Prometheus Bound

by Dius Corvus

Harry survives an unbearable summer and returns to Hogwarts to learn secrets about himself that he really could have done without. He’s lost his sight, all illusions about his parentage, and now will he lose himself? COMPLETE

21. The Trial

A/N: Procyon Black deserves countless thanks for the beta, as well as many happy returns for her birthday.

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Chapter 21: The Trial

Harry found himself floating above a vast expanse of wrinkled darkness, dotted with little red lights. He thought it might be the sky, but where was the moon? And the stars weren't ever that flickering color of candles, and the sky never had wrinkles that seemed to be trees or large stones…

With a start, he realized he was staring down at the earth instead of up at the sky. I'm dreaming, he thought quite calmly. But where am I? and what am I dreaming of?

As the thoughts swirled around his mind like streaks of chocolate in a Christmas drink, he noticed white beginning to creep over his vision, like frost over a window. I suppose I'm withdrawing my mind from the snake's, Harry thought dubiously, for he wondered why he'd do such a thing while suspended so far up above the earth. He'd obviously want to see where he was and where he was going. The misty whiteness expanded, swallowing the darkness and wrinkles and little lights, until before him was a vast expanse of utter blankness…

But then he noticed little flickering lights in the middle of the whiteness. He stared, fascinated. Was he seeing things through his veil of blindness? The lights were like vague shimmers, glimmering in a cluster like the dimmest of stars; Harry counted them: there were either ten or eleven, though really he couldn't tell, they were so faint, so far away…

...something was pulling him, pulling him backwards, wrenching him from his dream—

He gasped and awoke. There was someone was strangling him, and he struggled desperately for a few moments before realizing that it was only his sweat-soaked sheets.

"Arglwydd," hissed the snake in concern, emerging from its usual nest behind Harry's pillow. "What is the matter?"

"Nothing," Harry replied. His heart was beating too fast, as though he'd just emerged from a nightmare. But he hadn't been having a nightmare. In fact, the dream had been rather peaceful, with him floating like a cloud over the glimmering earth—

Harry froze, listening intently. "What was that?"

The snake slithered quickly onto the ground. "I felt it too," it hissed anxiously. "It was a groaning, or a deep—"

The snake stopped. Harry heard the sound again: a mournful low note, seeming to come from far away yet everywhere at once. "Is it"—Harry began, though the idea was so incredulous he paused before continuing—"is it the castle?"

The snake set its head to the ground. "It is," said the snake, and in a flash, it had climbed up Harry's arm and settled itself around his neck. The whiteness cleared, and Harry drew in a sharp breath: moonlight flooded in from a window at the other end of the room, sharply illuminating everything as brilliantly as the sun's rays.

"Quick," the snake hissed. "Remember your friend's father's threat?"

Harry flung himself out of bed as the castle gave another groan. Vestiges of drowsiness cleared from his mind as he remembered starkly the words written in the color of dried blood. He hesitated for a brief moment as Dumbledore's instructions ran through his mind—You must stay in your dormitory and pretend to be asleep—but the snake was hissing ("Are you waiting for the castle to collapse about your ears?")—

"Wait," Harry muttered. He fumbled in his trunk, groping and clawing through his clothes.

"Arglwydd, you could go naked for all that it matters," said the snake impatiently. "And you're wearing the white robes Slytherin had gifted you in his chamber—you are perfectly—"

In one swift movement, Harry shed his white robes and pulled on the plain black student robes. "So I'm not as easily seen," Harry hissed curtly.

"No, don't put those things on your feet!" hissed the snake as Harry began to stuff his bare feet into his shoes. "The lightness of the water of sight works best without those chunky things."

You never mentioned it before, Harry thought crossly, but he obeyed, kicking aside the shoes before he darted outside the dormitory.

The moon seemed unnaturally bright as its light flooded the corridors, giving the world an eerie hue. Harry stayed as best he could in the shadows. It was much easier than he thought it would be: he seemed to float as effortlessly as the wind, stepping lightly from place to place, passing as quickly and stealthily as a forgotten thought. Every so often, he would hear the castle groan, and as he approached the headmaster's office, meeting no one at all on his way, he thought the sounds became steadily louder.

"Snake," Harry whispered as they came upon the gargoyle, which looked distorted and unreal under the moonlight, "tell it to open."

The snake hissed sharply at the gargoyle, and it clambered aside just as the castle gave another, agonizing groan.

"What are you going to tell Dumbledore?" the snake asked as Harry leapt lightly up the stairs.

"I don't know," Harry answered, reaching the top of the spiraling staircase. "That the castle is groaning? Maybe we're the only ones feeling—"

He stopped. Dumbledore was at his desk, but his head was cradled in his arms, and he seemed almost to be a sculpture of tranquility as the moonlight played with his snow-white hair like a frosty halo.

