The courtroom in which the trial was conducted was the same one where he'd stood accused of the unlawful use of magic in the presence of a Muggle during his fifth year. The same one in which Dolores Umbridge had held cruel command over the Muggleborns accused of 'stealing' their magic just months earlier. It was still stone walled and as shadowy as Harry remembered it. Still as cavernous, rounded and disorientingly well-like. At least the Dementors were gone. At least this time he was in the stands, though the sight of the Wizengamot's members and Kingsley Shacklebolt-currently standing in as Minister of Magic and with a good chance of becoming permanently installed in the position-were still as unnerving as they had been when he'd been the one dragged before them. Something about the way their faces were obscured by the heavy darkness, with only a sliver of their purple robes and the giant 'W' emblazoned on their front visible was frightening to him on some level buried within the instinctual portion of his brain. As a witness for the defense alongside Dumbledore-much to the surprise of many present-he knew he'd have little choice but to devote his attention to them for at least a period of time. He'd just have to get his testimony over with as quickly as possible and, perhaps, direct his focus to the wall above their heads instead.
Ginny, Ron and Hermione had all accompanied him in a show of support for which he was incredibly grateful (likely because they were well aware of his rather frosty relationship with the Ministry of Magic and less than pleasant track record with trials and court rooms in general) and were now sitting in the spectator portion of the stands which was now packed to the brim with both reporters and members of the public. Including, much to his distaste, Rita Skeeter her rhinestone glasses and acid green Quik-Quotes-Quill. Worried as he was for the potential outcome of the trial despite confidence in the strength of the older wizard's 'Grindlewald made me do it' defense he couldn't quite contain himself from sending a handful of dirty glances in their direction.
Tom, for his part, sat silently with his head bowed and thoughts quiet. Bound in the magical chains attached to the chair of the accused he was dressed in a simple black robe, one of the sleeves hanging limp at his side in the absence of the arm which had been so badly mangled when Harry had last seen him. He gave no reaction to any of the younger wizard's efforts, both verbal and mental, to catch his attention and kept his scarlet eyes on the floor.
The low buzz of urgent conversation filled the room with a tense anticipation as those gathered in the courtroom waited for what was, no doubt, the trial of the century to finally begin. It was only with great difficulty that Kingsley managed to silence them enough to set proceedings into motion.
"Criminal hearing of the fifth of March regarding war crimes committed by Tom Marvolo Riddle, also known formerly as 'Lord' Voldemort, including but not limited to the murder of Amelia Bones, the murder of James Potter, the murder of Lily Potter nee Evans, the attempted murder of Harry Potter, a litany of hate crimes against Muggleborns and Muggles and countless violations of the International Statute of Secrecy." The former Auror's deep voice echoed across the large frigid room, underlain by the furious scratch of the ravenous quills of the armada of reporters for the Daily Prophet and other outlets present at the trial. "Interrogators: Kingsley Shacklebolt, current stand-in for the Wizengamot, alongside the whole of the assembled Wizengamot. Witnesses for the defense: Harry James Potter and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. You are Tom Marvolo Riddle?"
"Yes." Tom said, voice dull, not looking up from the floor.
"To the listed crimes which have been so mentioned here today how do you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, plead?"
All of the air seemed at once to be sucked from the room as the audience took in a collective gasp. All expecting that the bowed brunet, the Darkest Wizard of their age, to deny guilt. For there to be a real trial that would be spoken of for decades to come rather than a simple condemnation and sentencing. But with a single word the Dark Lord shattered all their collective expectations and left Harry standing horrified.
Raising his head at last to look upon the assembled Wizengamot with muted fear in his crimson eyes, Tom opened his mouth and said "guilty."
Guilty? Guilty! What? No! That…that couldn't…why? Why would he plead guilty when he wasn't guilty? Harry tried to get up. To protest or at least say something but the words stuck in his throat that restricting hand, once more catching hold of his arm, held him in place. And before he could recover his opening for objection was gone.
"Your plea of guilty has been accepted by the court." Harry couldn't be certain but the former Auror seemed to be avoiding looking at him while he spoke. "For your crimes against both the Magical and Muggle communities of Britain, the Wizengamot hereby sentences you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, to the Veil."
