Thank you for all the reviews yesterday!

And here we go, with another 'spinning-the-threads' chapter.

Chapter Six: Ministry on the Rise

"Here. Drink this."

Harry blinked sleepily and managed to accept the vial that Snape held towards him. He swallowed the potion inside, and blinked again as it seemed to whip the cobwebs of drowsiness from his mind. He studied the vial in wonder. It hadn't tasted much different from an ordinary Pepper-Up potion, but the result was far more dramatic. "What was that?"

"Something to make you think more clearly," Snape said. From the sharp look in his eyes, he'd had some himself already. "I need you awake and prepared. Today, we must go to the Ministry."

Harry stared at him. "That's a strictly necessary excursion?"

Snape raised his eyebrows, and Harry glanced away with a flush. "Sorry, sir," he said, and then noticed that Snape was carrying a folded newspaper in one hand. He pointed. "Does that explain why, sir?"

"In part," said Snape. "If you were less well-known, I might try bribes or some other way of slipping you under the Ministry's insistence on registering you, but not now." He gave Harry a disgusted glare and extended the Daily Prophet across the bed at him.

Harry picked it up, and blinked at the photograph on the front page. It showed the Dark Mark floating above the pitch at the Quidditch World Cup, which was no surprise, but it also showed two dim figures that he recognized as he and Rosier fighting their duel. The smaller one fell to the ground even as he watched. "Who took this?" he whispered. "Who could have been close enough to take this?"

He understood, in part, when his eyes fell on the headline and the byline.

BOY HERO DEFEATS DEATH EATER

By: Rita Skeeter

Harry groaned and buried his head in his hands. "Oh, no."

"Oh, yes," said Snape, sounding remarkably like Draco when he'd brought Harry his Firebolt. "This story goes into immense detail." He'd moved around the bed, and jabbed a fingertip down in the middle of the column below the photo. Reluctantly, Harry picked up his glasses from the nearby table, slipped them on, and then studied the writing.

…When the Aurors arrived, they found the Ill Wind curse, used to great effect by the mysterious Death Eater on the World Cup crowd, already dissipated.

"We don't know who did this, exactly," said Kingsley Shacklebolt, a senior Auror for the Ministry. "But we know that every trace of the curse had been banished when we arrived. Someone used a Finite Incantatem most probably, but it would have to have been of immense power."

There is speculation among some of the Aurors that the caster of that spell was also Harry Potter, the boy who battled the Death Eater on the hill.

"I mean, it would make sense," said an Auror who gave her name only as Tonks. "Immensely powerful boy appears, duels immensely powerful Death Eater, and then causes immensely powerful Death Eater to flee. It sounds to me like he had the magic to make the spell do what he wanted it to do, too."

Sources whom we cannot reveal confirm that the Ill Wind curse did indeed seem to dissipate during Harry Potter's battle with the Death Eater.

Harry sighed and put the paper down, though he did wonder about that last paragraph. Most of the people under the effect of the Ill Wind curse would have been so confused and blurred in their thoughts by emotion that they couldn't have said for sure when the spell ended. "And I assume that most of the wizarding world has already seen this by now?"

Snape nodded, his mouth thin. "She also repeats the information that she has used in other stories from the last year—for instance, the fact that you are a Parselmouth. There are now many people who will know this as certain fact, or think they do, and many others who will have been reminded." He pulled a crumpled letter from his pocket and extended it to Harry.

Harry read it and sighed. "And so I have to register, since everyone and his sister knows I'm a Parselmouth," he muttered.

Snape nodded again. "With luck, it will be nothing more than signing a form confirming that you have the gift. However, I would rather move now, before there can be any fuss about a 'boy hero' and a Dark wizard not fulfilling this Ministry edict."

Harry nodded back to him, then realized with shock that he had completely forgotten to ask about Connor and the Weasleys and James. Snape had hit him so hard with the potion and the newspaper that it was understandable, but he still felt a bit of guilt as he asked, "Sir? Did everyone else get home safe?"

"There were some casualties from the crowd's trampling," Snape said quietly. "No one whom you know was among them."

