DO YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING?

A/N: Okey dokey. I've changed it a fair bit. It's still the same story but, er, different. I wanted some different POVs because I realised that Harry's not the only person who's going to be upset with this. I also made it a bit more intense, so if you're really disturbed by really strong language or violent psychological trauma I'd advise you not to read it. But I hope you like it as much as you liked it before. Thanks to everyone who reviewed.

"I like to think they were singing about something so beautiful that it can't be expressed in words, and it makes your heart ache because of it."
-THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION-

When Harry Potter woke up, he could have sworn he was in the Hogwarts hospital wing.

Then he remembered that was impossible because he'd graduated from Hogwarts two years ago.

Then he remembered everything else.

Which is why, on that mild day in August, the other patients of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical maladies woke up to the sound of Harry Potter screaming.

*

The new minister for Magic was younger man than Cornelius Fudge, although vastly more competent. People whispered that he had only gotten the job because he happened to be Fudge's nephew, that he only took the job because no one else would. But secretly, everyone was glad to have someone at the head of the Ministry of Magic. After Fudge's murder, there hadn't been the expected rush to seize power- everyone was too scared of Lord Voldemort. But the new Minister for Magic refused to subscribe to such cultural terror. "Let the Dark Lord come," he said boldly at his election speech, "Under me, the Ministry will be prepared and controlled. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will not dare to even tap at the doors of my impenetrable fortress." Melodramatic, maybe, but the masses were certainly drawn to his bravery. (Of course, the fact that he couldn't even say the Dark lord's name was of no importance.) In a society wreaked with terror in some of the darkest days it had seen, the new Minister for Magic had stepped in and led the way through the proverbial pitch black tunnel. Things had not been so bad since- well, since Lord Voldemort had been in power last time. The new millenium had opened with a lot of hope, however- thanks to the new Minister for Magic. His name was Opius Fartham.

Opius Fartham prided himself of being mature for his age- even during school, he had been years above the rest of his class, psychologically at least. At twenty-five, he was the youngest Minister for Magic ever- another thing he prided himself on.

But the trait he prided himself the most on was most certainly his calibre. His ability to stay calm when the masses were panicking. His plain, old-fashioned, stiff-upper-lippedness. He could look the most malicious opponent in the eyes and snap them back into place with a witty remark. He could read the most condemning rumours about himself in The Daily Prophet and not bat an eyelid. He was a man with the heart of a true Englishman and the stomach of a concrete elephant.

So why then, when his secretary opened to door to his office and announced that Harry Potter was here to meet him, did he find his stomach squirming with an incomprehensible nervousness?

"Send him in, please," said Fartham, sitting down in the chair behind his vast oak desk. His secretary disappeared for a moment, then reappeared leading in a young man of about twenty by the arm. Fartham himself had never met Potter before, so in the first few seconds of seeing him for the first time, Fartham experience the same feelings everyone experienced when they first saw him. Reverence. Familiarity. Security. This was the boy who had laid waste to The Dark Lord's empire- twice, now. Then he had to remind himself what Harry Potter really was- an Auror, and a very, very powerful one at that- and therefore, untrustworthy. The Aurors had officially segregated themselves from the Ministry years ago, back when Voldemort had first risen again. Harry Potter may have been a war-hero, but he was still very powerful, and very powerful people who find themselves at odds with the Ministry of Magic are generally the ones who aren't sent a Christmas card.

"Welcome, Mr. Potter. It's an honour to meet you," Fartham said, standing up The young man did not answer, but took the hand that was offered to him and shook with the enthusiasm of a dead fish.

"Please take a seat." Fartham indicated the velvet-lined chair in front of him. "Can I offer you anything? Tea? Coffee?" Harry shook his head, looking around the room very slowly and deliberately, as if he were appraising Fartham himself.

"Right, then, I won't waste any words, then, shall I? Please- take a seat," he repeated.

Harry reluctantly sat down in the expensive chair- one magically designed to comfort any witch or wizard by massaging their back. Harry Potter, however, looked distinctly uncomfortable. Still no words left his mouth.