Harry's green eyes snapped open abruptly as he startled himself out of troubled sleep, the pale morning sunlight slanting through the windows of Ron's bedroom doing his already terrible vision no favors. Squinting and sitting up, he reached out a hand and blindly fumbled around until his fingers found his glasses and managed to shove them onto his face. Sparing only a few moments to check the time with a Tempus Charm he pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the shock of the cold wooden floor against his bare skin, and hurriedly gathered clean clothing for the day.
March tenth, six thirty in the morning. Two and a half hours left to go before the execution.
Pulling the jumper over his head and running his fingers through his hair in a rather poor attempt at taming the unruly raven locks, he spared a brief glance to his still dead-to-the-world best friend before leaving the room.
On the Burrow's bottom floor Mrs. Weasley was already awake, bustling about in the kitchen making the necessary preparations to start cooking one of the titanic breakfasts which had all but come to define his visits to the home of the red-headed clan. She looked up at him as he shuffled into the room. "You're up early, Harry dear." Molly said, flicking her wand in the vague direction of a small mountain of potatoes. The root vegetables immediately got down to washing and peeling themselves. "Breakfast won't be ready for another hour."
"I just couldn't sleep any longer," Harry said. It wasn't untrue. The images of the trial, of the way that Tom had pled and the sentence which had been passed down. Maybe Ginny had been right that, of his right mind or not, Tom had still done what he'd done. Blood and destruction was still on his hands. But hadn't he been punished enough already? Fractured apart. Trapped for decades in the hellish madness which Harry had only glimpsed when he'd ventured into the older Wizard's mind. Left with the knowledge of what he'd done and of the loss of everyone he'd known and cared for. Forced to shoulder the burden of his regret. Wasn't that enough? What was the point of pushing it further? Of going on to make an example of him? Wasn't that simply cruel? "Can I use the Floo?"
"The Floo?" she repeated, surprised by the suggestion. "At this hour? But where would you be going?"
Yes, the Floo. Sadly. Because he couldn't apparate legally quite yet, no having had the chance to get licensed before the Ministry had fallen to the Death Eaters and as bad as he was at using the bloody thing it was better he tripped and fall on exiting than splinch himself and end up once again in need of medical attention.
"The Ministry." He said. "I need to talk to Tom before they…before his sentence is carried out."
"I thought you'd decided not to attend the execution."
"I did. And I don't think that's going to change, but…" Harry fidgeted and looked over at the cold hearth. "I still have questions that need to be answered." He could have used the Resurrection Stone to speak with the Dark Lord about such matters later but he would rather avoid doing so if at all possible. Between the way the Tale of the Three Brothers made the artifact's nature sound and the motive which had compelled Grindlewald to leave it to him in the first place, the little wizard had more than enough reason not to trust its power. It was a shame the thing was capable of surviving damage even a Horcrux wasn't because he hadn't the slightest idea of where to begin attempting to destroy it. Didn't know if destroying it was even possible.
The Elder Wand's condition seemed to lend credence to the fact that it wasn't. At least, not permanently. Despite having been broken into kindling and tossed into the nearest fire the thing had shown up, good as new, in his left trainer early one morning the week before. Harry hadn't mentioned it to anyone but something about the wand's return…it made him nervous about what owning all three of the things could possible mean.
"Well, if you really need to speak with him I don't see a reason not to allow you to use the Floo." Mrs. Weasley said with a small sigh, sending a large pot of water gliding onto the stove. "Just be careful with your pronunciation this time, dear."
"I will, Mrs. Weasley." The last thing Harry wanted was to end up back in Borgin and Burke's because he'd choked on soot. Even if he could have gotten out of Nocturne Alley on his own, now, with a fair amount of ease he couldn't afford the time such a mistake would eat up. Stepping up to the fire place and pulling a pinch of emerald powder from the small pot which sat on the lopsided mantle beside Mrs. Weasley's magical clock Harry tossed it into the hearth and followed it in; hearing the gentle crunch of soot and charcoal beneath his trainers. "Ministry of Magic."
The sickening spinning sensation immediately overtook him, whisking the little raven away from the Burrow and towards his destination. Flashes of sitting rooms and offices and foyers viewed from the mouth of a hearth racing by at a thousand miles an hour, interspersed with the warm tongues of emerald flames licking up his arms. Head still spinning even after the Floo had deposited him in one of the stone hearths lining the entryway of the Ministry, Harry stumbled out into the crowded atrium leaving a trail of soot and sparks behind him. For once, much to his relief, no one so much as glanced in his direction as they filed towards their respective jobs within the many departments housed within the building.
