A note on wizarding law: JKR consistently presented the laws and legal system of wizarding Britain as capricious, biased, ad hoc, and amateur (in terms of those giving judgement). I attempted to follow this as much as I could, hence the representation of the legal system in this chapter is one characterized by ineptness and caprice.

XI. More Balls Than Brains

15 April, 1977

Last time on The Second String:

"The two traditional punishments for those convicted of this crime are either life imprisonment in Azkaban Prison or execution by the Dementor's Kiss. At this time, the convicted may express a preference for either, is he so desires."

They—they want me to pick between those options?

To those watching him closely, which was much of the courtroom at this point, his eyes seem to glaze over for a few moments. Ab, who burned with his own rage alone on the spectators' benches, however, recognized it. He'd seen that vacant look fall over the boy a few times when the kid was getting ready to ask him so damn fool question about magic. The little idiot was thinking, and thinking hard.

Harry's eyes snapped back into focus. The shock had already begun to ebb away, leaving incredulous fury and biting disappointment roaring in its wake.

Alice had it right.

Fuck them all.

"Thank you, Mr. Dumbledore." A few gasps at the perceived—and frankly intended—impertinence echoed in the otherwise silent room. "Given the two options you're offering, there is only one choice to make. The lot of you seem intent on making me your sacrificial lamb, just like Macnair wanted me to be his victim. I'm not really interested in being either." He spat the words. "I would much rather die quickly than be tortured to death slowly, whether it's him doing it or you all."

He made absolutely sure that he stared hard into the eyes of the Minister, Dumbledore, and Crouch in turn.

"Therefore, of the two, I prefer to be administered the Dementor's Kiss."

Bedlam reigned in Courtroom 10.

Harry was immediately ushered out to the hallway he had waited in before his trial. Through the chaos he was able to catch Dumbledore saying something about the convicted being removed while sentencing was debated.

Whatever.

His legs wanted to shake desperately but Aurors 'Crabbe' and 'Goyle' were leading him out and he refused to let them see him break down. Goyle's hands, he noticed vaguely, were far gentler this time than when he'd led him here ... was it less than an hour ago?

Holy shite, what did I just do?

A stoic Crabbe took the same position as he had before and was mirrored by Goyle, whose staunch implacability was belied by the little glances he kept stealing at Harry. Harry ignored him and wallowed deep in the darkening whirlpool of his own mind.

I can't believe I did that. They're going to have me Kissed. Dementors, oh God, Dementors .. I don't want to die, I don't want to leave, I have Ab now, please, I don't want – it's not fair, please, why is this happening, how could they –

Finally, the man cracked. "Kid? Kid, ah, can I ask how old you are?"

Harry roused himself enough to pretend not to notice Crabbe's eyes dart over in interest.

"I'm fifteen."

And my life is probably over. God, Merlin, please, I don't want –

"Oh." Goyle looked away and said nothing else for a very long time.

Aberforth, meanwhile, remained forgotten in the shadows and watched the crowing of the Wizengamot. As a member of the public he certainly wasn't supposed to witness the court's deliberations, but he'd learned early in his life that being completely forgettable had its advantages, especially when dealing with idiots. Thus, while the few reporters who'd camped on the other side of the courtroom were ejected, Ab was left to eavesdrop to his heart's content.

Some members were screaming at each other, others strutted about trying to be logical in loud claims dripping with condescension. A few, like Crouch, were simply sitting silently, eyes wide, seeming deep in thought or shock. It was the sort of scene that should have him snorting in amused derision. His goats had better deportment than these sad sacks of the so-called elite.

But nothing about today is funny.

His ears strained to pick up comments from those whom he knew really called the shots. Of course, Albus had told him to expect something like this to happen. They had planned for the boy to be found guilty, there was nothing for that, dammit all, but neither of them could have predicted the little fool would so audaciously and effectively shame the collective political powerhouses of wizarding Britain. He essentially told them that if they found him guilty they should just sod off and join Voldemort, of all things!

"I'll always choose head-on," the boy had said to him the night of his first fight with Macnair. Ab shook his head in bemused wonder. Well, you hopeless fool, at least you're a man of your bloody word.

"Why are we arguing at all? I say give the squib what he wants and let's go home!," one reedy voice shouted over the din.

Madam Marchbanks, who was one of the few to vote acquittal, huffed herself up. "Why? Why?! Maybe you have no problem sending a fifteen year old child to have his soul removed, but some of us aren't contemplating getting a tattoo on our arms!"

The reedy-voiced man's indignant reply was drowned out by hushed exclamations and shocked gasps after the woman observed Harry's age. Apparently the fucks couldn't even be bothered to pay attention to the first bloody page of the file. Yes, you shits, you're condemning a fifteen year old who still ain't even shaving yet.

"C-Can we take his age into account?" Potter the Ponce stuttered, suddenly looking pale and nauseated. Apparently the Sleekeazy's tycoon hadn't pulled himself away from his hair care products long enough to note the boy's age. Good. That's your fucking grandson you were so quick to condemn.