Fartham swallowed. "I hope you're feeling better, Mr. Potter- you've been unconscious for quite some time. We were on the point of inducing a release from the coma ourselves when you woke up. To be unconscious for seven days is…worrying, to say the least." He paused in case Harry wanted to say anything, but the young man only offered silence. "I, uh," Fartham cleared his throat, hastily continuing, "So- how are you feeling?" A question- he would have to say something now…

In reply a sort of strangled grunt came from Harry's throat.

"Sorry?" said Fartham, "I didn't quite catch that-"

"Fine."

His voice sounded as though he was unaccustomed to using it. It was quiet, gravelly, sounding as though it came from beneath several layers of rock.

"Well, that's good, because- I have been advised that the…subject I am about to broach may upset you. I must ask you about what happened at Hogwarts Mr. Potter, because- we need it for the record, and…well, there are still a lot of missing persons that we'd like to confirm the whereabouts of…but if it's still too fresh, we can arrange another meeting for another time…"

The silence of the man sitting across from him was deafening. Fartham felt perspiration begin to swell on his forehead.

"Mr…Potter?"

"I'm fine." The reply was unexpected. Opius Fartham had to look up at his face.

It wasn't an unpleasant looking face by anyone standards. Fartham might even describe it as beautiful in a strange sort of way, with a shock of jet black hair contrasting with a white face, skin as clear as water and large dark green eyes looking back at him like still ponds from behind a pair of glasses. And yet between those eyes shone a jagged scar, blood red, splitting Harry Potter's face in two. It was quite starling to see the black, the white and the red of his face thrown against each other, in the midst of all of that, those two green pools- the eyes of someone who had seen war.

He was exhibiting marvellous self-control; while Fartham looked anywhere but at Harry's face, while Fartham shuffled papers and capped and uncapped his quill, Harry sat there like a rock in a storm, staring at him with his eyes, which, Fartham realized, he found himself strangely drawn to. They were hypnotic, almost like an x-ray.

"Are you certain, because-"

"Just get on with it, please."

Fartham nodded. Being ordered around by one of Britain's most prominent Aurors was not something the Minister of Magic was supposed to do- but he found himself picking up the list of missing persons, putting on his glasses, and clearing his throat.

"Right, well," he said, "I would first like to get a few statements from you as is our understanding of the matter. On the thirty-first of July in the year 2000, there was a battle between two basic factions- fundamentally, those who supported Lord Voldemort, and those who didn't. Is this correct?"

"Yes."

"The side that did not support Lord Voldemort was made up of the vigilante group known as Aurors. Can you give me a rough estimate of how many Aurors there were, Mr. Potter?"

"Around six thousand."

"Good, that's what we have in our record as well. In addition to the Aurors, there were also those who are natural enemies of the Dark Forces- centaurs, unicorns, dryads, naiads, that sort of thing?"

Harry gave a slight nod of his head. Fartham avoided his eyes. "I understand you also had some unnatural allies as well- giants?"

"There were only a few," came the flat answer.

"Very well," said Fartham, and made a note of it. "Now, Mr. Potter, I want you to acknowledge that the following information is correct. The vigilante group known as Aurors work within a hierarchy of sorts, correct?"

"Yes."

"You have your, er, legionaries creating different teams, with one person leading that team, known as a…?"

"Aurora."

"I believe you filled that position in your team, Mr. Potter."

"Yes."

"And the head Auror was Albus Dumbledore."

"Yes."

"And he led you into battle on the afore-mentioned day, in the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"If you know all this, why are you asking me?"

Fartham looked up in surprise at Harry Potter's contribution to the meeting. "I-It's just a statement, Mr. Potter," he said, momentarily thrown by his eyes, "We need it for the official records. Can you sign here please?"

Harry took the quill and signed the piece of paper silently. His fingers cracked as he gripped the thin golden quill and his handwriting was shaky.

"Is that all?" said Harry, looking up at him. His green eyes were screaming at Fartham, screaming with the pain of someone who had seen war, who had seen people dying before them, people they knew.

"C-Can I just get a statement from you, Mr. Potter- the missing persons have not yet been confirmed."

