Common Sense: The Odd Ideas File
Politicians Run the Asylum
A/N: Fifth year alternate storyline. Ministry-controlled assassins just tried to kill Harry, so why would he stick around for a trial from the same Ministry that failed to kill him? This smart Harry flees and does his damage politically and through the media.
I love the Dementor episode in OOTP for its fanfiction possibilities. I even wrote a comic version of the consequences of Harry getting convicted for underage magic; DobbyElfLord wrote a wonderful one-shot on Harry abandoning the magical world and fulfilling his destiny with skills learned in Her Majesty's Army. Here is yet a different twist.
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X
Harry propped himself up on his elbow after the Dementors fled the alley. He vomited out what little he'd last eaten and then looked to Dudley. His worthless cousin looked like a quivering panna cotta.
He struggled with his cousin's bulk as he made his way back to his aunt and uncle's house. In theory, he could have left Dudley in the alley – surely his cousin, had the positions been reversed, would have done just that. But, Harry was Harry…so he lugged his bullying git of a relative home.
Harry dumped Dudley in the television room and then bounded up the stairs. He quickly threw all his belongings in his trunk and was glad to see Hedwig in her cage. It was like third year when he'd blown up Aunt Marge – but worse. He needed to flee; there wasn't anyone he felt he could trust right now.
The Ministry had just tried to kill him.
Those Dementors only responded to the Ministry, like when they'd surrounded Hogwarts trying to search for Sirius Black a few years earlier, so only the Ministry could order them to attack Harry.
He bounded down the stairs to hear his aunt and uncle bellowing in fear and pain. They must have found Dudley.
"I was attacked by my kind's Ministry. You're not safe any longer. Leave this place," Harry said, "and never think of me again."
He was out the door before Vernon could even respond. Harry summoned the Knight Bus and made his way to Diagon Alley. It was on about eight o'clock when a disheveled Harry appeared inside Gringotts with all his earthly possessions.
A goblin looked at him and frowned. "Wizard, what do you want?"
Harry stumbled over to the teller. "I want a goblin portkey to America. I want…I want all my assets transferred to Gringotts Boston." It was the best sort of plan he'd been able to cobble together in his few minutes on the Knight Bus. Run, hide, regroup.
The goblin snarled. "There is no such thing as a goblin portkey. We're prohibited from using wands." Harry knew about the prohibition, but hadn't Binns said that no Ministry edict actually kept the goblins from doing whatever they wanted?
"Fine. I want all my gold converted to British pounds. Now."
"Key please." The goblin looked ready to bite through steel bars.
Harry handed over the tiny gold key and the goblin snarled again, this time in a sort of pain.
"Snarlrock will escort you to a supervisor's office." Harry's account was apparently large enough that the goblins didn't want to lose it entirely.
Harry's sheer terror at the idea of staying in Britain kept him negotiating for twenty minutes before he got exactly what he wanted: a portkey and all his assets transferred to America. He discovered, through the behavior of the goblins rather than anything they said, that he had more wealth than he'd expected. He filed that nugget away; he had his safety to worry about, not whatever ridiculous games were happening.
Harry gathered up his belongings, and Hedwig in her cage, and activated the portkey. He appeared many, many minutes later inside a non-descript gray room with a bureaucrat of some type manning the door.
"Welcome to America, traveler," the man at the door said. "Do you have your passport?"
"No," Harry said. "I want to claim political asylum."
The magic words. The bureaucrat was now obligated to hear Harry out. The goblins had muttered out that much in between hoping that Harry died a painful death and that he never, ever reveal the source of his portkey.
"On what grounds?"
"The magical government of Britain tried to assassinate me two hours ago."
The bored bureaucrat looked shocked at the claim. "Your proof?"
Harry shrugged and realized he only had the memory. "Do you have a pensieve? I could show you the attack."
"I can get one. But even I see it, how will I know that the Ministry was behind it?"
"The Dementors in Britain are only under Ministry control. Two of them tried to kill me and my cousin. Then the folks there had the gall to summon me to a Ministry hearing to pronounce me expelled from school – probably so they could leave me defenseless and try again."
The bureaucrat nodded.
"Here's the letter expelling me. Then a second one calling me to a hearing. If you'll get a pensieve…."
