It's breakout day

14th September 07:10

His eyes fluttered awake, soaking in the fake sunlight, the dull grey stone, and the smell of his own unwashed body. A single thought tumbled out.

This is my last day.

The previous day had been among the worst in his life. He had spent most of it completely alone in silence. Berrick and Sabor had been by in the morning. He had accepted his water eagerly. His thirst had reached a point where his eyelids were sticking. He'd wasted a lot of water that night after the possession, tears falling from him, unable to hold them back. He gave them no grief, not even when Sabor spat in his face, not forgetting what Harry had done. Harry wondered if was bruised down there. He hoped so.

Berrick had been gentle as always but dared not speak with the headguard sneering over his shoulder. Harry didn't mind. Having someone treat him with some decency, even if it was silence and careful movements, was more than enough. He inched his head to him again, cooperating with this gentle man whose character seemed so out of place. Sabor made no comment on it this time and they left him alone.

The hours of the morning were always the worst, but they stretched and warped. His thoughts cycled around and around, unable to escape from what he'd seen through Voldemort's eyes. He'd be used to further extend Voldemort's immortality. He did suppose that it was slightly ironic that he, who was tasked with destroying the horcruxes, would be used to make a new one. He remembered asking Dumbledore if Voldemort would ever try to make another and Dumbledore had been vaguely certain that he wouldn't. Maybe Voldemort's soul would just magically explode from too much mutilation and just disintegrate. Though Harry thought he was hardly lucky enough for that to happen.

And so he had waited for Yaxley to arrive and drag him to that chamber full of cold magic and truth. The Death Eater tasked with driving out his secrets did arrive.

"You are to stay put in this cell for the day, Potter," the Death Eater had said to him, pacing back and forth, appearing extremely agitated. "Matters outside these walls require my more urgent attention. I do have a government to lead and control. I'm confident that you won't be going anywhere… I've even brought you something to occupy the time."

He gave Harry his mokeskin pouch, or specifically, he hung it back over his neck. He adjusted his chains to make sure that he could not remove his silencer or reach the string now around his neck. Yaxley remarked on the damaged fingers, but said little else.

Alone in silence, Harry strained to reach his pouch, but he couldn't reach it, no matter how hard he tried. He knew that Yaxley was more than aware of what he was doing. He'd given it back to Harry, but he had no means to open it and even if he did manage to grab it with his good hand and open it, nothing in there could help with this. He could use the shard of the mirror for something dark… something that did cross his mind a few times. Maybe the snitch, with whatever Dumbledore's secret purpose was for it, could help. Unless it held a wand inside, Harry doubted that it was equipped with a means to help him escape.

The weight of it on his neck was driving him mad… and that had been the point.

On and on, the time dragged by. Harry had nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. His hunger was getting to the point where he couldn't ignore it any longer. He shifted around on his feet, moving his body weight to give relief to different joints and different muscles. He hummed to himself at one point, just to hear something other than his breathing and the sounds of his body digesting itself.

Night arrived and with it, Rookwood's return. Harry had hoped that maybe the Death Eater would leave him be like Yaxley, but he wasn't that lucky. He was fortunate in that Rookwood said little and left the silencer in place. Harry felt a small hint of relief, which he hated as he felt it, as it meant he could hold back his sounds of pain without too much concentration.

The torture that followed was the worst that he had endured so far. He was held under the cruciatus curse for longer than he had been previously. Rookwood appeared to have let go of his restraint. Harry didn't lose control of himself (he'd been able to sort himself out beforehand), but he had screamed several times, or whatever the alternative of screaming was when he couldn't open his mouth. The high-pitched shrieks that left him haunted him when he was finally left in silence again, alone.

Before he left, Rookwood had a parting farewell. He checked Harry's eyes, even pulling up one of his eyelids when he refused to meet his stare.

"You are holding on by a thread," he said to him quietly, "but it is not my place to sever it. Keep holding onto it, Harry Potter. It is all you have left."

He clung onto that thread as if it was his lifeline and he had been cast adrift in the open sea. The despair was eating him up inside, threatening to take him under. He rested against the wall, staring into space, and counted his breaths. His muscles spasmed at random, nerves damaged from the torture, the aftermath of the curse keeping him from sleeping. Eventually he did drift off, his dreams filled with the shrieking of his own pain and the relentless bite of metal digging into his wrists. There was nothing else.

Now he made a quick assessment of his cell, but it was exactly the same as it had been. Far corners obscured in a blurry haze, the door a fuzzy rectangle of wood and metal lattice. His pot was by his right foot, filled. He felt no disgust.

His body clock had adjusted to the routine after only four days. Maybe it was his magic that had attuned to the routine, his instincts helping him to be awake when there was a threat. Waking early on his last day made sense. He wanted to spend every one of his hours awake. Each hour a gift his parents had given him.

