Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!
Chapter Fifty: Waltzing Politics
Harry sighed as he folded Augustus Starrise's letter. At least the man had actually agreed to come and speak to his nephew at Hogwarts, instead of insisting that Tybalt and Harry go to the Starrise home. Harry knew it wouldn't have been neutral ground, couldn't have been, not after Augustus had kicked Tybalt out of it.
He shifted and cast a longing glance at the book on Greek witches on the other end of the library table. He'd spent the rest of Saturday writing to Augustus and arguing with Tybalt by means of the spell that Charles had taught him, trying to convince him to come to Hogwarts. It had taken hours to wear Tybalt down, and then he had only agreed to come if John could come with him and Honoria could be there. Harry had agreed, glad to win any kind of victory after hours of argument.
And then Augustus's letter had come this morning, full of pompous agreement to speak in negotiations because "he was not in the wrong," and he was sure that a conversation or two would show Harry that.
Harry sighed and glanced at the other letter waiting for him. It had the Ministry seal on it, and he knew it came from Scrimgeour. He didn't want to read it. Merlin knew what the Minister had discovered that required his attention, and required him to communicate with Harry about it.
"Harry?"
And there was Draco, threading in between the library tables with a determined expression on his face. Harry winced. Draco had accepted, over the last couple of weeks, that Harry was too busy researching Ariadne's Web to help him with his possession gift, save in scattered lessons, or even spend much time with him. But from the way he sat down on the chair at the other end of the table, his patience had just run out.
"Harry," Draco said, insistently.
"I'm paying attention," Harry said quietly, and reminded himself that he had no right to complain. He had wanted this position of leader, at least to the extent that he hadn't objected all that much when it fell on him, and he had commanded his allies' help in battle and the Minister's help in politics. And Draco had given him so much more than mere help. That all his debts were coming due at once was unfortunate, but no more than that. It was not a malicious conspiracy, and it was not evil, and he had no reason to feel dread coiling in his stomach as Draco stared at him.
What Draco said was completely unexpected, however, and rather ruined Harry's attempts to keep a smooth mask.
"Have you spoken with Vera since that night we came back from the trial?"
Harry stared at Draco. "No?" he asked at last, but when Draco gave him a searching glance, he shook his head. "No. You know I haven't. Why? Is something the matter with her?" He supposed Vera might have had to leave the school, if her gift had started to overwhelm her, but he couldn't imagine her not coming and telling him if she had to.
"No." Draco leaned forward. "And she hasn't come to nag me about it, either. I just think that you should go and talk to her."
Harry couldn't help the snort that broke from him. "Sorry, Draco, I can't. I have a meeting with Augustus and Tybalt Starrise—not to mention Tybalt's partner and Honoria Pemberley—at noon." He nodded to the Minister's letter. "And that to answer, too. I'm not sure what Scrimgeour wants. Then I should get back to looking up material on Ariadne's Web." He eyed the book, but controlled his longing to reach for it. For all he knew, Scrimgeour's letter could take hours to answer.
"What about this evening?" Draco persisted. "Surely your meeting with the Starrises ought to be over by then?"
Harry shrugged. "I don't know how long it'll take to persuade Tybalt and Augustus to reconcile. Probably longer than just today, though."
"Then dismiss them if they're still here when evening comes, and go talk to Vera," said Draco firmly.
Harry frowned. "Are you sure she didn't talk to you, Draco? It's all right to say if she did. I know I've been neglecting her lately, but I don't think I have much choice. I have to figure out how to break Ariadne's Web."
Draco leaned forward over the table and clasped his hand. "She hasn't spoken to me about you, just about my own soul—"
"Really? What did she say?" Harry felt pleased. Draco quite obviously didn't give himself enough credit for some of what he knew and was, but he would have to trust a Seer's word on the subject.
Draco shook his head. "Oh, no. I am not getting you interested in something else, not when you'd just try to pursue it. My conversations with Vera are staying between her and me for right now. The point, Harry, is that I think you've started neglecting your own healing for the sake of others'."
Harry lifted his head. "I didn't! I promise, Draco, I haven't. I meant what I said that night in the Room of Requirement. I'm not going backwards. I promise." He felt a mild panic at the thought of Draco disbelieving him. Going through this change was something Harry had known would be hard, but if he had to go through it alone—he didn't think he would have the strength to do it.
"Harry!" Draco's free hand settled on his shoulder. "Harry, it's all right," he said softly. "Breathe. I don't disbelieve you. I don't think you're going backwards. But you're neglecting it, yes."
Harry stirred restlessly and looked at the book again. "I have to figure out how to break Ariadne's Web, Draco," he said. "My allies' children are trapped in that school, not to mention Greg and all of the others. No one should have to be at Bellatrix Lestrange's mercy." He shuddered as a memory of the graveyard bit him, and his left hand throbbed. He didn't care that it wasn't there; it still throbbed. "What kind of leader am I, if I don't figure out how to break it?"
"You've looked for two weeks," said Draco. "Do you really think there's still something left to find? And I'm sure that Rosier-Henlin and Rhangnara are looking as well. Do you think they have less motivation than you do to find a solution? Harry, stop driving yourself mad over this. Think about something else. You can't find a way past Ariadne's Web right now. That's all right. It's all right. I promise."
"And what if she kills one of them?" Harry clenched his hand shut until he saw Draco wince, and realized he'd injured him. He pulled his hand back at once, and shook his head, whipping his fingers through his fringe. "Sorry. Sorry. I'm sorry. I just—I have to do something."
