Seated behind his enormous clawfoot desk, Dumbledore regarded Harry with piercing blue eyes, his expression unreadable. McGonagall stood to the headmaster's right, back ramrod straight and lips pursed. Harry ducked his head. Was he going to be expelled? Carted off to Azkaban?
After making him sweat for a minute or two, Dumbledore finally spoke. "As you are no doubt aware, Mr. Potter, the punishments for lesser misdeeds are left to the professors' discretion. When it comes to more serious transgressions, however—like the one you committed—we have to consult the Hogwarts Charter."
He gulped at the authoritative name. "The Charter, sir?"
"A book of regulations that has gone mostly unchanged throughout the ages. It is not often that it sees the light of day, which I hope impresses the gravity of the situation upon you." Dumbledore pulled out a drawer and rummaged inside, shoving his arms deeper and deeper until only his pointy hat remained visible behind the desk. "Oh my," he exclaimed in a slightly muffled voice, "I found the lucky rubber duck I misplaced last year!"
McGonagall harrumphed. "Perhaps cataloging your numerous possessions can wait until later, Albus."
The tip of the hat twitched upwards. "Right you are, Minerva. Now, where was it—ah."
The headmaster emerged holding a gilded tome inscribed with gothic lettering and placed it reverently on the desk. Minerva scooted closer and observed with interest as Dumbledore cracked the book open and leafed through. It didn't take him long to locate the relevant chapter, for which Harry was grateful as his heart was about to explode from the tension.
"Article XII, Section I," Dumbledore cited, "carrying out an unauthorized ritual on Hogwarts grounds. Taking some liberties in translating the archaic language, Mr. Potter, your punishment is a choice between eleven cows, to be handed off to the Keeper of the Grounds; a fine of seven golden Galleons; or, wearing the Mask of Shame for the duration of one month."
Harry gaped as Dumbledore dived back into his bottomless drawer and surfaced with a rusty metallic contraption that looked like a medieval torture device. Were these old farts playing a joke on him?
"Only seven Galleons?" he asked weakly. It was costly, sure, but nothing he couldn't pay without even having to visit Gringotts.
"Inflation, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said. "Six centuries back, that would have been enough to purchase a small house."
"I'll pay the fine," he said in a firmer voice, eyeing the mask and wondering if the spiky bits were just for decoration.
Dumbledore looked mildly disappointed as he removed the contraption from his desk. "Quite understandable. Why, Willy Felterbush did the same back in the seventies. Do you recall the case, Minerva?"
"How could I forget," she said dryly. "The one with five virgin sacrifices."
"That bloke sacrificed five people?" Harry asked incredulously.
Dumbledore chuckled. "No, nothing of the sort. Young Mr. Felterbush and the four witches who accompanied him sacrificed their virginities. Contrary to his claim that it was old family magic, I do not believe there was any purpose to that ritual beyond the obvious."
"Lucky bastard," Harry grumbled. "That definitely sounds more fun than what I came up with."
McGonagall looked up sharply. "Am I to understand that the rite you attempted was of your own creation, Mr. Potter?"
Dumbledore leaned forward, also appearing interested in the answer. Harry rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. It hadn't occurred to him that the professors would be under the assumption he'd followed instructions from some book.
"To be honest, I don't rem—" He coughed. Admitting to performing magic he had contrived while delirious wasn't the best idea, especially given how the professors specifically warned the older students against spellcasting while under the influence. "What can I say, I studied ahead. Top pupil of Arithmancy and Runes, you know."
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. "Mr. Potter, while we don't want students mucking about with any rituals, there's a difference between established magic and something entirely unproven. I'll say this again, you are lucky to have come out in one piece! What were you even trying to accomplish?"
"I am rather curious myself, but that matter can wait," Dumbledore said. "We have guests."
"Who would—" McGonagall began, but was interrupted by the doors to the office slamming open. Harry turned to see Umbridge barge in, accompanied by two Aurors and gripping a thick sheaf of parchment in her hand. She met Harry's gaze, and her mouth stretched into a nasty sneer.
"What brings you here on this fine day, Dolores?" Dumbledore asked with a serene smile.
She marched forward and slammed the parchments on his desk. "This farce ends now, Dumbledore! The latest Educational Decree puts all disciplinary matters at Hogwarts under my authority." She glanced down at the ancient tome and sniffed. "Your obsolete Charter is no longer legitimate. It's about time we brought the school up to par with modern Ministry regulations."
"Can she do that, Albus?" McGonagall asked quietly.
Dumbledore scanned the topmost parchment before skimming the rest. "I am afraid so. This is concerning, if not entirely unexpected. Just how far is Cornelius willing to go?"