He heard the scrape of the key in the door and coughed, tasting the sourness of his mouth and throat. His body was stiff where he had slept, arms aching fiercely at where he had dangled from the shackles. He knew his wrists were in a bad way and felt the skin tearing every so often, but he'd shelved away that pain early. Now it was almost like he and the shackles were one.

One blurry shape entered the cell and shut the door behind him. Harry started at this change in routine, instantly suspicious. It was his last day. Things would change soon… but this soon?

He heard water lapping in the bucket, the thunk of the ladle hitting the side, the laboured paces of Berrick as he approached. That much was normal, but Harry could sense something different, other than Berrick being alone.

He could smell… food. Sure enough, Berrick carried his water bucket with one hand, in the other, he held his wand. Levitating ahead of him was a tray. As he neared, the tray jumped into focus and there were the unmistakable shapes of a bowl and a spoon. Harry glanced at the shut door, an ancient feeling spluttering into life in the hollowness of his despair. He made a sound in his throat, his body responding to the presence of sustenance. He made an effort to stand, feeling dizzy at once as he moved from his more grounded position.

Berrick put the bucket down, groaning as he did as if the movement caused him discomfort. The tray drifted from him, nearing Harry, whose eyes trained on the bowl, seeing the clear, brownish broth that didn't look appetising in the slightest, and yet his stomach bunched at the savoury smell it was giving off.

Berrick edged towards him, his face cautious for a moment, but then Harry saw his expression soften. The man looked every part a prison guard at first glance. He had a rugged appearance, eyes beady, sunken under a heavy brow. There were a few scars and one of his ears was scarred, like a boxer's, or a beater's. His hair was thinning, receding, but he didn't appear that old. Maybe in his early forties.

"I have fifteen minutes… that's all they've given me to give you your food and water," The man spoke quickly as he approached him. His voice was shaking with nerves. The man reached up and saw Harry staring at him with utter confusion. "They're taking you to sign your confession in front of the Wizengamot later."

It took Harry a few seconds to process what the man had said. He had forgotten that he was imprisoned on the pretense of fake murder charges, ones that he'd been sentenced to death for without a trial. He didn't think that they would bother with making the process legal, not when they had the liberty to cut corners and frame him.

Harry's eyes hardened. He was being fed so he could put on more of a show, put on a stage and made an example of. When he felt Berrick's gentle hands touch the back of his head, he jerked his head firmly away from him. Berrick hesitated.

"You need this," he said quietly, voice insistent. "Not just because of what they've planned but…" He paused, causing Harry to meet his stare. "I was told to give you a message. Well… it's actually just two words. Moral fibre."

Harry turned his head back, eyes wide in shock. The man's fingers continued to unfasten his straps. The moment he felt the pressure leave his jaw and mouth, he mumbled.

"Who… who spoke to you? Was it-."

"I don't know who it was, just that they are a friend." Berrick removed the silencer completely, putting it on the tray next to the bowl. When he looked back over to Harry's now freed face, a pained expression flickered over his face. He went back to work as if nothing unusual was happening and busied himself with the ladle.

"Wh… why are you helping me?" Harry asked, so bewildered. The man recoiled a little, hesitating, and his gaze faltered for a moment as his brow creased.

"Because it's the only thing that makes sense," he said honestly and brought the cup to Harry's mouth. They stared at each other for a while. Harry waited for more of an answer, but the man had nothing else for him, so he opened his mouth and let the man carefully tip the water into his mouth. Though it tasted stale and metallic, it was still the sweetest water Harry had ever drank. He felt it sinking down his gullet, soothing and steadying. When he finished, he gasped with relief and tears formed in his eyes.

"They… they'll kill you if they find out," Harry whispered as the man returned the ladle to the bucket. He glanced over to the door. "Or whoever they have of yours."

"They won't find out," Berrick assured him, returning the ladle to the bucket and filled it again. Harry noticed, surprised, but he accepted the extra water. He drank it quickly, some spilling over his chin at his eagerness. It felt overwhelming good to have his thirst quenched properly.

Berrick dropped the ladle into the bucket and took the bowl, stirring the contents with the spoon. An incredibly awkward expression settled on his face as he approached. Harry knew why. He would have to feed him. His face stung as he blushed, the sore skin irritated by the sudden heat.

"I'm… sorry. I can't get you out of those chains." He said, approaching. "They're enchanted to release at the touch of two wands. All shackles are like it here."

"Ma… makes sense," Harry eyed the soup and sighed, "we'll… we'll have to take it slow. Not too fast or… well." Berrick gave him an inquisitive look. Harry's head dipped a little, looking away briefly. "I have some… experience."

Berrick didn't pry but that pained expression was back. He scooped up some of the soup and brought it towards Harry's mouth with a steady hand. Harry looked down, seeing the brownish broth, smelling it. He opened his mouth and the spoon went in. Awkward and embarrassed, he swallowed. It was lukewarm, tasting vaguely like chicken or some sort of meat. It slithered down to his belly.