"Professor?" Harry said hesitantly. "Professor?"

He waited, but there was no response.

The castle groaned again.

"Wake him up, arglwydd," the snake hissed impatiently. "Don't just stand there, you've not much time."

Harry took out his wand, and replied, annoyed, "I'm trying!" He tapped the headmaster gently on the shoulder (it would have been extremely disrespectful to tap Dumbledore's head, thought Harry) and said, "Ennervate."

Nothing happened.

"Wake him up—"

"I CAN'T!" Harry snapped. Something was wrong. He reached out both hands and shook the headmaster vigorously. "Professor? Professor, please wake up, something's happening. Professor Dumbledore! Pr—"

He stopped short as Dumbledore's head lolled aside and the wizened face moved into the moonlight. Harry jumped backwards in horror. The headmaster looked so—dead. "P-pro—" He reached out a hand and felt the old man's mouth. There was no movement of air, and the skin felt cold and lifeless, like wax.

"His lips!" the snake hissed. "Look! His lips are purple. He's been poisoned."

"Is he—" Harry stopped, suddenly unable to make out the words. "We can't stay here. I have to—do something, I've got to—" What could he do? What could he do? Dumbledore was dead, lying there at his desk like a statue, and he was alone, and the castle was groaning, and he was trapped in a nightmare in which the moonlight poisoned everything it touched with an edge of madness—

"I'll take him to the hospital wing," Harry said decisively, slamming a lid on the panic. "He—he might not yet be—"

"Dead," the snake supplied, sounding shaken as well. Harry pointed his wand at the headmaster, not quite able to look fully at the body before him. "Wingardium leviosa," he muttered, and Dumbledore's body floated into the air, still in the same position as it had while sitting. As Harry hurried down the stairs, holding his wand tightly, it seemed to him that Dumbledore was an undead creature, one that would at any moment open its soulless eyes and reach out a gnarled hand and clutch him—

Harry froze and nearly jumped out of his skin. Down the corridor he had just entered, halfway between the headmaster's office and the hospital wing, wearing expressionless white masks and moving like a procession of the undead, were Death Eaters.

Harry leapt back. His heart was hammering a hole in his chest. Death Eaters! he thought frantically. How did they get in? Had Dumbledore—

He cursed himself furiously in his head: though he had leapt back out of sight, Dumbledore was still suspended in midair like a macabre puppet, fully illuminated by the moonlight and dangling plain in sight. Gritting his teeth, Harry slowly turned his wand—

"Hey!" a guttural voice whispered. "Watch where you're going, Avery."

Another voice stammered back, "I—I thought I saw…"

The footsteps ceased. Harry felt the snake tensing at his throat.

"You thought you saw Dumbledore? Floating in the air?" one of the Death Eaters said in a voice both incredulous and scornful, yet tainted by fear. "The Dark Lord has dealt with the old man! He is dead. You must be Confunded, Avery…"

"Never mind what you thought you saw," said a cold, disdainful voice Harry recognized immediately as belonging to Lucius Malfoy. "We are under orders from the Dark Lord to take the traitor and the boy, and not to dally…"

Harry felt his stomach turn to lead as the panic in his mind churned uncontrollably. He was dimly aware that his hands were trembling, shaking as violently as a rat that was caged and cornered. What was he going to do? Dumbledore was dead—dead—and Death Eaters had entered—he was alone—

—and they were going to take his father.

It was as though liquid steel had been poured over the sea of panic. Harry straightened. I won't let them do it, he thought calmly, not him nor Draco nor me. I won't let them, somehow. But I can't take them on all at once. I'm just one person. I—

"Arglwydd," the snake hissed urgently, pitching its voice so that it was like the breeze's murmur sliding along the silver-splashed walls, "Arglwydd, listen to me—you cannot win by yourself, you cannot make it, you have to awaken the others, awaken them quickly—"

"How?" Harry demanded. Running around and convincing them all would take too much time; he had to do it all at once—

"The castle!" the snake replied immediately. "Are you not the last Heir? Command the castle to awake them, to do as you ask—"

"Wait—the castle? But—how can I—"

"You are the Heir," whispered the snake. "You are the Heir."

For a moment, as Harry was suspended upon incredulity, the memory of the very first time he had met the snake flashed through his mind, of how the snake had told him to perform wandless magic, and how he had succeeded against his own disbelief. I am the Heir, thought Harry with renewed determination. I am the Heir. He deftly lowered Dumbledore's floating body and flung himself against the castle walls.

Hear me! he thought fiercely. Hogwarts, please, hear me!

He pressed himself closer against the stones, and he thought he could feel, like faint heartbeats, the footsteps of the Death Eaters as they neared the dungeons.

"Quickly," the snake hissed. "You don't have much time—"

Hear me, Hogwarts! Harry thought, concentrating as hard as he could, tuning out everything else from his mind. Awaken those who are still sleeping within your rooms, and show them the danger that is threatening their home!