Even knowing that Snape had probably phrased it that way to lessen his guilt, Harry still winced. If he hadn't showed off by dueling Rosier, then he probably could have dissipated the Ill Wind curse before it killed anyone, and there certainly wouldn't have been Skeeter's stupid story in the Prophet. He bowed his head.

"Harry."

He started. For some reason, he had been sure Snape had left the room. You really need to stop doing that, he reminded himself, and looked up at his guardian. "Yes?"

"It was not your fault," said Snape, enunciating every word the way he would Potions instructions in class. "You cannot save everyone. You are not the sacrifice for everyone. Remember that."

He held Harry's eyes until he nodded, then swept from the room, calling over his shoulder, "Prepare yourself for the Ministry, and make sure that you eat some breakfast. I will know if you have not."

Harry climbed out of bed, stretching his arms. He paused when he felt a brief restriction on his movements, and swatted at his hair, wondering if another bug was in it.

He found nothing, however, and after a moment the sensation faded. Harry shrugged. Probably from sleeping too tightly coiled up in the sheets.

Harry stuck close to Snape. He knew it was ridiculous, but he'd never been in a place so noisy as this part of London, and it was overwhelming him. Diagon Alley was much quieter. Here, there seemed to be people absolutely everywhere, including in corners where his eyes did not expect to encounter them, and many of them were yelling and laughing and dashing across streets and throwing things to each other or over their shoulders, as if they had no care in the world. It was a flat, sunny day, perhaps the last one of August, and obviously they intended to enjoy it as much as possible. Harry could appreciate that from the distance of a newspaper article or a book.

But, he wondered, flinching as a bottle flew over his head, do they have to be so enthusiastic about it?

"Here we are."

Harry blinked. He'd been walking with his head down for the past few minutes, and hadn't noticed when they turned into a street which was marginally quieter, though far dirtier than the norm. They passed a wall along which someone had drawn a careful, spiraling design in green and red, and someone else had drawn a blue hand scratched through it. ALL HAIL THE HAND, said another line of blue letters beneath that.

Harry shivered. This was as alien and dangerous a place as the Forbidden Forest, in its own way. At least he knew that he could use magic to save his life if he encountered a hostile creature in the woods. He wasn't sure what remedy would work best for Muggles, and he was forbidden to use magic in front of them anyway.

Snape stepped into a tall but not very large box, drawing Harry with him. In front of them hung a device that Harry vaguely recognized from one of the Muggle picture books his mother had sometimes let Connor read. It was a telephone. Snape reached out, and, with a look of distaste, punched five buttons on it, in a sequence too fast for Harry to make out. He resolved to get Snape to tell it to him later.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

Harry squinted. He could just make out the shimmering trace of the spell that funneled the welcoming witch's voice through a spot in the air. It plunged past the telephone and into the ground. Harry raised his eyebrows. Ah, so the Ministry really is beneath the surface?

"Severus Snape and Harry Potter," Snape said sharply but clearly, the distaste for this whole ridiculous charade written all over his face. "Here to register Harry Potter as a Parselmouth."

There came a soft whirring sound, and two silver badges dropped into Snape's hand. He sorted through them, found Harry's, and handed it to him, pinning his own to his robes. Harry followed suit.

The phone box lurched and began to descend, startling Harry, but not as much as it would have if he hadn't discerned that the offices were underground. The ride wasn't long, and since Snape was obviously boiling under the surface, Harry decided he wouldn't say anything. The first person to talk to Snape was going to get a flood of vitriol, however carefully concealed.

The door of the telephone box opened, and Harry blinked. The room beyond was enormous, and flooded with light. There were more fireplaces than one person could ever need along both walls, and the ceiling was, for some reason, blue, with golden symbols. Harry scowled at it. He didn't think he could remember any pureblood family that used those two colors in such brilliant and garish combination, and now he could see why.

"This way, Harry."

Snape strode determinedly down the middle of the room, leaving Harry to follow. He did, but paused as he saw the fountain ahead of them.