To his horror, tears leaked out his eyes when Berrick took the spoon and went to fill it. He brought it back up to Harry who sniffed loudly and accepted it again. They worked like this in silence. Harry was lost in a memory where the roles had been reversed, where it had been him, feeding Dumbledore with that potion. He had slapped away the old man's protesting hands, pushing the cup against his mouth and telling him that it would make it all better, lying through his teeth.

He felt a wave of nausea. "Wait… just a second," he took in a few deep breaths, his stomach unsettled.

"Those words, 'moral fibre'." Berrick muttered, catching Harry's attention, "they mean something to you."

"Yeah… well. It's a bit of a joke. About me."

"I was told that you'd understand what it meant and that you'd trust me." Berrick gave a shrug. "They seemed to know… a lot. About me that is." Harry noticed he was regarding him questioningly. He raised his chin, realising that the man owed some explanation at least, especially when he was risking a lot in just speaking with him.

"I told them," Harry said carefully, "that you were different."

"When you had that off…" Berrick gestured to the silencer, "they were here?"

Harry nodded and tapped the wall. "Back here, actually. Long story." He eyed the bowl. "Alright, I think I can eat more."

Berrick patiently fed him a few more mouthfuls, waiting a few seconds between each to give him time to swallow and breathe. Harry considered the man, overwhelmed by the man's kindness. His selflessness. The gesture made him almost dizzy, his heart fluttering, not quite believing that he had an actual ally.

"So what do those words mean?" Berrick probed patiently. Harry met his eyes, frowning a little at the question. He knew that the man wasn't intruding, something told him that the man wasn't the prying type, so he humoured him.

"That… uh well… it's a bit embarrassing," he admitted, eyes bright. He was starting to feel a bit better, his thoughts a little less clouded. "I have a bit of a 'saving people thing' and I was called out on it during the second task… a school thing that happened a few years ago." He swallowed as he felt a stab of nausea, then felt a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I took it a bit too seriously and went back to save…"

The penny dropped. He gasped, doubling over and alarming Berrick who took a step back, as if thinking he was going to be sick.

"I went back to save them…" he whispered, "moral fibre… you're going to try and come back for me." He looked up at Berrick, staring at him, eyes wide. "What else did they say to you?" He demanded, voice raising a little.

"Nothing… just those words and that it would be enough for you to trust me." Harry scrutinised him, glancing from each eye, seeing only confusion and curiosity.

"Sorry…" he sighed, "you're in more danger than you realise. You just told me that there are plans to get me out of here. That's what those words mean."

"I thought that might be the case," Berrick said casually, stirring the soup, wearing a small smile. When he saw Harry regarding him in surprise, his smile broadened. "Come on, as if a secret message smuggled to a prisoner would be about anything else?"

Harry gave a light huff through his nose. "I guess not."

"So eating the rest of this is pretty important," Berrick looked into the bowl, "you'll need your energy." Harry frowned at the bowl, his stomach giving a spasm but gave a nod.

Berrick helped him finish the soup, working with the same efficiency as he had with the water. Harry noticed something in his movements. They were well-practiced, as if he had done this before - feed someone who was helpless. When it was finished, Berrick returned the bowl to the tray and removed his wand. He vanished the contents of Harry's pot.

"You've… done this before? This… looking after people." Harry noticed. Berrick gave a nod, his shoulders drooping.

"I used to care for my mother… before she passed… and before all this."

"I'm… sorry." Harry was struck by how honest his answer was, but he regarded the man with more respect.

"Don't be," the man said and gave Harry an unreadable look. He moved over to the tray, reaching for the silencer and hesitated. "I have to put this back on."

"I know," Harry felt his chest tighten as the man lifted it up. Harry could see how the leather was actually now moulded to the contours of his jaw and chin. "I… I can't thank you enough."

"You're welcome… Harry."

"Huh, it's weird to not be called Potter," Harry said with a smirk, "I take it Berrick's not your first name."

"No… it's Michael," the man stepped up to him.

"Nice to meet you, Michael Berrick. I'd shake your hand but..." Harry moved his right arm, tugging against the chain. It clinked loudly at the sudden movement. Berrick gave a soft sigh out his nose.

"You too, Harry Potter," he said quietly, looking down at the leather muzzle in his hands, trying to not feel the revulsion at what he was about to do. "I'm sorry… I hop-." He flinched, hearing the scrape on the door.

Harry heard it too. "Put it on, quick. If they see me without it…" he whispered urgently. Berrick took in a quick breath and avoided Harry's eyes as he returned the silencer to his face, hating what he was doing as he fed the straps back through the buckets and tightened it, feeling the boy flinching under him as he did, knowing that he was hurting him.

"All finished up here?" Sabor's harsh voice cracked into the room, adding to the momentary tension. Berrick let go of the muzzle just as the door opened and he met Harry's gaze, those eyes that were so vividly green, set in a background of large red marks that almost completely filled the whites of his eyes. They were eyes belonging to someone who had been through hell and been spat out the other side, unbroken.