He was trembling, and his cheeks, pressed hard against the wall, felt so painfully cold it seemed that he had been molded to the stone.

Hear me! Harry cried. Hear me—

The castle groaned again, its stones shuddering, and Harry was aware of a terrible creaking noise echoing from the very heart of its foundation.

"Did it work?" Harry whispered, lifting his face from the stone.

"Yes, yes, I think it did," the snake replied hastily. "Now go, do you see those flashes—?"

They're green, thought Harry with a terrible chill. He was about to take off again, but then he stalled as he looked down at Dumbledore's body. After a wrenching moment of indecision, he bent to the ground and pushed the headmaster's stiff body against the wall.

"I'm sorry, Professor," Harry grunted, nudging the half-moon spectacles with slightly shaking hands back onto the long, crooked nose. But as he did so, it seemed that the fact fully dawned for the first time, pouring ice into his veins: Dumbledore is dead, Dumbledore is dead, the only one Voldemort ever feared is dead—dead—

"Go!" hissed the snake, and Harry was gone, darting down the corridor and rounding the corners like a howling wind, flashing past the edges of the moonlight and ducking beneath the glittering windows—

"…no hope, Severus. Put down your wand like a good boy."

"I will not let you take the boy, Lucius. I will not allow it."

"Ah, Severus. Which boy are you referring to? Or is one not enough for you? Oh!" Lucius Malfoy pitched his voice so that he sounded extravagantly apologetic. Harry, beneath the pounding of his heart, could feel his blood boiling. "Excuse me, my memory is playing tricks one me—I forgot, you're unable to indulge in such pleasures…"

The entrance guardian, which Harry had remembered was a statue of a wizard with a set of scales in one hand, was now just a block of unshaped marble. Did the Killing Curse do that? Harry wondered in dismay. Standing at the doorway, holding their wands at the ready, were two Death Eaters, their masks almost glowing in the stark moonlight.

"Do not go that way," the snake whispered in an almost imperceptible murmur. "Stealth over valor, arglwydd, stealth over valor. Do you remember the entrance you took in the paintings? There is one just like that in this world as well."

Harry's mind was blank for a moment before he suddenly remembered—the grandfather clock with the slowly swinging pendulum that opened to Snape's private quarters when he was in the portrait world.

"Where is it?" he hissed, peering at the walls.

"Down that way," the snake replied, turning its head so that Harry was looking down the darkened corridor. He stared for a moment. There was nothing. Just as he opened his mouth to tell the snake that it was having hallucinations, the outline of the grandfather clock appeared, situated against the wall in the middle of the hall.

Harry folded himself into the shadows. "Go quietly," the snake whispered to Harry's ear.

"…be a long night for all of us. After the Dark Lord is finished with his ritual and becomes the most powerful wizard that ever lived, he will celebrate by dealing with you two traitors…"

"But Father—!"

Harry, crouched next to the wooden sides of the grandfather clock, nearly knocked the pendulum when he heard that voice. Draco! he thought furiously. Why is he here—why? Why didn't he stay in the Room of Requirement? Why—?

Gritting his teeth, Harry extended his arm and pressed his hand against the ensign.

"—are not my son! I know you not, you—you traitor of blood!"

Harry winced at the sharp sound of flesh against flesh. He was aware of heavy breathing, but of whose he could not tell.

"Snake," Harry murmured with the quietest of whispers, "can you take a look…"

Wordlessly, the snake obeyed, extending its neck slowly like a sinuous periscope around the corner of the bookshelf they were hiding behind. Lucius Malfoy was standing near the entrance, identifiable only by his blond hair spilling from behind his mask. Flanking him were three Death Eaters. Closer to the bookshelves and holding himself stiffly with a sneer playing about his lips was Snape; and beside him, a hand clutching his cheek, was Draco.

"I need to distract Malfoy," Harry whispered as the snake quietly withdrew its head. "Then I can take my father out." Draco can't pass through the clock, Harry thought feverishly, I can't take him along; but he had no better ideas, and he could hear Lucius Malfoy speaking—

"…But Draco, you still have a chance! Here, take this wand—and strike down this traitor, this foul, Muggle-loving worm!"

Harry pressed his hand against the ensign and slipped back into the corridor. A distraction, he thought, looking about desperately. Anything—something—

There was a suit of armor right next to him. Harry glanced at the Death Eaters guarding the entrance. They were staring straight ahead, looking more like statues than men. Quietly, Harry loosened a gauntlet…

"Careful, arglwydd," the snake hissed, and Harry could feel its muscles tensing against his neck.