The bureaucrat used his wand to send off a spell. The gray room fell into silence while Harry and the bureaucrat waited. The man obviously didn't want to believe, but he was obligated to hear out the case.
Another bureaucrat, even more bored looking, showed up with a pensieve. "What you need this for, Michaelson?"
"Political asylum request," the original bureaucrat said, looking at Harry.
"Awfully young. Alright, young man, go ahead and do your worst."
Harry stuck his wand to his forehead – he learned about pensieves after seeing and falling into Dumbledore's the year previous – and pulled out a few minutes worth of a memory. He dipped the silvery strand into the stone bowl.
"Go ahead. You'll forgive me if I don't care to relive this again."
The original bureaucrat dipped his head in while the newer one stood guard over the valuable pensieve itself.
When he popped out, the man's bored expression was gone. He gestured for the bureaucrat who'd brought the bowl to take a look.
"Now, what did you call that…thing?"
"Dementor. The British Ministry uses them to guard its prison, Azkaban, and also to kill selected convicts."
"I'm sold," the bureaucrat said. "But, tell me why you think they'd want to kill you."
"I witnessed something that very few people want to believe. I caught a glimpse of a newspaper before I got the portkey here. They're making me out to be insane in my home country. That's one tactic, I suppose, but better for everyone if I were dead…at least as these people think."
"What exactly did you see?"
"You've heard of Voldemort?"
"British Dark Lord killed by…Harry Potter." The man stopped and actually looked at Harry. "I guess that was you."
Harry nodded. "I saw the ritual he used to resurrect himself. He's back in a body again and the Ministry would rather kill me than admit it. Bunch of cowering, self-protecting retards are going to get everyone in Britain killed. They'd deserve it, too." Harry was muttering to himself by the end.
"I'd like to see this ritual, if you don't mind," the bureaucrat said.
Harry nodded. "After your colleague…."
Said man pulled his head out of the bowl. "How the…HELL…did you survive those things? I felt depressed and utterly sad just watching your memory."
"It's a long story, but I learned the Patronus Charm a few years ago. It's the only way to handle Dementors or Lethifolds."
"Holy Merlin…."
The first bureaucrat got his colleague calmed down and then motioned for Harry to take back the old memory and put the one of Voldemort's resurrection into the bowl.
Harry had a horrible look on his face when he did so. Both the Ministry workers stuck their heads in the bowl this time. Apparently they no longer considered Harry a crank.
Harry began to plan further ahead. It looked likely he would win some kind of permission to stay in the U.S. Perhaps he needed to show them a few more memories, set up a safe haven for Sirius, too.
He set up a few more steps in a plan. He didn't know where it would end, but he knew it wouldn't have him returning to Britain any time soon.
The bureaucrats returned from the memory thirty minutes later. Both of them looked ready to heave all over the floor.
Harry felt a tug of grim satisfaction. It was the first time he'd seen someone else's reaction to the events of that night.
The first bureaucrat looked at his colleague and said, "Get the duty Undersecretary. We're going to need someone high level to approve political asylum."
Harry seemed gladdened by the words. "I wonder if I could apply for a second person as well. He was sentenced to Azkaban prison without trial – and is in fact innocent. My godfather, a few friends, and I discovered the real criminal a few years back but no one would believe us."
The bureaucrat nodded toward the bowl. "Put the memory in there. I'll look at it with the duty Undersecretary. If it's anything like these first two memories, I don't doubt you'll prove your case."
Harry waited and petted Hedwig and tried to remain calm. He'd been attacked less than four hours ago. His pulse still raced and he was beginning to feel a bit sickly from the stress and excess of adrenaline.
"You need some water, Mr. Potter, or perhaps a bit of food?"
Harry nodded. "Thanks!"
The bureaucrat reached over to a bag on the back of a chair. He threw a water bottle and a packet of crisps over to Harry. It wasn't Hogwarts feast food, but it would do for now.
Harry had a gunky set of fingers from the coating on the crisps when the door opened again and a man in formal robes walked in. Harry tried to rub the crumbs off on his Dudley-cast-off-specials. He stuck out his mostly clean hand and shook the eager hand of this new bureaucrat.