"Yes. You don't need to breathe down my neck. He's sorted," Berrick gave Harry one last look, a parting nod, then went to grab his bucket.

"He say anything?" Sabor stepped inside. Harry stiffened as the man entered, his instincts picking up on the way the man entered, how his hand rested on his bludgeon.

"He said thank you and that was it," Berrick strode past him, giving him a hard look as he did. "I think his talking-back days are over."

Sabor sniffed with disappointment. "Well… that's a shame. I hoped for the last encounter to be a bit more memorable." Berrick stopped, straightening in surprise. Sabor's sneer was an ugly thing. "I guess you wouldn't know. The Row's returning to normal operations tomorrow. Potter's being moved tonight."

Harry tried to not react to the words and watched instead how Berrick's face paled, understanding the connotations. The man didn't dare risk a glance back but instead he sighed.

"Oh, feeling sympathy are we?"

"It's called being human," Berrick snapped back, "I don't care who he is. He's a kid. Does no one even see that anymore?" Sabor appeared taken back by Berrick vitriol and blinked, sneer fading, but then he drew himself up and gave Berrick a long, lingering look.

"You know the price for sedition?"

"I do and I know that come tomorrow, you'll need someone to look after the new prisoners that find their way in these cells. So get off my back," Berrick pushed into him, startling the man, and strode out the room, seething. Harry watched the whole exchange with wide, fearful eyes.

Sabor took a moment to recover from the outburst and he edged towards Harry, his features sharpening as he drew closer. Harry didn't pay him much attention, leaning back into the wall. His stomach felt uncomfortably full of liquid, but he knew that he was already benefiting from the nutrients, sugars and proteins that had been in that broth. He could almost feel his magic recharging under his skin.

The headguard of the Row gave Harry a long, searching look, from his bloodied hands, equally bloodied wrists, down to his sweat-stained robe, flecked with spots of dried blood, then down to his legs and the shackles around his ankles. His hand left the handle of his bludgeon and he finally met Harry's gaze, where he was hit with a glare of such intensity, he felt a jolt of fear. He turned and left without saying another thing. When he locked the door, he found his hands shaking.

14th September 10:30am

From the moment Remus Lupin sat down on the very hard and very uncomfortable bench in Courtroom Ten, he knew that he was going to have to work very hard on staying impassive and quiet. First, it didn't help that this body he was disguised as belonged to a man nearly fifty years his senior. His back was creaking and aching already and he had only been sat down for a few moments. His rheumy eyes leant him a very bad perspective of the surroundings and even the large glasses perched on his nose didn't help much.

When the legal proceedings started, he was grinding his teeth - which was a bad idea - as they weren't the healthy teeth he was used to. Now he had toothache to add to his aching back and throbbing head from the eyestrain. All this just made it harder as he listened to the spectacle taking place in that room, the accusations and the bare-faced lies about a boy who'd risked life and limb for other people labeling him as an unhinged psychopath.

The latest 'witness' had just described a scene where Umbridge valiantly tried to protect the muggleborns accused in her courtroom from the deranged Potter, but the boy struck her down with two unforgivables. First he had tortured her, laughing at her screams, then he killed her and removed her locket, which was then taken by his accomplice, identified as an unknown witch disguised as Mafalda Hopkirk.

Of course no one is going to mention that Harry was also disguised at this point. Remus angrily watched the high-benches, seeing the Minister listening with rapt interest. The man that Harry had been disguised as, Albert Runcorn, sat with a small satisfied smile, his small dark eyes glittering.

Yaxley finished his cross-examination and strutted across the floor, dressed in black and silver robes, looking very pleased with himself. Remus nearly let out a low, guttural growl in his throat but composed himself. He rested his hand on his lap where his wand was strapped to his leg in a holster, reminding himself that he would have the opportunity to curse that smug look off that Death Eater's face.

"Minister, I have no further witnesses to call to the stand."

"Very well. We will then move on. We require the presence of the accused to receive his sentencing."

"I will need a recess to make the necessary arrangements."

"Of course. We recognise a ten-minute break from the proceedings. Take note of that, Weasley."

Remus jarred at the mention of the name, eyes going to the red-headed wizard stationed close to the Minister, his bespeckled face obscured in shadow as he scribed down on his parchment, not sparing a look towards the Minister, to anyone. He turned his face away, feeling no resentment towards the middle son of the Weasley family, just sadness. The Death Eaters hadn't even used him as leverage, knowing full well that he was estranged from the family.

There were a few mumbled conversations, but most came from the high-benches, those that had more freedom to express an opinion and not fear being dragged out the room on a sedition charge. It was clear who in the room was affiliated with the Death Eaters and the Dark Administration and who had been coerced to sit in place and behave.

"If the boy is as unhinged as they say, what makes them think he'll sign anything? He won't feel remorse for his actions, that's for sure," Remus heard a harsh whisper behind him.