"Don't worry," Harry whis—

The gauntlet clanked. Harry swore under his breath and flung the piece of armor down the length of the hall; it skittered over the floor, and Harry heard the exclamations, footsteps, startled shouts—

He pressed his hand against the ensign and, after a moment of disorientation that seemed to take forever, he plunged through. Both Malfoys and the Death Eaters were staring at the entrance, but Snape, in a movement swifter than the path of a spell, had darted forth and snatched his wand from one of the Death Eater's hands. Now! Harry screamed in his mind, and he leapt forward and clasped his father's hand.

He only spared a single glance to his father's face, but in that brief moment he saw a mixture of raw disbelief and incredulity— And then there were more footsteps, yells, the sound of furniture crashing; Harry thrust out a finger against the ensign and, his other hand still clutching his father's hand—

They were out.

Shouts, incantations, flashes of color, sounds of pain and anger scattered through the air. Harry's appeal to the castle seemed to have worked, for spells seemed to be hailing down at them from the other end of the corridor.

"Can you get Draco?" Snape demanded harshly, pulling his hand from Harry's grasp.

Harry shook his head. "Not this way—"

Snape's eyes narrowed suddenly. "Go back," he spat. "Run! How dare you risk your life! GO—"

But before Snape could finish, the snake hissed with surprising ferocity and thrust itself forward as though it were attacking. "No—!" Harry cried, stumbling because his vision was careening from the snake's abrupt movement, but the snake withdrew its head almost as quickly.

Then they both ducked instinctively as a spell splashed across the moonlight stones above their heads. Snape sprang to his feet and plunged back into his quarters; Harry followed, but nearly ran headlong into Lucius Malfoy.

"Not so fast, Snape," Malfoy sneered, one hand grabbing the collar of Harry's robes. "I always knew you were slippery, but—" He stopped suddenly, as though struck by realization, and Harry seized that opportunity to smash his fist across the Death Eater's face.

The mask flipped off, and Harry nearly stopped struggling as the moonlight fell over the Death Eater's face. Harry remembered noticing something different about Malfoy the last time they had met; but now, it leapt at him like a monster: Malfoy seemed almost translucent in the moonlight, and his eyes had no pupils. They were merely disks of grey.

"Ah, you are Severus's son," Malfoy whispered, "you—who once were Harry Potter, who are now—"

"Expelliarmus!" Harry shouted hoarsely, his wand jabbing into some part of Malfoy's body. But though Harry saw a muffled flash of red, Malfoy only tensed, the sinews in his neck straining, and did not let go.

"Your spells do not work on me," Malfoy sneered, bringing his face closer, and Harry couldn't help staring at the eerie left eye. "I have sacrificed enough to be safe from your spells and"—he lowered his voice—"your needles—"

Needles? thought Harry, stunned. How did Malfoy know of the silver thieves—?

"This is my time, arglwydd," the snake said suddenly. "Remember: they are the ieiunita!" The snake's hiss rose until it became like a shrieking wind on a stormy winter night. It struck, aiming for Malfoy's eyes, and Harry stumbled backwards, freed from the Death Eater's clutch; but his mind was still trapped within the snake, and suddenly he was looking at the gaping hole of Malfoy's mouth, a darkness that loomed closer and closer and—

Everything was white.

"Snake?" Harry cried, bending close to the ground and feeling ahead of him with his hands. "Snake?"

But just as he touched a body lying still on the floor, he flashed aside and felt the incoming spell smash into the ground where he had been a split second ago.

"Snake!" he hissed, desperation coloring his voice with anger. He couldn't see anything—he was blind and alone and lost—his world had vanished into complete and utter nothingness—

But no: there was something there, a small wrinkle in the field of blazing white. He stared at it, watching it pulse once or twice before fading away like a snowflake landing gently on the surface of a lake…

Someone shouted, and he fell, unconscious.

qpqpqp

Harry awoke feeling disoriented and disconnected. His back hurt from the hardness of the ground. His elbow hurt, and even his nose hurt. The back of his head hurt too, and as his eyes fluttered open, the heaviness of despair from seeing only the blank whiteness again seemed to intensify the pain.

Where am I? he wondered. As he moved his arms, he heard the gentle clinking sound of chains. He frowned. There were two cold, heavy things around his wrists. He pushed himself into a sitting position, and realized that there were manacles around his ankles as well.

There was a loud clanking sound from farther off, and Harry felt instinctively for his wand—but it was not there. Have I been captured? he thought wildly, vainly feeling at the cold stone ground around him. Am I—?

"Get up, boy!" a voice snarled from only a few steps away.

Harry got slowly to his feet and straightened himself stiffly. He heard another clanking sound, this time much closer (I must be in a cell, he thought), and felt someone roughly grab his upper arm.

"Don't touch me!" Harry spat through his teeth. His heart was hammering against his chest, and his mind worked furiously. "Where are you? Are you a Death Eater?"

Harry staggered as the stranger struck him across his face.

