Disclaimer - Don't own it, don't sue.
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In my eyes
Indisposed
In disguise
As no one knows
Hides the face
Lies the snake
The sun
In my disgrace
Boiling heat
Summer stench
'Neath the black
The sky looks dead
Call my name
Through the cream
And I'll hear you
Scream again
Black hole sun
Won't you come
And wash away the rain
Black hole sun
Won't you come
Won't you come
Stuttering
Cold and damp
Steal the warm wind
Tired friend
Times are gone
For honest men
And sometimes
Far too long
For snakes
In my shoes
A walking sleep
And my youth
I pray to keep
Heaven send
Hell away
No one sings
Like you
Anymore
Hang my head
Drown my fear
Till you all just
Disappear
-Soundgarden
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Imprisonment
Harry returned to St. Mungo's later that day, accompanied by four Aurors. He went back to the room in the hospital he had been in, two Aurors staying in the room with him at all times, the other two standing guard at the door. Apparently Mr. Weasley had them under strict orders to not let Harry out of their sight.
Harry's new Healer was an elderly woman who smelled strongly of overcooked cabbage. She was nice enough, but Harry often caught her staring at him with a disgusted look in her eyes. The room didn't feel quite the same without Madam Thickey bustling in, even if Harry had only known her for a day.
It was during his second day awake that Harry started to read his 'fan mail.' Some of the letters were normal enough, saying things like "Get well soon!" or "Thank you for what you've done!" but others were crazy, like one from a witch in Scotland saying:
Harry Potter
Will you marry my daughter?
We absolutely love you.
Harry felt sick whenever he read a letter like that. He remembered all too clearly in his fifth year at Hogwarts how everyone had thought he was crazy. Hermione and Ron came to visit him again, and told Harry that they too had been evacuated from the Burrow because they were such close friends to Harry and therefore in danger.
Two days later, Harry left the hospital.
It was like stepping into a new world. The destruction that had once ruined London was gone. Smiles were to be seen on every face, both Muggle and Wizard. Harry found it hard to believe it was the same city that had been demolished by Death Eaters.
He traveled to the Leaky Cauldron, where he'd be living until he could find a permanent house. He rented a private suite that was at the very top of the building; the Weasleys had offered for him to stay with them, but he had politely refused. He decided it was time for him to do something on his own for a change.
His room was fabulous. It had wooden floors throughout the entire suite, except for the bedroom which had a plush white carpet. The counters in the kitchen were marble, and the taps were twisted silver serpents whose mouths the water came out of. In the lounge was a furniture set of a couch, a loveseat, and a recliner, all of dark green dragon hide. The fireplace took up one entire wall, twisting rock formations with heads of gargoyles appearing at strategic intervals. Connecting the lounge and kitchen was a liquor bar, already stocked with rum, firewhiskey, vodka, and the finest wine found in the world. There was two balcony's, one connecting to the lounge, and the other in the bedroom. The one in the lounge extended over Muggle London. The one in the bedroom looked over Diagon Alley.
Satisfied with his room, Harry put his Hogwarts trunk in the bedroom, along with Hedwig's cage. Harry hadn't seen his owl since he woke up, but he had a feeling she would turn up sooner or later. He returned to the kitchen and went to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a firewhiskey. He quickly popped off the cork and poured some into a glass, and then pulled his wand from his pocket and put it on the counter. He added some ice to the cup and walked with it out to the bedroom balcony where he could watch the children below racing up and down Diagon Alley. School would start for them in a few days. It felt odd for Harry to realize that he was an adult now, just over three months ago he had been in his 7th year at Hogwarts. He even still had the uniform and Head Boy Badge to show for it.
He took a deep drink from his glass, closing his eyes as the burning sensation ran down his throat and ended in his stomach and warmed him inside and out. He had tasted firewhiskey once before, during his 6th year at Hogwarts when Fred and George had sent Ron and Harry a crate for Christmas. Him and Ron had both passed out on the dormitory floor.
As a cold breeze swept past him into his suite, he decided to go inside. He put his empty glass in the sink and stretched out on the dragon hide couch and dozed off with the setting sun.
-
It was nearly two in the morning when the door to his room crashed open. Blinding lights shone from all directions, and all Harry could hear was a gruff voice grunting orders.
