Authors Notes : ...I have mixed feelings about this story, now. I am an author in mourning. As a person with their own beloved characters, I cannot imagine the suffering that it must have caused JK Rowling to have to write Sirius's final moments in Order of the Phoenix. I ask all of you not to hold his death against her; when one is the writer of original fiction, one finds themselves in a way writing *for* the characters, not bending them to our will. Rowling has only written the story the way the story goes - and as heartbroken as I am, as we are... I have no doubt in my mind that her pain is indubitably the worst. When I finished the Order of the Phoenix, I had no intentions of ever touching 'Trial' again. However... I think that now, this story needs an end. Let us set aside the tragedy for just a few last moments, and remember Sirius as we should; alive, determined, and beautiful. I will not be writing any further pieces in which Sirius still lives. What is done, is done. But for now, I will give him one last shot at life. Let the story continue.
***
Chapter V : A Game Of Pretend
[ colloquial title : twelve ]
The whole day had been one very long game of pretend.
Pretending to be hungry, pretending to be listening, pretending not to worry, pretending to smile. Pretending to agree with Ron that the books Hermione had sent them were getting them closer to making a better case before the Wizangamot. Pretending that they *had* a case before the Wizangamot. Hermione's immediate reaction had been somewhere between scorn and disbelief - as far as she was concerned, Harry was over the legal age of consent in Britain, and that was that; that was, according to muggle lawmakers.
Indeed, Harry had finally found one thing that the muggle world had up on the wizarding community; however, from what Mrs. Weasley had told him, the legal age of consent had been raised a year by the Ministry in 1812, after a dark wizard known as Sebastian the Sadistic had been discovered of a most disturbing penchant for keeping exactly sixteen concubine witches at all times, all sixteen years of age.
He would have given all the gold in his Gringotts vault for the chance to punch old Sebastian on the nose.
There didn't seem to be a bright side. Sirius was in prison, their trial date was looming, and no matter how hard he thought, Harry couldn't come up with a single thing that might be even mildly helpful in getting his godfather out of this. If Lucius Malfoy was at the helm of this operation - and Harry would have bet his want that he was - then it was going to be no simple matter of a good argument, anyway. He was by no means poor, but he severely doubted that every last knut in his vault would add up to even a tenth of the Malfoy family fortune. Malfoy could buy Sirius's guilt, and not for a second was Harry naive enough to deny this to himself.
After dinner, he'd excused himself, and ascended alone to Ron's bedroom at the very top of the haphazard little house. For the tactless individual that Hermione so often made him out to be, Ron had shown a surprising amount of it in realizing that Harry needed this time to himself. He'd stayed downstairs to play a game of exploding snap with Fred and George, leaving Harry in peace to make his way, flight by flight, up the steep and winding staircase.
There had to be *something* that they hadn't thought of yet - something they'd overlooked, some loophole in wizarding civil law that would let Sirius off the hook, somewhere else to place the blame...
Harry stopped dead in his tracks on the top landing outside of Ron's room, his eyes very very wide behind his glasses.
Himself. Of course. Who better to implicate than himself? What if he told the courts that he'd put Sirius under some sort of spell, or fed him some sort of potion, or...
Suddenly the possibilities seemed endless. How could Sirius be guilty of anything if he hadn't acted on his own will? They would *have* to let him off the hook. Now he just needed a believable antidote - a love potion, or maybe a charm that an average fifth year student had the capabilities to perform; something simple yet potent enough to be believable, something that Sirius could deny all knowledge of.
Harry flung open the door to Ron's room with such force that it set the ghoul in the attic to howling - ignoring it, he closed himself in the tiny, vibrantly orange bedroom and threw himself into the chair at the desk, dragging the largest book that Hermione had sent him [entitled "A Comprehensive History Of Romantic Tradition in Magical Britain."] open before him and pouring through the index. He and Ron had both had a good laugh over the title of this particular volume when they'd opened Hermione's package; cracking jokes about stodgy old stuffers in a great library somewhere, compiling dry and straightforward facts on the birds and the bees into a stiff, awkward narrative. Now, Harry was ready to kiss the author right on the mouth, if there was material on love potions between it's covers.
But there turned out to be nothing at all about love potions or enchantments in A Comprehensive History of Romantic Tradition in Magical Britain, and Harry found himself questioning just how comprehensive it really was. He was far from discouraged, however; he would head straight to Diagon Alley as soon as he could, and pick up every book on love charms and potions that Flourish and Blotts had in stock. Harry shoved the weighty codec off of the desk and back into the corner with their school books and made haste downstairs to tell Ron about his new plan.
But the reaction he got from his best friend, when he caught up with him on the hillside behind the house and told him his plan, was not the one that he wanted.