"You can't," said Draco softly.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Merlin, is he right? But admitting that felt like he was giving up without a fight. There had to be a solution, something he was overlooking. The thought of anyone at Bellatrix Lestrange's mercy made him feel like someone had used the Entrail-Expelling Curse on him again, and even though he knew that was exactly the reason Voldemort had chosen to use children as his hostages, that didn't make the feeling go away.
"Enough, Harry." Draco moved up behind him and caught him in a close embrace. "I didn't realize you were driving yourself this close to breakdown over it, and neither did Professor Snape, or he would have made you stop researching. Think about something else. There are other things happening." He lowered his head and rubbed his cheek against Harry's hair.
"I know that," Harry whispered, turning his head so that he could rest his cheek on Draco's chest. "But I need to think about and research Ariadne's Web, and find time for them, too."
"Harry." Draco made it all but a command, now. "Leave it up to Rosier-Henlin and Rhangnara."
"There might be books at Hogwarts that—"
"Then I'm sure the Headmistress wouldn't deny them permission to come here and do the research," said Draco firmly. "But you're not going to do them or their children any good by worrying yourself into a frenzy. And if they're not contacting you begging or imploring you to do anything right now, then why do you think you have to?"
"I'm vates," whispered Harry. "It's a web. I have to break it."
"Not the moment you hear of it." Draco's arms clamped around his shoulders. "I mean it, Harry. Calm down and think about something else, or I'll speak to Rosier-Henlin and Rhangnara. You haven't talked to them at all in the last two weeks, have you? You decided that you absolutely had to solve the problem right away on your own? They didn't ask you to do this?"
"No, but the hostages are children, Draco—"
"And they're beyond your reach right now," Draco finished quietly. "That's the way it has to be, Harry. If it will make you feel better, select some books and send them to Rosier-Henlin and Rhangnara. But leave the task of research up to them. They're parents. They have all the love and worry needed in the world. You're going to have to start trusting your allies to do things on their own at some point, Harry."
Harry winced. He was remembering a conversation he and Draco had had summer before fourth year, when Draco had reminded him that some people might want to follow Harry, and he would have to let them, because it was their free will. This sounded suspiciously like that.
"I—I'll try," he whispered. The thought of the children was still tearing at him, but he recognized his own frustration from his childhood. Whenever he got upset, his effectiveness at training in spells and doing other things necessary to protecting Connor would go down. Right now, it was affecting the way he thought about other necessary tasks than breaking the web, and probably also the way he read the books. Intolerable as it was to leave the web intact for this long, it would be even more intolerable to miss something that could have helped the children at Durmstrang because he was flipping feverishly through the books instead of taking the time to absorb the information.
"Good," Draco said, and held him for a moment. Harry let himself absorb the heat for as long as he could before the shivers of discomfort broke out and he had to sit up and move away. Draco sighed, but said nothing, just taking the seat across from him again and eyeing him intently.
"Promise me that you'll speak with Vera this evening?"
Harry nodded. "I didn't mean to stop," he protested again. It was important that Draco understand that. "It's just—other things came up."
"Someday, I hope," said Draco, his face easing back from its tightness, "you'll learn that not everyone expects you to solve every problem, right now." He let one hand brush along Harry's shoulder, and then departed the library.
Harry watched him go, a feeling of determination growing in the pit of his stomach. Draco did so much for him—speaking words he couldn't have been all that fond of speaking, or thought that Harry should have known already, since they were common sense; reaching out to him; refusing to abandon him in a fit of exasperation or temper until Harry actually did see sense.
He deserved better than Harry had been able to give him so far. But since Harry knew Draco wasn't about to go anywhere, at least he could try to give Draco what he was able to give him.
Harry sighed the resolution out, then picked up the Minister's letter. It was brief, as Scrimgeour's letters tended to be, and to the point.
December 3rd, 1995
Dear Harry:
I require your help to make some important decisions. There are three people currently in Tullianum with whom you have some connection: Kingsley Shacklebolt, who tried to kill you; Fiona Mallory, who tortured your parents; and Homer Digle, who wrote articles to discredit you and also apparently permitted another member of the Order of the Phoenix to visit Dumbledore and free him so he could cast his spell. All of them are claiming they acted as they did because of Dumbledore's compulsion spell. I have to know if you are willing to press charges or not. Please come to the Ministry this afternoon if you are free. Enclosed is a Portkey that will bear you to my office anytime between noon and six-o'clock this evening.
Rufus Scrimgeour.
Harry sighed, and eyed the Portkey, a bottle cap, that tipped out of the envelope. That meant he would probably have to cut his meeting with Tybalt and Augustus Starrise short, in order to journey to the Ministry and talk to Scrimgeour, and could give them only a few hours.
Do you owe them more than a few hours?
Harry paused, and shook his head. That was a new thought, and in a new tone, one that might have been Vera's. He supposed he was only having it at all because of everything else he had to do. Circumstances were finally conspiring to make it impossible for him to do everything, much as he hated to admit it, so he would have to juggle and cut some things short, and if that meant not listening to Augustus and Tybalt rant at each other all day, so be it.
Honoria had not said, after all, that he had to reconcile the two proud and stubborn men or die trying. She had said only that she wanted him to do what he could to initiate a reconciliation.
Harry slid the Minister's Portkey into his pocket, wrote a brief note to tell him he'd be coming later in the afternoon that he would take to the Owlery in a moment, and scooped up the book on Greek magic. He would look through it, see if there was anything useful, and ask Charles where he should send it if there was. No, on second thought, he would speak to Thomas. Charles had said that he would be negotiating with old contacts in an effort to get a Portkey that would actually take them to Durmstrang, and might be at that and not want to be disturbed.