"He'll get the kiss if he signs or not. It's a legal technicality to make matters more cut-and-dried. No need for a full trial and we get rid of the menace once and for all. Good riddance to bad blood."

Remus was surprised to see a few faces pale with anger before looking pointedly away. The sight of it stirred a thrill. I wonder… will more wands join us in what's to come? Arthur was right. There is a lot of anger here. Voldemort's control is everywhere, it's true, but it won't take much to get these people to rise up. Especially in the face of this injustice.

Below, the witness box had been cleared away. Enforcers had marched into the centre of the room, dressed in blue robes with their wands stowed in belts, easy to grab quickly. A desk had been magicked from somewhere and brought into the middle of the room. Someone fussed with it, putting down a pot of ink and a quill. It looked very innocent. Next came the chair, not so innocent, with a high back and chains coiled around the arms and legs. Whoever sat in that chair would not be going anywhere.

A side door to the Courtroom opened suddenly. Two figures were escorted out by Enforcers, stumbling over chains that hobbled their feet. Gasps and whispers sounded around the room. Both the figures wore hoods and were brought to the centre of the room where they were forced down to their knees. Alarmed, Remus looked across the room to where he knew Kingsley sat. The balding man with tufts of white hair who Kingsley was impersonating met his stare.

Who the hell are they?

Yaxley was pacing around his Enforcers, talking under breath, his words clearly not intended to be overheard. At his orders, the guards moved into position. Five at each side of the chair, wands drawn.

They're prepared… I'll give them that. He mused darkly, looking to the two bound figures who were pressed down into the floor, each with a guard who had a wand pressed into their backs.

A means to keep Harry under control, maybe? But who are they?

While many members of the Wizengamot appeared shaken by the appearance of these two unknown prisoners, a few were not, staring down their noses at them like they were nothing but filth. A similar look adorned the faces of the Ministry representatives, including the Minister. Remus felt a horrible surge of dread as he looked down at the two forms. Whoever they were, they were in terrible danger. His palms were starting to sweat.

The ten enforcers standing sentry at the centre drew out their wands and cast wards. Simple wards, from when he could tell, shield charms that were of average strength. Harry had been right - these hired thugs were sub-par wizards, picked for their lack of conscience and lack of ambition. Henchmen, for lack of a better word.

At the back of the room, there was a clunk as a grate lifted out from the ground. It expanded as it rose up, revealing a round hole in the black marble. Yaxley paced over, waving at the enforcers posted nearest to join him.

The passageway to the Row. They're bringing Harry out. He checked his watch. They're bringing him out earlier than we thought… I hope the others are ready.

Staring at the sunken portal, he wished that the brave man he was impersonating had better eyesight. He caught sight of movement and someone stepped up, rising, ascending a set of unseen stairs. The man that stepped out wore plain, nondescript black robes, his hair long and grey. Remus knew the man, hate and anger flaring at his appearance. Augustus Rookwood, I have a score to settle with you.

If the two Death Eaters were there, that meant that Harry wasn't far behind. Sure enough, three figures ascended into the Courtroom, two men gripped between them a shorter, slight figure who they jostled around, forcing him to stand upright. Remus held his breath, knowing with absolute certainty that it was Harry. At this distance, it could be him or his father, with that disheveled black hair and matching body shape, slim, lithe and full of motion. When the prisoner raised his head, the similarities between him and his father ended. Remus gripped his plum robes in his liver-spotted hands, seeing that leather muzzle around his face and the ashen skin. His hair wasn't purposefully tousled like his father's had been, but lank in places, sticking up in others.

Then there was the matter of the grey robe he wore. Remus recognised it, having seen Sirius dressed similarly on that night when they had all been reunited in the Shrieking Shack. They ended at his shins where he saw the shackles around his ankles, sporting a short length of chain between them. His anger throbbed. James… if you could see this now…

His wrists were bound in front of him and Remus could see the movement there as Harry, even surrounded by armed wizards, was trying to free himself. Something must have been said to him as Harry's head jerked around to look at the Death Eaters standing in front of him. Remus could tell, even at this distance, that Harry was furious. His heart leapt. Fury meant he was fighting. He hadn't given up. His pride for the son of his best friend threatened to erupt, but he had to contain his emotions.

"Administrator. We have had our ten minutes," the Minister called out from the top bench. "I am to assume you are ready to bring forth the accused."

Yaxley swept from Harry and tilted his head upwards to the assembled audience, his face alive with vicious triumph.

"I am."

Harry was dragged down the Row, his feet limp and useless under him. He kept his gaze fixed ahead to the doors and the guards that stood before them. His wrists were bound, in front of him this time, which initially gave him a spark of inspiration. Yet in his eyeline at all times, Rookwood lingered, his wand curling in his hand. He was there, in front of him now.

He was suddenly jerked to a halt. Confused, he stared around, but the two men dragging him were unlikely to just tell him what was going on. He recognised one of the men holding him as the man that had been tested by Rookwood after he treated Harry with some level of decency, a name that escaped him. He felt that man grip him too tightly, his expression hard. He had no ally there.