It was made of gold. That was the first problem; Harry saw no reason to use that much gold on anything, and so it just struck him as ostentatious. The second problem was the statues that made it up. A wizard, a witch, a goblin (quite obviously a southern one, and not a northern one), a house elf, and a centaur stood in what was probably meant to be a brotherly or comradely pose. What Harry mostly saw was the way that the house elf, goblin, and centaur gazed at the humans as though about to collapse and fawn at their feet.

He breathed deeply, relaxing his physical sight, and then staggered back and put a hand over his eyes. The room was flaring like the sun. There were at least three webs connected to the fountain, so brilliant that Harry knew they must be powerful. He had to pick his way carefully among the radiances, but he thought he made out a blue web, a golden one, and one that was either also golden or a pale orange, like the sky at sunrise.

"Harry? Harry!"

Harry came back to himself, and even managed to step away in time to avoid Snape's reaching hand. He nodded to him. "I'm all right," he whispered, and gestured at the fountain. "I just don't like that very much."

"The Fountain of Magical Brethren, it's called." Snape said it with a sneer, but Harry thought that was automatic. He was looking carefully at Harry now, as though trying to decide whether he needed to be taken back out of the Ministry.

Harry choked back the bitter laughter that wanted to rise out of his throat. "Yes, I suppose it would have to be."

He gave the fountain a final glance, then shook his head and followed Snape down the room. He let the sight of the webs slide away again. He couldn't do anything about them right now, and doubtless the Ministry had alarms of some kind waiting to activate should he touch the webs or employ any magic powerful enough to break them. After he'd freed the Dementors, they would have been mad not to.

The room ended in a pair of golden gates, in front of which stood a bored-looking wizard behind a small stand. He nodded to them, and switched on a smile that didn't look natural on his face. "Greetings and welcome to the Ministry of Magic! My name is Eric. Let me register your wands for you." He held his hand across the stand.

Snape, though obviously reluctant, surrendered his own wand. Harry watched and practiced smiles and lost voices in his head, so that he would look more innocent when Eric turned expectantly to him.

"I, um, didn't bring my wand," Harry said.

He heard Snape's hiss. "What?"

"Well, we moved so fast this morning, I just forgot," Harry told him. And it was true. He often didn't use the cypress wand any more, though most of the time he still carried it. It was currently lying in a drawer of the table beside his bed. He shrugged at the guard. "I'm sorry. Can I still visit the Ministry?"

Eric chuckled. "Of course, son. Just remember to carry your wand with you!" He wagged his finger at Harry. "Little wizards like you will be snapped up otherwise!"

"Yes, sir," said Harry, while wondering why the Ministry had hired someone who would say something like that the morning after a Death Eater attack. "Thank you, sir." He nodded to Eric, and let Snape escort him through the gates, ignoring his mentor's hiss, of, "We will discuss this later." The important part of that sentence was the "later."

Eric called after him. "Oh! Sir! I forgot to tell you where you're going."

Snape turned around with barely controlled anger. "I assumed," he said, "as anyone would, that we will go to the second floor, because that is where the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is."

Eric abruptly seemed to shrink. "Um." He stared at his hands for a second, then shook his head. "No," he said, and blurted the next words so fast that Harry almost couldn't make them out. "Fourth floor, sir."

Harry felt the moment when Snape went absolutely still. Not even his hand on Harry's shoulder pressed down. He simply stood there, and then breathed, "What?"

"Yes, sir," said Eric, taking refuge in babble. "I thought it was unusual, but they said, they said it was official, and I said of course I'd tell the visitors like—like yourself, sir, and they said it made sense, and on one level I have to agree, because of course we don't want Dark wizards running around and using their powers, not that that means this boy is a Dark wizard, of course, I saw the story in the Prophet, I think he did some good last night, I think—"

"Come, Harry," said Snape, his voice clear as a diamond. "We are going to the fourth floor, and the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures." His hand clamped down this time, as he almost dragged Harry along to the lifts.

Harry set his feet and shook his shoulder, dragging it free of Snape's grasp in a moment. "Why are you so angry?" he asked quietly.

Snape turned on him. "They think you a magical creature," he hissed.