"Harry, the might send you to Azkaban! The Ministry's really strict about love potions and the like; you can mix one up for your girlfriend, sure, but if you give someone a really strong one without telling them what it is; well, Mum knew a woman who's husband was going to leave her, so she brewed up some Adoration Ale and poured it into his hard cider bottles - only her elderly mother got into it one night, not knowing what it was, and the whole thing ended up with some sordid affair with the post owl, that's how they caught her..." Ron, Fred, and George had been on their way to play Quidditch in the meadow at the top of the hill; he'd lagged behind with Harry, listening, but now he stopped outright on the hillside, his broom forgotten in his hand.
Harry was torn between amusement at the idea of an old lady making improper advances on a post owl, and bitter resentment that Ron was against him. The truth was that he hadn't even considered what the consequences for himself might be, if he played the decoy to get Sirius off the hook. With more irritation than he meant to voice, he said, "Well I'm not some witchy old lady brewing up potions for her estranged husband; Sirius can just say that he didn't know, but it'll be up to him to press charges, then won't it?"
"I don't know... it's the Ministry that's brought the charges against Sirius--"
"But that's the *point*, Ron; the charges are against Sirius, not me. Even if they do decide to convict me, they'll have to make a brand new case of it--"
"--And what if they do that?" Ron asked quietly. Harry's eyes darkened.
"Then I'll have brought it on myself, won't I? Look, Ron, I'm not asking *you* to lie for us..." Harry broke off, sighed heavily. Ron had gone silent, and he was chewing on his lower lip, his pale, freckled complexion tinted with the blue of twilight. Finally, he said;
"You're really in love, aren't you? I mean, I knew you two loved eachother," Ron paused, looked at Harry carefully, "... but you're really *in* it." He looked slightly awed, and Harry didn't like the sudden feeling of distance that had arisen inside of him. Sitting down on the grass, he sighed again.
"Listen... I know that, when this all started," -- Harry waved his hand vaguely, to indicate the parameters of 'all this' as the concept of he and Sirius as lovers -- "that you and Hermione weren't exactly fans of the idea..."
Ron had sat down beside him, laying his broomstick tenderly in the grass by his feet; now he made a small, dismissive gesture. "It was... weird, at first. We just didn't know what to think, that's all. I'll admit it, I was a little nervous that you two'd be all... y'know, *close* and stuff around us--" Harry did an applaudable job of holding back a chuckle at Ron's awkwardness "-- but that didn't happen, and you know we adore Sirius. We got used to the idea pretty fast."
Harry felt a surge of fondness for his two best friends, in that moment. Neither of them had ever even addressed the fact that Sirius was a man. Ron had never acted the least bit uncomfortable around him after the fact, though he'd seemed somewhat relieved to catch Harry staring quite a bit longer than necessary at Cho in the hallways when they'd returned to school.
Another moment of silence passed between them, with Harry gazing up at the falling night sky and Ron idly smoothing the twigs of his broom tail. There seemed to be lots more to say, but for some reason, Harry felt no compulsion to say any of it. It was Ron who finally broke the stillness by saying;
"Fred and George must think we've fallen into a gnome hole or something…"
Harry chuckled, and the two of them climbed to their feet. Before they'd made it another five paces, however, Mrs. Weasley's voice came ringing up the hillside behind them.
"Harry! You've someone here to see you!"
The two of the exchanged a long, confused look before Ron said "I'm coming with you," and the two of them turned 'round and set back for the house.
Mrs. Weasley was waiting at the back door for them. She'd taken off her apron, and when they got close enough she hurried them with a quick little gesture. "It's your lawyer, Harry," she said when they reached the threshold.
"I have a lawyer?" said Harry, now thoroughly puzzled.
He liked the looks of the man standing in the living room at once. For one thing, he was shorter than Harry - a merit that very few people over the age of twelve earned. For another thing, he was young. His face was a paradoxical blend of boyish charm and chiseled beauty, and he had very clear, light blue eyes that were both keen and honest. They reminded Harry strongly of Dumbledore's eyes; though of an icier shade, and the spectacles squared, not moon shaped, they had the same sharp sparkle; the same vague and fleeting shadows of great power behind them. Harry had the odd feeling that, somehow, those eyes had been watching him before he'd even made it through the doorway and come into view. The sensation was slightly eerie, but then the man smiled one of the most charming smiles that Harry had ever seen, and came 'round the couch to offer a dark gloved hand to him.
"Harry Potter; Jonathan Dove, at your service - I've been appointed as your godfather's defense attorney. I must say that it's quite an honor to meet you at last; as you're surely used to hearing, I've heard quite a bit about you."
Infallibly polite, yet the words rolled in an easy, natural cadence from his tongue, and his manner was warm and approachable. Harry shook his hand, and meant it.