"Mr. Potter, what a pleasure and an honor. I've just been filled in on the trying circumstances you find yourself in. The United States of America would be glad to offer you political asylum."
"Thank you, sir…."
"I am Caleb Peachtree, of the Georgia Peachtrees. Undersecretary of Wizarding Cooperation for Europe and the Middle East. A fan of the British Quidditch League, as well, Mr. Potter. I saw a bit of one of your school games on a set of omnioculars."
Harry just nodded. This man would be sympathetic. "Sir. I would also request asylum for my godfather. Perhaps you'd like to see the events in the pensieve?"
"A pleasure, sir." The original bureaucrat and this Mr. Peachtree stuck their heads in the pensieve.
It was nearly an hour later before the two men returned from their watching. Harry had been speaking to Hedwig about delivering a letter to Sirius. His owl seemed to have a lock on where he might be hiding out these days.
"Amazing, Mr. Potter. I heard something about this misadventure with the Dementors near a school for young witches and wizards. But to see the Minister being so cavalier. I've always thought the man a fool, but now you've provided genuine proof."
"I have a bit more I could show you on the man. He's worse than a fool. He's in the pocket of Voldemort's leading Death Eater. Ignorance, bought and paid for."
Mr. Peachtree's face darkened. "Yes, well, perhaps we should plumb the depths of your recollections in the morning. It will be rather late for you, Mr. Potter. Let us get your paperwork squared away – and a set for your godfather, who is clearly the victim of a massive travesty of justice – and we'll see if we can't find you someplace to stay for the next few days…."
"You needn't worry about that. The goblins are transferring my accounts from London to Boston."
"Very well, then. If you'll follow me, we'll get you the muggle and magical paperwork you'll need."
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X
Mr. Peachtree was beyond ecstatic. He had been arguing that the American Department of Magic was wrong in listening to the bizarre things spewing out of the British Ministry. Now he had firsthand evidence of their deep venality and corruption. An assassination attempt on a teenager; proof that their Voldemort problem was real; evidence after evidence that they imprisoned people without trial. Were they so stupid as not to ask for a pensieve memory in Britain? Peachtree nodded absently to himself. They were stupid.
Taking a few minutes to corroborate a fantastical story was part of the job in running a magical government; strange things could happen…and did all the time. Perhaps he'd drop an anonymous tip to Tempus magazine, see if they couldn't do a story on Harry, reprint some of his more…incriminating memories. The British buffoons needed to be exposed for what they were before they caused another world war. Few recognized it, but British wizards (and not always dark ones) were responsible for starting the first two declared muggle world wars in addition to numerous wizard-only wars. Bunch of bungling, meddlesome fools.
Diplomacy wasn't always fought in the corridors underneath the Boston Common, was it? Mr. Peachtree would take every opportunity he could. Perhaps it was time to see if Intelligence might be interested in Mr. Potter, as well.
Interesting. Promising.
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X
A few hours later, as Harry really began to feel the day's events, he left the Department of Magic and stepped off the escalator onto a deserted portion of the Boston Common. The British built their Ministry under an office building; the Americans went for something vastly more beautiful. They had floated the rumor, backed up with magic, that there was an abandoned multi-level car garage under the Commons when it really was their Department of Magic.
Harry hailed a cab after setting Hedwig free with a letter and a special portkey for Sirius Black. She was ready for a good flight after being cooped up for so long. Who knew how or when Sirius would respond. The Americans offered him freedom and asylum; the British only the likelihood of capture or death.
He stuffed his trunk in the back of the cab and then consulted the sheet of paper that Mr. Peachtree had given him. "Take me to the Copley Square Marriot."
Twenty minutes later, Harry finally passed out in one of the most comfortable beds he'd ever known. He was alive, safe, and finally able to rest.
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X
Harry woke up around noon the following day when his phone rang and he heard the deep Southern American drawl of Mr. Peachtree on the other end.
"Mr. Potter, I wonder if we could request your presence for three o'clock back at the Department?"
Harry rubbed his eyes and looked toward the alarm clock. "Yeah, that'll give me time to get ready."
"Excellent, a guard in the Entry Hall will bring you to my office."