Harry set his mouth in a thin line. So this is the way it has to be. I can't do everything perfectly, because I'm not perfect. I'll do what I can, and ask others to live with it. If they can't, they can always withdraw from the alliance.
"Thank you for coming."
Augustus gave Harry a lazy smile, and kept his eyes perfectly trained on Harry's face. "Thank you for inviting me, my lord."
Harry grimaced at the title. "Please, none of that." He gestured to the large round table that took up the center of the Room of Requirement. The Room had seemed to know what they needed—in this case, a table that absolutely would not make anyone feel unequal to anyone else. "Have a seat. Your nephew, his partner, and Miss Pemberley should be here soon."
Augustus had started to sit down, but he paused, his face acquiring a light flush. "You did not say they would be here."
"I didn't say they wouldn't be, either." Harry stared directly into the older wizard's eyes. Augustus reminded him much of Lucius Malfoy as he had been when they were still doing the truce-dance, but worse, in a way, because Lucius was perfectly aware that he was being a bastard, and enjoyed it. Augustus seemed to think that this proud coldness was the only way he could act, and compliance with his wishes the only reasonable thing to do. "That was Tybalt's condition for agreeing to speak with you. He wanted his partner and his best friend at his side. I didn't think those were unreasonable requests."
Augustus, amazingly, sat down, but shook his head so that his long pale hair, braided with bells, rang and shifted. Harry actually found that encouraging. If Augustus wanted to remind Harry about his training as a war wizard, that was a sign that he was less than perfectly confident. "You know Miss Pemberley by now, I would assume, my—Harry. You know that she will interrupt, make a scene, and do anything that she can to disrupt matters."
"I don't think she will," said Harry. "She was the one who asked for me to try and manage your reconciliation. But I acknowledge that she might not be able to control herself. If she does show a sign of starting to interrupt in any way, then I'll cast a Silencio on her. She's not Starrise by blood, and she wasn't the one who was part of Tybalt's original offense against you." Harry had to fight hard not to curl his lip when he said "offense," but he succeeded. "She has no reason to talk."
Augustus nodded, once. "I must say, Harry, that you are being more reasonable about this than I expected," he murmured.
"Why?" Harry kept an eye on the door of the Room. McGonagall had promised to send Tybalt, John, and Honoria to him the moment they arrived, and since she would be with her friends, Honoria couldn't come flying in as a gull. But he still thought he would have only a moment between the door opening and the first insult being hurled, unless he managed to get in between Tybalt and his uncle with formalities. "I don't want discord among my allies, Merlin knows."
"Ah, but your mother was Muggleborn," said Augustus smoothly. "I thought you would at once attack me for my—what would be the term? Unreasonable prejudice, is what Tybalt has called it. I thought you would insist loudly that of course they are equal to purebloods in each and every way, and should be able to marry into any pureblood family they want."
"I do believe that." Harry tensed, then shook his head when he realized that the flicker of movement he'd seen was his own shadow. In shifting his weight from foot to foot, he'd managed to send it skittering across the door.
"What?" Augustus sounded unsettled.
Harry turned his head and frowned at the man. "I don't insist that my allies think exactly like I do," he said shortly. "What would be the point of that? You have your own mind, your own soul, your own beliefs. You've seen mine, and you can't object to them too badly, or you wouldn't have chosen to join the alliance. I can hope to persuade you as time passes, but I won't force you. I certainly won't attack you."
Augustus stared hard at him. Harry rolled his eyes, and then turned swiftly back the other way as the door opened.
Honoria came in first, clad in a flowing robe much like a gown, ornamented with illusions of letters that spelled out Tybalt's name with several exclamation marks after it. Harry narrowed his eyes warningly at her, and she did no more than pout at him. At least the letters didn't seem to spell anything insulting to Augustus, Harry saw with relief.
Tybalt followed her. He wore a blood-red robe touched with threads of blue. John, at his side, wore red touched with gold. Harry stifled a groan. John's robe said that he could and would declare blood-feud if the negotiations didn't go to his liking; it was a reference back to the old days of wizarding politics when "blood and gold" would have been the reward a displeased family tried to claim from others. Tybalt wore only slightly less offensive colors, proclaiming his willingness to accept either blood or a sky untouched by a cloud—the cloud in this case being the presence of a relative he hated.
Harry felt frustration start churning in his gut, and decided abruptly that he might as well speak it out. Both Augustus and Tybalt, for all their agreement, had come prepared to undermine the negotiations. Why should he have to put up with that? He was the one who was doing something he didn't have to do, putting himself in the way of a family quarrel, and if neither party would take it seriously, then he didn't intend to waste his time here. He had dozens of more productive things he could be doing than trying to reconcile people who refused to be reconciled.
"Change the colors of your robes, now," he snapped at Tybalt and John. "Or admit that you just came to play games, and then we can all leave."
Tybalt had his mouth open, probably to insult his uncle, but he shut it. He stared at Harry. Harry frowned back at him. The sensation of eyes on him didn't bother him at all when he was angry at the person in question.
Tybalt decided to play dumb—not a wise choice when it was only his actions that were stupid. "But, Harry," he chirped, "we wanted to wear these colors. I think they look particularly fine on us." He looked at John as if he were about to shag his partner in the middle of the floor. John returned the look. Harry could hear Augustus's bells shake as he shifted in place.
"You knew perfectly well what you were doing," said Harry flatly. "Change them, now. I mean it."