"How young is too young to be our scapegoat?" Barty Crouch choked out rhetorically, sounding sick. His laugh was so bitter that most in the courtroom stopped and looked at him in concern. "It doesn't matter and we all know that. We tried to make him a scapegoat, but instead he'll be a martyr." Ab quirked an eyebrow at that. Maybe Crouch had a bit more to him than he had thought.

"Well to hell with his preferences then!," came another voice. "You're all acting like we have to give him the Kiss. We don't! Let's just chuck him in Azkaban for life and when the war's over we can commute his sentence if we want!" Desperate voices raised in support of this.

Albus shot a quick glance his way. Your turn, Albus. Rope 'em in and mind you, make it good. Ab tried to ignore the worried way his hands were grasping at his robes. Don't fuck this up, you bastard.

"I'm afraid that's no longer as viable a plan as it was," Dumbledore began, sounding remorseful. "Records of the official court proceedings are, of course, available to the public, and reporters were in attendance for the trial. By tomorrow morning – perhaps even tonight – all of wizarding Britain will know what the boy said, why he did what he did, and our response." He sighed heavily. "The problem will remain, my friends. I fear that any significant punishment – Azkaban included – will be twisted into proof of our ideals' similarity to those of the Dark Lord. The people will know. And they will judge us. And, I fear, they will act on that judgment." Albus' voice was solemn, the voice of long-time statesman and one-time war hero. It was the perfect tone to sell the load of shite they were trying to convince the Wizengamot to buy. Not the way we planned to do it, but a nice way to respond to the boy daring them to give him the Kiss.

Harold Minchum, the Minister, started nodding quickly, looking like someone had punched him in the gut.

Griselda Marchbanks piped up, almost as if on cue, though Ab knew she wasn't aware of the brothers' scheme. "From what I have seen today," she began in that soft voice of hers that was studded with steel, "I am unconvinced our ideals are not as dissimilar as I would want to the Dark Lord's." A stern glare hushed the rising protests. "Don't fool yourselves, my friends. Every single one of us knows that if it was one of our children, one of our grandchildren, who was involved in this mess we would be singing to the rooftops about his bravery, his fortitude, his heroism. We'd probably be sitting here debating whether or not he deserved a third-class Order of Merlin. Not Azkaban, not the Kiss!"

Silence fell, and the Wizengamot members shifted in their seats.

"I understand, Madame Marchbanks," came the heavy voice of Elphias Doge. "But we all knew how the Dark Lord would make use of the boy's acquittal. For the greater good we had to –" Worthless, sycophantic gob as always, Doge.

Marchbanks laughed. "The 'greater good,' Elphias? Yes, yes, I can see that. But after today, I cannot help but wonder what it will take to finally subdue that elusive beast! If we keep on as we have been, sacrificing decency and right for the sake of this greater good, I suspect when we finally track it down we'll discover only the corpse of a thing we killed long ago with a thousand arrows made from all the littler evils that we perpetrated and allowed."

Well fuck me, Zelda, you sexy old cat! Bet Albus' arse is smarting from that one.

Minchum finally found his voice. "Well, Crouch, you offered him that pretty good deal the other day, right? Bit of prison time and then exile? Couldn't we just sentence him with the deal? That wouldn't be too hard on him and we could differentiate ourselves from Voldemort."

Ab perked up. This bit was the trickiest, and he could only thank Merlin that wizarding Britain had so many ridiculous laws still on the books.

Crouch shook his head, mustache bristling. "Paragraph 94, subsection alpha of the charter for trials of 1763 is specific on the matter and has never been officially repealed. The Wizengamot cannot use a punishment already refused in the form of a pre-trial offer for sentencing. Thus any shorter term of incarceration and/or banishment to the Muggle world are both off the table for us. Had we only offered him one of those punishments, things would be different, but ..." He paused thoughtfully. "However, nothing explicitly prohibits a convicted criminal from accepting the offered deal up to and until the point of actual sentencing."

"Fascinating," Albus murmured, "Mr. Pepst, you have been silent during all this. Would your client be interested, do you think, in accepting the previously offered deal? Surely he'll find it more amenable than the Dementor's Kiss or a lifetime in Azkaban."

You're on, Pel. Make it good, keep it simple.

Just as they had planned, Pel stood up and regarded the Wizengamot thoughtfully. "I cannot speak for my client, as I have not been given the opportunity to meet with him since his arrest." Scowls and some embarrassed glances graced the faces of the court. Ab gritted his own teeth. I'd feel so much better about this if we could have told the lad about the plan. "That said, knowing Mr. Harry as I do, I suspect that he would throw the deal back in your faces."