Harry hung up the phone and stretched. A lot had happened in one day. It was a minor miracle that Harry was still alive. He showered and then left the hotel. His temporary home was connected to a shopping mall, so he decided to try American food for the first time.
He walked into a chain restaurant called Chili's and had the greasiest, and tastiest, burger he'd ever laid eyes upon. He felt a bit sick afterwards…but in a good way.
He made it back to the Department of Magic with five minutes to spare…and a long outline of a plan crawled on a couple of napkins he'd started writing on at Chili's.
Harry let the guard escort him deep down into the Department of Magic before they arrived at the Division of Wizarding Cooperation. Mr. Peachtree had a large office and an effusive smile as he beckoned Harry inside.
There were two other individuals already seated there. Mr. Peachtree shook Harry's hand and then pointed to the others. "Mr. Weaver is from our Intelligence Division and Mr. Browne works with our Secretary of Magic. They were both interested in meeting you and discussing…er, some options with you."
Harry smiled and nodded. Some strange things had stopped phasing him a while back.
"I have my own list of items to discuss, Mr. Peachtree. Why don't you go first?"
Mr. Peachtree looked toward the Intelligence official who then began to speak. "Mr. Potter, I wonder if you'd be willing to share a few memories with us. We've heard…some rather interesting things out of England the past few years. It would be nice to confirm our other sources."
Harry nodded. "That's simple enough. I would ask not to have to see any of the more unpleasant ones again."
Mr. Weaver nodded. Mr. Peachtree brought out a massive pensieve, larger than the one Harry had used the night before.
"We heard rumors about a battle for a magical artifact created by Nicholas Flamel."
Harry nodded and pulled the memory from his head.
"We were also informed of a certain diary that had unusual properties of possession and such."
Harry repeated the memory-pulling procedure. The Intelligence division person requested any memories Harry had of Minister Fudge. Harry had a few to share. Finally, the spymaster requested memories of Harry speaking in private with Albus Dumbledore.
"May I ask why?"
"There will be a fuller briefing later, but we have been interested in his recent activities. We know he's been holding some rather surprising secrets and we wonder what he's discussed with you."
Harry added several more strands of memories to the bowl.
All three looked eager to jump into the pensieve, but the one introduced as Mr. Browne handed Harry a thin file folder. "Our Secretary of Magic thought you should be informed of this as soon as he learned you'd…emigrated to America. We can discuss any questions you might have about this material after we return."
The three officials dipped their heads into the pensieve while Harry opened the file. It was his file, as pieced together by the Americans. It took Harry more than a few minutes to consider how strange it was that American spies considered him interesting enough to pull together this file on him.
He read the cover sheet with a bit of awe. He'd never known he had a godmother (Fentrice McKinnon, deceased) or that his paternal grandfather had been Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot prior to Albus Dumbledore taking the post.
He discovered it was a good thing he was so open-ended in his request to the goblins, as it seemed Harry had three vaults at Gringotts. He would have to make sure that the goblins transferred all of them. He had evidently been right about why the goblins finally gave in to his demands: Harry was a seriously wealthy wizard.
He grew angry when he saw a sheet detailing Harry's trips to different hospitals with different injuries; he saw the names of the wizards dispatched by someone to ensure Harry wasn't removed from his family by the case workers; he saw a list of injuries reported by the school nurses, but (oddly) never followed up on.
Harry was mad that the Americans knew but did nothing…and it made him wonder how much more the British knew. Had they stopped people from helping him? Had the wizards been responsible for more of the pain he'd felt, more than he'd ever known or suspected?
Harry continued flipping through the file. All his grades from Little Whinging were in there; all his grades, ones he'd never seen, from Hogwarts, including formal comments from the faculty. It was eye opening.
Sprout had scathing things to say about Harry…especially considering her genial personality. It wasn't a secret that Harry didn't enjoy Herbology, but Harry had no idea Sprout had such a negative view of him and his academic prospects.
Snape's frothing, rabid comments and failing marks were what Harry had expected; Hagrid's were glowing; McGonagall was reserved; Flitwitch was refreshingly neutral and honest.
The items Dumbledore chose to contribute to Harry's apparently confidential file were mystifying. No wonder people like Fudge thought him insane. Dumbledore was no psychologist, but that hadn't stopped him from commenting wildly on Harry's motivations.