Harry Potter visibly stiffened. Fartham hastened to continue. "If you don't feel ready, we can always-"

"Just – get on with it."

It was not the answer Fartham was hoping for. If he had to spend another minute with the screaming green eyes, he was sure he would go mad.

"Your team comprised of some forty Aurors, is this correct?"

"Yes."

"Among regular foot-soldiers, each team comprises of one Curor, Mage, Technician and Scribe, each of whom perform various duties which are essential to the team." He'd gotten hold of an Auror training booklet. Harry Potter gave him a nod of his head.

"I understand your Curor was one Ron Weasley- a wizard with quite remarkable powers of healing."

This time, not even a nod- just a barely imperceptible noise from between Harry Potter's dead lips. Fartham took it as a yes and continued.

"Your team suffered some considerable loss- around half of them are still officially missing. I was wondering if you could shed some light on there whereabouts- we just want to know if they happen to be- well, still alive. Is it all right if I read out the names of the missing people, and you give me a statement concerning their…status?"

"Hm."

"All right then." Fartham was uncomfortable- uncomfortable in his own magically designed office to make him feel comfortable. The plush reds, crimsons, soft greys and greens, so tastefully decorated, seemed to shy away from where Harry Potter sat in the middle of all the tender relaxing colours, like someone had thrown a rock into a still pond, causing distortions. He sat there, staring at Fartham, in black robes, just staring. At first Fartham had assumed he was staring right past him- but now he realised that Harry Potter was truly staring at him- almost as though he was trying to use his image to block out something else.

"Right, well- let's get this over and done with," Fartham said desperately. There was something inhuman about those screaming eyes, and he wanted Potter out of his office. "Mundugnus Fletcher?"

"Dead."

Fartham paused, momentarily thrown off guard. He'd known Mundugnus Fletcher, and it didn't come as a surprise to him that he was dead but it was the way Harry said it. Almost as though he was saying anything else, like "Hello," or, "my, isn't the weather clement?"

Fartham was not used to death. Both of his parents were still alive, though they were getting on a bit. He had never known his grandparents and thus, never had to live through their deaths. In fact, the closest brush with the expiration Fartham had had was when his Uncle Cornelius Fudge had been assassinated. Even then, mourning, feeling the loss- all that had been an alien feeling to him. He had never known Fudge incredibly well, even though he had been his mother's brother. Death had given Fartham a wide berth throughout his lifetime, and he, for the most part, had been fairly indifferent to this fact. But here, in his very own office, sat a young man who not only knew what death was all about, but looked as though he wouldn't be out of place taking tea with the Grim Reaper in a graveyard somewhere.

Death. Hah. Not in his office.

"Right. Erm, well, look. How about, I just read out the list of missing persons and they aren't dead, just say so, all right?"

"All right."

Fartham cleared his throat for the fifth or sixth time. "Arabella Figg?" A roaring silence. He ticked the little box next to her name titles "DECEASED". "All right. Frank Longbottom?" Fartham had not been the only person to start worrying when Longbottom's sanity had been restored (at the cost of his own son's life, no less. Now there was a ruthless man if there ever was one.) Longbottom was powerful. Dangerous. So when Harry said nothing, Fartham felt more than a little bit relieved to tick the little box. And even more so when he asked about the whereabouts of Helena Longbottom- the wife- and Harry said nothing.

"Alastor Moody?" Fartham couldn't even pretend not to be relieved when Harry said nothing. Moody had been trouble for the Ministry ever since the Dark Lord's first rise to power. Fartham could well remember being a little boy, sitting under the kitchen table and listening to his Uncle Cornelius expostulate over "that damned mad-Eye Moody! Granted, he gets the job done, but why does it have to be at such a price….One day, he'll cause a full-fledged war, and won't he just love it!" Knowing Moody, he probably went out in the full-fledged bloodiness of the battle. He was a fighter, Fartham would give him that. He ticked the little box with a little too much relish. Calm yourself, Opius. He looked down the list.

"Remus Lupin?" There was a cracking of knuckles as Harry clenched his fists. But he did not say anything. Fartham ticked the little box.

