"I'm so sorry, dear," a thin woman said, gripping Harry's arm for just a moment before being called away. Her supervisor seemed mildly furious that she had stepped away to speak with him, but he could barely manage a smile to make it worth her while.
Kingsley Shacklebolt stood at the door, arms crossed, looking rather anxious. Being called back to the Ministry of Magic was not part of the plan, but Harry didn't object to a chance to get out of Privet Drive. The dull heartache of grief continued to weigh down his limbs, and he was glad that, for once, he wasn't the center of attention. Instead he had found a ledge to sit on and was idly kicking his feet. It was slightly insulting, being dragged out so - given the nametag that read Harry Potter - Test Subject - but he couldn't bring himself to argue.
In the daylight, it was easy to see what a mess the Department of Mysteries had been left in. A frazzled-looking wizard seemed close to tears as he swept up some of the debris. It was obvious they had been working for days on cleaning up the mess, but there was still so much yet to do. From the expression on the faces of the Unspeakables milling about, it was obvious that the battle had destroyed decades if not centuries of careful experimentation.
Harry simply could not bring himself to care. There was a space where he felt some sympathy for them might have been, a sense that it would be polite to apologize, but he couldn't bring himself to any sort of action. He had lost the one last bit of true family he had, academia be damned. He wasn't going to apologize for anything, not even if they started crying right in front of him.
It was, admittedly, far too easy to be bitter.
But he continued to kick his feet, staring at his shoelaces. He only winced when a wizard to his left twiddled with a complicated-looking contraption that gave a shrieky hum as it started up. They certainly seemed to be very serious about... something.
"Potter. Come this way, please?" One of them said distractedly, not looking up from the instrument but motioning him forward. He looked back to Shacklebolt, who nodded once; with that assent, Harry followed the given path. As it became evident they were leading him towards the room with the Veil, his stomach started to churn. Was this someone's cruel idea of a joke? Had some Ministry bigwig or powerful pureblood put them up to this, just so the newspapers could go back to discrediting him? The Boy Who Lived, the Boy Who Had a Nervous Breakdown... admittedly, not as catchy, but after the last year he was certain they would print such rubbish.
One of the instruments gave a steady pip, pip, pip, and the witch holding it seemed dismayed, even as they stepped closer to the chamber which held the veil. When the door opened, Harry perhaps saw why.
The archway was still there, yes. But the flimsy, diaphanous cloth had been replaced. It did not flutter any longer like gossamer smoke. Instead they were thick, weighted down velvet curtains - a room divider, Harry supposed, only slightly less solid than a door. They were split at the middle as if meant to be entered. There were even small golden weights looped at the bottom in decorative shapes - bells, perhaps - perfectly ordinary though exotic in a way Harry couldn't explain, as if he had always imagined such doorways in some sultan's castle while he read some novel of Scheherazade's tales.
"Would you take a step forward, please?" One of the wizards muttered, looking nervous. Obediently, Harry did so. The voices were easier to hear, now - he took another step, and leaned in. It was hard to pick out threads of conversation in the tapestry of whispers, but now it was doable...
...He was supposed to break into the hen-house and kill all the roosters and tear apart the hens and break all the eggs. But now he's here. I can't be mad if he chases me and breaks my neck...
Harry's eyebrows knit together as he gave a worried frown. Perhaps he was asking too much from the Veil to have the conversations actually make sense. Behind him were more echoes, though solid and physical - he recognized the calm yet firm voice Dumbledore seemed to be using against Ministry officials more and more these days, but the nasal whine that answered was a new one. The official's tone was bitter and a little too loud. "He came of his own volition, if you have more objections you'll have to become his legal guardian..."
...I suppose I simply collect strays, dear. A few more won't hurt...
The argument wasn't as interesting as the whispers he could hear. He took another shuffling step forward.
...Please, sit. Have a drink. ...Ah, child, whoever said we were equals?
"Potter? - Harry Potter? Please, that's quite close enough," one of the Unspeakables said. "We don't want any accidents."
...You've meddled... you've interfered for too long...
The cold voice was mesmerizing in a way he couldn't explain, as sharp and bitter as it was. There were so many speakers - he hardly knew how to distinguish them. So many murmurs, like listening to the Great Hall at the end-of-term feast... but not as easy to pick out voices.
To his back, there were steps heading down the stairs. He could hear Dumbledore's voice clearly, now. "I understand the regulations perfectly, Trewick. All I am asking is that a little common sense be applied to the situation -"
It didn't stop Harry from taking another step forward, peering at the thick velvet curtain. The Unspeakable to his left gave a squeak and flailed. "Please! Safety is of utmost importance, you understand... We may be dealing with some sort of inter-dimensional portal here, if it becomes unstable..."
...Dogstar... Dogstar, are you there? A soft, melodic whisper, with a tremble to it, as if the woman speaking was about to cry. And then...
And then -
Yes, I'm here.
It was unmistakably Sirius' voice.
"Harry -" Dumbledore's voice was sharp in warning as he called out, finally arriving in the chamber. Harry looked over his shoulder at the other wizard, and for a moment, they locked eyes, Dumbledore not believing that Harry would truly do it until it was done. One of the Unspeakables shrieked; the other cursed. Despite one lunging at his foot, he kicked the Unspeakable free, parting the thick curtain and hurling himself through the portal.
And then he fell.