"You think you can worm your way out of this one by pretending to be dumb, eh?" the man sneered in a voice full of hate and loathing. Harry could taste blood in his mouth. "It won't be so simple!"

Harry stumbled; the stranger was going too fast, turning too many corners and going down too many drafty corridors. He thought he could hear voices, whispers, far off mutterings. Where am I? Harry wondered again as the man pulling him along stopped and Harry heard once more a clinking sound. Where am I?

There was the creak of a door opening, and Harry stumbled into what had to be a vast chamber. The voices were much louder now, bubbling like a crowd at his fingertips. If only I could see, Harry thought desperately, and wondered with a sense of dread what had happened to the snake.

The man who had dragged Harry in cleared his throat. "The boy is here, your Honor," he said loudly, and a hush fell over the crowd, one that reminded him of the whispers that had surrounded him at Hogwarts those first few days after he had returned.

Harry felt another two pair of hands grab him roughly and force him forward. He stumbled along, feeling completely bewildered. Where was he? Was this Voldemort's idea of entertainment, playing judge in a court? Was he even still in the magical world?

"Sit down," a man growled, and Harry felt himself forced into a chair that seemed to clamp manacles onto his wrists and ankles on its own accord.

"The Wizengamot will now hear this case," a voice boomed.

Wizengamot? thought Harry, still utterly confused. What's going on? Is this the trial Dumbledore had mentioned about the Dursleys?

"Hearing of the seventeenth of October, into offences committed by Harry James Potter against wizard-kind, including consorting with Death Eaters under He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the usage of the Unforgivable Killing Curse, and the murder of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. This is in flagrant violation of the Decree number One Hundred and Forty-Seven…"

Harry felt his mouth drop open in shock as the meaning of the words tore into him as relentlessly as a pack of hunting wolves. They were accusing him—of going off with Death Eaters—and killing Dumbledore with the Avada Kedavra— It was madness! Where was—where were the other Order members, they'd know he was innocent, where was Hermione, R—(no, not Ron), Lupin, Luna, his father—?

He licked his lips and called out, interrupting the inexorable voice, "I didn't do any of that!"

The crowd murmured again in a way that made Harry think, with more than a touch of dread, that he had made a mistake.

"It is not your turn to speak!" the thunderous voice commanded. "The accused must stay silent!"

Harry was about to argue when another voice filled the hall—a voice that seemed to reach the corners and crannies of the chamber without need for amplification, a pleased-sounding voice that was strangely high-pitched. "Perhaps under these circumstances, the normal procedures may be waived."

Cinna! Harry thought, his stomach clenching.

The crowd was murmuring again, this time in surprise, as though it did not know what to think of this new pronouncement.

"My fellow wizards and witches, these are times of war, and in times of war the procedures of peace do not apply," Cinna continued. The crowd seemed to subside—in acquiescence, Harry thought, with the feeling that he was trapped in the eye of a storm, moments before the fury hit. Harry clenched his arms and pulled against his bonds, but it was useless, and for the first time, he felt utterly helpless.

"Very well, Mr. Cinna," the booming voice said after a few moments of deliberation.

"Thank you, Minister," Cinna replied courteously, and Harry wondered what had happened to Fudge. Had he been fired? But thoughts of Fudge vanished as Harry heard Cinna's footsteps drawing closer and closer. He stiffened, straining against the metal that bound him to the chair. They'll come at any moment and put things to right, Harry told himself as he forced himself to stop struggling. Father and the Order and Hermione and all the rest… they'll come…

"I understand," Cinna began, and the crowd hushed, "that this comes as a shock to us all, that the Boy-Who-Lived, who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named sixteen years ago, would now betray his blood and people and murder the greatest wizard of our time. I completely understand the shock you must feel, the incredulity, the anger. But these are desperate times, my fellow wizards and witches, and unpleasant things that must be done, must be done.

"I call upon Ronald Weasley to take the witness stand."

Harry felt his stomach plummet. If they were going to fish out witnesses from Hogwarts, then half the students would be able to testify against him. And Ron… Some part of him that had been buried by time and acceptance and pity writhed bitterly at the betrayal: Ron—his best friend, at times his only friend…

"Mr. Weasley, as this is a trial of highest offence, you have the choice of taking Veritaserum," boomed the voice of the Minister, but its tone was more kindly than before. "Would you prefer to take that option?"

Ron didn't respond for a moment. "Do I—have to? I'd… I'd rather not…"

There was some rustling from the crowd, of whispers passing back and forth, and Harry felt a desperate measure of hope.

"Very well," said the Minister. "Proceed, Mr. Cinna."

Cinna's taking his time, Harry thought as moments passed in restless silence, and for the first time he felt a furious and helpless hatred bent towards the man with a high-pitched voice and self-satisfied smile. If only I could see, Harry thought. If only I could see; I'm sure he's smiling right now, grinning like a monkey.