As the assorted protestations of the court died down, Pel paused and sighed heavily. "Witches and Wizards, I'm afraid he's seen you now. He knows exactly what you're willing to sacrifice – including him. I think it was apparent to all today that he's not overly impressed with the august body of the ancient Wizengamot. That is a brave, principled, decent young man whom you just convicted, a young man who knows what he did was not wrong, and he will never admit that it was." The old solicitor shrugged and reclaimed his seat as he surveyed the court. "He'll take no deal."

"This is a bloody nightmare! What the hell can we do?," Minchum exclaimed.

Albus steepled his fingers and sat back in his chair. Now or never, you bastard. "Our choices are, alas, quite limited at this juncture. We can give him the Kiss or life imprisonment, but I believe we all now understand the political and public relations boondoggle that such a sentence would become for the Ministry, one we must avoid given our precarious position of late. We cannot give him a shorter sentence in Azkaban or banishment because of the terms of the deal once offered. As we found him guilty, we cannot simply resolve not to punish him. Lastly, we must deal with the severe consequences to the war that would come with our perceived lenience and sympathy for a squib."

"Shite," Aberforth heard Potter whisper. "This is impossible."

Albus' eyes were twinkling. "Perhaps not, Mr. Potter. Perhaps not."

Crabbe and Goyle both jumped a little when the golden Lady Justice snapped into life and addressed them. "Bring in the convicted for sentencing," she said gravely without deigning to look at Harry.

Harry, for his part, had eventually slipped into an unfeeling stupor as he stood and waited for the Wizengamot to deliberate his fate. It was the same nothingness he used to shelter in when Vernon was in a particularly vile mood. Apathy, he had found, was sometimes the best shield.

Before his stupor set in, he had briefly toyed with the idea of proclaiming to all that he was a wizard, and that their stupid law didn't apply to him. It was so very tempting, and he figured he could still do so if he absolutely had to, but Pel's panicked warning about never telling anyone about himself kept coming back to him. Sure, he could probably reveal his magic without disclosing the time travel, but Harry knew himself well enough to know that he was a terrible liar, and he had no idea how to convincingly explain why he hadn't attended Hogwarts and why he wouldn't do so now. Maybe, maybe if there was time before the Kiss, he could talk to Ab and Pel and come up with a good story …

The beefy Aurors grasped him by the arm once again – where the hell do they think I'm going to go? – and led him through the large door, though this time both their hands only kept perfunctory on his arm. A calming chant ran through his mind. Keep your back straight and your face dry.

When they neared the chair, Harry was surprised that he wasn't forced back down and chained. Instead, Crabbe and Goyle kept ahold of him as he faced the assembled Wizengamot. Back straight, face dry.

Dumbledore peered down out him from over his half-moon spectacles. "Mr. Harry, you have been found guilty of violating law 246, a crime for which life imprisonment or the Dementor's Kiss is typically proscribed. Between the two, you have elected to be punished via the Kiss. Do you wish to alter your decision?"

Back straight, face dry.

"No sir, I do not." Good. I don't think my voice even shook.

"The court acknowledges your choice," Dumbledore said slowly. "However, some final considerations have guided the Wizengamot's ruling on your punishment." Huh? "Although Azkaban or the Kiss have been traditionally used for such crimes, no law requires them to be the only punitive measures that we consider. Moreover, it was discovered in the course of our deliberations that no minor squib has ever been sentenced to either. This, we admit, concerns us."

Dumbledore leaned forward. "Furthermore, it cannot be ignored that your actions, while criminal and foolhardy, nonetheless were instrumental in saving the life of a pureblood wizard, Mr. Peloother Pepst. Law 246 was specifically designed for violent, insolent squibs with no respect for the wizarding world, those who would dare raise a hand against wizards with no care for the value of magical lives. You, however, have shown through your concern for your custodian and Mr. Pepst that this, at least, is not a crime of which you are guilty. Indeed, the very fact that you willingly entered into a Ministry-sanctioned custodial agreement earlier this year demonstrates your willingness to conform to Ministry procedures for one of your inferior social status."

Dumbledore paused, and Harry's mind floundered in confusion.

"Thus the Wizengamot found itself in a quandary. Given your youth, clean criminal record otherwise, and obviously high regard for members of British wizarding society, we have decided upon the following sentence."

Back straight, face dry.

"Mr. Harry No Surname, you are hereby sentenced to Auror-enforced parole until the day when you come of age. You will submit yourself to regular meetings to ensure that you are living with respect for the laws and traditions of wizarding Britain in such a way that accords with your inferior status. Moreover, to help instill in you the proper respect for your betters in this society, you are sentenced to 600 hours of service to wizards at times and places to be determined, though we shall take into account the limited mobility of squibs when devising your assignments. Should you violate any of the terms of your sentence, this body shall reconvene to deliberate on whether you should be incarcerated for the rest of your natural life or given the Kiss. So ends Wizengamot Criminal trial 1977.141." The sound of his gavel echoed through Courtroom 10.

What?

The members of the Wizengamot were slowly filing out.