"As far as is necessary to bring law and order to this place of learning," Umbridge said, puffing up. "And the laws will apply to everyone equally from now on, Dumbledore! I won't allow you to cover up the boy's crimes anymore. You've let him run wild for far too long, and the students' safety is at stake."
Harry had a sinking feeling he knew exactly why the Aurors were here. The older one, a broad-shouldered man, wore a neutral expression, whereas the younger woman peered at Harry with open curiosity. He edged away, trying not to make it too obvious.
"Potter is under suspicion of dabbling in forbidden magic, and as such, will be tried by the Wizengamot," Umbridge continued, pointing a pudgy finger at him. "Furthermore, he's to be suspended from Hogwarts and confined to his home until the date of the court hearing. Aurors, snap his wand!"
There was a palpable tension in the air as Dumbledore half-rose behind his desk, his imposing height already putting him above Umbridge. The Aurors stiffened and glanced at each other uncomfortably before the male one cleared his throat.
"This isn't in accordance with the procedure, Madam Undersecretary. Mr. Potter's expulsion hasn't been decided yet."
Umbridge appeared put out, but quickly hid it with a smile. "Dear me, did I really say 'snap'?" she simpered. "I meant seize, of course. Hand over your wand, Mr. Potter—the Ministry will keep it safe until the hearing."
Harry winked at Dumbledore, who looked ready to intervene on his behalf, and slowly reached into the pocket where his wand was. As soon as his fingers wrapped around the handle, he concentrated and vanished it into his malletspace. His hand came out empty.
He drew his brows together and made a show of patting himself down, checking every single pocket, then moving on to inspect his sleeves, socks, and behind his ears. He was debating whether sticking a hand down his pants would be going a tad too far when Umbridge interrupted.
"Wasting our time won't do you any good, Mr. Potter." Her voice retained its sickly-sweet quality, but she was tapping her fingers against her arm impatiently.
"Sorry," Harry said, "I seem to have misplaced my wand."
Dumbledore slumped back in his seat, and the Aurors who had been eyeing the headmaster anxiously breathed a sigh of relief. Umbridge didn't seem to notice, instead narrowing her beady eyes at Harry.
"Tut-tut, Mr. Potter, lying again," she said, shaking her head. "Let's see if we can add spoliation of evidence to the list of your charges."
"I really don't have it, ma'am. Your people are welcome to frisk me—as thoroughly as necessary." He grinned at the female Auror expectantly.
"We're not Muggles, young man," the witch in question said with a roll of her eyes. Getting a nod from her colleague, she whispered an incantation and waved her wand over Harry much like Filch had done with his detector. "The only magical item on Mr. Potter's person is his spectacles, and even that enchantment is so weak it barely registers."
"Everyone's a critic," Harry said petulantly.
Umbridge turned red in the face. "You're a wizard, Mr. Potter! How did you manage to misplace your wand?"
"We don't use wands much these days," he said, "as you well know."
Umbridge's face darkened and her hand darted into her pocket—with what intention, Harry had a good guess. The senior Auror stepped in between them smoothly.
"Undersecretary, please," he said. "We have to fetch Mr. Potter's belongings in any case, so we'll search the dorms along the way. If it's not there, we can make a sweep of the castle afterwards."
"Very well. You may proceed," Umbridge said, glaring daggers at Harry.
"Please take good care of my wand if you find it," he said cordially.
After the Aurors escorted him outside the castle, trunk and all, McGonagall popped him over to number twelve, Grimmauld Place and told him to stay put until they could devise a counter-plan. Sirius welcomed him with open arms.
"Guess we're both fugitives now, huh?" he asked, grinning like a madman.
"Hey, Sirius." They shared a brief hug. "I'll only become one if I don't show up for my hearing in a couple of weeks."
"You're not leaving this house, Harry, not while Fudge is in power. With him presiding over the case, there's no chance of a fair trial, and he'll go to great lengths to silence you." Sirius sighed. "I hope we can get this fixed soon. Hiding out here is no way to live for someone your age. Unlike me, you still have your whole life to look forward to."
"Don't be like that," Harry said, "you'll get your name cleared too."
"So Dumbledore tells me, but there's not much he can do with his reputation in tatters. Malfoy has the ear of the Minister now, and we both know whose side that bastard is on." Sirius shook his head and took Harry by the shoulders, leading him into the kitchen. "Enough of that shite—tell me what you've been up to. Your dad and I weren't big on rules, but even we didn't do anything bad enough to get suspended!"
He chuckled at how Sirius appeared to be more impressed than angry. "This'll knock your socks off, but you have to promise to keep it a secret."