Rookwood approached the wall of the hallway, approaching one of the scones that illuminating the hallway in place of the usual fake windows that sorted the rest of the Ministry. He wrapped his hand around the metal of the base and said in a clear voice:

"Deliverance."

Harry was no stranger to secret passageways. Passwords were usually a common theme. At the word, the sconce and the partition of wall it was attached to clicked loose and sunk backwards where it then swung back, becoming a door. Harry was dragged towards this new door and watched as the revealed passageway illuminated with enchanted torches.

As he was taken down this passageway, he realised that it made perfect sense for there to be a way for the Ministry to ferry high-profile prisoners to and from their cells secretly. Less chance of someone trying to spring the accused loose, and it avoided the unwanted attention of the press. Harry found himself wondering if Sirius had been forced down this narrow, ominous corridor. There were more than a few parallels between what was happening to him at present and what happened to Sirius. Although unlike his godfather, Harry wasn't facing a life sentence to Azkaban.

Focus. Harry reminded himself for what felt like the hundredth time. Whenever his thoughts went bleak, he pushed them back. He had to keep his mind on the present. The soup, though hardly a three-course meal, gave him some energy. He felt much better than he had. He didn't want to expend this energy and he didn't struggle when the guards took him from the cell. His lack of resistance hadn't gone unnoticed. He felt Rookwood's ever analysing gaze on him.

There was a narrow stairwell at the end of the passageway. They brought him to the stairs, but stopped. Harry looked up, seeing a metal door sealing the exit. He realised he could hear movement above. They were under the Courtroom.

"I was where you are right now," Rookwood's voice lanced into his ear. "Sixteen or so years ago, maybe. My trial was short. Death Eaters rarely got the full attention of the law, not under Crouch. Guilty therefore life in Azkaban."

The mention of Crouch brought out a number of memories, mostly memories that weren't even his own. Harry realised, just then, that he'd heard of Rookwood before Voldemort had even been resurrected. He remembered… he witnessed the trial of Karkaroff in Dumbledore's pensieve. He'd given up Rookwood for his own freedom. Harry felt bitter that he only realised this connection now, when he couldn't speak. It would have been interesting to see the reaction from the former Unspeakable.

A loud clunk came from above and light flushed the stairwell. Rookwood paced up the stairs, disappearing. Then Harry felt the two holding him shove him towards the steps. Being forced upstairs when unable to climb them turned out to be painful. When he was pushed up the last step, he grunted into his muzzle. His shins and ankles were throbbing from being rammed into the steps, very likely bruised and bleeding. He pushed aside the pain for the moment and quickly assessed the blurry surroundings.

It was definitely the same room. The place he'd seen in the pensieve and also the same he'd been tried in for underage magic. There was the same high, cavernous ceiling, the torches flickering at the walls. He couldn't see much else as men in blue robes pressed around him like they had done when he had been arrested. He was jostled around, disorientated. Someone kicked his feet under him to make him stand.

"We will allow you the dignity to walk." Yaxley was among the many people that surrounded him, wearing resplendent robes of silver and black. He met Yaxley's gaze, furious.

"Administrator. We have had our ten minutes," a clear, loud voice called from the audience. "I am to assume you are ready to bring forth the accused."

Yaxley turned from Harry, replying "I am."

Harry was then forced onwards, taking a jarring step. The chain yanked taut between his shackles, making him grit his teeth as he was forced to take small, clumsy steps. His legs ached at the movement, having not walked in a while. There was silence in the room, he realised. No one was speaking. He could hear the chain clinking with each step. Between the men leading him, he glimpsed where he was being taken and saw the shape of a chair. Recognition flittered in the back of his mind. That was the very same chair that he'd sat in for his hearing, with the chains up the arms.

When he reached the chair, he was dragged around. The roughness of how he was treated with their tight grips and firm pushes made him retreat into himself, especially when he saw how many people were assembled in the room to watch. He lowered his head, furious at being humiliated and made an example of, his face burning under his muzzle.

He was then shoved into the chair. He noticed that there was a desk in front of him and he frowned in puzzlement for a moment before he flinched in alarm as the chains at the arms coiled into life. They wrapped around Harry's upper arms. The bindings around his wrists snapped away and the chains snatched his wrists, dragging them to the wood and binding them in place. He gave a feeble attempt to free himself, but the chains were very tight. He also felt a fuzzy sensation in his head as his magic was blocked.

Harry raised his head, noticing movement. He imagined that the full Wizengamot were present, but there were no curious stares or sympathetic smiles. He could feel the malcontent in the air, not just because of the Death Eaters, but there was something very wrong, a corruption that ached in the unpleasant silence that lingered on. All these people were in the room with him and yet they were silent? That alone wasn't right.

"Esteemed members of the legal assembly, I present the accused," Yaxley announced, pacing in front of Harry and in front of the desk that Harry had just been staring at, confused by the blank parchment and quill.