The lies Rita spread about Harry had first made their appearance in Harry's file: an attention-seeker in his first year, with his stunt to get on his House Quidditch team; a potentially dangerous liability in his second year, with dark tendencies, gifts, and powers; suspected of aiding Sirius Black escape from imprisonment due to his sympathy for Black's causes; repressed rage coming through in Harry's misguided attempt to gain attention for himself by entering the TriWizard Tournament; a mournful assessment that Harry had likely murdered Cedric Diggory; a brief jot that discounted Harry's claim of having imagined the dark wizard Voldemort being reborn; notes that Harry should be monitored closely by the Suspicions Bureau of the DMLE.
Harry barely kept his anger in control. Why had Dumbledore written these things? He had always claimed to believe Harry, to support him. He had reported Voldemort's return to Fudge…but. But. BUT! His school wards weren't strong enough to keep out Voldemort in first year – or were they lightened to allow Voldemort in? He had never quashed the rumors of Harry being an ascending dark lord in his second year. He hadn't given Sirius a trial in third year, even though the man was innocent and Dumbledore was the head of the legislative and judicial branch of government. He hadn't cancelled the Tournament to prevent Harry's participation. He couldn't even keep Harry's supposedly safe home free from Dementors – or abusive relatives.
All the lies, all the omissions…all the shite in this file.
Why? Why had Dumbledore written these things he knew to be lies? Saying one thing to Harry; writing another in a permanent file, a document he could later produce to document his 'suspicions.'
Harry tucked his anger away and continued reading. Some of it was merely interesting; some of it made Harry want to scream, or to think that everything in here was lies…but he didn't know what to think.
He kept reading. The last page threw him for a loop. It was coded "Top Secret."
Harry James Potter
Intelligence Division, Arcane Research:
Confirmed referent of one British Prophecy (Sybil Trelawney to Albus Dumbledore), contents remain unknown
Suspected referent of one American Prophecy (Accession Number 1981-8730)
Long distance scan in 1988 revealed residue of death and soul magic present on Harry Potter (reference: horcrux)
Intelligence Division, Operations:
Scan of residence in 1988 indicates powerful ward of unknown composition and unknown effect; three incursion attempts by a division agent, a hired muggle thief, and a dark wizard under the Imperius Curse were successful
Target placed under observation by Suspicions Bureau, Department of Magical Law Enforcment in 1994, agents Dawlish and Skeeter
Harry didn't know what to believe. He didn't know what a horcrux was – or why he was tangled up in prophecies. Or why a reporter worked for the DMLE and helped to 'observe' or slander Harry. It was all so confusing.
He didn't have long to dwell on that, though, as the three American politicians pulled their heads out of the pensieve five minutes later.
Mr. Weaver, the spymaster, looked positively gleeful. Mr. Browne, who worked for the Secretary of Magic, looked ill. Mr. Peachtree, the Undersecretary of Wizarding Cooperation, looked ready to kill.
Harry began to trust the things he'd read in the dossier a bit more, but just a bit. Their reactions seemed genuine….
"That's been quite a life," Mr. Weaver said. "If you've read the report I handed you, you'll notice some differences between your memory of events and what Mr. Dumbledore has written about you. In case you're curious, confidential files are rather easy to obtain, if you know how to do it."
Harry nodded, numb.
"No one gets to the pinnacle of power in a government, as your Mr. Dumbledore has, without slashing his enemies and burying the half dead. You were, apparently, to be the next one to aid him in his quest. Ten years tucked away in a house with abusive relatives. We knew but had no possible way to aid you, but I won't make excuses.
"At present, he wants to appear weak, we think, to draw out his opponents. He wanted them to slander him and you; then he wanted to destroy them in one fell swoop, make it appear that they over-reached. He wanted to keep his hands lily white, for posterity's sake. We don't know when your role would outlast his interest in you; based on what's in that folder, we know he planned to be done with you at some point."
Harry just nodded, unable to form words.
"This Fudge person was a Dumbledore stooge at first, before Lucius Malfoy and a few others got their hooks into the weak-minded fool. Dumbledore's whispered comments and suggestions for glory became of less interest than the overt gold Malfoy and others paid him directly. But, he was more dangerous than even Dumbledore suspected. Our agents in Britain report that Dumbledore is furious about what happened…and about your disappearance. For now, he suspects you've been imprisoned in one of the Ministry's secret detention facilities."