"But you have to fulfill the life debt," Honoria said. "I asked you for to try and reconcile Tybalt and Augustus, and—"
"That's what I'm doing," said Harry. "I got them in the same room. I'm prepared to play diplomat if they actually want to try. If not, then I will send them home like misbehaving children." He frowned at Honoria. "And, while we're at it, Honoria, you should know that it's forbidden for the person owed the life debt to do something that makes it harder for the other wizard to pay them back, unless they deliberately use difficult wording in the initial request. You know what these colors mean, and you let them wear them anyway."
Honoria's face was pale now. "I thought—I thought it would be funny," she said. "A joke."
"And yet, I am not laughing." Harry spun around and faced Augustus. "I apologize, sir. I didn't know they would do this."
Augustus inclined his head, his eyes glinting, and chose to say nothing at all. Harry wondered if that was wisdom on his part or sadistic amusement—if he was perhaps looking forward to seeing how Harry would deal with two wizards and a witch he obviously did regard as disobedient youngsters.
"I wanted to wear these colors," said John then, spinning Harry back around. "Tybalt did tell me what they mean, but I wanted to wear them because they express what I feel."
Harry had his answer. "So you came never intending to reconcile at all." He nodded. "That's good to know. Well, now you've had your joke and your insult, and the terms of my life debt to Miss Pemberley are fulfilled. She asked that I try to reconcile your partner and his uncle. I've tried. That's enough."
"How can you take him seriously?" Tybalt demanded. "Look at him, the pompous braggart! Bells in his hair, of all the stupid affectations! And he's prejudiced against Muggleborns, and your mother was one, and you know that's not right, Harry. How can you defend—"
"An heir who turns against the legacy of his bloodline?" Augustus asked, his voice soft and mocking. "A boy who is a traitor to the memory of his mother? I would wonder more if Harry were trying to defend you. He renounced his legacy rather than try to be an heir of the Potter line when he knew it would be impossible for him, and he gave up his parents rather than continue to mock and torment them. If only you could follow his example, Tybalt."
"I am not a traitor to the memory of my mother! Take that—"
"You are." Augustus leaned forward, the gold-bound white staff in his hand glinting. Harry had backed out of the space between them. "Alba would be horrified, could she see the elder son she bore. Defying everything his uncle asked of him, turning his back on his family instead of—"
"She would be horrified if she could see?" Tybalt's face was as red and pale-splotchy as someone in the early stages of dragonpox. "I thought you believed she did see. You certainly talk about her as often as if she were still alive. You were always a little bit obsessed with her, in fact, uncle. I wonder, is the rumor I heard about you two true? That you didn't have separate beds until you were seventeen?"
Augustus lurched to his feet with a wordless roar and a mighty clash of bells, and lowered his staff. Harry felt it begin to shake with magic. Augustus was one of those wizards who stored some of his power in another object, and could cast it back wandlessly when he had need. Merlin knew what spell he was thinking about using on his nephew right now.
Harry shook his head and reached out to the Room of Requirement. It manifested a stone wall between Augustus and Tybalt, quickly enough that they both stopped yelling in astonishment. Harry walked to the door, though he did turn to survey them briefly.
"If you don't both leave Hogwarts quietly and go home without attempting to hurt each other," he said, "then I will know, and I will cast you both out of the alliance. I won't stand for my allies attacking each other. I declare the terms of the life debt fulfilled, and this experiment a failure, and both of you closer in family resemblance than you probably like to think, given your shared flair for insults. I'm disappointed in both of you. I suppose it's useless to remind you that, in fact, I am the one who's fifteen years old here?"
He stepped out of the Room and shut the door behind him, half-wishing it would just keep them cooped up in there. But someone might die if it did.
He went to tell Snape and Draco—they were both in the dungeons, with Snape helping Draco with an experimental potion he wanted to try—that he was going to the Ministry. If people would be children, Harry would go and do something more productive.
Sometimes, Rufus hated having to follow the rules.
In this case, the rules said that he was not allowed to hex people just for breathing, even if all three of those people were Aurors who had failed him in various ways. He had to remain in the anteroom to Tullianum, where Shacklebolt, Mallory, and Digle waited under the eyes of three considerably more rule-abiding Aurors, and pretend to be concentrating on his paperwork. Harry had owled to say that he was coming to speak about pressing charges, or not, "later in the afternoon." And since Rufus had been the one to send him a Portkey set for any time between noon and six in the evening, he was the one who'd condemned himself to sitting in one place until Harry arrived.
Digle breathed as if he were thinking of arguments to excuse his actions, and just barely restraining himself from saying them. Mallory breathed huffily, coming out at the end with a sigh—a pattern Rufus was familiar with, since he'd crouched beside her before in ambush. Shacklebolt breathed like an old man. All of them were claiming that Dumbledore's compulsion spell had caused them to act the way they had. Rufus disbelieved Digle, at the least, but there was nothing he could do about it; both Veritaserum and Legilimency were illegal unless the person in question consented to them, and none of the prisoners had. The next step was up to Harry.
A soft gleam came from off to the side, and the prisoners all turned expectantly towards it. Rufus was pleased to see that their guards, at least, kept their wands trained on the prisoners, not the gleam. The light resolved into a whirling Harry, who recovered his balance neatly and slid the bottle cap back into his pocket.
"Sir," he said to Rufus, with a nod, and then turned and looked at the prisoners. His mouth tightened. Rufus could see his eyes suddenly looking older, but wasn't entirely sure what emotion made them look so. Harry said nothing else, his eyes intent on Mallory's face, so Rufus took it on himself to make the introductions.