"Stand up slowly and keep your hands where I can see them."
Shocked, Harry lay paralyzed on the couch.
"Stand up, Mr. Potter!" the voice said.
Slowly, the feeling returned to his body, and he clambered off of the couch.
"Hands where I can see them!" the voice demanded.
Harry held his hands above his head. "W-what is this about?"
The man who had been speaking lowered his lit wand and walked to where Harry was standing, seizing his hands and bringing them behind his back. "You are under arrest for the murder of Madam Janus Thickey. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the Wizengamot court of wizard law."
"Murder?!" Harry gasped. "You. . . you think I killed her?!"
"Where is your wand, Mr. Potter?" a woman asked.
"It's in my pocket," Harry said. "Listen, you've made a big mistake, I didn't kill anyone! Except for Voldemort, of course, but I had to!"
"Your wand isn't in your pocket, Mr. Potter," the same woman said.
Harry stopped. "No, of course it isn't. It's on the counter. I set it there after I made myself a drink."
Some wizards were still shining their wands in Harry's eyes, and quite frankly it was giving him a headache. After a glass of firewhiskey, no teenage wizard would feel like being woken up in the middle of the night.
With his hands tied tightly behind his back, he was pushed out of the room and into the hallway where five or six heads were hanging out of doorways to see what the noise was about. Harry tried his best to hide his face, though he knew it would make no difference in the end. Soon everyone would think that he was a murderer.
Harry felt three wands being pressed into his back, letting him know that if he struggled, they would either stun or kill him. He went quietly, down the many stairs until they reached the empty pub. Tom the innkeeper was waiting anxiously for them at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a pinstriped night gown and a stocking cap.
"Everything all right, officers?" Tom asked with meaningful look at Harry.
"Yes, Tom. Sorry to bother you. We'll have this bloke out of your way soon enough," the man who had tied Harry's hands said.
Tom said nothing, but hurried ahead of them and opened the door.
Though it was the dead of night, the streets were filled with people struggling to get past the Ministry Officials keeping them away from the Leaky Cauldron. The instant Harry left the building, he was blinded once again by hundreds of camera flashes. There was a roar of noise in his ears; reporters asking questions, wizards telling him they despised him, witches telling him they supported him. He hung his head and a pool of black hair came down around his face, comfortably shielding him from the crowd.
He was jostled around as they made their way through the crowd, and finally reached a Ministry car. He was put into the back seat, and immediately wizards started pressing in on the car.
"Why'd you do it, Harry? Was she mean to you? Did she abuse you?" one reporter asked.
"I didn't do it," Harry said pleadingly. "I swear to you I didn't do it." The door slammed, and he had a final view of the reporters scribbling madly in their notebooks before the car sped off down the street.
The cars were magically weaving in and out of traffic, and going so fast that Harry was sure that they'd crash, but they didn't. Nonetheless, he leaned forward in his seat and retched — the alcohol wasn't settling too well with him.
The man in the passengers seat in front turned around and looked at him. "First morning after firewhiskey?" he asked.
Harry wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked up at the man. Harry nodded.
The man laughed, and turned around to face his partner in the drivers seat. "You can always tell with kids," he laughed.
"He's not a kid anymore, mate," the driver said. "He graduated from Hogwarts three months ago, he'll be tried as an adult in front of the Wizengamot. I'd reckon they'll give him life in Azkaban if he's convicted, but seeing as he's 'The Boy Who Lived,' he'll probably get special treatment."
"I won't," Harry groaned. "Even if I didn't do anything."
"Just keep sayin' that, pal," the driver said, sharing a laugh with his partner.
Harry leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. "Life in Azkaban." The dementors had been returned to the island fortress, according to the Daily Prophet. They would take away Harry's wand if he was convicted, and snap it in half, most likely, and then put him in a cell in Azkaban, defenseless against the awful creatures. Harry felt a chill sweep through his body and settle in his stomach. He had no Animagus form with which to protect himself from the dementors.
When they reached the Ministry of Magic, they met another crowd of reporters and photographers. As Harry was pulled from the car, questions were shouted at him, and camera flashes blinded him. They entered the Ministry of Magic, and led him down to the dungeons at the very bottom of the building, below the courtrooms. There he was put in a holding cell that resembled his bedroom at Privet Drive.