"Harry James Potter

Harry couldn't help but respond to his full name, searching for who had said it and finding Yaxley, standing right in front of him. His hatred contorted inside of him, feeling the presence of the mokeskin pouch under his robe, touching his chest, the pouch that was so hopelessly out of reach.

"Due to the unreliability of his sanity, as well as wishing to keep these proceedings as… civil as possible, the accused has been sentenced to forced silence." Yaxley explained in clipped tones. Harry felt his anger spike and tried to lift his arms from the chair in vain.

"Having heard Potter's confession myself, I have transcribed it. All it needs for it to be authentic is a signature." Yaxley approached the desk, taking from his robes a scroll. He set it down.

"A signed confession would seal the sentence," a voice announced from the top bench. Harry didn't even glance. He fumed. What made these people think that he would willingly sign his name to a lie? He glanced down at his right hand, seeing the bruised and swollen skin. Over the last couple of days, his hand had started to hurt less, but there was still barely any movement. His forefinger was hideously crooked and he saw the grisly dried blood and exposed nail bed. There was no way he'd be able to sign his name anyway. He couldn't move his hand, let alone hold a quill.

A low moan sounded to Harry's right. He glanced over at the sound, looking through a gap between the Enforcers that still surrounded him. He could see figures on the floor, dressed in the same grey robes he wore. Dread rose at the sight of them, especially at the guards that held them down, wands pressed into their backs. Both had hoods over their heads.

That doesn't bode well, he thought bleakly. They looked horribly like hostages.

"Potter." Harry knew he was being addressed directly and he looked to Yaxley, eyes narrowing. "You stand accused of two counts of murder."

Two? Umbridge and who else? His brows lifted in surprise.

"The first count is for the murder of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore." Yaxley paced in front of the desk, glancing up at the Wizengamot. Harry went cold, his heart lurching. "The second – the murder of Dolores Jane Umbridge. Both counts of which the Court finds you guilty."

Harry stared at him in disbelief. Guilty for murdering Dumbledore? Who in their right mind would believe that? He glanced up at the Wizengamot, seeing slight movement in the blurred edges of his vision. He wished he had his glasses and could see their expressions.

I guess as they had me wanted for it in the first place, it makes sense to pin it on me, even if it is a complete lie.

"The Court also finds you guilty for two counts of assault on Ministry personnel, one count of destruction of Ministry property and, most crucially, guilty of treason and conspiracy against the Ministry of Magic and the Wizarding population as a whole."

Harry blinked at the word 'treason'. It sprung to mind muggle history of monarchs and beheadings, not magical law. It was so bizarre. Yet it was true, in a sense, he was a traitor as far as the Death Eaters were concerned. But by accusing him of it, weren't they making their rule over the Ministry public?

Yaxley's words were met with silence. He let the words sink in a little longer before moving to approach Harry, who gave him a hateful stare. With his back to the Court, Yaxley gave Harry a twisted sneer of triumph. He drew his wand from his robes and, for a moment, Harry thought he was going to curse him. He might as well have. It was clear that everyone in the room was fully subdued and under his heel.

Instead, he tapped the scroll on the desk with his wand. The parchment lifted, unravelling, showing rather elegant handwriting. It came to a rest on the desk, which then lifted silently and moved towards Harry, coming to a rest over his knees, he recoiled back at it, feeling a flush heat his sore cheeks.

"Your confession, your admission of your guilt and remorse for your actions, will grant you some clemency."

Harry gave him an incredulous look. Surely no one believed this farce? That they'd go easier on him because he was going to confess? He had already been sentenced to the worst punishment the Ministry had. This trial was just a show, a demonstration of their power.

Whatever the point is for all this, they've made a big risk to put me out in the open away from all the defences in the Row. In front of all these people as well. Any of them could be impersonated. Harry risked a quick glance around at the Wizengamot. Are Ron and Hermione here right now? Are the Order here?

He eyed the men that stood around him. He had to admit that the show of force was intimidating. Even without Yaxley and Rookwood in the room, there were a lot of wizards guarding him and he expected that there were even more outside.

Whatever you're planning, I hope you've thought this through better than the last plan… though it was my fault it went so badly.

"All you have to do is sign to make this the official record of your confession." Yaxley lifted the quill from the table, then glanced at Harry's hands, his sneer faltering for a moment. Harry waved his right hand at him, the one that he had broken. He would have sneered back if it wasn't for the leather pressing mercilessly against his mouth.

Yaxley approached, glancing up at the assembled wizards and witches, and leaned close to Harry's ear.

"I'm not as gentle as Rookwood," he said to him under his breath, then pressed his wand into the swollen flesh of his hand. "Brackium emendo."

Harry let out a loud, strangled shout of pain which echoed around the Courtroom, causing mutters of discomfort, as well as a few gasps. He actually felt the bones shift and snap back into place, the pain immense. His finger cracked back in place as well, dashing tears out his eyes. He had to take a few breaths to steady himself, dipping his head, his hand searing with the pain.

