Deep beneath the sown fabric of the night, Harry dreamed. A swivel of freshly fallen dew from the tip of the sky nudged against his lips as he envisioned the world outside looking in. On his blood-red Gryffindor cot, whispers of past and future lives sang him a lullaby. Those same dreams led him in a single dance across the night, in hope, humour, and fascination at a thought. That one day, he would get his revenge on Bellatrix Lestrange. The woman had fled him for now but would not rest easy. Harry wouldn't allow her. One day, he would have his revenge. That was a promise.
His eyes were torn open, and the brink of dawn greeted him. Through the trim glass window, encroaching on the slopes of the Scottish Highlands, sunlight bore into his part of the world. A thread coned up hills of verdant green. The colour of moving pictures, weaving through, killing the night at a languid pace. Harry fell silent, struggling to accept just what an injustice had befallen him.
He needed a long shower. A shave. And food. And very little sleep. He was wearing the same outfit from the day before; tattered blue jeans and dirty trainers left quite the dead pang of embarrassment in him. He had already bought clothes for the day.
A trace of his fingers cleared the rheum from his eyes as he sat on the bed. He felt so pathetic; it was unbelievable. How could he have let her slip? He rested his head on his hand, face protected from the universe in a cold grace.
A step settled against the cold tiles under his thin ankles, straining from his slender burden. He trekked onto the floor, leaving the horror of his pain behind. Running water drowned out his bare footsteps as he peeled off his sweat-sodden jeans. The glare in the mirror revealed that his skin was mottled, blotted, and shrivelled like a prune. So he blinked, returning to that same aristocratic reverence that he couldn't see himself.
Was this all his life?
Who was he? What did he want, and who did he want? His eyes shone with the clarity of a boy that kept track of his thoughts and knew the tone of his voice before his thinking lost control of his words.
Turning the faucet, he ran the water until a minuscule amount flowed down the spout and onto his head, soon engulfing him. As he blinked the rest of the muck from his eyes, a wash of warm breeze hit him in the face.
Hogwarts wasn't the haven he once considered it to be. It had once been a place of comfort, but now it was just an eyesore amid hundreds of other eyesores. He listened to the whistling above, snorting a low laugh at its various noises as it retched out more water, shaking at the edges as if alive.
He was going to slaughter Bellatrix Lestrange.
Harry looked down, realizing that he had gone insane. The shock brought a huge amount of adrenaline into his body and tension to his limbs. He started laughing. Nothing seemed funny anymore, but he couldn't stop laughing. Not because the thought of maiming that sick woman was amusing. But acceptance. He had accepted the fact that he was going to kill and perhaps die trying.
Harry trod away from the showers, traipsing to his towel and uniform, smiling at himself in the mirror. Harry understood what it was now. The bloodlust that had been hibernating in him now bore fruit. His face wasn't his own anymore.
It was because he was good. He was good, and she was evil. When he brought her head to them, the others wouldn't bat an eye.
"You look tired," was the first thing Hermione said to him. It was the day of his trial. To be expelled not only from Hogwarts but also from the Wizarding World, under the order of Dolores Umbridge. "Didn't sleep?"
Harry could not be bothered to answer that he did all too well.
"You should get something in you," Hermione said, gesturing to the assortment of breakfast on the table.
"I'll be fine," he said with husk—or at least as husky as a grieving 15-year-old boy could muster. His roving eyes did not meet Hermione's hazel browns, but he saw her lips move from under his lashes.
"I… I think you should also see Madam Pomfrey." Hermione's voice was walking stiffly like an ancient skeleton, uncomfortably slow. She did not want to upset him. That much was clear. He looked to the left of her, where the Ravenclaw students eyed him with distrust.
"Why?"
"To at the very least get a Pepper-up potion, you have bags under your eyes, standing around looking like you did before the first task of the Triwizard Tournament," she said, deceptively calm despite her strictness.
"I'm not afraid of Fudge if that's what you're thinking." Who would fear a man who lets himself be used as a scapegoat for every problem in the wizarding community? Harry straightened up and stopped, looking around for a time.