"How long am I going to stay here?" he asked the man who had removed the ties from Harry's hands and was now sliding his cell door shut.
"As long as it takes for all of the Wizengamot to get here," the man answered gruffly. The door closed with a resounding click, and the man strode out of sight.
Feeling more alone than he ever had in his life, Harry sat down on the small bed in one corner of the room, and settled his head in his hands. He didn't move until two hours later when the door opened.
He looked up.
It was Mr. Weasley.
"Mr. Weasley," Harry started, feeling he should somehow defend himself, but he left the sentence open.
"We're ready for you, Harry," Mr. Weasley said, his face very grave.
Harry searched the older man's eyes for some glimmer of hope, but saw nothing.
"What's happening now?" Harry asked. Would his fate be decided today or would he have another day to remain in uncertainty?
"It's a hearing, to see if you'll get a trial," Mr. Weasley answered. "We'll check your wand and hear from the witness, if it is necessary."
Harry stood up, and Mr. Weasley led Harry up a level to the courtrooms. Entering the same courtroom he had his hearing in three years earlier, Harry found the room packed. Mr. Weasley took his seat up on the highest bench, directly in front of the chained chair that Harry sat down in. Instantly the chains sprang to life and wound their way up Harry's arms, binding him tightly to the rough wooden chair.
He looked towards the audience section of the courtroom and his eyes were drawn instantly to the group of red hair. All the Weasleys (save Arthur) were there, along with Hermione. All of them were looking at Harry with a mixture of disbelief and pity.
"I didn't do it," Harry mouthed to Hermione.
"I know," she mouthed back.
Mr. Weasley stood up. "Mr. Harry James Potter, you sit before the Wizengamot court on the charge of murder in the first degree. Do you have anything to say in your defense before we examine your wand?"
Harry could not believe that the stony faced man in front of him was the same Mr. Weasley he had seen laugh so many times. "I didn't do it," Harry said almost half-heartedly. He didn't feel it would to much good to scream his lungs out just now.
"Very well. Can I have the wand?" Mr. Weasley said. Harry saw a woman hand his faithful wand to Mr. Weasley.
"Prior Incantato!" Mr. Weasley said, bringing out his own wand. Harry watched in horror as the head of a woman appeared from the point where the two wands met. Her torso came next, then her legs, and after she had fallen to the floor and stood up, she looked sadly at Harry.
"How could you, Harry?" she wailed miserably, her voice distant yet able to echo around the chamber. "How could you kill me?"
"I didn't!" Harry yelled. "It wasn't me! I swear it!"
The group of wizards sitting on the high bench leaned in close together and whispered quietly. Harry looked over to the audience and saw that Hermione had burst into tears. Finally, the wizards stopped whispering, and Mr. Weasley faced Harry.
"The counsel sees no reason to question the witness," Mr. Weasley said. "Mr. Potter, I hereby sentence you to life in prison without chance of parole for the murder of Madam Janus Thickey." He slammed a gavel down on the desk.
"NO!" Harry yelled. "No! You can't!" That was it? That simple? Just hear from an echo and slam the gavel and it's over?
The door behind him opened, and two hooded figures glided through it. Harry found the breath catching in his throat already.
"No! Don't send me there! Please!"
Two pairs of clammy hands freed Harry from the chair and lifted him to his feet.
"Hermione! You know I didn't! You know I couldn't!"
But Hermione was sobbing into Mrs. Weasley's shoulder.
"Ron!" Harry yelled, struggling against the dementors. "Ron! Say something! Help me!"
Ron merely watched Harry with a look of hurt and disgust.
"Please!" Harry yelled. The Wizengamot was standing, watching Harry being dragged away.
"May you rot there, Mr. Potter," a man said, and several people clapped.
"You're making a mistake!" Harry yelled desperately, but no one took heed of what he was saying.
The cold was closing in on Harry, he could no longer draw breath. He saw the last image of the courtroom, photographers snapping pictures, Hermione crying, before the darkness engulfed him and he thought no more.
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A/N - Not very good, but this chapter was just meant to be for the purpose of getting me from point A to point B. The next chapter is when it'll really start to flow. By the way, if you have any suggestions for opening songs, let me know.
peace
felony melanie