"Mr. Weasley," Cinna said at last, "did you notice anything… suspicious about Mr. Potter's behavior?"

"Yes, yes I did, definitely," Ron replied, sounding nervous. "I—I noticed it right away, after he came back from… from wherever he went. He spent less time with me, and always went around with Draco Malfoy…"

At Malfoy's name, another murmur went through the crowd, but this one was ominous with disapproval.

"Did he used to spend a lot of time with Draco Malfoy?"

"'Course not!" Ron exclaimed, nervousness gone. "Harry hated Malfoy—hated him, but Malfoy was always trying to get Harry in trouble, and Harry never started any of the problems, and Snape always played favorites with Malfoy, always"—he was beginning to spit out the words, and Harry wondered if he was frothing at the mouth—"so Harry'd get in trouble for things that were Malfoy's fault."

"So Mr. Potter was never on friendly terms with Draco Malfoy?"

"No, never."

"Now, Mr. Weasley, besides the general changes in Mr. Potter's behavior, was there any specific instance that made you particularly suspicious?"

Ron was silent for a moment, and Harry ran his mind through all the times he'd encountered Ron, hoping desperately that Ron would be unable to say anything.

"Yes, actually," Ron said suddenly, "the day of the—attack, I told Potter in the library that he was an imposter, and he—he admitted it, he said that he wasn't really Harry Potter." Ron raised his voice until it sounded like the barking of a maddened dog. "He admitted it, you know! He admitted he wasn't Harry Potter, he was Harry Snape."

Harry remained wooden at the hate-filled words, though the crowd seemed to boil. They should do insanity screenings for the witnesses, Harry thought coldly.

"Would that be all, Mr. Cinna?" the Minister boomed.

"Yes it would," Cinna replied. "Thank you, Mr. Weasley. Next, I would like to call Neville Longbottom to the stand."

Neville? Harry thought with a start, feeling even more betrayed than with Ron. He remembered how Neville had stood up for him that first day back, how Neville, at the Department of Mysteries, had remained standing when all others had fallen, had looked understandingly at Harry after Sirius's death…

"Take a seat Neville, if you wish," Cinna said in what seemed like a mocking imitation of Dumbledore's tone, but which sounded, to Harry, carelessly patronizing. "Now, can you tell us, Mr. Longbottom, how Mr. Potter's behavior has changed ever since he returned from his long sojourn?"

Neville cleared his throat. "Ah—he… he d-did change a lot after he got back, like what R-Ron said," Neville stuttered, his voice coming out as a nearly incomprehensible mumble. "I… he…"

"Was there anything about Mr. Potter's actions that made you take particular notice?" Cinna asked, almost lazily. "Particularly at the end of last year?"

Harry's heart froze: so this was what Cinna was getting at, he thought. This.

"Well—at the end of l-last year, we went to the Ministry of Mysteries to the Department of Ma—I mean, the D-Department of Mysteriesin the M-M-Ministry of Magic…"

"Yes," Cinna interrupted, "and did Mr. Potter do anything there that disturbed you, that made you wonder if he was truly on the side of the Light?"

"Well," Neville stalled, "well, yes—I mean, he did do something… But he did it badly, see, and he—"

"What did he do, Mr. Longbottom?"

"He—he tried—he ran after B-Bellatrix Lestrange because she—she killed someone, and so Harry was, well, mad, and he—after he ran after Lestrange, after they were—well, they were fighting, and Harry tried to do the C-C-Cruc-c—"

"The Cruciatus!" a ringing voice proclaimed from the crowd. Harry recognized it immediately as belonging to Neville's grandmother. The rest of the crowd whispered feverishly at this new development, but Neville's grandmother, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil around her, continued in the same, merciless tone, "Frank Longbottom, my son, was driven insane by Bellatrix Lestrange, and he never stuttered. Not even after he became mad."

"Thank you for your comments, Mrs. Longbottom," the Minister said in a gracious voice. "Would that be all from Mr. Longbottom, Mr. Cinna?"

"Yes," said Cinna.

When do I get a say? Harry wondered angrily. Wasn't there a part where the defendant got to say something? He was reminded with an icy chill of the Death-Eater trials he had seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve—the grim faces, the pervasive fear, the hatred and paranoia that condemned men and women to Azkaban; but even then, the Death Eaters had been allowed to speak.

The crowd suddenly quieted, and a moment later, Harry heard Cinna begin to speak.

"So, my fellow wizards and witches, it is clear from the testimonies of these two Hogwarts students, who live in very close proximity to Mr. Potter, that the Golden Boy of yesteryear has certainly… changed. He performed"—attempted, Harry amended while clenching his jaw—"an Unforgivable last year, an offense which he successfully kept hidden; he has suddenly become close friends with the son of a known Death Eater this year;"—but Draco's not a Death Eater! Harry thought furiously, but within a moment he felt as though stabbed by a shard of ice: where was Draco? What had happened after he had fallen unconscious? Had Draco been captured? Was he—dead? And Father! What had happened to Snape?—"and now, he has murdered the greatest wizard of our age.

