Gringotts, Diagon Alley, London
The wizarding bank was bombarding Harry's ears with waves of sound – the clinking of gold on scales; the trotting of feet as tiny goblins led their human customers along the large lobby; the mad buzz of chatter as men and women argues, whispered, yelled, and otherwise spoke in hushed tones; and, of course, the nasally voice of their personal goblin, Greyore, carrying over the noise.
"Misters and Misses, your crimes are most grievous," the goblin said, "most grievous indeed."
"Yeah, thanks for the reminder." Ron muttered in Harry's ear. Hermoine giggled, but Harry just nodded absently and continued to walk on. It had been merely four days since his defeat of Tom Riddle, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…Harry despised that name. It seemed to give the monster that had haunted the wizarding community for so long some respect. Now, however, he was being dragged into a stupid hearing at Gringotts. Apparently, the goblims were most aggrieved at Ron, Hermoine, and his, actions of their last visit.
Suppose it can't be helped, thought Harry, managing the grin that Ron had expected earlier. He wouldn't blame the goblins for being angry; it was him, after all, that served as the primary reason for eight burn injuries inflicted on the dwarfed creatures. Those 'victims' claimed that they couldn't get out of the way of the white-hot jewels that had cascaded out of the door of the Lestrange vault.
"Can't this just be settled by money?" asked Harry wearily to the goblin as the green-skinned creature led them onto the platform that housed the minecarts. "I can only imagine you'd want the huge fortune in my va-"
"No, sir, no," muttered Greyore, managing a devilish sort-of chuckle that one would expect from a cartoon villain. "You've to answer for a crime much more serious than the burns that my brothers suffered. Oh, no…"
"Miserable old grouch." Ron muttered again.
"Ron, be polite!" said Hermoine reprovingly, letting her slender palm slip out of his clumsy hand. "He's just doing his job."
"Yeah, and he doesn't have to rub in the fact that we're to blame for whatever we did, either."
Ron brought another good point to Harry's mind- they haden't a clue what they were doing here. He was at the Burrow about three hours ago, having another long-winded chat with Ginny, when Mr. Weasley yelled up the stairs for him.
"Harry!" came the familiar voice of Authur Weasley from below the rickety staircase, "You've got a visitor. Come on down."
"Ugh, another well-wisher." Groaned Harry (his past few days were spent listening to his admirers coming to wish him their deepest gratitude. Harry would've ignored, but Molly insisted that this course of action would be rather rude). "I'll be back in a second, Gin," he said to the beauty next to him on the bed, kissing her on her forehead.
"Mmm," she said, her eyes closing as the mattress raised itself up with the departing of Harry's weight. Harry walked down the stairs, into the tiny kitchen that held Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ron, Hermoine, Kingsley Shackelbolt, and three official-looking wizards that Harry assumed were from the Ministry.
Harry was taken aback by the number of people in the room. He expected the Weasley parents, but Ron and Hermoine were supposed to be in Austrailia, finding Hermoine's bewitched parents. Kingsley, the temporary Minister of Magic, would naturally be up to his neck in letters and memoes and hearings to convict captured Death Eaters.
"Um…hi," was all Harry could think of.
"Harry James Potter," started one of the Ministry wizards, but Kinglsey cut him off.
"I can do it, Lallo," he said in his low, deep voice that sent the hairs on Harry's neck up. It wasn't the usual, calming voice he normally used with his friends, but it was a darker, more menacing tone. "Harry James Potter, you are to hereby placed under Minisrty custody."
"What?" said Harry after a brief moment.