Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter in any way, shape, or form. I do seem to be in possession of toilet paper now.
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Chapter 1: Silent Screams of Innocence
Harry sat in his jail cell that he was to stay in until his trial. The walls were damp and covered with mold. The bars seemed rusted and the floor was cold. There were no dementors in the waiting cells, though Harry had a feeling that there were no dementors in Azkaban anymore. This thought did not cheer him up though. He had no delusions that anyone was going to believe in his innocence. He knew what it had to have looked like to everyone. He was sitting there, his wand lying near him with the curse on it. And anything he could say would probably make it worse. Who would believe that he was just there because of a bad feeling; who would believe that someone came in while he was there, unseen to him, and just took his wand and kill Dumbledore.
He wanted to see people. He wanted to see his friends. He wanted to see anyone and tell them the truth. But they would never believe him. No one ever did. Whenever he was telling the truth over the biggest things, no one believed. The only two people who had always believed were now dead. And both of their deaths were his fault. He had led one to his death and just stared as the other one was murdered in front of him. Now that they were gone, no one was left to believe him. Even Ron, his best friend, hadn't always believed. And Harry was sure that none of the common sense in the world was going to save him from the blame of Hermione.
Hours were ticking by as Harry waited for his trial. He counted drips as they fell from the ceiling to the ground. They became a metronome of drips, checking off the seconds. So Harry sat there, listening to the only sound that made sense at the moment. The only other noises he could hear were the thoughts in his head, but they made less sense than anything else. He had gone through this once before. He had waited for a trial before, but before he had been so convinced that he would be okay. Dumbledore had come to save him. And even if he had been charged guilty before, the worst that would happen is that he would be expelled from school. Now, the best he could hope for was a cell with clean walls.
Finally, after waiting forever, a man came to the cell and unlocked it. He led Harry through the many twists and turns of the prison. He did not seem very eager to be near Harry. He was directing Harry where to go with a harsh voice and after ages of "left…right…" they finally reached a room.
This room was different from the last room Harry had been in for a trial. It was as bleak as he felt. An empty chair waited for him and a few important members of the Ministry were sitting behind a table. The man who had brought Harry turned around and left, shutting the heavy door behind him with a loud thud. Harry took a few steps forward, and then slid into the hard chair. Cornelius Fudge and two more men sat before him with solemn faces.
"Harry James Potter, you are here today to face charges of murdering Albus Dumbledore," Fudge stated, reading from a piece of parchment. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
Harry sat there. What could he say to make them believe him? Fudge had never believed him. He definitely wasn't going to believe him now. There was no one to vouch for him. There was no one to save him anymore. Harry pondered over what happened. There was silence in the courtroom, but chaos in his head. Thoughts were swirling and words were silently screaming to be heard, but he did not know what to say. He raised his eyes to look at the men before him. If only they could see what had happened by looking at his eyes. Why could they not see what his eyes had seen?
After sinking into his ocean of thoughts, Harry swallowed his throat and decided to try to speak. "I…there was someone in the room. I think there was someone else in the room who killed him."
Harry knew how desperate he must have sounded. He knew how stupid his excuse was. He knew that no matter what he said, he would be considered guilty. Whatever the truth was, he would be sent to Azkaban for it. And he did not even know who it was. And he probably never would. It is rather difficult to solve mysteries from a jail cell. His eyes were pleading with the men, but they would never believe him. He was their fallen hero. He was a traitor to his own cause. And nothing he could ever say would ever change that. He knew it.
"And what exactly were you doing in the Headmaster's room?" asked one of the men, snapping Harry out of his thoughts.
Harry paused, trying to figure out what he should say now. In the end, he decided to go with the truth, "I don't know why I went to his bedroom. I just had this bad feeling. I knew something was going to happen. So I went."
They were staring at him with an incredulous look. Before, when Fudge had not believed his story of dementors, Sirius's innocence, and Voldemort's return, Harry had not been able to understand why. Those stories were obvious. He would never lie about something like the return of Voldemort. But this time, Harry could see why Fudge believed he was lying. The greatest wizard of their time had just been murdered, and the greatest excuse that Harry could come up with was, "There was someone in the room" and "I just felt like something bad was going to happen."
