoke. It had started off slightly awkward, as he tried to babble his way through, but by the end it was nothing short of a train wreck.

She had expected them to settle into domestic bliss the day after, all while Harry was still coming to grips with his post-apocalypse, Voldemort-free existence. But "not right now" was apparently not the answer she wanted. He remembered shouts of "I'm not going wait around forever" that rapidly descended into "Fuck you Harry", by which point he'd just sort of glazed over and let her at it.

Hermione, quite unhelpfully, told him afterwards he'd handled it badly. Which was both obvious, and beside the point. Ginny would never have been thrilled at the news, but at least this way she could cling to her self-righteous anger rather than pine over him, as she apparently did last year.

Tucking the letter into his bedside drawer with the rest of them, Harry reached grimly for the Daily Prophet. Since the first, post war edition the wizarding newspaper had descended rapidly into inane, tabloid babble. Narcissa was predictably on the cover, under a small story titled "Potter testimony frees Mrs. Malfoy, husband's trial continues" which only served to re-inforce his belief that he was PR fodder. But the largest real estate on the front page was taken up by a picture of Celestina Warbeck, who had performed at a charity concert last night to raise funds for the reconstruction of Hogwarts.

There was no news of the Death Eaters at large, no more obituaries for the fallen (they had lasted for weeks, especially poor Lupin who was labelled the 'sexiest member of the Order' by Witch Weekly – something which Harry was sure Sirius was still cursing him for.)

After convincing himself there was nothing of interest in the newspaper, Harry threw it into his garbage bin and finally got out of bed. He had a long day ahead of him, and he desperately needed a shower to wash away the cold sweat that still clung to him from his nightmares.