"It's not perfect, but you should at least be able to pick up the quill," Yaxley murmured, voice full of venom. "I can re-break it after."

Harry turned his head, his watering eyes brimming with hate. He tested his hand tentatively and was surprised that, even though it hurt more than it had since it had been broken in the first place, he could move it.

But can I grip? He didn't dare test it in front of Yaxley. He lifted his head, sticking out his chin with a show of defiance. Yaxley gave him a small smirk, eyes lighting with that amused glint that he wore whenever Harry had betrayed himself under the torments of the quaesitor. Then he touched the chains binding Harry's right arm to the chair and then slithered back from him, liberating him. Startled by the sudden freedom, Harry just blinked, flexing his arm a little and seeing the welts under the thin sleeves. His wrist was a mess of scabs and bruising, blood spotting the cloth of his robe.

"I will allow you a moment to… compose yourself before signing your confession." Yaxley drew away. Harry watched him turn his back, but before he did, he said something to the guard nearest Harry. The man gave a nod and broke from his position, stepping away to reveal in full the two prone figures that were a few feet away. He gave orders to the two that held the prisoners, then returned.

Harry could hear Yaxley speaking to the Courtroom, but he paid him little attention as the hooded figures were dragged from the floor and brought closer, held by the backs of their robes and then dumped unceremoniously at Harry's feet. He looked around wildly, wondering if anyone was going to protest or stop this.

"Do anything but touch that quill and sign," the guard who'd been at his elbow before growled, returning to his post, "we will kill these mudbloods."

Harry's insides froze. His spark of rebellion fizzled out when he regained the use of his arm and hand. He thought of freeing his mouth, denouncing everything that had been said, spewing whatever he could to damage the hold Voldemort had on these people. Now he stared at the two people at his feet, seeing how they were trembling with fear, wrists restrained behind their backs. He didn't know who they were. He didn't know if this was a trick, made to entrap him, but if it wasn't, he could get innocent people killed. For him. Again.

He looked away to where Yaxley had gone, seeing that he had ascended up to the high bench to confer with the Minister and the other officials. He clenched his jaw, feeling the welcome burn of his anger. There was no choice. He let out a growl of rage into his muzzle, hating that he'd give any semblance of credence to the lies that had been spun in his room, in this place.

He lifted his arm from the chair and while he did, he gave a desperate look around the room. Was no one really going to say anything? Make any protest? Nothing?

"Harry… don't do it. Don't sign-."

"Shut it, filth!" The guard booted the prisoner that had croaked out those words. Harry's head snapped around at the sound.

"Eehn!" Harry tried to get the name out, but he couldn't form the word, just make a sound as close as he could. Dean!

Harry's eyes were wide with shock, staring down at the form and knowing with absolute certainty that he was a foot away from the boy that he had shared a dormitory with for six years. Dean Thomas, the West Ham fan and talented artist, and who also happened to be Ginny's ex as well. Overwhelmed by the shock, Harry looked around at the guards, at the people responsible for this whole nightmare, but his gaze returned to the man who gripped Dean by the back of his robes, pressing him down on his knees, wand digging into the back of the boy's neck.

There was no choice. Harry swallowed, bringing his hand up to the desk, knowing that all eyes in the audience were watching him now. His hand on fire with pain, he used his newly healed finger to pick up the parchment that he was meant to sign. Slowly so he didn't alarm his guards with sudden movements, he brought it closer to his face so he could read it.

As he did, his anger mounted up higher and higher. It sounded nothing like him, of course, not that it mattered. It gave a short remorseful confession of how he killed Dumbledore for meddling in his life and controlling him from a young age, then killed Umbridge for trying to do the same. He dropped it back down when he had finished reading, feeling sickened.

No one will believe it. He assured himself. Even if I sign it… it's just a formality. Just a way to hurt me… it means nothing.

He picked up the quill, wincing at the way his hand screamed with pain. He could see in the corner of his eye as Yaxley descended, having noticed that Harry was about to sign. He flicked his gaze up at the Death Eater.

Soon… his time will come. Voldemort will kill him for what he knows. There's that… at least.

He didn't feel the satisfaction that he expected, just the hollowness of defeat. He swallowed again, glancing over to Dean and the other man. What will happen to them?

Harry dipped the quill into the ink, his hand shaking as he did. He brought it over, seeing the line where he was meant to sign.

It's just a name. It's just ink on a page.

The scratching of his writing felt incredibly loud. He was doing a terrible job of it as well, the tremors in his arm making his handwriting even worse, if that was even possible. He gave a small pause, glancing up, seeing all those eyes trained on him, then looked back down, heart hammering in his chest as he publicly confessed to being a murderer.

Harry Pot-

BOOM!

He never got to finish writing his name. When he made it to the second 't', his arm jarred and he scratched a long line down from his name as a terrible quake shook the whole Courtroom.