Harry soon learned that Sirius had been playing host to Dumbledore's ragtag vigilante group, the Order of the Phoenix, since the beginning of the year. His godfather appeared to both look forward to and dread these meetings: the former because they gave him company and something to do, and the latter because Snape never missed the chance to taunt him.
Another gathering of the Order took place a week after Harry's arrival. As the Daily Prophet was effectively useless, he burned with the need to know what Voldemort was doing and asked to be allowed to sit in on the meeting. Unfortunately, his request was denied, and even Sirius couldn't convince Dumbledore to change his mind.
Frustrated, Harry marched up to his room and locked himself in. When he saw his treasure cove, his frown slowly turned into a smile. There was nothing like catching up on his favorite shows to cheer him up.
He lost track of time, not even noticing when the sky outside turned dark. At some point, there was a noise behind him and Harry glanced over his shoulder to find Sirius standing in the doorway, wand in hand. He slid his headphones down to his neck.
"Everything alright, Harry?" Sirius asked. "You didn't come down for dinner. Molly said she knocked on your door, but no one answered."
"Guess I didn't hear it." He turned back to the screen and winced when he saw the time, suddenly aware that he was famished. He was going to get something to eat... right after he finished enlightening an online stranger as to why their taste was shit. One had to have priorities in life.
"Everyone's left already, but I saved you some food. Can I come in?"
"Yeah, sure," Harry said distractedly. His fingers danced over the keyboard with zeal seldom applied to school essays, his entire focus devoted to the pressing task of correcting someone being wrong on the internet.
Sirius took a few steps before making a funny choking noise. "What the dickens is that monstrosity on your bed?"
Harry gave the coiled seven-meter body pillow a fond look. "She's a lamia. I take it they don't actually exist? Damn, and here I thought my Parseltongue would finally come in useful."
"What do you do with it?" Sirius asked, looking like he dreaded the answer. "Scratch that—where did you get it?"
"She helps me sleep, and I ordered her online and had her delivered to the neighbor's house. Best seven hundred quid I ever spent." He swiveled on his ergonomic chair, turning back to the computer.
"You're using the money your parents left you for this? Oh, James, where did I go wrong?" Sirius moaned.
"Stop being such a drama queen," Harry said, his eyes glued to the screen. "Owning a hug pillow or two is completely normal in this day and age. Besides, I used my own cash. That dragon figurine they gave me during Triwizard fetched a decent sum, and I haven't yet gone through my winnings either."
"Well, I can't tell you how to spend your own money," Sirius muttered. He walked across the room. "This figurine looks new too. Who's she supposed to be?"
"The heroine of a game I've been playing." Harry pointed at a plastic case on his shelf.
Sirius picked it up, chuckling. "These pictures look pretty suggestive. Do you get to undress her in this game of yours or something?"
"Oh, you sweet summer child..." Harry spun on his chair, meeting Sirius's eyes with his own bloodshot ones. "You don't just undress her, you screw her!"
His godfather nearly dropped the case in his haste to put it back. "Uh... good talk, buddy. I'll see you later." He turned and left, muttering about needing a drink.
Harry shook his head and went back to his task. Explaining things to normies was so tiresome.
When he came down to the kitchen, Sirius was well into a bottle of Firewhisky. He followed Harry with a morose gaze as the teenager circled the worn table and drew himself a chair.
"Do you do this often?" Harry asked, eyeing a row of bottles in a cabinet which had been carelessly left ajar.
"Not much else to do around here, is there?" Sirius said, downing what was left in his glass and grimacing as steam gushed from his ears. Immediately, he set to pouring himself more of the amber liquor.
Harry winced, now feeling guilty at having blown off several of his godfather's offers to spend time together in favor of staying up in his room. He resolved to look into acquiring some Polyjuice so Sirius could get out of the house for a bit. Alas, obtaining the controlled substance was no easy task, and the Order's own supply had long since dried up, with Snape claiming he lacked the time to devote to 'such frivolities'.
"Want some?" Sirius asked, indicating the bottle with a tip of his head.
Harry hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He just had to be careful so there wouldn't be any more misadventures.
Sirius half-rose out of his seat, then changed his mind and pulled out his wand instead. The cabinet's door opened fully and a glass wobbled its way through the air and onto the table. He filled it with a finger's worth of Firewhisky and nudged it towards his godson.
Harry picked the glass up and turned it in his hands, feeling very grown-up. Sirius watched him with half a smile.
"That reminds me of the first time James and I tried Firewhisky. Filched a bottle from your granddad's cabinet—boy, was the old man furious when he discovered his thirty-year-old Ogden's Finest was missing."
"It's not my first time, strictly speaking," Harry said, sniffing the drink cautiously. "Only I don't remember much of what happened back then."
Sirius barked a laugh. "I know that feeling."