"All right…ah, Minerva McGonagall?"

And for the first time, Harry said something. "I dunno."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

Harry shrugged. "She's not dead, that's for sure. I would have seen her body."

Fartham winced. "Ah. Still missing then. Well, we'll look into that." He ticked the little box that said "MISSING" and read out the next name.

"Ah. Sirius Black."

Nothing. But now Harry was not looking at him. At the sound of the name he had put his hands over his eyes and leant forward elbows on Fartham's smooth, mahogany desk. Everyone knew the story of Sirius Black and Harry Potter, and how Harry had cleared his godfather's name of all murder charges when he was only fifteen, presenting some astounding evidence to the Ministry. And, though Black had been discovered of practsiing illegal Transfiguration, as compensation for his years in Azkaban the Ministry had granted Black a full pardon, and a license to be an Animagi. It was no wonder Harry was upset. Was he upset? It was hard to tell. He wasn't moving or making any sound, just covering his eyes.

"Mr…Potter?' Fartham said tentatively. "What happened to Sirius Black?"

"Girunnoshhhk."

"Sorry?"

"I dunno!"

His voice shot out from between his hands like a curse from a wand, causing Fartham to jump. "You mean, he's still missing?"

"No. He's dead."

Fartham paused. "Is he dead or isn't he?"

"He's dead."

"Very well." The next name on the list was also familiar, and he hesitated before reading it out, wondering if Harry would be able to take it. "Um," he said, for possibly the first time in his adult life, "H-Hermione Grang-"

"Dead."

It was like the cry of an animal, Fartham realized. A short, sharp barking sound, which had been repeated over and over. Dead, dead, dead…

"Um, all right. It's a pity, though." He was genuinely sorry, but Harry looked at him as though he were something on the bottom of his shoe, so Fartham hastened to explain. "Miss Granger was quite an asset to the Ministry. She'll be missed." He put a neat tick next to the name "Hermione Granger" on his list with sigh. "So many Ministry workers ran off to become Aurors in the past few years. If only they had heeded our warning, most of them would still be here with us." It was the wrong thing to say, and he regretted it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Harry's knuckles cracked again, ominously. "One more now," Fartham said desperately. "Ronald Weasley?" There was a big long silence. Fartham looked up tentatively. "Is that a…a yes? Is he alive or dead?"

Harry was looking at his hands, but it was clear he was not really seeing them. His eyes were preoccupied with looking at something only he could see- in his mind.

"Mr Potter?"

"What?" Harry snapped, starting.

"Ronald Weasley."

"He's…dead."

With a shaking hand, Fartham ticked the last little box. DECEASED. "Yes, well, that seems to be all. If you'd just sign here, Mr. Potter. Just for the record you understand. Then you're free to go, unless you'd like to stay at the Ministry for a few more days to recover."

Harry raised his head slowly to look at Fartham, almost as though he were seeing him for the first time. He held out his hands for the form and the quill and scribbled his name and the date in shaky handwriting.

"Thank you very much for this Mr. Potter," Fartham garbled as Harry signed the parchment. "We just need a statement, that's all. You might be called back in during the next few weeks to verify a few other people's whereabouts, is that all right?" No answer, of course. "Is there an address we can send an owl, or shall we just send it straight to you?"

"To me," came the soft answer.

'Excellent," Fartham said, as Harry handed him back the form. 'Well," he said, standing up and ushering Harry to the door, "It was a pleasure to have met you, Mr. Potter, and we'll see you again soon. I hope you feel better, yes, good day."

And Harry left. Fartham breathed a long sigh of relief. To his consternation, he found that his hands were shaking. So much for the stomach of a concrete elephant. He was just moving to the file cabinet to file the statement in his hand when something scrawled on top of it caught Fartham's eyes.

There, in the heavy black ink in Harry Potter's scrawl, scribbled over the title of the statement, were the words "A LIST OF SACRIFICES FOR THE MINISTRY."

For the first time in his adult life, Fartham felt tears sting the back of his eyes. He opened the door to his office once again.

"Mandy," he said to his secretary, "Could you please send Percy Weasley in?"