"What?" Harry asked dumbly.

Goyle gave him a little smile. "It's over kid. Guess they didn't want to kill you after all, huh?"

Harry felt like he couldn't stop blinking. "But – but I compared them to Voldemort! … I don't, I don't understand, I –"

Crabbe finally broke character and actually laughed. "Oh, we noticed that, kid. Thought some of 'em were goin' ta kill you on the spot."

This was too surreal. "Wha –, so – so what do I do now?"

A gentle hand on his shoulder had him turning around. "Now," said Pel, "we get to go and fill out the forms for your parole release."

As Harry threw his arms around a startled Peloother, he caught sight of Ab discreetly leaving the courtroom. The man turned and shook his head when he saw Harry watching him. Bloody fool, that shake seemed to say, but then Ab snorted and cracked a ghost of a smile before disappearing through the door.

The next two hours were spent filling out forms for his parole and listening to three different Ministry representatives drone on about the terms of his release. Harry didn't listen to any of them really, and coasted through the processing with his mind nearly blank. Pel thankfully spoke, and nodded, and seemed to do all sorts of helpful solicitor-y things. Please Pel, just explain all this to me later. I can't care right now. I just can't.

And then Pel grinned at him and led him to the DMLE's public Floo. A handful of powder later and Harry was back in the Head, Pel's arm keeping a firm grip that kept him from falling over.

Dalcop, Wigol Palter, and Ab were sitting in the otherwise empty pub, early afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows whose curtains were, for the first time Harry could remember, pulled back to let in the light.

Dalcop cheered when Harry appeared, "You showed 'em, lad!," Wigol clapped and grinned silently, and Ab just regarded him seriously as he vacated Pel's regular seat. "Pel, your drinks are on the house today. I'll take him."

With a quiet "Well done, my young friend," Pel departed from Harry's side. Harry could just nod absently and stare at Ab.

The old bartender shook his head again. "Dammit lad, you've really got more balls than brains, don't you?" He sighed. "Come on, your ruddy fool. I'll explain what happened today."

Harry dropped onto his straw bed gratefully as Goat virtually galloped over to his side and began to make short work of his long hair. "Missed you too, Goat," he murmured.

Ab snorted and took a seat opposite him. "You're probably wonderin' what the hell is goin' on, yeah? You want the long or the short version?" Ab took in Harry's glassy eyes and shook his head. "Aye, short version it is, I think."

He sat back comfortably. "We figured there was no way you'd not get in trouble for this once the Aurors came. The Ministry can't let a squib who'd killed a wizard for whatever reason just go. Heard you had a visit from Crouch and I 'spect you got a feel for the politics," he spat the word, "of your case, yeah?"

At Harry's nod, he continued. "Well, me, Pel, and my bastard brother came up with a plan to make sure you got off light. Was a huge gamble, sure as shit it was, a fuckin' massive gamble, but … See, the way it was supposed to go was you'd get convicted – law's clear, after all, that fuck Futz was right on that score – and then during sentencin' deliberations Albus would make 'em think about all the negative publicity they could get for sendin' a kid to Azkaban, 'specially given the circumstances of your crime. Pel had played up that your actions helped save his life, which helped show that you aren't some squib revolutionary who doesn't give a toss about wizards. We, well we didn't know that you thought it was me that was kidnapped, not Pel. Your testimony really helped then too, since it made it look like you valued your custodian's life more'n your own at the time. "

He gave Harry a strangely soft look then took a long pull on his hip flask. "I'm sorry we couldn't tell you any of this. Pel kept tryin' to get access to you, but, well, you know how things go. Would'a been suspicious if Albus had come, and there's no way they'd let me in." Harry just nodded. "Anyway, we had the sentence you ended up gettin' planned out in advance. It'll play well with the papers – you might'a noticed all that rot in there about teaching you your place and whatnot. Helps combat what the other side might say about the Ministry valuing squibs too much. Instead, it looks like the Ministry is being merciful, yeah, but is still rubbin' your nose in the dirt."

Harry nodded dumbly. This made some sense, but … "Wait, why was it a huge gamble? It sounds mostly logical to me."

Ab laughed long and bitter. "Lad, the whole fuckin' thing hinged on making the 'Gamot and the Ministry terrified of the negative publicity they'd get if they were too hard on you. Think about it! You've been a squib long enough to see the flaw here!"

Harry thought. The faces of the people in the Head the night of his fight with Macnair popped to mind, the furious Yarda, and the nicer patrons who still hadn't helped him … then Cordwaine the cobbler, Celeste the perfect shop girl at Gladrags, the Aurors who watched his cell, who – but for Alice – didn't even really look at him … his teenaged father bullying him, Sirius calling him 'Squibbulus"… Clarity suddenly burned through him.

Oh.

Oh God.

"It was a huge gamble because you had to make them think that people would be angry about what happened to me, angry I was sent to Azkaban, angry enough to – to do something, when … when they probably wouldn't have really cared one way or the other." His voice sounded like a dead thing to his ears.