"Kingsley Shacklebolt," he said. "Order of the Phoenix member until I sacked him, and now claiming that Dumbledore compelled him to try and murder you. Fiona Mallory, once Head Auror, and now claiming that Dumbledore's spell compelled her to torture your parents—"
"It did," said Mallory loudly. "I would have managed to restrain myself if it hadn't been for the spell."
Rufus shot her a hard glance. Come down to it, I don't believe her, either. Mallory was his greatest failure. He was the one who had put her in charge of the Aurors, and he should have removed her altogether when he first found her hurting the Potters, not merely forbidden her to handle the case. "And Homer Digle, Muggleborn Auror and undercover Order of the Phoenix member, claiming that he only wrote articles under the name Argus Veritaserum and sent them to the Daily Prophet because Dumbledore forced him to do that."
"But you also let someone have access to Dumbledore," Harry told Digle. "Didn't you? So that means that you had to have known what you were doing before the spell even took effect."
Rufus grinned. He knew it was a harsh and frightening expression, but merely knowing that didn't much inspire him to change it. He had believed that, too, but Digle refused to comment one way or the other, probably so that he wouldn't reveal whoever else had been in on his crime. Even Wilmot hadn't been able to get the information out of him. Harry could, perhaps, get him to reveal who had been at Dumbledore, and then Rufus would be one step closer to thoroughly cleansing his Ministry.
Digle's face retained the same bored expression it had since he had come to the anteroom. "I was a victim of the spell," he said. "And of Dumbledore's reputation. I believed him to be a good man. Now I know he is not."
"You didn't believe the accusations of child abuse," said Harry. "But you believe him to be an evil man because he compelled you?"
Digle shrugged. "Yes."
Rufus ground the teeth. The man wasn't even trying hard to pretend he was innocent. But rules forbade Rufus from using any of the tools that would have proven his guilt. Digle had a convenient excuse, a too-convenient one, in that thrice-bedamned spell. He could escape prosecution entirely, at least if Harry declined to press charges, and the Daily Prophet was of course claiming that they had no idea the man sending them the articles had been an Order of the Phoenix member. Rufus wished, as he often had, that someone had invented a spell that would force all reporters to write only the truth. Just for one day. One day is all I ask for.
"I don't believe you," said Harry softly.
Digle tensed. "Are you using Legilimency on me?" he demanded, and Rufus blinked in astonishment. Digle hadn't shown any signs of losing his composure since the day in Rufus's office when he'd tried to draw his wand and Wilmot had stopped him. Now his shoulders were hunched, and his voice snapped out the words. "You know that's illegal."
Rufus leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. It's Harry's presence, I think. That's upsetting him. Merlin, how Digle must hate the boy.
Harry looked calmly at the ex-Auror. "I'm not using Legilimency on you. I just said that I don't believe you. You were in the Order. You believed in what Dumbledore was doing. You let someone have access to him even though you knew that he would be able to cast magic if he was freed of the Still-Beetle confinement—magic that could potentially have a number of disastrous effects on me or on anyone else he disliked. You might have believed you were doing the right thing before the compulsion, but what you did was still illegal and dangerous."
Digle hissed through his teeth. "I don't believe in him now," he said—entirely unconvincingly. Rufus snorted. I might be forced to let him go if we can't prove anything against him, but I can certainly sack him.
"I think you do," said Harry quietly. "And I don't think that I can let you walk out of here. Granted, you might not attack me again, but you might attack someone else I care about. You caused a great deal of potential damage to other people's minds, even if only indirectly. You took away their free will." Rufus hid a smile at the chill gleam in Harry's eyes. "I'm going to press charges for that." He turned and nodded at Rufus. "Libel for a start, and I'd certainly think indirect magical endangerment is a potential charge, since he had to have known that any spell Dumbledore cast would be bound to affect me."
"Very true," Rufus agreed gravely, trying to keep from laughing. "We'll charge him, then."
"You can't!" Digle spat. "You have no evidence!"
"I have someone who would be willing to help me procure some," said Harry brightly. "Does the name Henrietta Bulstrode mean anything to you, Digle?"
Rufus saw the whiplash of shock that crossed the man's face. He recovered to sneer, "She has no evidence, either," but he hadn't been quick enough. Rufus made a quiet note to investigate Digle's connection to Henrietta Bulstrode, and any visits he might have made to her.
Harry nodded at him, and turned to Mallory, giving her a searching stare. "Do you really think that you would have been able to control yourself, if not for Dumbledore's spell?" he asked.
Mallory looked down. Rufus recognized the gesture. Fiona was ashamed of herself, and was trying to hold strong in the face of that shame. It overwhelmed her, though. It usually did. She was so used to thinking of herself in the right that when something did prick her conscience, it had to be a strong sting.
"I—I think so," she whispered. "I was taken off the case because I bothered them before. I had maintained my distance for a few months by the time I lost control and cursed them. I could feel the desire to do it growing stronger and stronger, but I didn't tell anyone for fear of being sacked. Yes, I think it was the spell."
Harry stared at her bowed head for a long moment. Rufus could not tell what he was thinking. Finally, he sighed and said, "I won't press charges, Minister. I still don't want her anywhere near Lily or James, mind—not assigned to patrol the corridors that contain their cells, even. But no, no charges."
Rufus nodded. In truth, it was a bit irregular to ask if Harry wanted to press charges against Mallory at all, but Lily and James had no right to do so from prison, and the Ministry itself was concerned in her case, so Rufus hadn't felt right prosecuting her without giving Harry a say. As it was, any further punishment would be up to Amelia Bones, as her immediate supervisor, since there was no doubt that she had done it; only her motivation was in question. Rufus was fairly sure that Amelia would arrange to sack Mallory quietly.