"No," Harry pointed out. "I don't think they do, at least not on the same level that they think of, say, goblins." He put aside thoughts of the fountain behind them, as it was only making him angry. "I think this is a public relations message. They want everyone else to think that a Parselmouth is a kind of dangerous magical creature, to be tolerated only if he registers." His mind was already speeding ahead, turning over the implications. He knew what the Ministry had wanted to do, but he was going to make it backfire on them if he could. At the very least, he could tell Fawkes about this, though he could not understand what the phoenix would say in reply, and he would spread the word to other magical creatures. "I don't mind. I'm honored to be in the same place where they made Remus and Hawthorn and the other werewolves register, and once the house elves and the goblins hear about this…"

He looked up at Snape with a smile. "They might have been able to do nothing else that would help me so much in my work as vates."

Snape, he saw, was not smiling. Snape, he saw, was so far from smiling that his face looked as if he would curse the next person to cross his path. Harry shook his head.

"Don't you see?" he whispered. "They intended it as a humiliation, yes, a reminder of my 'proper place,' but that doesn't mean I need to take it that way. They can insult me only if I let them."

Snape stared hard at him. Harry stared back, and even relaxed his shields enough to let Snape read his mind with Legilimency if he wanted. He really was not bothered by this, not when his enemies had just handed him such a fine weapon.

Snape nodded once, and then said, as they headed for the lifts again, "Now, you will explain to me why you are walking about without your wand."

Harry winced. Yes, if he can't attack one target, he just goes for another.

"Sign here if the information on this form is correct."

Harry sighed and bent over the form in front of him, stretching out his cramped hand before considering the information, mostly basic: on which day he'd been born, the full names of his parents, the place of his birth, and so on. This wasn't as hard as he had thought it would be, but it was far more boring. He had to sign and complete many forms, often in triplicate. He was finding it harder to understand Scrimgeour by the moment. Not only did the man say he liked this stuff, he'd built up a reputation of truly liking it. How could he have stood the torture?

Snape stood behind him, arms folded across his chest. The cheerful young witch behind the desk kept shooting him glances that edged steadily from nervous to terrified. Harry understood. Snape didn't need to say anything. He could intimidate with a single glare.

He completed that form and handed it across the desk. While the witch considered it, Harry glanced around the office. It was open and airy, or it seemed that way, with high ceilings and multiple desks and windows that showed an impossible, magical vision of the sun soaring across a cloudless blue sky. Harry was not sure which division they were in; he had seen only a few wizards and witches wandering by, and no magical creatures. Most of them had paused as though wondering what Harry was doing there, or perhaps recognizing him from the photos later in Skeeter's story, but all of them picked up their pace the moment they spotted Snape.

The witch's warm voice brought Harry back to the present. "Excellent, dear. Now, just one more form, and we'll be done." She pushed the last, single, solitary paper to him across the desk. Harry felt his heart warm. This was tedious and boring and necessary, and after his realization that the Ministry classed him as a magical creature, nothing had been fun. He scanned the form quickly. It was only a few lines, but in legalese, so it took him a moment to work out what it meant.

He sat back, carefully, and put the quill down in front of him, flexing his fingers. The witch looked at him and tutted. "Sore hand, dear? That's all right. You can take a moment to relax before you sign."

Harry met her eyes calmly and said, "I'm not putting my signature to this."

The witch's mouth dropped open in a pretty picture of shock. She had dark hair and gray eyes that reminded Harry of Sirius's, at least in the amount of surprise they could hold. "Oh, but dear, you must. You've done so well with all the others! You'll need to sign this one, too. It's the final step in the registration." She gestured at the form and smiled, as though Harry could have missed that there were no other papers waiting under this one.

Harry stared at her. "I know that. But this form says that I'm not to speak to snakes again without risking a legal penalty from the Ministry. I'm not going to do that. I'm perfectly willing for the Ministry to know that I'm a Parselmouth and keep all my forms on file just in case a Parselmouth ever commits a crime—" that was the official excuse for the registration the witch had given him "—but I won't actually stop myself from using my gift. Did you make the werewolves sign a form to keep from transforming every month?"