Ab nodded gravely. "Aye. We know that some might'a felt bad when they read the story in the Prophet, but then they'd have just shaken' their heads and gone about their day. The squib movements of the '60s have been washed away by the advance of this Dark Lord, so it's not as if the government would have protests to deal with. No, lad, no one would'a cared, not enough as to do anythin'. But we had to make those fucks in the 'Gamot believe they would."

Harry's stomach fluttered violently as he thought about the terrible gamble the three men had made with his life.

"Wait – even if they were nervous about bad publicity, why didn't they just give me a shorter sentence in Azkaban or something?"

"Well," Ab said a bit grudgingly, "my brother's a bastard, but he's not stupid. Found some stupid rule in trial proceedings that's never been changed. Ignored, yeah, but never changed. Said that convicts can't be punished with the terms of any deal that they'd been offered and refused prior to their conviction –"

"Dumbledore was behind the offer Crouch gave to me, wasn't he?" Harry guessed shrewdly.

Ab nodded. "Aye. Made sure to write it up with both prison time and exile. Crouch is a stickler for any rule he finds, too. Once Albus pointed that old law out to him right before the trial, we knew he wouldn't be able to keep mum about it. That made sure that they couldn't give you a lesser sentence in prison or exile you from the wizarding world."

Harry looked at his hands. "I – I thought today that Dumbledore had decided not to help me." The vision of his old headmaster solemnly raising and lighting his wand seemed burned into his soul. He shied away quickly after prodding gingerly at the hurt that perceived betrayal had caused to well inside him.

Ab was silent for a few moments. "My brother …," he finally began, "is a political animal. Not a bad one, no, not really, but those types of beasts have different rules than simpler creatures like us do." He wordlessly offered his hip flask to Harry, who likewise took a long pull. The whiskey inside burned going down his throat, but he barely noticed.

"So, that was the plan. But you," Ab growled, "had to go an' almost muck it all up!"

Harry looked at the old man, shocked.

"Damn it all, boy, you shamed the hell out of the Wizengamot and then dared 'em to give you the Kiss of all things!"

"Well what the hell was I supposed to do? I get that you had a great plan and all, but no one told me about it! Those were the same people who let Sirius rot in Azkaban! I – I couldn't let myself go there, can't you see?" Harry gulped in a deep breath. He was just so tired. "Besides, I've already been Kissed once, and the Dementor in the STIFF didn't even affect me! I just – I just figured it was better than a living death in Azkaban. And I thought I might get a chance to talk to you and Pel before the Kiss and see if there was a way I could tell them I have magic without … without talking about all the rest."

Ab sighed. "No, I get your reasons, and they ain't bad ones. Scared the hell out of me, though, an' Pel." He chuckled a little. "You should'a seen those bastards – all their crowing and hand-wringing! Though you do owe a case a' something nice to Griselda Marchbanks. Withered little minx gave 'em quite the kick in the arse on your behalf – she's one of the ones that voted for your acquittal."

Harry nodded and smiled.

"And in the end, that move probably helped more than I can say. Far as I know, no one's ever had the stones to ask for the Kiss before. Shock and shame can go a long way when you're dealin' with decent-hearted bastards."

Ab stood up and dusted the hay off his robes. "'S'more to tell you, but that's the gist of it. Get yourself washed and cleaned up, then come down and have somethin' to eat, got that lad?

"Yeah, thanks Ab … Wait!" Harry pursed his lips. "There was a Potter there, yeah?"

Ab nodded, his face blank. "Fleamont Potter. James Potter's father."

My grandfather. "Did he – he didn't vote for my acquittal, did he?"

"No, lad. He didn't," Ab's voice was quiet. "But he was one of the first to come 'round to Albus' proposal." Harry nodded silently. "You all right with that, Harry?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I expect so." He gave Ab a faint smile. "It's good to be home."

Harry luxuriated in the shower for nearly twenty minutes, scrubbing the grime he'd accumulated in the STIFF off every plane and crevice of his body. Another twenty minutes later – Goat had been most insistent that he give her the amount of attention she was due – and he was entering the public room of the Head.

He grinned as he stood in the doorway. Several of the other regulars had arrived – Nappy Clank, Martial Sorner, Dung Fletcher and a few others – and were lounging around the bar and nearby tables. Dalcop Shicker was eyeing a plate of heaping sandwiches with longing, but Pel slapped his hand away. "You spend two weeks in prison and then you'll get sandwiches!" Ab grunted a half-laugh and placed a dusty bottle of butterbeer next to the plate in front of the empty stool. Catching sight of Harry, the old man waved him over. "Eat. You like crap."

The sandwiches seemed to melt in his mouth as he tucked in with gusto. "Oh God," he moaned, "real food is so good." Dalcop made for a sandwich on the far end of the plate again, but Harry quickly stabbed his butter knife down between the man's fingers. "Not happening. Mine."