"If you say so," Harry said with a wry grin. He took a sip and hissed, eyes watering as the beverage burned its way down to his stomach and filled his body with warmth. "A-anyway, you said you lived with my dad's family for a while. What were they like?"
A pensive look came over Sirius's eyes. "Those were simpler times... better times. The Potters took me in and made sure I never needed for anything. Despite being practically disowned by my own parents, my biggest concern was getting Rosie Cattermole into a broom closet."
Words continued to spill out of his mouth, and Harry listened, occasionally asking a question. The level of Firewhisky in the bottle dropped gradually as evening turned into night (he didn't ask for more, and his godfather didn't offer) and Sirius's speech became more jumbled, but Harry was still transfixed by the picture it painted. At times, he had to surreptitiously wipe a tear, but he smiled and laughed more often.
He had already heard plenty about his parents, of course, but he now suspected he had been given a sanitized version. With alcohol loosening his tongue, his godfather spared no sordid details about James's and Lily's lives before the two settled down. Harry's father, it seemed, had been a playboy to rival Sirius himself during his Hogwarts years, and possessed quite a one-track mind (it took a special person to come up with that kind of use for the Unlocking Charm). It was difficult to reconcile the concept of James Potter, the notorious lady-killer, with someone who sacrificed his life in defense of his family a scant few years later.
His mother, on the other hand... suffice to say that Sirius's earlier remarks about her 'fiery temper' had been understatements.
"When Lily found out about our prank, she went spare," Sirius reminisced, chortling at the decade-old memory. "It was all 'Sirius Orion Black' and 'James Charlus Potter' and threatening to neuter us both. Screamed herself hoarse before she finally calmed down."
Harry pictured his aunt during one of her fits of anger and imagined a younger and red-haired version screeching in the same shrill voice.
"What the hell, Mum," he exclaimed, feeling the idealized image of his mother he'd built up over the years begin to crumble.
"Hormones," his godfather said wisely. "Some women get that way during... you know. That time of the month."
"I'm never getting married," Harry declared.
Sirius raised his glass. "Words to live by, godson."
While he wasn't allowed into their meetings, he did encounter some Order members every so often. Dedalus Diggle, a tiny, jovial chap, never missed the opportunity to shake his hand, acting like Harry had made his day each time. Nymphadora Tonks, a bubbly Auror renowned for her antipathy of her first name, enjoyed cracking jokes at his expense. Then there was Mundungus Fletcher, a not-so-lovable rogue, whom Sirius had warned Harry to watch his pockets around.
"Psst. Over here," Harry heard as he was walking to the library to do some reading. Turning, he saw Fletcher beckoning him from a darkened alcove which used to hold a cursed effigy until Mrs. Weasley got rid of it. He eyed the man suspiciously.
"Got a little something for you, Harry," Mundungus said, flashing his crooked teeth at him as he patted the front of his robes.
He approached warily. "What is it?"
"Bein' cooped up in 'ere, I figured you were lackin' in the area of gentlemanly entertainment, if you catch my drift." With a flourish, he produced a black-and-white magazine from his robes. "So ol' Dung thought to hisself, what better than the latest Saucy Sorceress to brighten up a lad's day? Three Sickles and it's all yours."
Face lighting up, Harry accepted the magazine and flipped through, finding it full of moving photos much like those in wizarding newspapers. Smiling impishly, a blond witch hiked her robes above her knees, revealing her white-stockinged legs, before the photo looped. He turned the page. A curvy brunette in a frumpy maid uniform dusted a bookshelf, her pleated skirt swinging side to side as she wiggled her bottom. He lifted his head and gave Mundungus a dubious look.
"A proper fit bird, ain't she?" Dung crooned, his eyes glued to the pages.
"Er, sure," Harry said diplomatically.
He took a step back so he wouldn't have to smell the cheap alcohol on the man's breath, and contemplated the periodical in his hands. The price was steep and the contents less than explicit, but it had value as a culture study, if nothing else. He pretended to reach into his inner pocket, instead retrieving the requisite sum from his malletspace, and handed Mundungus three silver coins.
"Pleasure doin' business, mate," the rogue crowed, pocketing the money. "If you need anythin' else, don't think twice 'bout askin', eh?"
Harry hummed thoughtfully. "Do you have anything with, like, sirens and veela and stuff?"
It was Dung's turn to recoil in disgust. "Gallopin' gargoyles, the papers were right 'bout you bein' touched in the head! No self-respectin' magazine prints anythin' to do with halfbreeds."
"The Quibbler does," Harry pointed out, recalling an interview with a centaur he'd read some time ago.
"I said self-respectin'!" Mundungus shot over his shoulder as he skulked away.
Shrugging, Harry tucked the magazine under his armpit and headed upstairs.