"I didn't think they'd let Sirius have an attorney, honestly," he said as they sat down.
"Well, I'll be honest with you - I asked for this case. If I hadn't, they might not have appointed anyone to it."
"Is that legal?" Harry asked.
The corner of Dove's mouth hitched in something between a smirk and a smile. "One thing I've learned as a lawyer? Anything is legal, if you shine *just* the right light on it."
Harry couldn't help but smile. Dove lit a cigarette, tapped it gracefully in an ashtray, and cracked open the black leather briefcase at his feet, pulling out a sheaf of papers. "Well, we should probably get right to it; the faster we do, the faster we'll have him out of there." He looked straight at Harry then. "I'm going to need your help, though, Harry. Some things that I ask you may be very personal, and I wish I could tell you that you don't have to answer if you don't feel comfortable; but everything that you tell me is going to be helpful, if not vital, to freeing your godfather. You may not see the correlation, right away, but you've got to trust me."
The frankness and respect with which he spoke infused Harry with confidence; after the nightmare that had been his trip to St Mungo's, the last thing he wanted was to answer anymore personal questions, but somehow he felt in that moment as though he could tell Dove anything and everything. He had a *reason* to tell him everything. This man was not prying into his life, he was offering help. *This* was an ally.
"I'll tell you whatever you need to know. But can I ask you something, first?"
"You just have. However, you may ask me something else, if you wish."
Jonathan Dove's blue eyes sparkled over the rims of his glasses as he smiled; and now Harry didn't really need to ask at all, but he did so anyway.
"Are you related to Dumbledore?"
Dove's smile widened, and he chuckled softly, taking one more drag of his cigarette and putting it out before it was half finished. "I should have known that you would ask that. You're his favorite student of the last five decades, of course you would notice. Albus Dumbledore is my great uncle."
"So your grandfather's Aberforth?" Harry asked without really meaning to, remembering something that Dumbledore had once told him about his brother and a scandalous charm on a goat. For a moment he was afraid that the question would somehow offend Dove; but to his surprise, the blue-eyed man burst into laughter.
"Oh Merlin's Beard, no! I never had the… er… pleasure of meeting great-uncle Aberforth, but I hear he's quite a piece of work; the prodigal son, as Albus was the favorite. My grandfather, Abner, was the youngest, and the dreamer of the family; a hopeless poet who spent his entire life writing limericks. Never earned a knut for them, either." Dove chuckled softly, ran a hand through his hair with an easy smile. "We've got quite an eclectic family, really - I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you've heard a bit about us, as well."
It felt good to be on equal footing with Dove; to share a laugh with him along with the invaluable common bond of Dumbledore. For a moment, Harry wanted to forget about the purpose of their meeting and simply talk with Dove for awhile, get to know him, befriend him. But Dove was sifting through the sheafs of parchment which he'd drawn out of his briefcase - all formal-looking documents, stamped with the Ministry's seal. After a moment he set these down on the end table, removed a fresh scroll and a quik-quill note taker, and spread these out on the coffee table. Harry eyed the acid green quill dubiously - Rita Skeeter'd had one of these, and he didn't exactly trust them…
As if Dove was reading his mind, he turned the scroll towards Harry so that he would be able to read every word of what was written, and said "Alright, let's get to it then, shall we?" As the words left his lips, the quill scrawled them in a looping, graceful hand across the parchment, in very dark red ink. Word for word. Harry looked up at the lawyer, took a deep breath, and asked,
"What do you need me to tell you?"
His own words had appeared below Jonathan's, and Harry was quite startled to see that they were written in his own handwriting, the ink a lighter shade of red than before. He didn't have time to ponder this for very long, however.
"Everything. Let's start with your life with your Aunt and Uncle. What was it like?"
Harry's stomach turned. He didn't want to think about the Dursleys now - or ever again, for that matter. But Dove had already told him that if he wanted to help free Sirius, he'd have to speak up. He picked a spot on the wall behind Dove, and focused his eyes on it as he said,
"Dreadful, if you must know. They never liked me. They hate wizards, and magic, and anything that they don't understand, really."
"I see. *Those* sort of muggles. Did you ever try to run away?"
"I didn't have anywhere to go," said Harry evenly.
"I know these are things you'd rather not speak of, Harry, but think of it like this - everything bad that you can tell me about your guardians before Sirius will make him look the better. If your Aunt and Uncle treated you badly, I need to know the details."
"Jona-er, Mr. Dove?"
"Oh, do call me Jonathan."
Harry shifted his weight. "Well, you see… before you got here I'd been thinking, and I wondered - what if we told the court that I gave Sirius some sort of potion, or put a charm on him… convince them that I *forced* him to, well.."