"How does no one know this about him? About Fudge? Witches and wizards would rebel…."
Mr. Weaver waved Harry silent. "They might, possibly, if they ever knew. The Daily Prophet is hardly independent. All their investigative journalists are government employees in one form or other. The Suspicions Bureau is the old standing political arm of the DMLE. It takes care of vocal opposition: smears, disappearances, killings. They don't have a home in the Ministry building, but rather in an office tower a few blocks away."
"I don't understand at all…."
"Let me explain it this way, Harry," Mr. Browne said. "Dumbledore was part of a team of five who made it to Grindelwald's hidey hole. Four people died; Dumbledore walked out with a stunned Grindelwald. It cemented his reputation even though it was never clear what happened to the other four, one of them was a Great Uncle of your, the head of the Potter Family at that time. Also, no one ever determined how your grandfather, the Chief Warlock of Britain at the time, died…just that he and his wife had finished up dinner with a third, unknown individual. Do you see where I'm going?"
Harry had an inkling. "There is no difference between Dumbledore and Voldemort, just that one has power and the other wants to usurp it."
Mr. Peachtree, who was obviously hearing these facts for the first time, too, looked up at the analogy. "A mite simple, Harry, but probably accurate."
Harry looked down at the Chili's napkins he had in his hand. His 'plan' was worthless. It wasn't enough just to hide in America. His problems were sure to follow him. So…what could he do?
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X
Archibald Weaver looked at the small kid in front of him. The guy looked like his entire world had just died…but he wasn't filled with despair. He was looking for a way out, a solution.
This Potter kid had some kind of fortitude to be showing the kinds of actions he now did.
Mr. Weaver thought that Potter would be the perfect person to aid in the coming weeks and months. Around Potter, if the American prophecy were true, there would be productive chaos.
The boy could use a good deal of help. His schooling was for shit; his teachers had ignored all the learning issues the boy had; it was obvious from here that the boy's glasses, for instance, were completely unsuited for him. How he could play Quidditch when half blind was beyond his comprehension.
The Intelligence Division could free up some funds and resources to aid this kid. It wouldn't be exactly quid pro quo. Harry would need a lot more than he could directly return, save for the fact that he was going to give the Americans one thing they couldn't do for themselves.
Leaving aside comparisons of direct benefits, the Americans would wind up with the better bargain. Harry would get a life; but America would rid itself of two terrorists who could easily slip the island borders they were currently boxed inside. The Americans didn't need anyone worse than that bin Laden, a Saudi wizard, running around the world causing havoc and chaos. Even the Muggles had him pegged as a threat.
Harry Potter was the key to American freedom…and he would never know that.
The best intelligence leads, after all, came from the least expected sources. If it was all as simple as listening charms and scrying orbs, no government would need someone like Mr. Weaver around, would they?
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X
Harry sat in his seat tearing up the napkins he'd scribbled a plan on. He'd gotten away his entire life as a wizard flying by the seat of his pants. But…this. Voldemort and Dumbledore both had plans for him…the Americans seemed like they wanted to help, but who knew if they just wanted something from Harry, too.
Everyone looked at Harry as something to use, to abuse, to toss away. Harry would use these Americans and, depending on how they acted, he would be the one to dispose of them.
Harry was tired of people using him. He was done.
The meeting continued around Harry, but he wasn't paying attention to the words. He was trying to figure out how to get free.
Finally, he heard the door open and a woman step through. "Mr. Peachtree, you asked to know when Sirius Black arrived. He's in arrival suite 22 right now."
That was what Harry needed. Someone on his side. Someone to help him – while helping himself – someone to notice who was lying and who was telling the truth.
The old Sirius, the man trusting enough to be betrayed by a friend, wasn't who Harry needed. What he had was the new Sirius, the man who had evaded Ministry recapture for two years. Someone devious, someone who lived to see justice done – the Sirius who existed now.
Sirius would be glad to help Harry extricate himself from interlocked layers of problems. It was what a godfather was supposed to do, right?
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X