The wizard behind the desk labeled SECURITY was, to Harry's knowledge, not the same one who had been there when he'd come for his own trial; better shaven than the other had been but still dressed in the same peacock blue robes.
"I'm here to speak with a prisoner."
"Over here." He drawled, putting down the book he was reading and walking out from behind the counter. Harry stepped up to him and tolerated having a golden rod run up and down his back. "Wand."
From there the encounter proceeded just as he remembered: he handed over his wand, had its make read out, and was then given it back.
"Thanks," the raven grumbled, not really meaning it, and hurriedly moved towards the golden lifts.
Crammed into one of them along with a small hoard of Ministry workers-thankfully sans the fire breathing chicken-the small wizard endured a rattling descent into the bowels of the building. By the time he reached the level on which both the Department of Mysteries and the oldest courtrooms were held Harry was almost entirely alone and went unaccompanied down another set of stairs to where the holding cells were located.
He'd never had the misfortune of visiting Azkaban but Nuremgard was still fresh in his memory, and though the inside of the Ministry wasn't quite as cold and lacked the oppressive smell of brine from the ocean far below the place was still miserably dark and intolerably damp. Harry's footsteps splashed through the small puddles which had formed in divots in the stone floor and the sound, magnified by the claustrophobic walls and low-slung ceiling as he peered in through the doors of the cells that he passed, echoed far ahead of him.
All were unoccupied but for one: Tom was sitting up when he arrived, poised on the edge of the thin cot which looked far too much like a table in a morgue for Harry's comfort. His red eyes seemed to give off a faint glow in the low light but the older wizard's face betrayed nothing of what he might be thinking. Had he really wanted to know the thoughts of a man fully aware he was experiencing the final hours of his life Harry could have abused their link but…that felt too much like an irredeemable invasion of privacy. Instead, forcing his curiosity elsewhere, he directed his attention to the empty sleeve.
"I was told you were getting medical attention," he said, "not that they were cutting your arm off."
"I was hit with the considerably darker cousin of the Bone Breaking Curse. The damage was extensive and reversible only by hours of highly involved delicately technical work by a team of Britain's best healers." Tom picked at the thin fabric of the robe where it hung thin from his shoulder. "I told them not to waste the effort."
"You never intended to have a trial." He hissed, green eyes narrowing. "You were going to plead guilty from the start, even knowing what would happen! And you didn't say anything? Why!"
In that moment, more so than Harry had ever seen him, Tom looked aged. Tired. "You wouldn't understand. Not then. Not now."
"I am seventeen!"
"My assertion, Harry, has absolutely nothing to do with your age, but rather your inability to prevent yourself from feeling the need to convince me better of what I know I must do." He said.
"But I thought you were afraid of death." The echoing of the line, but to Harry's dismay, didn't have the affect he'd hoped for. Tom, having caught onto his admittedly obvious attempt at manipulation, narrowed his eyes and set his jaw.
"I am." He growled, words heavy with deliberance. "But I failed in my duties and because of that the balance has been thrown even further out of whack. If nothing is done magic could collapse in upon itself and disappear forever. The only way to stop that now is-."
"For you to die?" the raven spat the words onto the stone floor at the foot of the rusted bars. "There must be some other way. There has to be." Never mind the fact that it was far too late for any reprieve to be found. Tom's fate was sealed and Harry was left to grasp futilely at straws.
"Set aside the toll of retribution. The only thing that can avert disaster now is a Light Lord, and there can only ever be one Lord in play at a time." Tom said. "They cannot be born until I have died. The damage needs to be put to rights as immediately as is possible, and thereby it is best I die as immediately as possible." He adjusted his position into something more comfortable, the cot creaking loudly as he shifted his weight back onto his remaining arm. "Seventy seven years is enough of a life. A fair amount of time: neither too much or too little. I've nothing left to live for. Not really. And who here would want me to choose, instead, to stay?"
"I would!" The stone walls around them amplified his words to a deafening volume and both men winced. The raven looked hastily down at his scuffed trainers, feeling his face begin to warm. When the silence returned, it was somehow thicker than before.