"I would like to call Hermione Granger to the stand."

For a moment, Harry felt only bewilderment and a feeling that something was very, very wrong. It was impossible that Hermione would testify against him; it was impossible—utterly impossible. She had told him to be safe, that day of the attack; she had said things to him in a voice that had let his heart take wing; she had—she was— Something's not right, Harry thought quite clearly and calmly. Something is very, very wrong.

"Miss Granger, can you tell us about anything that Mr. Potter did in the days before the attack that made you feel suspicious?"

"Yes," Hermione said in an unhurried, clear voice. "There was something he said that made me feel very suspicious. A week before the attack, I confronted Potter about the accusation of his having used the Unforgivable Cruciatus. I had not wanted to believe it. But instead of denying it or admitting to his guilt, Potter laughed and said that he had not only performed the curse, he had even asked He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for advice on how to perform it more successfully…"

"You're—" Harry lurched forward against his chains, feeling the bewilderment finally give way to a ferocious anger. "She's been enchanted, or Confunded, or cursed, or—" Harry turned blindly in the direction he had last heardCinna's voice. "That is not her speaking," he spat. "Anybody can tell you that—you did something to her, you are controlling her, forcing her to tell lies, making up—"

"SILENCE!" the Minister roared.

"But it's true, sir, she's under an enchantment because Caius Cinna put a spell on—"

"Silencio!"

Harry swore, mouthing the most terrible words he could imagine, and hoped that they were seen; but no sound came from his throat. The crowd was no longer murmuring; it sounded, in fact, as though it had come upon a decision. Harry slumped back in his chair, feeling more furious and helpless than ever. What was going on? Why was nobody helping him—why was he alone, so alone, so utterly and completely trapped by his solitude? This was a nightmare; he had to wake up soon, he had to wake soon, it wasn't real, where was the snake, where was his father, Draco, he wanted to wake up, this couldn't be real, this was only a dream, only a dream, only a dream…

"Are you finished, Mr. Cinna?"

"Just one more thing, Minister. Miss Granger, I understand you were once Mr. Potter's close friend. But what are your sentiments towards him now, in light of his recent changes…?"

"I hate him," Hermione said in a brittle tone, and Harry winced (it's not real, she's cursed, she's Confunded, it's—not—real!), feeling as though something in his chest had exploded and left behind only barren remains and twisted shadows of what it once had been. "I can't believe him. I hate him—I thought he was a friend, I thought he was—that he was Harry, but now I know… He's not really Harry at all…"

"Thank you, Miss Granger," said Cinna in a gentle tone. "If I may, Minister…?"

"If you wish," the voice boomed, sounding vaguely reluctant.

"Finite Incantatem," said Cinna, and Harry felt the silencing charm evaporate. He took a deep breath but said nothing. He waited.

"Well, Mr. Potter," said Cinna, and Harry shivered; how had Cinna gotten so close so quickly? "Have you anything to say to the charges leveled against you?"

"Yes," Harry said firmly. "Firstly, I would like to question the validity of your first witness. Mr. Weasley was attacked in the Department of Mysteries last year by a brain, and Mrs. Weasley told me herself that the attack left deep thought-scars."

"My, my, thought-scars," Cinna murmured. "So you're asking us all to discount Mr. Weasley's testimony because you think he's insane?"

"So thinks Mrs. Weasley, who I believe is a very reliable source," Harry replied, trying to curb back his anger.

"Unfortunately, Mrs. Weasley is unconscious, due to the attack that all evidence indicates you helped to orchestrate," Cinna said coolly. "But I did contact Percival Ignatius Weasley on the issue of his brother's mental state. Percy Weasley was kind enough to give me a report from St. Mungo's, which states that Ronald Weasley's mental health is perfectly fine." There was the rustling of a parchment being unrolled. "Minister?"

"St. Mungo's can't detect it," Harry argued, turning his face to the sound of the parchment, "not all thought-scars can be found, and with Ron—as Mrs. Weasley told me, he—" Harry stopped, and the resulting silence piled upon him like ice cold waves of the sea.

There was no sound except for the cough or rustle of clothing. "Thank you, Mr. Cinna," said the Minister, making another sound with the parchment. "The St. Mungo's report looks perfectly reasonable to me, and it says that Mr. Weasley indeed has no discernable problem concerning his mental health."

There has to be a way, Harry thought furiously. I'm innocent. I am, I know I am, I am I am I am—He took a deep breath. Where's the Order? Where are they? Why—am—I—here—alone? For a dreadful moment, as he forced himself to stop struggling, he remembered the despair he had felt through the first half of summer, when he had waited and waited and waited for help to come, when he had waited on his blood-soaked cot with maggots crawling over his wounds and only the darkest of despair to keep him company…

"Veritaserum," Harry said suddenly. "I would like to use Veritaserum to verify my claim that I did not murder Albus Dumbledore."