"That's not what I'm saying, Harry." Hermione seemed repulsed by the whole idea of his trial.
"You should look presentable, anyway," Ron spoke over his oatmeal. The boy had been quiet the whole morning, not looking Harry in the eye.
"What's the point? No matter how I look, they're gonna judge me," Harry said, nodding to the rest of the great hall. Most of the Hufflepuffs flinched back and started gossiping in between themselves.
"I'm sorry, Harry. Go, you've got four hours before it's time to report to the atrium... or what's left of it."
Harry agreed and left. He only turned once to see fear sweltering from the Slytherin table. And when his eyes met Draco Malfoy's, Harry saw unimaginable terror.
He turned back and left.
Parmenides was Harry's favourite philosopher. Saddled under his gingham shirt and tucked above his grey jeans was 'The Wizard's Guide to muggle philosophy.' Harry had picked up on his reading over the week just to get his mind off all the grieving.
"Hang on, Mr. Potter, I'll get you the potion in just a smidge."
"Not a problem," Harry said in reply.
"Have you ever thought about what you will do after Hogwarts, Mr. Potter?" Pomfrey, the Matron, asked randomly as she scoured the cabinets for the liquid gold—or at least he hoped so. Harry would drink coffee if he could get over the bitter taste. Alas, he was gulping down a trickle of what would keep his head straight.
Parmenides was a Greek philosopher born in the fifth century BC who founded one of the most significant schools of Ancient Greek philosophy. In the dialogue of 'On Nature,' Parmenides used a metaphor of a sphere with a single flat surface that can only be perceived from a single perspective to show his point that reality is a single, unchanging truth.
"No." The truth was the only thing left for him to give.
"But one day, Mr. Potter. Bah, what am I saying—you still have time to decide. You are only fifteen, after all."
"I know, Madam Pomfrey," he said.
The old witch picked up some empty potion vials next to a third year's bedside, levitating them. She had removed some medical supplies from the cupboard and dumped them into a floating tray.
Harry watched her say something to the girl whose arm was in a thick cast. The girl said something back that he couldn't hear properly because her voice was making a loud, insidious clanking noise like two marbles clashing against each other.
Pomfrey shook her head and walked away from the girl, back next to Harry, to pick up a luminescent potion.
"And I suppose you have someone to love—" Harry felt the heat rise from his neck to his round ears pouring into the rest of his face like a spilled bucket full of blushes. "—and friends to keep you company?"
What a strange question, he thought. Harry's brows furrowed together, but he nodded as if he no doubt had that answer on the tip of his tongue. "The second one."
"Then we are both in the same boat, Mr. Potter." She gave him a meaningful, dour smile as she walked back to the girl.
"I—uh," Harry said to Pomfrey, even though she was now busy with the girl. "Cool."
"I must ask—why is it so difficult for you? Were you not romantically involved with Ms. Chang?"
Harry contemplated for a second. He tried to date Cho, but he could not say he'd ever fallen in love with her, and he didn't think he'd ever fallen in love, period. Harry certainly could try, but it was hard to get attached to anyone anymore. He just wanted to distance himself from those he cared about.
"Maybe," he tried out, but then he got the feeling that he was being set up for some sort of punch line. "—That's—it's just that I don't know the first thing about girls."
"What about boys, then?" Pomfrey said, and Harry flinched. "What do you know about them? "
"I don't," he replied, not completely defensive about it. He felt Pomfrey was teasing him because she wouldn't ask a serious question like that. Would she?
"Well..." Harry tried to avoid the topic. "I've, uh... there was this one time..." he said, stuttering, and he blushed again.
"It's okay to like both, you know," Pomfrey said before prodding off again, leaving Harry speechless.
The Matron seemed to struggle to pace herself, moving from one patient to the next as he waited. She had to feel the passage of time—long and arduous hours dealing with broken bones and curse-laden ailments. Harry felt for her, truly, and the amount of work she seemed to put in just to keep him and the rest of the students functioning.
He looked at the grandfather clock on the far right side of the room, standing firm against the cobbled wall. It wasn't even half-past nine yet.
"... Hard at work?"