It was a worse end than he had once dreamed of when he hired Mallory despite her past and her issues, but a better one than she would have had if Harry had decided to bring up charges, perhaps for mental pain.
That left Shacklebolt. Harry chewed his lip for a long moment as he stared at the tall man, who kept his head bowed over his hands. Then he said, "And why did you use the Killing Curse? Why not just a spell that might stun me or Obliviate me and keep me from testifying in the trial?"
Shacklebolt huddled down in the chair, but his voice, though flat, was clear. "Because that wasn't the compulsion that took hold of me. It said you were supposed to be dead, not just incapable of hurting your parents further."
Harry nodded slowly. "And how long did you feel that compulsion?"
"That one? Since just that morning." Shacklebolt looked up. His eyes were haunted, but Rufus could not be sure how much of that was real. Shacklebolt had been a wonderful actor when he was still an Auror; it had taken Rufus's suspicions, that he had a greater loyalty to a Light Lord than to the Ministry, months to coalesce. "Before that, I just felt the same vague disgust that I think everyone under the compulsion felt."
Harry held still for a long time, his face unhappy. Then he asked, "Did you work towards my destruction, or the destruction of anyone I hold dear, at all before the compulsion spell was cast?"
Shacklebolt stiffened. Then he said, "I don't think you're allowed to ask me that. Is he?" Absurdly, he glanced at Rufus.
Rufus tilted his head. "He's potentially going to charge you for attempted murder and using an Unforgivable," he said helpfully. "I'd say he's allowed to ask you anything he damn well pleases." Sometimes, there are ways to get around the rules.
Shacklebolt squirmed. Then he said, "No," but his pause and his question to Rufus had marked him. Harry's eyes narrowed.
"I don't wish to charge him," he said coolly. "But there were other people on the street with me that morning, and he cast the Killing Curse more than once. I think you should talk to Lucius Malfoy, Minister. He might be interested to know that Shacklebolt's first victim would have been his own son, if I hadn't knocked Draco to the ground."
"But that was an accident!" Shacklebolt exclaimed. "I was under a compulsion at the time. I had no idea—"
"I don't believe you," said Harry steadily. "I really don't. I'm not going to charge you with anything, but that's as far as I'll take it. I don't know what else to do in this situation, so I'll leave it in the Ministry's capable hands." He glanced at Rufus with his eyebrows raised, and Rufus inclined his head. Without someone charging him, Shacklebolt couldn't remain in Tullianum for much longer, but Rufus was sure that Mr. Malfoy would be highly interested in keeping the man who had almost hurt his son from making a reappearance.
It'll probably end in snapping his wand, Rufus thought, but he was not entirely displeased. They didn't really need to imprison or execute Shacklebolt, simply make sure that he couldn't do any more harm—or else that he was useful to their cause, whether or not he wanted to be. Releasing him, and then keeping tabs on him, to see who else he contacted, was an option, as well.
"Then I think I have no other business here," said Harry crisply. "Thank you for inviting me to be part of this, Minister. I'll file charges against Digle through my guardian, and—"
Digle moved. He'd sat back down in his chair, half-slumped, ever since Harry had first spoken of filing charges, but now he uncoiled and shot straight at Harry. He had no wand, but he did have something small and glittering in his hand, something that shone like steel, and which Rufus could not believe the Tullianum guards hadn't found and taken away.
Harry stepped calmly to the side, so that Digle's stabbing hand soared past his shoulder, and then concentrated on the man's feet. An invisible rope tangled them and appeared to pull tight. The next instant, Digle was dangling upside down above the floor, his robes falling to cover his head and the knife plummeting out of his hand to ring on the hard stone. The three Aurors in the room belatedly swore and lifted their wands to point at him, though two of them turned back to Mallory and Shacklebolt before Rufus had to snap at them.
Harry, breathing slightly faster, looked at Rufus and said, "Do you think a charge of attempted murder without the compulsion would be more trouble than it's worth?"
"No," said Rufus flatly. All his amusement at the events of the afternoon drained away. He was going to figure out how Digle had got that knife. It seemed he still had plants in his Ministry. In such cases, he was more than willing to bend the rules. "I think it would be an excellent idea, and you may press that charge through your guardian as well, if you want."
Harry winced. "I would prefer the Ministry handle it, actually, sir. If Professor Snape hears that I was almost killed when visiting the Ministry on my own, I'll have to have guards again for at least a month."
Rufus nodded. Veritaserum blends well with pumpkin juice. "I'll handle it, Mr. Pot—Harry."
"Thank you, sir," said Harry quietly. "Do you have a Portkey that will take me back?"
"Grip the Portkey I gave you and say Portus again," said Rufus. He gave the boy a quick glance, making absolutely sure that he wasn't damaged, and then focused on Digle again as Harry nodded to him and vanished. The man had no excuse to claim compulsion now. And he knew who the person had been who had caused Dumbledore's magic to spread.
He was going to talk. Rufus was not amused by murder attempts of any kind, especially ones that happened right in front of him.
Harry hesitated outside the small room in which he'd had his last talk with Vera, and swallowed. He had to admit that he was only here because of his promise to Draco. It would have been—well, not better, but all right not to speak with her for a while, right? He'd originally planned to use this evening for research, but Thomas had told him to send the book on Greek witches and anything else he thought might help to the Ministry Auror office, care of his wife, who was now Head Auror, so that Voldemort wouldn't see them communicating. Harry had obeyed that command so enthusiastically that he now had no likely books left to look at.