"Sleep with you? Then that's not statutory rape, Harry, that's rape outright. You'd be headed to Azkaban for 10-12 years even if I plea bargained you down to the lowest possible sentence. Plus they'd want physical proof - send medics over him with a fine tooth comb, test for any potions or charms, anyway. It's a good thought, but I'm afraid it really isn't going to work. What I'm planning on doing is playing the heartstrings of the Wizangamot. We want them to have sympathy for you."
"What about sympathy for Sirius?"
Dove smiled bitterly. "Not going to happen, I'm afraid. Most people have their minds made up about him - but you're something altogether different, Harry. I wouldn't blame you for being upset by what I'm about to tell you; but I've already spoken to Sirius, and-"
Harry heart jumped in his chest; nearly rising from his chair, he interjected, "You've spoke with Sirius? You've seen him? Is he alright? How does he look? They haven't hurt him, have they? How long ago did-"
Jonathan raised both a hand and his chin to cut Harry off.
"I have. He's doing amazingly well - the Dementors have little to no effect on him. He's angry as the devil, yes, but he's not hurt, and you don't need to fear for his safety. You're the only thing that he's worried for, right now; but you ought to know that we've had a very long and in-depth discussion regarding the nature his relationship with you, including how it came to be, and what happened when you were ten years old…"
The lawyer's words trailed off, for Harry was sitting stock still in his chair, staring at Dove with undisguised horror. He knew. He knew about the rape, and the nightmares, and everything. He knew that Harry was tainted, dirty, knew that awful, awful secret…
He couldn't look at Jonathan, anymore. Turning his face away, Harry drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He'd thought that Dove could like him, respect him - but how could you respect someone, once you knew something like that about them? When Jonathan looked at him, he saw a Victim; something stripped and broken and not to be touched. He couldn't talk to this man, now; this noble, pristine creature who sat across from him…
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. "I can't do this."
"Would you like to know why I became a lawyer, Harry?"
He had not expected the question, and Harry glanced at Dove momentarily over the tops of his own knees. The blue eyes looking back at him were not pitying, or disgusted, but sincere. Jonathan Dove had the steady, open gaze of a man who had nothing to hide - and the entire time that he spoke, he looked at Harry. He did not flinch, or turn away, or show the slightest sign of shame when he said;
"When I was younger, the same thing happened to me. A whole pack of people, I never saw them coming. I was only eight years old, and I didn't really know what was happening - I just knew that it hurt, and that I hated it, and that I hated *them*, whoever they were. They left me for dead in Knockturn Alley, and I spent weeks in St. Mungo's. I wouldn't speak to anyone, wouldn't tell them what had happened to me, wouldn't let anyone near me that I didn't know and trust. It was Hell, Harry. My parents hired a lawyer, and he came and spoke with me, and I didn't want to speak to him. I hated him. They had to feed me Veritaserum to make me talk.
"But then the court date came. They didn't make me testify - in fact I didn't even have to enter the courtroom. But I remember standing outside of it with my father, and great-uncle Albus, waiting for the verdict. I didn't even know that they'd found the people who'd raped me. But then my lawyer came out, and he said to me 'You don't have to worry, anymore. They're all going to Azkaban. They won't come back for you.' That man gave my life back to me, just like that - and right then and there, I decided that when I grew up, I was going to be a lawyer just like him, and put other people's nightmares to rest for them."
That smooth, cultured voice gave way to no hitch or fault, no hesitation. Dove spoke not to the floor, or the wall, but directly to Harry - and when he had finished, he simply lit another cigarette, sat back in his chair, and let his words sink in. Harry's head was reeling.
Jonathan Dove was a Victim, too. This strong and dignified creature before him had been hurt just like him, and yet here he sat - shameless, remorseless, utterly composed. And then he said "I would be very surprised, indeed, Harry, if anything that I have just said to you makes you think the less of me. Please understand that I do not think the less of you for what your godfather has disclosed to me; and nothing that you say in confidence to me shall do so, either."
Harry looked up at him. They were equals, again - moreso than Harry had ever imagined at the beginning of their meeting. This man knew, and thought no less of him. A weight had lifted from Harry's shoulders - a weight that he had carried for five long years, a weight that only Sirius had ever been able to carry for him before. There was nothing hide. Dove already knew; and even more, he understood. He had seen it, felt it, and lived through all of it himself.
A strange mix of emotions washed over Harry, then; gratitude, bitterness, and a sense of wisdom far beyond his years. He looked Jonathan straight in the eyes, and asked him,
"How many of them did you?"
"Twelve." It was as though Dove had been expecting the unsettlingly blunt question, though Harry did not even really know why he had asked it. The response was clean and immediate, like the parry of a verbal rapier, and Dove's eyes were locked on his now. "Two of them came back for seconds."