"Aw, don't be like tha' Harry!" Dalcop whined. "You've always bin the nice one here!"

"Prison changes a man, Shicker," Harry deadpanned. A beat later and the barflies were snorting beer through their nostrils.

"Nicely done, kid," Nappy approved, wiping his nose.

The next hour was spent in pleasant, distracting conversation. Indeed, all the barflies seemed intent on making sure that Harry didn't think too many long thoughts about the turn his life had taken. Nappy and Dung regaled them all with stories about their many brief stints as guests of the Ministry holding cells – the two just couldn't not try to steal anything that wasn't nailed down. Martial waxed long about a wizard he'd known by the unlikely name of Aphid Beeblebrox who'd gone on a five-day bender filled with unlikely adventures after he'd gotten out of a prison term for trying to rig a Quidditch World Cup.

"So, how'd ye occupy yerself in the nick, lad?" Dung wheezed at one point.

Harry laughed. "Mostly by whinging to myself about how my life sucks." He pulled on his butterbeer. "At one point I spent some time imagining what sort of cool prison tattoos I would get if they sent me to Azkaban."

Pel giggled – he'd been celebrating his first legal foray in years a little too hard – "Decide on any, my friend?"

Harry shook his head. "Lots of black involved. Some fangs here and there … though I did think of getting one of my old owl Hedwig." He smiled reminiscently. "She's beautiful – a snowy."

The regulars roared with laughter. "A snowy white owl prison tattoo …!," Pel gasped out.

"Yer really not meant for prison, are ya, Harry?" Dalcop finished.

"Oi! I almost forgot!" Harry grinned suddenly. "Any of you know a limerick about a horny bloke from Mudchute?"

For the next half hour the group brainstormed possible endings for the unfinished ditty that had so tormented him during his stay in the STIFF. Harry learned all sorts of colorful and exciting terms for various parts of the human anatomy and interesting things that could be done to and with said anatomy, but the crew of the Head ultimately had to concede defeat. Eventually most of the regulars moved to a table to play a wizarding version of poker called Bragg, leaving Harry, Pel, and Ab at the bar.

"Hey, Pel," Harry said suddenly into the companionable silence, "you said in court that it was that inspector woman who did something to the protection charms on the Head?"

Ab's face grew thunderous. "Aye, Hornby, Olive Hornby. Bitch set up the inspection, we think, just so she could plant a wardreader." At Harry's puzzled look, he explained. "Little enchanted box that slowly gathers all the information on the charms and other wards affecting whatever place it's in. S'how Macnair and those shits slipped right through the night protections on the Head – they knew everything they needed to know about the particulars. Don't worry about it now, though, we put up all new charms to ward the place while you were gone."

"Wardreaders are extremely regulated, Harry," Pel added, "rigorously so. Only to be used with the Head of the DMLE's authorization. Apparently Hornby managed to steal one from the properties room and put it in a cupboard in the kitchen on her last visit here. Everything up to that was just to get her inside."

Harry shook his head in disbelief. "So that – that woman, the well-dressed snotty one, is a Death Eater? Seriously?"

Ab gave a snort of a laugh. "No, my friend," Pel continued. "They checked her arm – it was clean."

"Then why would she work with Macnair of all people?" This just doesn't make any sense.

"She wouldn't," Ab put in bluntly. "We couldn't find any connection between the two of them, or between her and either Folteren or Unsonsy." Harry obviously still didn't get it. "Think, lad! We know both Hornby and the three Death Eaters were involved, but didn't know each other. What's missing?"

Oh. "There's someone else involved – someone who connects to all of them."

"Aye," Ab agreed. "A middleman. Trouble is, we got no evidence of who that might be. So we know that there's at least one person still out there who doesn't have warm an' fuzzy feelings for you or us."

"And," Pel added, "because of Hornby's contacts in the Ministry, they deigned not to subject her to truth potions. She's not talking, even though they're sending her to Azkaban."

"Well shite," Harry breathed, then checked to make sure no one else was listening in and quirked a smile. "Maybe we should check out whoever's teaching Defense at Hogwarts this year." The men looked at him, confused. "Well, they've always been the ones trying to kill me before, haven't they?"

This earned quiet chuckles, but the three sobered quickly enough. "Albus is looking into it," Ab said quietly. "I'll let you know he finds anythin' out, but we may have to wait for this middleman to expose himself." He stood up. "Any rate, pub'll start getting busy soon. I'm off to finish the stew – you get the night off, boy, but I expect your arse to be making up for the last few weeks startin' tomorrow."

Harry smiled. "Thanks Ab, you got it."

As Ab lumbered off, he turned back to Pel. "I'm sorry, I just realized I haven't had a chance to really ask you if you were okay after … what they did to you."

Pel lowered his head. "I'm fine, but thanks for asking. It was one of the more unpleasant days in my life."