He could have used this for something else, though. His healing wasn't less important than other things, it was just, well—
"You may go in, Harry."
Harry jumped and glanced over his shoulder. Vera stood behind him, her smile patient and her eyes either not amused or simply inscrutable, so that he had no chance of telling what she was feeling. Harry bowed his head, swallowed, and pushed the door open.
The room remained almost as it had been, with the strange white chairs and the large fireplace, but now paintings hung on the wall, formless blue designs that Harry supposed might comfort Vera and be a touch of the Sanctuary in a strange place. There was a sprawled mass of cloth on the chair where Vera had sat last time, which she moved to take her seat. Harry wondered if she was actually making something, or only putting stitches together for fun. Then she looked up at him, and he didn't have any excuse to avoid sitting down in his own chair.
"Your Malfoy thinks you've been avoiding me," said Vera quietly.
"I haven't," said Harry. "I really haven't. I just got caught up in other things, and thought this could wait."
Vera cocked her head at him. "And you think that is a true statement, rather than a relic of your training to put yourself last?"
"Yes." It was important they understand that. Harry didn't intend to ever go backwards again. "You've heard about the situation with Durmstrang? And Ariadne's Web? And the children trapped there?"
"Your Malfoy has told me something of it."
Harry nodded. "I have to do something to help them. I'm a vates; I want to break the web. And they're just children. It's not like they chose to take sides in this war, or chose their parents' politics, or ever asked to be caught up in what Bellatrix Lestrange is going to do to them. Someone has to stop that, and no one else has found a solution so far. So why shouldn't I try?"
Vera calmly pressed a strand of brown hair back behind her ear as it tried to escape its tight roll, never looking away from him while she did it. Harry squirmed. He could tell himself that she'd seen his soul already and knew things about him that not even he did, but that didn't keep the intense physical pressure of her gaze from bothering him.
"There is no reason you should not try," Vera agreed, after a silence that Harry thought went on much too long, and made him think things he didn't want to think. "But there is no reason that you should blame yourself for this happening, or for failing to find a solution immediately."
Harry clenched his teeth, and then swallowed. "I am part of the reason this happened," he murmured. "I'm part of the war."
"Do you truly blame yourself?"
Harry shook his head. "It's complicated."
"I have no pressing appointments, Harry, I assure you." Vera smiled at him. "Take as long as you like to speak."
And that was another reason he still felt uncomfortable talking to her, Harry thought. Vera appeared to really believe that the outside world stopped when she was feeling him out, as though no one else could possibly need her help. Harry never forgot that the world was turning, that people were suffering and dying, that magical creatures were imprisoned elsewhere. It was one of the things that put him in an agony of impatience. He wanted to heal himself, yes, but couldn't people see that it would have to fit in and around the gaps of larger, more important tasks?
He paused. Something about the thought seemed familiar, but from the other side, as if it were something he had once argued against. After a few instants of sifting through his memories, he found it.
He'd told Draco, after Draco cast the Killing Curse, that there was no getting past the business of daily life, that he couldn't simply fulfill his duties and then relax. There were always more duties coming up. There were always new crises appearing. There was always the chance that something more pressing would distract him from healing or from the time set aside for pleasure.
He'd said that to comfort Draco, but it was true, wasn't it? He survived by putting his head down and pushing.
And that meant that, if he was serious about healing, he couldn't rush through all his other duties and then heal. More duties would appear like toadstools. He had to accept them, be ready for them. There was never a time when he could stop living and heal. He would have to integrate healing into his life and push through it just like any other task.
"Ah," said Vera. "I see by your scowl that you appear to have arrived at a conclusion."
Harry sighed and resisted the urge to put his head in his arms. It would ultimately make him feel childish, which wouldn't give him the comfort he was seeking right now. "Yes, I have," he said unwillingly. "I can't put this off and hope a better day comes for dealing with it. That day will never come, not as long as Voldemort is alive, and maybe not after, either. I'm vates, after all, and I have to be available to help the magical creatures. I would always think I was going to heal myself after I freed the sirens, or negotiated a peace with the nundus, or helped this or that or the other species. It would never end, would it?"
"It would not," Vera confirmed calmly. "And, Harry, you should consider that if you heal yourself, you will become a stronger vates."
Harry cocked his head. "I wouldn't have expected you to say that, since you're so insistent on my healing myself for myself."
"It is, nonetheless, something that will happen. I simply do not think you should make it your primary goal, to heal for others." Vera leaned forward. "You have had your talk with your Malfoy as I requested, and heard what he wanted. Tell me, what did you think of it?"
Harry blinked at the change of subject, but went with it. It was easier than thinking about making room for yet another commitment in his round of days. "It was strange. I had some idea he'd want those things, but I still can't get used to the idea of his wanting them with me."
"And why not?"
Harry shook his head impatiently. "Because I don't know why he loves me yet. He could have those things with other people. Why with me?"
"Have you asked him that?"
Harry frowned. "I don't think he'd answer me. He acts resigned to the huge gap between the way he sees me and the way I see myself. Maybe he doesn't have the words? And it's rather self-centered and childish, to ask for a list of reasons why someone else loves you. It's like asking for praise."
"You do have the right to ask for that, you know," said Vera softly. "I think you need to hear it. Others receive words of praise freely throughout their lives. You have received precious few."
Harry glanced away, feeling his cheeks heat. "But it would embarrass me further," he said.
"Why?"