The witch uttered a nervous titter. "Now, dear, you know that—that isn't the same thing. Lycanthropy is a disease, and they can't help being sick." She leaned forward confidingly. "They aren't normal wizards, anyway. But you are, dear. And you know the difference between right and wrong, don't you? And you want to be on the side of right and law? So, you can choose to control your talent. That's all." She tapped a finger on the form coaxingly.

Harry half-closed his eyes, and recalled one of the other forms he'd signed. "I'm also legally responsible to help the Ministry if they should need my Parseltongue abilities, aren't I?"

"Yes," said the witch, "but they meant they would question you about them, dear, not order you to use them—"

Harry snapped his eyes open and glared at her. "And what if I could have saved someone's life by speaking Parseltongue, and I don't do it because of the legal penalties, and then a person dies from a venomous snake's bite? Could I be charged with that person's death as a murder, since I had the power to prevent it and didn't do anything about it?"

The witch opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She began shuffling through the forms that Harry had already signed.

"I wouldn't put it past them to do that," said Harry. He sat on his rage with an effort, and kept his voice cool and cutting. "They could, if I signed that form. So, I won't." He stood up. "Thank you for helping me sign the other forms. And feel free to tell anyone you want about this."

"You can't do this," said the witch desperately. "Dear, the law's very clear—all Parselmouths and possessors of other Dark talents have to register, and completely—"

"Can you stop me?" Harry asked her softly.

The witch picked up her wand. Harry met her eyes, and waited.

Abruptly, the witch went pale, and her hand shook as she laid her wand back down. "Don't do that," she whispered. "It's awful, the way that you're looking at me, as though you can peel back my skin and see every secret in my head." She began to shake, and brought up her hands to cover her face.

Harry blinked. Perhaps he had looked more ferocious than he anticipated. He shook his head, once, and turned his back on her, catching Snape's gaze. He nodded, and they made for the lifts.

"It should never have gone this far," Snape hissed, as they waited for a lift to come. "To forbid you from speaking to snakes? It is madness."

Harry closed his eyes, and entertained himself for a moment by imagining what Sylarana would have had to say if she was still there and he'd tried to remain silent around her. That thought helped him dispel some of the anger. He opened his eyes and said lightly, "Yes, and sudden, too. I think we're going to stop by the second floor on the way out. I'd like to speak to Rufus Scrimgeour and found out how it got this bad this fast."

Snape darted him a hard glance. "I thought we would return to Hogwarts," he said. "It is dangerous to be outside the wards for too long, Harry."

"I know," said Harry, with a sigh. "But I think I need to know. He didn't warn me. Either he knew and we need to renegotiate the terms of our alliance, or he didn't know, and that means that things happened with suspicious speed. Why? Why did they suddenly think they needed to fear Parselmouths, of all people, or Dark wizards who weren't registered before?" He shook his head.

"They have always feared those more powerful than themselves," Snape whispered. "There are times when I can understand the Dark Lord's thinking."

Harry suppressed a shudder. The comment carried him back to Rosier's laughter last night, and his claim that Harry could become a Dark Lord even if he killed Voldemort. And there had been times when Harry used Dark magic, or was in the midst of it, and certainly felt the temptation to go further. He thought of Walpurgis Night, and how he'd danced there. That was the kind of celebration the Ministry would like to control, and no doubt eliminate.

But against that was the set of words that Scrimgeour had once spoken, with all the passion of true conviction. It was not fair for the powerful to rule the world and wizards of ordinary power to have no recourse. By keeping the Ministry a neutral, open, bickering place that no Lord could control, he hoped to give people that chance.

Harry made a small sound in his throat and shook his head. Just another thorny path to dance down.

The lift came, then, and Harry stepped into it, followed closely by Snape. Harry concentrated. He would have to come up with the right words to convince Scrimgeour he wasn't just another Lord come to meddle in the Ministry. Sometimes, power was a burden as much as it was freedom.

The Auror Office set Harry on edge. He could feel wards he couldn't see quietly buzzing away in the background. He saw heads turning to follow him as Snape escorted him past individual Aurors' desks, not necessarily because they could feel his magic, but because of the inherent suspicious nature their training seemed to give them. He could sense tension and unhappiness and grim, cold responsibility behind many of the faces around him, though that might have been caused at least partially by having to deal with paperwork.