"Do you – d'you know why they took you? I heard the Folteren man asking you about devices or passwords or something before I came in."

The wayward solicitor sighed. "Not really something to talk with children about –," he waved away Harry's indignant protest, "but, as you're already involved, and I've you to thank for escaping the bastard … I take it you know that I was the primary target, yes? That they only took you because of Macnair's grudge?" Harry nodded. "Yeah, it's one of the reasons they target me here rather than my place. Figured they could get me easy enough at the end of a night at the pub. Anyhow, they wanted me because of my past, when I worked for the Department of Mysteries. You know I used to be a barrister for them? Well, they got it into their heads that I'd have memories of … sensitive information."

He gave Harry a calculating glance. "They wanted to know how to go about getting a hold of a lot of different artifacts in the DOM's collections, a lot of it dangerous. Things like experimental wardreaders, time-turners, some stuff I've never even heard of, and a bunch of mythical crap that exists, I think, only in popular imagination, like Realigners." At Harry's blank look he continued, "A rumored joint project between the astronomers and prophets in the DOM. Big 'exposé' came out about in the Prophet some years back. Supposed to affect the alignment of cosmic forces to change fate or some such idiocy. Not surprising morons like Macnair and Unsonsy seemed to think they could just get a password and pocket them." He snorted. "Anyway, we're guessing that the Death Eaters kidnapped me to find out how to get these things … But we need to be worried about this. Really worried. It's terrifying to think of what the man could do even with just a single time-turner."

"Merlin," Harry breathed.

"They could have tortured me all they wanted, of course, I don't know anything that could help him get them, after all."

Harry's eyes narrowed in confusion. "But they weren't doing it on Voldemort's orders, though."

Pel wheeled around. "What?!" He grabbed Harry's shirt. "No, don't say anything. To the stable—now!"

The old barfly ushered him quickly out of the pub and down to the stables.

"Christ, Pel, what is it?" Harry exploded when the door was shut securely behind them.

"Why do think he wasn't involved? Explain!"

What the hell is going on with him? Harry shrugged off his confusion and recounted his last conversation with Macnair, how he had pushed him to fury, disclosed Ab's relationship to Dumbledore, and his eventual discovery that Pel and Harry's kidnapping hadn't been sanctioned by Voldemort.

Pel took it all in thoughtfully. "All right," he said when Harry was done, "Voldemort didn't authorize what happened to us, that seems clear enough, but it doesn't mean he's not still trying to get the DOM goodies, whether it's something specific or he's just hoping to get something useful. These Death Eaters might have just taken the initiative to get information he wanted and hoped to get themselves a nice reward." Makes sense, Harry thought. "Still, though, I'm glad you told me. I'll pass this information on to Ab, who can pass it on."

Pass it on to whom? Harry wondered, Probably Dumbledore again, like with the Hayle Massacre? Ab, what exactly are you up to with your brother?

"So Ab," Dung Fletcher slurred out much later that night, long after an exhausted Harry had been sent off to the stable, "Yer a paren' now, are ye?"

The barflies laughed drunkenly into their cups.

"Custodian, you dumb fuck," Ab responded idly as he glared down a young werewolf who seemed moments away from attacking Panty Wacco, the lascivious Welsh vampire. That biter won't ever learn that it can't grope everyone without earning itself a few broken bones. And shit, the wolf just called Panty a 'fag.' Hope the furniture survives …

"Bah, whatever ya wanna call it, Ab," came the voice of Dalcop from somewhere near the floor of the pub. "Yer a daddy now!"

Ab kept drew his wand and kept his eyes on the brewing barfight. "Stuff it, ya gob. You're lucky you're already on the floor."

Dung smirked. "I fink iz gonna make him soft, yeah? Hey Ab! How ye fink yer doin' so far as a paren'?"

Aberforth did not respond, as he was currently stunning a horny vampire and attempting to throw an apparently homophobic werewolf out of the pub. A stray spell shattered one of the windows while some of the defter patrons helped themselves to the remainders of the two fighters' drinks.

When Ab finally returned to the bar he had a cut lip and disheveled robes. "How 'm I doin' as a parent?" He feigned contemplation. "Well, 's only been two weeks now, but in that time my charge has been arrested for murder, tried by the 'Gamot, told the lot of 'em to fuck off, got convicted of murder, signed himself up to lose his soul, and somehow still got home in time for dinner today."

He flashed the regulars a feral grin

"I think I'm gettin' the hang of it."

This time Ab joined in when the boys roared with laughter.

16 April, 1977

Harry woke up the next morning just as a pale dawn was beginning to color the night with blue and lavender. It took him a few moments of confused blinking to figure out what was wrong – why am I so comfortable? – before he remembered that he was no longer in the contraption the STIFF insisted was a bed.

A thought suddenly lanced across his mind and woke him completely.

I killed three people. Macnair, Folteren, and Unsonsy were alive. And then I killed them, and they weren't anymore.