He wanted to go now. He knew they were going to put him into Azkaban. If only they could see the innocence written on his face as well as he could read the look of contempt etched over their faces. But they were not going to just let him pack off to Azkaban. They were going to torture him. They were going to make him wait till they made it official. They were going to make him sit there, trying simultaneously to read their faces and yet not look at them either.
Fudge started talking again, "Harry James Potter, you are to return to your holding cell. We will review your testimony, as well as what we have gathered from witnesses. When we have reached a verdict, we will alert you." He seemed to be treating this like a business deal. It all seemed so rehearsed, so mechanical—like Harry was just a toy being debated over in a meeting.
Fudge pressed a little button on the table, and the man who had brought Harry to the room came back. This time, he led Harry back. He still did not seem too eager to be near him, but he looked at Harry with slight curiosity. He felt like the snake that Dudley had been trying to make move so many years ago. Or was it really so long ago? Was it really only five years? Five years since he had first learned he was a wizard.
So long ago, Harry had felt like that was the best moment of his life. He had thought that it would be escape from the life he had led with the Dursleys. He had thought he would be free. And now—now he was stuck in a prison of time, waiting for Fudge he knew was coming, waiting to go to Azkaban, waiting to be hated by everyone, and waiting for the goddamn prophecy to come true. If either he or Voldemort were supposed to die, why couldn't it just happen? Just get it all fucking over with. But no, he had to be stuck here, waiting for it all to happen.
They finally reached Harry's waiting cell. He walked in, not bothering to look where he was walking—it was not like there was anything to look at or trip over. He glumly sat down, not caring that the floor was damp or dirty or smelled like the Herbology greenhouses when they were using the dragon dung fertilizer. He just sat there. At one moment, he wanted to know what everyone was thinking about him, yet at the same moment he decided that it was probably better not to know. Maybe he was better off being ignorant.
He waited there again, knowing what was going to happen. Again, he stared at the walls, counted the drips, and pondered over what happened. And finally, the man who had taken him to the trial came back. He took unlocked the cell and took Harry roughly by the arm. They began walking a new path this time. Harry could see that the rooms were getting brighter. That meant that they were walking upstairs, towards the outside. Harry could not help get a little hopeful at this. Maybe they did believe him after all. Maybe they were not going to send him to Azkaban.
As he ascended the steps, he could hear people. A crowd of people were waiting out there. Maybe they were the Order, waiting to take him home. He was walking towards sunlight now. They were approaching a heavy door. The man opened the door and suddenly Harry saw how large the crowd really was. They were loud, and extended for a distance. And Harry realized then what they came for. They were there to see if it was really true. There were there to hear the verdict of what they thought was a guilty man. They thought he was guilty, he could tell, because the moment he had come out of the doors, they had gone silent with accusation—as if one word might suddenly tie them in with the crime as well.
Fudge came out with the other men that had tried Harry. One of the, a rather short man with little hair, stepped forward. Tapping his throat with his wand and whispering Sonorus, he suddenly spoke.
"We, the members of the Department of Justice, have hereby found Harry James Potter guilty of murdering Albus Dumbledore. His sentence has already been decided. He will be sent to Azkaban for a life sentence with no chance of parole."
When he was finished, an audible gasp was heard from the crowd. It was not that they were shocked by the sentence, it was the reality. It was the finality of it all. Harry, their savior, was guilty. He could not save them anymore. How could someone who had had been charged with murdering the great Albus Dumbledore be their hero?
Harry was marched down through the crowd. He had Ministry officials on all sides of him. People stared at him with the same curiosity that the jailer had stared at him with before. He tried to avoid looking at them. He did not want to see who these people were. But sometimes, he looked up. It always seemed to be at the wrong moment too. Once, he had looked up to see a red-headed family. The Weasley's looked at him with sadness and disbelief. Hermione was standing with them, looking stumped for the first time in her life. He was guilty to them. He saw Draco too, his familiar smirk adorning his skinny white face. This is what he had been reduced too. He was now considered more evil than Draco Malfoy.
And that is when his scar began hurting again. And he knew why it hurt. It was Voldemort. He was laughing—Harry could hear it. He was laughing because the people he intended to take control over had just removed one of his greatest obstacles for him. It was only time before Voldemort would finally have what he wanted.
And there was no one there to stop him.
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Sorry that it took me a while to write this. I'm actually much happier with this version of the story than before. I just like the format. What about you? Tell me what you think. Please review!
Thanks and good bye for now.