The crowd murmured again. Harry waited, concentrating as best he could on his breathing, going in and out of his lungs, slowly, slowly…

"Very well," the Minister said, once again reluctantly. "But as even the power of Veritaserum can be altered by Confundus spells and the like, I ask the Aurors to perform, once again, the standard check for mind-altering spells…"

Harry heard the approach of several pairs of footsteps, and then the tingling wash of spells over his body.

"No evidence of Confundus," a gravelly voice spoke. "Nor Obturbo, nor Obliviate."

"Nor Mendacium," a woman with a nasal voice added.

The footsteps left, and the Minister said, "Very well. Would the court Potions Master please apply the Veritaserum?"

Harry heard another set of footsteps approaching, and for a moment his heart was wild with hope—perhaps this was Snape, his father, the Potions Master—but the footsteps were too abrupt, and Harry felt a gnarled hand seize his jaw, pushing it open.

Then he felt three drops of a tasteless liquid fall on his tongue.

"Your Honor, the potion has been administered."

Sounds were louder. Clearer. Sharper. His head lolled back. He was tired.

"What is your name?"

"Harry James…" Potter? Snape?

"Were you, then, Harry James Potter?"

"Yes." A long time ago. A long time ago.

"Is your father Severus Snape."

My father. "Yes." Where is he? My father. I want him. I want my father.

"Where were you on the night of the Death-Eater attack on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?"

Where… Where… "In bed. Then I awoke. I had something to do." The air felt cool. His voice didn't sound like his own. It rang uncomfortably in his head. "I had somewhere to go."

"And where did you go?"

"To the headmaster's office. To Dumbledore's office."

"What did you do there?"

His mind was blank, but his mouth moved on its own accord. "I killed Albus Dumbledore."

Whispering. Murmuring. He was a tiny boat tossed on a monstrous sea. Sounds crashed around him, against him.

"How did you kill Albus Dumbledore?"

"The same curse Voldemort used on my mother and father." He felt his throat contorting as he pronounced the words: "Avada Kedavra."

More sounds, noises, whispers and murmurs. He was chained and helpless and weeping, he didn't know why he was weeping, he knew nothing anymore,

"Why did you kill Albus Dumbledore?"

where was he, where did everyone else go, why was he alone, why wouldn't tears come, why, why—

"The Dark Lord commanded me."

He was lying in the middle of a vast, empty tundra, the cold wind howling about his ears, the cold snow encasing his body in ice,

"Are you a servant of the Dark Lord?"

"Yes."

the cold white emptiness slowly consuming his mind and body, leaving only a lingering thought: I am so alone, why, why…

qpqpqp

The room could have been anywhere. He felt every inch that he could reach, running his fingers over each crack, each crevice, each damp and dusty corner. He knew that there was no light, for the only opening in the four walls was a barred door at one end. But he didn't need light, besides to tell the time. It might have been days. Weeks. Years, or even lifetimes. All passed in a haze of numbness.

He heard the sounds from very far off. First the clanking, then the footsteps. And then, the voices.

"…up a good fight, the both of you. You managed to keep him at Hogwarts, but, of course, that was what I had intended anyway."

"Indeed."

Some vague, distant part of Harry's mind that had been dead for days or months or years awoke and trembled. That voice was his father's.

"I should demand a sort of payment for letting you see your son. Some sort of retribution."

There was no answer. The sounds were getting closer, and Harry could discern, more clearly than ever, the unmistakable tread of his father's footsteps.

"I wonder how far you would go to see your son, Severus. How far you would go to see this outcast of the wizarding world, a blind and wronged boy who is currently being cursed in effigy every imaginable place. This boy, who is still, in his heart and soul, the son of the man who made your life hell for seven long years…"

Harry got to his feet. The chains about his wrists and ankles clinked with his every movement, sounding unnaturally loud. The only other noise was that of the footsteps, now only a few moments away...

"Here he is, Severus," said Caius Cinna in a pleased-sounding way. "The one you have been wanting to see."

"Thank you," Snape said coldly, and stepped into the room. He was so close Harry could feel the warmth emanating from his body.

"I can't have the two of you chatting for hours, can I?" Cinna said. "But you have no clock, I'm afraid. Ah, but this hourglass would be very handy." Harry heard the thud of something being set on the floor. "Enjoy your visit," Cinna added in a mocking tone, and then the door shut with a clang.

Harry said nothing. Moments passed in silence, and he wondered, even as his heart thrummed in his chest with unnamable emotions, if the half hour would pass this way, without a word exchanged across an unbridgeable chasm.

Then, after quietly clearing his throat, Snape said, "Harry."