"Touché," Harry said with a humorless smile, feeling as though some final bond had been sealed between Dove and himself.
Dove's smile spread into a close-lipped yet catlike grin. "I see, more and more, why you are my great-uncle's favorite."
Harry settled back in his chair, glanced over his shoulder to make sure that the living room door was closed, and said "Well, I suppose we should start with the time that Uncle Vernon locked me in the tool shed for three days when I was six…"
* * *
***
Chapter V : A Game Of Pretend
[ colloquial title : twelve ]
The whole day had been one very long game of pretend.
Pretending to be hungry, pretending to be listening, pretending not to worry, pretending to smile. Pretending to agree with Ron that the books Hermione had sent them were getting them closer to making a better case before the Wizangamot. Pretending that they *had* a case before the Wizangamot. Hermione's immediate reaction had been somewhere between scorn and disbelief - as far as she was concerned, Harry was over the legal age of consent in Britain, and that was that; that was, according to muggle lawmakers.
Indeed, Harry had finally found one thing that the muggle world had up on the wizarding community; however, from what Mrs. Weasley had told him, the legal age of consent had been raised a year by the Ministry in 1812, after a dark wizard known as Sebastian the Sadistic had been discovered of a most disturbing penchant for keeping exactly sixteen concubine witches at all times, all sixteen years of age.
He would have given all the gold in his Gringotts vault for the chance to punch old Sebastian on the nose.
There didn't seem to be a bright side. Sirius was in prison, their trial date was looming, and no matter how hard he thought, Harry couldn't come up with a single thing that might be even mildly helpful in getting his godfather out of this. If Lucius Malfoy was at the helm of this operation - and Harry would have bet his want that he was - then it was going to be no simple matter of a good argument, anyway. He was by no means poor, but he severely doubted that every last knut in his vault would add up to even a tenth of the Malfoy family fortune. Malfoy could buy Sirius's guilt, and not for a second was Harry naive enough to deny this to himself.
After dinner, he'd excused himself, and ascended alone to Ron's bedroom at the very top of the haphazard little house. For the tactless individual that Hermione so often made him out to be, Ron had shown a surprising amount of it in realizing that Harry needed this time to himself. He'd stayed downstairs to play a game of exploding snap with Fred and George, leaving Harry in peace to make his way, flight by flight, up the steep and winding staircase.
There had to be *something* that they hadn't thought of yet - something they'd overlooked, some loophole in wizarding civil law that would let Sirius off the hook, somewhere else to place the blame...
Harry stopped dead in his tracks on the top landing outside of Ron's room, his eyes very very wide behind his glasses.
Himself. Of course. Who better to implicate than himself? What if he told the courts that he'd put Sirius under some sort of spell, or fed him some sort of potion, or...
Suddenly the possibilities seemed endless. How could Sirius be guilty of anything if he hadn't acted on his own will? They would *have* to let him off the hook. Now he just needed a believable antidote - a love potion, or maybe a charm that an average fifth year student had the capabilities to perform; something simple yet potent enough to be believable, something that Sirius could deny all knowledge of.
Harry flung open the door to Ron's room with such force that it set the ghoul in the attic to howling - ignoring it, he closed himself in the tiny, vibrantly orange bedroom and threw himself into the chair at the desk, dragging the largest book that Hermione had sent him [entitled "A Comprehensive History Of Romantic Tradition in Magical Britain."] open before him and pouring through the index. He and Ron had both had a good laugh over the title of this particular volume when they'd opened Hermione's package; cracking jokes about stodgy old stuffers in a great library somewhere, compiling dry and straightforward facts on the birds and the bees into a stiff, awkward narrative. Now, Harry was ready to kiss the author right on the mouth, if there was material on love potions between it's covers.
But there turned out to be nothing at all about love potions or enchantments in A Comprehensive History of Romantic Tradition in Magical Britain, and Harry found himself questioning just how comprehensive it really was. He was far from discouraged, however; he would head straight to Diagon Alley as soon as he could, and pick up every book on love charms and potions that Flourish and Blotts had in stock. Harry shoved the weighty codec off of the desk and back into the corner with their school books and made haste downstairs to tell Ron about his new plan.
But the reaction he got from his best friend, when he caught up with him on the hillside behind the house and told him his plan, was not the one that he wanted.
"Harry, the might send you to Azkaban! The Ministry's really strict about love potions and the like; you can mix one up for your girlfriend, sure, but if you give someone a really strong one without telling them what it is; well, Mum knew a woman who's husband was going to leave her, so she brewed up some Adoration Ale and poured it into his hard cider bottles - only her elderly mother got into it one night, not knowing what it was, and the whole thing ended up with some sordid affair with the post owl, that's how they caught her..." Ron, Fred, and George had been on their way to play Quidditch in the meadow at the top of the hill; he'd lagged behind with Harry, listening, but now he stopped outright on the hillside, his broom forgotten in his hand.