Pomfrey studied him with narrow eyes. "Yes, twelve patients from early dawn till now." The raised sides of her face sunk. "I am... getting a little too old for this."
"Do you ever feel like quitting?" Harry asked.
Pomfrey looked at him. A small twitch played across her thin lips. "No," Pomfrey said. She turned to stare at him. Harry heard the thump of the door as its hinges squeaked. Footsteps echoed throughout the room, and the rare smile dissolved from Pomfrey's face. "... Albus?"
"Good morning, Poppy." Harry heard the greying voice of Albus Dumbledore before he entered the doorway. "I am just here to talk to Harry."
The headmaster took in both of them with gentle eyes. "Have you decided on what you will say?"
"I believe so, sir."
Pomfrey halted as she came to stand beside the Seeker, her hands hovering reassuringly over his, plopping a thin vial of Pepper-up.
"Then I assume you are prepared to head out early," Dumbledore said. He turned and stared pointedly at the grandfather clock. "I must be at the Ministry by nine forty-five."
"Fine." Harry stared holes into the ticking hands of the clock.
Eyes twinkling, Dumbledore gave him a wrinkly grin. "Good, I will let the others know."
"Take care, Mr. Potter," Pomfrey said.
"Yeah. Thank you for the potion," he said as he walked out with Dumbledore, deeply troubled.
Harry, along with the Weasleys, Hermione and Remus, entered through the golden gates in the ministry. They shuffled through the demolished walls and tall windows. A Ministry employee lifted his wand high and cast a swift Reparo, and the rest of the broken glass flew back in reverse and stuck together to repair what was broken from a frame along the walls.
"You'll do marvellously, Harry," Remus said, his gaze not meeting Harry.
Past the security, the book and his wand tucked neatly into a box, or wherever they keep it, Harry was left alone with Arthur Weasley. He adjusted his glasses and inhaled a sour breath. Pepper-up did that. Mr. Weasley gave him space to dust off any debris or loose strings off his shirt, walking up to the door, opening it and peeking inside for an indescribable minute before looking back at him and giving him a brief nod.
He was ready.
Stepping in, he was greeted again with the near black stone walls of the dimly lit dungeon. Torches lighting up on either side. Harry gulped once. He was hearing cacophonies of voices now. The shadowed members of the tribunal spoke among themselves in a vapid frenzy. They sounded like the claps of wings of a million pigeons. With Remus, Hermione and the rest of the Weasley's now tucked into the high benches of the room, the trial began. Sitting gingerly on the chained chair, the body of wizards condemned him with silence.
"Hem, hem." The skittishly high-pitched throat clearing was a grotesque reminder to everyone who has been at Hogwarts for the past year. Dolores Umbridge's toad-like face greeted the jury with a mirthless smile. "Good morning, my fair colleagues of the Wizengamot. Today is June twenty-fourth, nineteen ninety-six. This day marks the second trial of one Harry James Potter for illegally misusing dark magic as an underage wizard falling into a case as willed in the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, Section Twelve-A."
Cornelius Fudge looked down upon him from his towering throne. "Mr. Potter, I understand this is your fourth offence?"
"Yes, sir," Harry said, testing if his throat would give out halfway.
"Of what is deemed… wise, and what is practical, you, Mr. Potter, fall into a grey area," said Fudge, snapping a breath in with his nose. It was the sound of a snake rearing its head back in a preemptive strike. "You chose to not only cast an Unforgivable Curse but have done so five times. Now I ask of the others in this association of yours—Dumbledore's Army, of which you are the ringleader and proprietor—" Fudge stopped. He seemed to grapple with the words he wanted to say.
"Yes, sir?"
"You know, this seems highly unfair," Fudge said, his tone suddenly shifting. "I do not see this as an offence at all, my boy. In the short end, I believe you are innocent. I, too, would have cast the sickest and most gruelling curses on the man—no, the beast that killed off my parents."
"Hem, hem, minister, this conduct is inappropriate. We shall need to settle how long the boy's sentence should be. Yes?" Umbridge inserted herself into the conversation.