They encountered an assistant outside Scrimgeour's office, but for some reason, the instant he saw Harry, he widened his eyes and nodded to the door behind him. "Go right on in," he said. "He's been expecting you. He told me that I'd recognize you on sight, and I must say, he was right." He started grinning, a grin that didn't falter even when Snape glared at him.

Harry shook his head in confusion and made his way into Scrimgeour's office. How had Scrimgeour actually known that Harry would want to visit him? And why would he have been talking to other people about him?

The office was smaller than Harry would have thought it would be for the Head of the Auror Office, but that might have been an effect of the numberless photographs on the walls. Harry stared around, a bit dazedly. He caught glimpses of houses, people, trees, streets, a map of what seemed to be the Ministry, a few pictures of Hogwarts, scenes which seemed to be arrests, the soft, goofy visage of Minister Fudge, and too many others to really see.

"Harry. Come in."

Harry turned around. In the center of all the photos was a desk—two desks, really, facing each other. Scrimgeour sat behind the first one, his yellow eyes calm and direct. Behind the other one, scratching frantically at a sheet of parchment that looked longer than he was tall, was Percy Weasley.

Harry stared at Scrimgeour. The Auror raised his impressive eyebrows and gestured once at Percy. "Ah yes, I forgot that you would already know Mr. Weasley. You were at the same school, after all, though not in the same House. This is more a re-acquaintance than a reintroduction, isn't it?"

"Yes," Harry muttered, even more confused. He had thought Percy was working in a department that checked on the thickness of cauldron bottoms, not for the Head Auror. Percy jerked his head up, gave Harry one single, eloquent, harassed glance, and then turned back to his sheet of parchment.

"Mr. Weasley's helping me with a case I'm working on," said Scrimgeour expansively. "Perfect for someone of his talents." He gave Harry a slow wink.

Harry shook his head slightly, but felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He'd warned Scrimgeour about Percy entering the Ministry as a spy for Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix. He had thought the Auror would simply keep an eye on him, but it seemed as though Scrimgeour were more direct than that.

"You're here to see me about the new edict, I suppose?" Scrimgeour went on, effortlessly steering the conversation. "Yes. Pesky thing. They just dropped the forms on my desk this morning." He picked up the nearest sheaf of papers and rattled them. "Just how are we supposed to catch every Dark witch who does a minor love spell and doesn't want to register that she does them, I ask you?"

"I was hoping you could tell me why it was passed with such—efficiency," Harry said, deciding to take his cue from Scrimgeour. The Auror obviously didn't mind Percy overhearing them, so Harry wouldn't, either. "It really seems to have been hurried through the Wizengamot. And why does a Parselmouth need to register in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?" He made sure to inject a moderate amount of outrage into his voice. No one said that he couldn't be angry about that in front of the right people.

He saw that he'd startled Scrimgeour. The Auror sat up and leaned forward. "You registered there?" he asked.

Harry nodded. "I take it no one else is?"

Scrimgeour closed his eyes. "It would hardly matter if they were," he murmured. "Someone could always say it's just because there are no other Parselmouths in Britain."

"Or, at least, none fool enough to come in and register," said Snape tartly, unable to keep silent any longer.

"I didn't complete the registration," said Harry, deciding it was important to be honest. His alliance with Scrimgeour was based on an exchange of information, and before anything else, Scrimgeour was an Auror, bound to enforce wizarding law. If Harry didn't give him some room to maneuver between the lines, then he might have no choice but to arrest Harry for breaking the law at some point. "I didn't sign the form that said I understood I would be subjected to all appropriate penalties if I spoke to snakes."

Scrimgeour's eyes opened. Harry stared in fascination. He'd seen this transformation only once before, the first time he met Scrimgeour. The man tended to be detached and amused the rest of the time, but here, here was the intensity that had showed when he was telling Harry what he believed the Ministry was and could be.

"That," said Scrimgeour, his voice clear and quiet, "was not part of any other registration."

Harry clenched his fists. "So a Dark witch who makes love spells doesn't have to stop making them?" he asked.