Harry was torn between amusement at the idea of an old lady making improper advances on a post owl, and bitter resentment that Ron was against him. The truth was that he hadn't even considered what the consequences for himself might be, if he played the decoy to get Sirius off the hook. With more irritation than he meant to voice, he said, "Well I'm not some witchy old lady brewing up potions for her estranged husband; Sirius can just say that he didn't know, but it'll be up to him to press charges, then won't it?"
"I don't know... it's the Ministry that's brought the charges against Sirius--"
"But that's the *point*, Ron; the charges are against Sirius, not me. Even if they do decide to convict me, they'll have to make a brand new case of it--"
"--And what if they do that?" Ron asked quietly. Harry's eyes darkened.
"Then I'll have brought it on myself, won't I? Look, Ron, I'm not asking *you* to lie for us..." Harry broke off, sighed heavily. Ron had gone silent, and he was chewing on his lower lip, his pale, freckled complexion tinted with the blue of twilight. Finally, he said;
"You're really in love, aren't you? I mean, I knew you two loved eachother," Ron paused, looked at Harry carefully, "... but you're really *in* it." He looked slightly awed, and Harry didn't like the sudden feeling of distance that had arisen inside of him. Sitting down on the grass, he sighed again.
"Listen... I know that, when this all started," -- Harry waved his hand vaguely, to indicate the parameters of 'all this' as the concept of he and Sirius as lovers -- "that you and Hermione weren't exactly fans of the idea..."
Ron had sat down beside him, laying his broomstick tenderly in the grass by his feet; now he made a small, dismissive gesture. "It was... weird, at first. We just didn't know what to think, that's all. I'll admit it, I was a little nervous that you two'd be all... y'know, *close* and stuff around us--" Harry did an applaudable job of holding back a chuckle at Ron's awkwardness "-- but that didn't happen, and you know we adore Sirius. We got used to the idea pretty fast."
Harry felt a surge of fondness for his two best friends, in that moment. Neither of them had ever even addressed the fact that Sirius was a man. Ron had never acted the least bit uncomfortable around him after the fact, though he'd seemed somewhat relieved to catch Harry staring quite a bit longer than necessary at Cho in the hallways when they'd returned to school.
Another moment of silence passed between them, with Harry gazing up at the falling night sky and Ron idly smoothing the twigs of his broom tail. There seemed to be lots more to say, but for some reason, Harry felt no compulsion to say any of it. It was Ron who finally broke the stillness by saying;
"Fred and George must think we've fallen into a gnome hole or something…"
Harry chuckled, and the two of them climbed to their feet. Before they'd made it another five paces, however, Mrs. Weasley's voice came ringing up the hillside behind them.
"Harry! You've someone here to see you!"
The two of the exchanged a long, confused look before Ron said "I'm coming with you," and the two of them turned 'round and set back for the house.
Mrs. Weasley was waiting at the back door for them. She'd taken off her apron, and when they got close enough she hurried them with a quick little gesture. "It's your lawyer, Harry," she said when they reached the threshold.
"I have a lawyer?" said Harry, now thoroughly puzzled.
He liked the looks of the man standing in the living room at once. For one thing, he was shorter than Harry - a merit that very few people over the age of twelve earned. For another thing, he was young. His face was a paradoxical blend of boyish charm and chiseled beauty, and he had very clear, light blue eyes that were both keen and honest. They reminded Harry strongly of Dumbledore's eyes; though of an icier shade, and the spectacles squared, not moon shaped, they had the same sharp sparkle; the same vague and fleeting shadows of great power behind them. Harry had the odd feeling that, somehow, those eyes had been watching him before he'd even made it through the doorway and come into view. The sensation was slightly eerie, but then the man smiled one of the most charming smiles that Harry had ever seen, and came 'round the couch to offer a dark gloved hand to him.
"Harry Potter; Jonathan Dove, at your service - I've been appointed as your godfather's defense attorney. I must say that it's quite an honor to meet you at last; as you're surely used to hearing, I've heard quite a bit about you."
Infallibly polite, yet the words rolled in an easy, natural cadence from his tongue, and his manner was warm and approachable. Harry shook his hand, and meant it.
"I didn't think they'd let Sirius have an attorney, honestly," he said as they sat down.
"Well, I'll be honest with you - I asked for this case. If I hadn't, they might not have appointed anyone to it."
"Is that legal?" Harry asked.
The corner of Dove's mouth hitched in something between a smirk and a smile. "One thing I've learned as a lawyer? Anything is legal, if you shine *just* the right light on it."