"Right, Harry… I ask you this now, not for myself, but for the sake of the Wizarding World. I will acquit you of all charges in this hearing if you tell me of the Supreme Warlocks' involvement in your army."
What?
How shameless could this man get? Trying to sabotage Dumbledore while the man is sitting in the same room.
"Cornelius, I doubt this is required," Dumbledore said.
"Oh, it is very much required, Albus," Fudge said. Harry was too astonished to speak for a moment; the Minister sounded as though he thought Harry was in the right to use two of the Unforgivable Curses. Putting on his poker face, Harry remained seated while a solid chuckle ignited in his head.
"There's no great mystery about it. Let's see what the jury thinks. How about you, Lord Nott?" Up on the left side of the court, a ball of Lumos floated above a tall, thin figure. It gave the impression of a man used to carrying heavy loads, dead on one shoulder and limpet on the other. His scarlet robes were slim, and his thin brown hair trailed down his shoulders. The wide face seemed friendly, while his haunted eyes spoke of something else entirely.
"Well, I say this one is perfectly safe to say. Harry Potter, you can't deny it. To me, it's plain," he announced, "you couldn't have used Cruciatus without cause because there isn't any cause for it." He rose to his feet. "Other than illicit desires."
"What are you suggesting?" Umbridge asked.
"I am telling you that the boy deserves a life sentence, maybe even the kiss. The Dark Lord is detained, but that does not mean Potter here couldn't become the next one if left unchecked."
Harry had to push back the bile in his throat, or maybe the frothing. Forget Bellatrix. This man was now number one on his hit list. No one other than Death Eaters used the term Dark Lord regarding that slimy snake freak.
"You raise a safe point," said a demure voice from the other end of the room. "But I believe he is as innocent as we make of him. I have a son, and if I were taken away from him, he would undoubtedly use the curse on my killer." Harry saw the woman, her skin a deep brown, and chocolate in her eyes, almost hazel, cast toward Nott.
Her slanted violet lips were drawn to a seductive smirk as Umbridge sneered at her. Umbridge hemmed again. "Countess Zabini? Have you any more… opinions to make in this fine court?"
"I don't think Mr. Potter even knew how to use the spell before tonight," Zabini said. "In the heat of any moment in the presence of you-know-who, I would also resolve to use the curse to stand a chance—even if I didn't know how to use the spell, to begin with." It sounded more like a correct philosophy than a statement of facts.
"But then, is this your confession?" Umbridge asked, much too nicely for Harry's liking.
"Madam Umbridge, I see only ignorance in you. My kind do not take well to accusations." A glint from her teeth shone there as she sniffed at the air and grinned. "Let us focus on one dilemma at a time. This is Mr. Potter's hearing, no?"
Umbridge sneered again, her toad-like face squinting as she lobbed her lips. "I think we've heard all that we need to hear," she said. "So don't come the cravens with some pretense of childish charm because I—we all know you—we know exactly what you are," she said.
"What am I, Madam Umbridge?" Zabini interjected with a small laugh.
"You are a filthy vamp—no... I won't say it; it's clear enough as it is."
Harry, for once, agreed with Dolores Umbridge. Zabini was a creature of the night. The exposed sharp teeth spoke louder than words could have.
"You are very set on your ways, Umbridge," Zabini said, laughing heartily still.
"So are you, Zabini," Umbridge said, sneering at her with disdain.
"Something worth making an example of, then?" Zabini said with a distinct smile. "Mr. Potter is innocent. He is not a creature, as I am like the Dark Lord is."
Acidic. It was acidic in the hollow of his throat. Harry felt the bloodlust crawl in further. Another to his list.
"I—!" The toad for a woman clenched her knuckles. "No! He is guilty! He's a raving, disturbed boy—from the first day of me teaching at Hogwarts, he's been deluded," Umbridge hurled venom as she thundered her clipboard down onto the raised aisle next to her.
"But he was correct about the Dark Lord," Zabini responded. The shadowed figures of the jury were now in serious discussion.
Umbridge had nothing to say.
"That's it! I'm calling a recess. We will come back in forty-five minutes." Fudge called with the signal to clear the dungeon. Umbridge, ignoring Harry, marched away from the room, steaming from the ears.