Scrimgeour shook his head. "How could we stop that, when love potions are legal to sell? No, she would agree to register that she made them and where she lived and so on, so that if a crime involving love spells happened, we would have a handy list of suspects—excuse me, people who would help us with our inquiries." He fixed his eyes on Harry again. "But not this. I didn't know that they would say you couldn't use your talent at all."

Harry stood quiet, thinking. If not for the date on Umbridge's letter, he would have thought the registration was targeted at him because of his exploits at the Quidditch World Cup, but she'd written the letter before that happened.

That doesn't mean the registration was not targeted at you, a quiet voice told him, not Regulus, from whom he hadn't heard this morning, but the most Slytherin part of his brain. It still could be. At the very least, the idea that they don't want you speaking Parseltongue, while they're just keeping an eye on other Dark talents, suggests it.

But why? Parseltongue had been considered Dark ever since Slytherin's day, from what Harry understood, because of what had ended up happening with him, but it was not such a powerful gift that the Ministry would act to prevent anyone from using it. It wasn't as though Harry could command armies of snakes to attack anyone.

The voice had an answer for that, too. The Parseltongue is a convenient excuse. It's your power that they want to control. The rumors have had months to build, now, and how many people might have felt the burst of magic that alerted the Death Eaters to where Lux Aeterna was? They're getting nervous. If you can be seen as coming in publicly and cooperating with the Ministry, they can look as if they have you on a leash, rather than as if you're setting yourself up as an independent Lord.

Harry curled his lip in a silent snarl. He didn't think that powerful wizards should rule over those less strong, no, but he did object to the thought of the less powerful controlling him. He was a weapon and a sacrifice, but he chose who to defend and where to sacrifice himself. The Ministry hadn't even done him the courtesy of approaching openly. Already, Harry was regretting that he had come in and appeared to obey the law.

Yet what else could he have done? He was hardly prepared to take on the whole of the Ministry by himself.

He opened his eyes and met Scrimgeour's gaze again. "I may use it," he said, "if only to save people's lives."

"And I may arrest you," said Scrimgeour, as carefully, "if only to please people's eyes."

Harry nodded sharply, understanding. There were things Scrimgeour could not do and rules he would not break, but he might be able to ease the process of Harry's arrest or fine should it come to that. At least they both understood each other, now.

He looked once at Percy Weasley, but Scrimgeour did not volunteer any spontaneous explanation of what he was doing there, so Harry shrugged it away. "I'll see you later, Auror Scrimgeour," he said.

"And I will see you later, Mr. Potter," said Scrimgeour, equally formal. "Of that, I have no doubt at all."

Harry gave him a smile without humor and walked out of the office. As Snape had said, they really should get behind Hogwarts's wards.

His mind was spinning, though, reaching out, gathering up threads and seeing what connections he could braid out of them, which ones would benefit both him and his allies.

Snape followed quietly in Harry's wake. It appeared as though he wouldn't have to hex people after all, nor talk to his ward about the possible implications of a law that forbade only Parselmouths—effectively, only one wizard in Britain—to use their Dark talents.

Harry had figured that out for himself. Snape, thanks to the potion that he'd given Harry this morning, could feel his mind racing, picking and sorting through the implications, rejecting some and embracing others, though he could not read the substance of those thoughts.

Snape had brewed the potion last night, first in a series of stopgap solutions to Harry's self-sacrificial nature that he intended to make permanent. It had awakened Harry, yes, but it also gave Snape a passive link to him—one that would warn him when Harry was in danger, tell him where he was if Snape concentrated, and let him feel the general state of Harry's mind and emotions. It would not place any barriers on him. Harry could still go where he liked and do what he pleased, which he inevitably would anyway. But Snape could at least be at his right shoulder, should it become necessary.

Watching his ward stride ahead of him, Snape thought that it might not be as necessary as he believed.

He is opening his eyes. He sees much more of the world around him than he did when he first came to Hogwarts.

Now, if I can get him to see himself, too, we may be able to win true victories.

Snape smirked, and felt the stirring of long-hidden ambitions reviving in him again, hatching like dragons.

This is not about just victory over James or Gryffindor any more, if it ever was. This is about winning in general, and winning the future.