Harry couldn't help but smile. Dove lit a cigarette, tapped it gracefully in an ashtray, and cracked open the black leather briefcase at his feet, pulling out a sheaf of papers. "Well, we should probably get right to it; the faster we do, the faster we'll have him out of there." He looked straight at Harry then. "I'm going to need your help, though, Harry. Some things that I ask you may be very personal, and I wish I could tell you that you don't have to answer if you don't feel comfortable; but everything that you tell me is going to be helpful, if not vital, to freeing your godfather. You may not see the correlation, right away, but you've got to trust me."
The frankness and respect with which he spoke infused Harry with confidence; after the nightmare that had been his trip to St Mungo's, the last thing he wanted was to answer anymore personal questions, but somehow he felt in that moment as though he could tell Dove anything and everything. He had a *reason* to tell him everything. This man was not prying into his life, he was offering help. *This* was an ally.
"I'll tell you whatever you need to know. But can I ask you something, first?"
"You just have. However, you may ask me something else, if you wish."
Jonathan Dove's blue eyes sparkled over the rims of his glasses as he smiled; and now Harry didn't really need to ask at all, but he did so anyway.
"Are you related to Dumbledore?"
Dove's smile widened, and he chuckled softly, taking one more drag of his cigarette and putting it out before it was half finished. "I should have known that you would ask that. You're his favorite student of the last five decades, of course you would notice. Albus Dumbledore is my great uncle."
"So your grandfather's Aberforth?" Harry asked without really meaning to, remembering something that Dumbledore had once told him about his brother and a scandalous charm on a goat. For a moment he was afraid that the question would somehow offend Dove; but to his surprise, the blue-eyed man burst into laughter.
"Oh Merlin's Beard, no! I never had the… er… pleasure of meeting great-uncle Aberforth, but I hear he's quite a piece of work; the prodigal son, as Albus was the favorite. My grandfather, Abner, was the youngest, and the dreamer of the family; a hopeless poet who spent his entire life writing limericks. Never earned a knut for them, either." Dove chuckled softly, ran a hand through his hair with an easy smile. "We've got quite an eclectic family, really - I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you've heard a bit about us, as well."
It felt good to be on equal footing with Dove; to share a laugh with him along with the invaluable common bond of Dumbledore. For a moment, Harry wanted to forget about the purpose of their meeting and simply talk with Dove for awhile, get to know him, befriend him. But Dove was sifting through the sheafs of parchment which he'd drawn out of his briefcase - all formal-looking documents, stamped with the Ministry's seal. After a moment he set these down on the end table, removed a fresh scroll and a quik-quill note taker, and spread these out on the coffee table. Harry eyed the acid green quill dubiously - Rita Skeeter'd had one of these, and he didn't exactly trust them…
As if Dove was reading his mind, he turned the scroll towards Harry so that he would be able to read every word of what was written, and said "Alright, let's get to it then, shall we?" As the words left his lips, the quill scrawled them in a looping, graceful hand across the parchment, in very dark red ink. Word for word. Harry looked up at the lawyer, took a deep breath, and asked,
"What do you need me to tell you?"
His own words had appeared below Jonathan's, and Harry was quite startled to see that they were written in his own handwriting, the ink a lighter shade of red than before. He didn't have time to ponder this for very long, however.
"Everything. Let's start with your life with your Aunt and Uncle. What was it like?"
Harry's stomach turned. He didn't want to think about the Dursleys now - or ever again, for that matter. But Dove had already told him that if he wanted to help free Sirius, he'd have to speak up. He picked a spot on the wall behind Dove, and focused his eyes on it as he said,
"Dreadful, if you must know. They never liked me. They hate wizards, and magic, and anything that they don't understand, really."
"I see. *Those* sort of muggles. Did you ever try to run away?"
"I didn't have anywhere to go," said Harry evenly.
"I know these are things you'd rather not speak of, Harry, but think of it like this - everything bad that you can tell me about your guardians before Sirius will make him look the better. If your Aunt and Uncle treated you badly, I need to know the details."
"Jona-er, Mr. Dove?"
"Oh, do call me Jonathan."
Harry shifted his weight. "Well, you see… before you got here I'd been thinking, and I wondered - what if we told the court that I gave Sirius some sort of potion, or put a charm on him… convince them that I *forced* him to, well.."
"Sleep with you? Then that's not statutory rape, Harry, that's rape outright. You'd be headed to Azkaban for 10-12 years even if I plea bargained you down to the lowest possible sentence. Plus they'd want physical proof - send medics over him with a fine tooth comb, test for any potions or charms, anyway. It's a good thought, but I'm afraid it really isn't going to work. What I'm planning on doing is playing the heartstrings of the Wizangamot. We want them to have sympathy for you."
"What about sympathy for Sirius?"