Harry found a water fountain in recess and started hamming on the drink. Politics was thirsty work. He hadn't quite expected the animosity between the members of the Gamot; he had thought that all the ire would be targeted at him as if he was the centre of the universe. A very narcissistic viewpoint, he admitted. But they wouldn't be spinning around him as if he were the sun if he weren't in the middle of all this commotion.
The unfortunate circumstance of having a water fountain so close to the washroom was a terrible choice.
Harry could barely quell the urge to grab a handful of soap and scrub his hands. With a smack of his lips, Harry pushed back his gag reflex, forcing the bile and blood lust back whence it came. But as soon as he did, so did a grunt-like cough that sloughed through the tension he had created for himself. Harry turned to see a boy around his age, Something Teo. He wasn't sure of the exact name.
"You have a lot of supporters," the mousy-haired boy said. His dusk blue eyes briefly held Harry captive.
The raven stopped leaning on the fountain. "I have people wishing death on me, too. What's your point?"
"Theo," he said, raising his prim and proper hand up for Harry to shake.
Harry shook his head. "Didn't ask." He didn't care, either.
"Nott."
That caught him in a snare. "Your father—"
To his surprise, Nott laughed. It was a nasal snort, mostly. Yet, to Harry, this was a sign that he had let his impulse take advantage.
"What's funny?" he asked.
Nott kept smiling long after the laughter subsided. "See, I could tell from your expression down there, behind the heroism and all the glory I saw craving, so did probably everyone there."
Harry could kill this boy right here, where no one would be looking. He's just another Slytherin, isn't he? He's the son of a death eater!
"I don't understand."
"You're upset… no wonder you cast all those curses."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "I won't hesitate to use one either."
Theo put his hands up in defence, his smile escaping while he turned the other way. "Still got twenty-ish minutes, y'know?"
"What do you want?" Harry said, taking a quick gander around their surroundings. The atrium was about five hundred feet to the west, and he would need at least ten minutes to get back to the trial. A grim light dawned through old green tinted glass windows. They sparkled as if ousted by the apprehension Harry had developed against the boy.
"Just to see what you're like. Never spoke at Hogwarts, did we?"
"No, you're part of Malfoy's posse." Just as Pansy Parkinson or Crabbe and Goyle were.
"And proud. It gets me places," Theo said, the smile never leaving his face.
"Of course, because his daddy has got the biggest house of them all."
Nott shook his head. "No, s'pose it this way. We both have matchsticks. I break one in half and give it to you, and you break your half and give it to someone of lesser standing."
"Why would you use matchsticks as an analogy?"
"Because no one's gonna trade them with you for anything," Nott said. "Also, because it's thematic," he continued.
A carton of muggle matchsticks came out of his grey pant pockets. It was red and blue and in arabesque design, richly coating the front and back matter. The matchsticks were about the size of the sticks McGonagall had used during their first year.
"Very muggle. What are they for?"
"This." A sweet flower-tasting scent wafted around the room. It was a rolled-up stick of weed.
"Really? Marijuana?"
Theo shrugged. "What? It's good for you."
"It gives you brain cancer," Harry grumbled.
"Says who? Your muggleborn girlfriend?" Theo smirked at Harry. "It's legal here, so it's fine."
"She's not my—whatever, no, I read it."
"Where?" On the back of Vernon's newspaper.
"Somewhere. Why does it matter?"
"Doesn't, but it would be interesting to know."
"Why are we debating weed? Don't you have better things to do?" Harry asked.
Theo eyed him up and down. "I hope I do pretty soon." He then smirked when Harry followed his gaze. Theo leaned against the wall.
"What?"
"Nothing, nothing… so," Nott stopped, and Harry did with him. "Wanna blaze it?"
"You want me to get high before I have to represent myself in front of all those people?" Harry asked as he stepped in front of Nott.
"Then we can share mine. It'll lessen the blow," he said.
The blow? What? "Damn you, teahead, where? We'll do it your way."
"See that stall over the horizon?" He meant the end of the hallway.
"Bloody no! What is wrong with you?"