"Will you be there?" Tom spoke so quietly that he almost didn't catch his words. "In the Death Chamber. When I pass through the Veil?"
He hadn't planned to. In fact, he'd planned for quite the opposite. Hadn't wanted to enter the Death Chamber again. To be near the Veil again. To see another person that he knew and cared about die in front of him. But Tom was alone, something in his voice pitiful and full of a grim hope that he'd be granted what he couldn't bring himself to ask for yet desperately wanted all the same. And how terrible would that be? To pass away surrounded by those who not only wouldn't mourn you but would celebrate your death as something great to be remembered for years to come. "Yes."
Tom nodded once and then bowed his head back to the stone floor of his cell. "Thank you."
He said nothing else and, after a few minutes of watching the older man watch his shoes, Harry left the cell block behind. With no desire to subject himself to the Floo again before he had to the little raven chose not to return to the Burrow and simply spent the remaining near hour between then and the execution hanging out with Tonks. When the time came that he could no longer avoid doing so without being late, he trudged back down to the lowest floor and into the Department of Mysteries. Making it to the Death Chamber only with direction by one of the Unspeakables.
The place was as crowded as the courtroom had been on the day Tom had stood trial, bodies cramming the room from wall to wall; a sea of people and clothing and cameras which swallowed up the Chamber's uneven floor. Awful as he thought it was that something as terrible as death would be transformed into a public spectacle Harry found himself relieved that the sound of them all blocked out the awful whispers which he knew would otherwise have called to him from beyond the silvery fabric hanging from the ancient doorway.
He didn't have to wait in that chamber for more than a handful of minutes before the Aurors, their crimson robes standing out starkly against the dark stone floor, appeared with their wands drawn. Tom, wrapped in runic chains likely meant to prevent any use of wandless magic, stumbled along before them. His movements impeded by the heavy metal rungs which hung about his chest and from his shoulders in a sad perversion of Voldemort's emerald-scaled familiar. The crowd of people parted before them, hundreds of pairs of eyes watching the Dark Lord who'd terrorized long for so long trip and narrowly avoid falling.
As Tom came to stand before the stone archway the sway of the pale fabric became more pronounced, as if caught in a stiff wind. Stretching towards him but not quite able to reach. His expression betraying little of what he was feeling but fear trembling clear across their link the brunet turned his head and searched the crowd, eyes landing on where Harry stood near the doorway and holding his gaze. Goodbye. The pale fabric coiled around his form as he stepped into the archway, dragging him backwards into shimmering white, and like Sirius before him the older wizard disappeared.
The link between them snapped with such force that Harry stumbled into the stone wall behind him with a pained gasp. Reflexively reaching out for where Tom's mental presence had been until just seconds before only to find that there was nothing on the other end but darkness. Gone. Completely gone with nothing left behind. A part of him vanished after nearly seventeen years. It set his mind reeling, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin as a headache built behind his temples. Off balanced and stumbling slightly himself Harry rushed from the Department of Mysteries and back into the lift before anyone could try and stop him. Struggling to control himself even as his body attempted to revolt and descend into panic. He'd managed to calm his breathing by the time the lift reached the atrium but was still shaking badly and pale in the face as he hurried back towards the set of waiting hearths.
"Harry, if I could speak with you a moment?"
Reluctant, the raven paused and turned around. "Minister?" he liked Kingsley, he really did, but in light of what had happened Harry had trouble keeping his tone in check. "Is something the matter?"
"The matter? No." The former Auror assured him as he came to a stop as well. "I won't keep you long, but thought it better to catch you before you returned to the Burrow." Reaching into one of the pockets of his robe, Kingsley produced a small thin box and handed it to him. "He asked that you be given this. Normal protocol is to destroy them after executions but in this instance…I believe you can be trusted not to mishandle it."
"Thank you," Harry said as he took the box, without the slightest clue as to what might be in it. It was light and, when he moved, something could be heard softly clattering around inside. "I'm sure you have plenty of work to be doing?" Recognizing the unvoiced request the taller man nodded, turned, and walked away leaving the raven to resume walking towards the hearths. But curiosity got the better of him before he reached the nearest one and he drew once more to a stop, pulling off the lid and peering in.
Sitting inside, stark against the black velvet lining and held together by a thin thread of gold and ruby feather, were the twin halves of Tom's broken wand.