With the chaotic aftermath of the kidnapping and the long nights filled with anxiety in the STIFF, he hadn't given himself a chance to consider the events that led to his incarceration themselves. It seemed his brain had decided that now was the time, whether he liked it or not.

Gingerly exploring his emotions, he frowned in disbelief. He thought … he thought he should feel overcome with guilt, with remorse, especially for Folteren. In Macnair's case he was desperate and barely thinking, while with Unsonsy he wasn't even sure if what he would do would work. But Folteren …

He had slit Folteren's throat without a second thought. Some people can just do with a good killin' Pel, he had said. He had meant it then.

What does this mean?

What does this make me?

It makes you a person who'll do what has to be done, even if it ain't pretty, that clear male voice he'd heard in his head at Macnair's spoke up. Some might call you a murderer for it, but it's the same reason that Pel's around to call you his savior.

Harry blinked when he realized he felt no guilt, then again when he realized he felt no guilt about his lack of self-loathing. The guilt just … wasn't there.

He found himself thinking instead about the last few months spent with Tweeny Twig's Guide. He'd been so excited to try and figure out creative ways to use old spells, and ways to turn common ones into unexpected offensive moves. It had been … it had been really fun. But looking back, he thought himself terribly naive. Now that he'd intentionally killed people, that excitement seemed juvenile and even a little obscene.

I can kill people when I need to and be okay. That's good. But I have to remember that it isn't fun, it isn't something to get excited about. This is … something to do because I have to, or because it's right, but it's also something to regret had to happen.

His mouth curled into a slow smile, an intimate expression of surprise that wasn't for the rest of the world, only himself. What I did might not have been the good thing to do. It might not have been the heroic thing to do, even. But it was the right thing. And I can live with that.

Still smiling and bemused at the unexpected turns his life had taken, he padded out the door to the back garden.

I'm free and I'm alive.

He thought of the welcome he'd received when he returned to the Head, of Ab and Pel in the courtroom with him.

And I'm not alone anymore.

A bark attracted his attention.

Oh! I'm actually not alone anymore.

"Colin!"

The adolescent thestral had been carefully inspecting the area behind the Head's shed but perked up immediately upon hearing Harry's footsteps.

He pranced over and quivered in ecstasy when Harry hugged him and gave him some enthusiastic scratches down his bony flank. "Wow, Colin, I think you're almost taller than me now! It's so great to see you – I've missed you this winter." Colin gave his odd barking purr. "Oh, and I have to go and see your mum later! Ab told me that she helped him find me. I'm going to get some meat from the kitchen – don't tell Ab! – and take it to her." At the word 'meat' Colin looked around in excitement, then settled back, content with scratches for the time being.

The calming, repetitive motion of scratching the thestral brought to mind nights that seemed almost like they belonged to another person's life, when he was snug in the Gryffindor common room, petting Crookshanks and talking about whatever with Ron and Hermione. He cringed a bit when he realized he hadn't thought about them in a while, though in fairness he'd had a lot on his mind.

"I wish I could see them, Colin. I have so much to tell them … Can you imagine Hermione's face when she finds out about how squibs are treated? She was a machine when it came to the house elves – this would be so much worse! And Ron would love to hear about all the dodgy stuff I've learned working at the Head…"

As the spring sun rose over Hogsmeade, Harry reminisced with Colin about friends long lost but not yet born, missing them desperately but strangely happy nonetheless.

The next several hours were spent working on all his regular chores. He'd never enjoyed mucking out the stable quite so much before.

In the late morning Ab plodded down for breakfast, still exhausted from his early morning for court the day before and his late night working the bar. Harry wordlessly slipped him a plate piled high with an English breakfast.

"Aurors'll probably be by later today or tomorrow," he grunted as he wiped his mouth clean.

"What!?" Harry immediately flew into a panic, expecting to be dragged back to the DMLE at any moment.

"Ah, calm yourself boy! Don't you remember? S'a condition of your parole to meet with 'em regularly. They're comin' soon for the first meetin' and to set up a schedule."

Harry blushed. "Oh. Well that's okay then."

"They'll probably also inform you about where you'll do your 'service to wizards' bollocks."

I had conveniently forgotten about that. Dammit.

He sighed. "Any idea where I'll have to go to learn 'proper respect for my betters'? Please tell me it won't be the Ministry. I'd die happy never having to go there again."

Ab chortled. "Don't be stupid, lad. Remember who's behind this deal of yours, after all."

The younger wizard's eyes grew suspicious, then gradually widened. "You're not saying that I have to work at –"

"Aye, that's exactly what I'm sayin'." Sarcasm dripped from Ab's every word. "What better place for a young squib to learn he ain't worth shit than the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world?"

Harry stared at the old bartender in horror.

"Oh bloody fuck," he breathed. "I have to go to Hogwarts."

Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story! I hope you continue to enjoy it, and I truly appreciate all your reviews.