"There's nowhere else, Potter."
Harry inhaled deeply and shook his head. "I can't believe I'm doing this."
They entered a clean-looking stall, and Theo shut the lid down.
"Sit," he said to Harry.
"Where are you going to sit?"
"Floor."
"Gross, that's absurd. If we sit back to back, there's enough space on the lid."
"If you say so."
Harry was much smaller than Theodore, so the back behind him felt like a cinder wall. Smoke piled on, and the room jolted with the pungent mist. Harry let out a long, drawn-out sigh. He wasn't sure where the anger he harboured a minute ago had passed.
"Ladies first." Nott passed him the drug.
"You already took a drag."
"I know." Harry could hear the smile. He took the bud and inhaled, letting the air pass through his nose and mouth.
"Not your first rodeo, huh?"
"Course," Harry replied. It was. Maybe he was just too good at hiding his weaknesses now.
"You ever think of what you're gonna be?" Theo asked.
"In the future?"
"When else? Obviously. I wanted to—nay, it's dumb."
"Tell me."
"You won't like it."
Harry was getting increasingly ticked off. "Just say it, you arse."
"I wanted to be a musician… a guitarist."
"You like music."
"That was a given, I'd presume. My old man doesn't like it, though."
"No, I didn't ask. It was rhetorical."
"I hope you don't go to Azkaban, Potter. Even though you're a bit of a dick."
"Am I?"
"I'd like to think so." Nott cleared his throat. "Hey, you said Granger wasn't your girlfriend, yeah?"
"No?"
"Darts, have you played them before?"
"No."
"I have some at home. With that weird circle, those muggles toss them into."
"You're asking me to visit you over the summer?" He had received no such invitation from someone outside Gryffindor. It was strange but not unwelcome.
"Where did you get that idea?"
Harry turned to the boy. "The answer's yes."
Nott smiled before taking the bud out of Harry's mouth. He pressed his lips on the end and took an even longer drag. "See you around, Potter."
"Footing the bills and costs by a recipient for the nineteen ninety-six fiscal year, at the Ministry, we have rather lax conduct for restoration procedures. We indeed have the manpower, but we lack the budget to restore the gold fixtures that you, Mr. Potter, tore down with a powered killing curse… that will set us back a grandiose fourteen million galleons, twenty sickles, and one knut."
Dumbledore's twinkling eyes bore into him. He had lectured Harry with all the 'office talk' he would endure, and now he was bearing the full brunt.
"I will pay my dues, Minister."
"Excellent, we won't need the liquidation papers, Dolores."
"But, sir, this boy must pay through the mandates the Ministry allows him, by the decree of the charter for criminal justice section D, line seventy-eight—"
"Nonsense. It's the least we can do for the boy after the burden we've put him through."
"If I may, Cornelius, allow me to pay off the balance for restoration and other menial fees. They won't be an issue for me. As Harry's magical guardian, I should be allowed to deal with all financial circumstances."
"That is—uh," Fudge struggled for a second, turning his gaze to Lucius Malfoy in the distance, who forced a curt nod. "I will allow it, Albus."
"Very good. I will let Gringotts know of the arrangement."
"Then Mr. Potter is relieved of all charges. You will leave your wand with Mafalda. She will suspend the usage for the next four months until you are deemed fit to use it again."
Harry was cold from a numbing sensation of being unable to control his body. He could no longer speak, so all was done with hazy, transparent green eyes. His hand twitched, weakly reaching out for his wand, but nothing was there. His features relaxed, settling into a relaxed, false calmness.
"But, sir, what about my classes?"
"My boy, you are suspended for the rest of the term. Now, time to bring out the French Champagne! The Dark Lord's execution is this week!"
The frozen chill ran through Harry's abdomen before coming to a halt at the start of his plexus.
He had another target.
Author's Note: Hi Guys! dududududu—Yes, I did that, and you would do it too for a check. I was an employee! And I was going to get employee of the month, and that's on period! ... anyways, I'm back! kind of. I'm still busy with stuff so expect another long wait time before another chapter... probably not as long as last time, though. Thanks for reading!