Dove smiled bitterly. "Not going to happen, I'm afraid. Most people have their minds made up about him - but you're something altogether different, Harry. I wouldn't blame you for being upset by what I'm about to tell you; but I've already spoken to Sirius, and-"
Harry heart jumped in his chest; nearly rising from his chair, he interjected, "You've spoke with Sirius? You've seen him? Is he alright? How does he look? They haven't hurt him, have they? How long ago did-"
Jonathan raised both a hand and his chin to cut Harry off.
"I have. He's doing amazingly well - the Dementors have little to no effect on him. He's angry as the devil, yes, but he's not hurt, and you don't need to fear for his safety. You're the only thing that he's worried for, right now; but you ought to know that we've had a very long and in-depth discussion regarding the nature his relationship with you, including how it came to be, and what happened when you were ten years old…"
The lawyer's words trailed off, for Harry was sitting stock still in his chair, staring at Dove with undisguised horror. He knew. He knew about the rape, and the nightmares, and everything. He knew that Harry was tainted, dirty, knew that awful, awful secret…
He couldn't look at Jonathan, anymore. Turning his face away, Harry drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He'd thought that Dove could like him, respect him - but how could you respect someone, once you knew something like that about them? When Jonathan looked at him, he saw a Victim; something stripped and broken and not to be touched. He couldn't talk to this man, now; this noble, pristine creature who sat across from him…
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. "I can't do this."
"Would you like to know why I became a lawyer, Harry?"
He had not expected the question, and Harry glanced at Dove momentarily over the tops of his own knees. The blue eyes looking back at him were not pitying, or disgusted, but sincere. Jonathan Dove had the steady, open gaze of a man who had nothing to hide - and the entire time that he spoke, he looked at Harry. He did not flinch, or turn away, or show the slightest sign of shame when he said;
"When I was younger, the same thing happened to me. A whole pack of people, I never saw them coming. I was only eight years old, and I didn't really know what was happening - I just knew that it hurt, and that I hated it, and that I hated *them*, whoever they were. They left me for dead in Knockturn Alley, and I spent weeks in St. Mungo's. I wouldn't speak to anyone, wouldn't tell them what had happened to me, wouldn't let anyone near me that I didn't know and trust. It was Hell, Harry. My parents hired a lawyer, and he came and spoke with me, and I didn't want to speak to him. I hated him. They had to feed me Veritaserum to make me talk.
"But then the court date came. They didn't make me testify - in fact I didn't even have to enter the courtroom. But I remember standing outside of it with my father, and great-uncle Albus, waiting for the verdict. I didn't even know that they'd found the people who'd raped me. But then my lawyer came out, and he said to me 'You don't have to worry, anymore. They're all going to Azkaban. They won't come back for you.' That man gave my life back to me, just like that - and right then and there, I decided that when I grew up, I was going to be a lawyer just like him, and put other people's nightmares to rest for them."
That smooth, cultured voice gave way to no hitch or fault, no hesitation. Dove spoke not to the floor, or the wall, but directly to Harry - and when he had finished, he simply lit another cigarette, sat back in his chair, and let his words sink in. Harry's head was reeling.
Jonathan Dove was a Victim, too. This strong and dignified creature before him had been hurt just like him, and yet here he sat - shameless, remorseless, utterly composed. And then he said "I would be very surprised, indeed, Harry, if anything that I have just said to you makes you think the less of me. Please understand that I do not think the less of you for what your godfather has disclosed to me; and nothing that you say in confidence to me shall do so, either."
Harry looked up at him. They were equals, again - moreso than Harry had ever imagined at the beginning of their meeting. This man knew, and thought no less of him. A weight had lifted from Harry's shoulders - a weight that he had carried for five long years, a weight that only Sirius had ever been able to carry for him before. There was nothing hide. Dove already knew; and even more, he understood. He had seen it, felt it, and lived through all of it himself.
A strange mix of emotions washed over Harry, then; gratitude, bitterness, and a sense of wisdom far beyond his years. He looked Jonathan straight in the eyes, and asked him,
"How many of them did you?"
"Twelve." It was as though Dove had been expecting the unsettlingly blunt question, though Harry did not even really know why he had asked it. The response was clean and immediate, like the parry of a verbal rapier, and Dove's eyes were locked on his now. "Two of them came back for seconds."
"Touché," Harry said with a humorless smile, feeling as though some final bond had been sealed between Dove and himself.
Dove's smile spread into a close-lipped yet catlike grin. "I see, more and more, why you are my great-uncle's favorite."
Harry settled back in his chair, glanced over his shoulder to make sure that the living room door was closed, and said "Well, I suppose we should start with the time that Uncle Vernon locked me in the tool shed for three days when I was six…"
* * *