Harry ground his teeth. "I suppose it's the training," he said reluctantly. He knew how Vera would react to this, and Draco, too; they saw the training as something he should never have had to endure. But enough good things came from it that Harry wanted to keep some of it. What would happen if he did ask Draco to do things like list why he loved Harry? It could propel Harry on a downhill slope that would end with him being selfish, and the wizarding world could not afford yet another selfish wizard with Lord-level power.
"Try it," Vera told him calmly. "If it makes you feel too uncomfortable, then ask your Malfoy to stop. But you could do worse than this as a first step. You need to understand why others love you, if they can articulate those reasons, in order to accept your bonds with them." She smiled slightly. "Your relationships are almost all the result of conscious choice, Harry. Perhaps it should not have been that way, perhaps you should be able to have unselfconscious, completely spontaneous trust in others, but it is that way." Harry nodded, grateful she understood. "You know the reasons that you love others. So you will need to know the reasons others love you."
Harry nodded a second time, reluctant, but convinced she was right. He'd said as much to Draco and Snape the day his parents were sentenced. He couldn't imagine why they'd chosen him, out of all the people in the wizarding world, to give as much trust and love as they had. Other people could have fulfilled their needs equally well, and probably better, since they wouldn't have the problems Harry had. So he would have to not only ask them why they'd chosen him, but remain in the room while they told him.
And, hopefully, not die of embarrassment.
"And what of your progress on other fronts?" Vera asked him then. "Have you tried to relearn pleasure in taste, in warmth, in other places that you have been exiled from?"
"I don't see the point," said Harry, convinced that he needed to bring this up now, or he probably never would. "What does it matter what porridge tastes like to me? Or chocolate?"
Vera frowned at him for the first time. "We have spoken of this already, Harry. It matters for the same reason it matters to other people."
"But they're them, and I'm me," said Harry. "I've had the training, and I'm sorry for it, but there it is. I think I should be putting more effort into overcoming other things than how I feel when I eat eggs."
"I did see your Malfoy encouraging you to vary your palate," Vera murmured. "But if you think other things are more important, Harry, then of course we should concentrate on them. You will ask your Malfoy why he loves you?"
Harry winced. "Is that a command?"
"An encouragement," said Vera. "A task that even you agree is important, and which I would like you to accomplish before I speak with you again. Along with asking him why he thinks it's important for you to eat food other than porridge. Perhaps he will have an answer that changes your mind."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Harry muttered, and then blinked. He hadn't known that was in there.
Vera leaned forward, suddenly looking more like a hawk than a wren. "Why, Harry? Why should you be afraid of learning to eat as others do, to laugh as others do, to enjoy the simple pleasures in life? It is honest fear, I can see that from your eyes, and not simply the relic of the training. Why?"
Harry swallowed. "What happens if I become selfish because of it, and turn into a Dark Lord?" There, it was out in the open, no matter how stupid it sounded, and at least Vera knew what he was thinking.
Vera watched him for a long moment. Then she said, "You fear that a great deal, don't you?" Harry nodded. "Why?"
"Not just because my mother and Dumbledore thought I would become a Dark Lord," said Harry, forcing himself through the thoughts for the first time. "Not just because I can do things like swallow magic. I used to think that was it, but…I have all this magic. And the biggest characteristic that both Dumbledore and Voldemort share, besides their power, is that they want what they want, and they don't care much about what others want. I know that Lily trained me to be too unselfish, but maybe that's better than what I would turn into if I started caring too much about my wants." He stared at Vera, wondering what her response would be.
It was gentle, at least, and she certainly didn't tell him that he was stupid for thinking as he did. "There is no path absolutely free from evil, Harry," she said quietly. "Even freedom can go too far, if you were to force someone to be free against her will. There is no certainty. I can understand why you would cling to the certainties that you have, but this is simply one more thing that needs to melt and change. You are at least conscious and aware of your actions if you are trying to enjoy the small pleasures of life, while, if you are secure in the thought that you cannot possibly be selfish, you might hurt others."
Harry bowed his head and nodded. He'd seen what absolute conviction of his own rightness did to Dumbledore. It seemed strange that conviction of unselfishness could lead to that, but people could be fanatics for any cause.
Vera came to him and gently kissed his forehead. "That is all for now, Harry. Go and find your Malfoy, and ask him why he loves you. I think you will find his answers enlightening, and a good deal less embarrassing than you might suppose."
Vera would know, Harry thought, as he nodded to her and took his leave. She'd seen Draco's soul. She'd talked with him. She probably knew all the reasons for his love for Harry, even the ones he couldn't articulate.
Perversely, that just made him surer that he would be embarrassed by it. Vera had a great deal more faith in him than he did in himself.
"Harry?"
Harry looked up and blinked. He'd run straight into Draco—probably not by coincidence, since Draco had known where he would go this evening. Draco regarded him with concern, and Harry shook his head and forced a smile.
"I'm all right," he said quietly, and put his arm around Draco's shoulders.
"Do you want to tell me what she said?"
Harry hesitated, then shook his head again. "Not yet," he added. "I will sometime." He'd had enough embarrassment today, what with the disastrous attempt to reconcile Tybalt and Augustus, and the fact that he hadn't even seen Digle's knife until the man lunged at him. He really would walk around for hours with a permanently red face if Draco started telling him why he loved him.
"All right," said Draco.
Harry closed his eyes and leaned against him, feeling Draco's arm curl around his shoulders in turn, for one moment taking comfort in the fact that, no matter how large and loud the world outside what they shared, Draco was there. And maybe it wasn't cheating, wasn't hiding, to take pleasure in his company and his gentleness and his love.
Maybe.