Chapter 13
Harry
I'm coming out of my skin. There's no other way to describe it. The deeper the trolly cart gets into the tunnels, the tighter my flesh pulls against my bones. I'm almost thrumming with the ache to move.
To do.
My fingertips are tingling with the need to pull wand and blade and slice until I feel relief.
Hermione was in her element talking with the Goblins. I wouldn't be at all surprised if, after I zoned out, she adjusted the entire Potter-Black portfolio or whatever to support creature rights and Muggle-born businesses. Hell, she's probably signed up for an internship.
Even now, with the cart zigging and zagging at such speeds Ron looks moments from being sick, she's still chatting with Ragnok about interest rates and returns on investments.
I don't even know what that means.
But the longer we sat there, with Ragnok and Hermione droning on about items I don't give a flying fuck about, the harder it was not to scream in frustration.
Hermione signed that blasted little book, and it called her a liar.
Which means every scrap of magical parchment that has her name scratched anywhere on it, has adjusted to read Hermione Jean Potter-Black.
Wife of the Boy Who Lived.
Bonded Mate to The Chosen One.
I need to get to the ministry.
Now.
She can't come with me. Which is going to cause the fight to end all fights. Especially when I lock her in that damn vault for safe keeping. Because the first thing the ministry does is print you a badge, and what will hers read?
You got it.
Hermione Potter-Black.
The trolley pulls to a stop, Ragnok leading his charges from the rails.
"The Potter-Black vaults are on the same level but guarded with different enchantments. You'll be able to enter both, now, with the same key and pulse of magic."
He steps aside and hands us the new set of keys.
"You can also activate them with the signet rings on your fingers. Just press them there," he indicates a circular pattern on the wall. Hermione steps up and with a tentative smile, presses the head of the Potter ring into the stone.
Her smile is beautiful when she glances over her shoulder at me. I can't help but smile in return, though it feels false on my face.
Ragnok steps inside the vault, and I fall behind until I'm the last to enter. He explains the different rooms; I've never been further than the entrance chamber apparently. Another stone door slides open at Hermione's silent command, and I have to blink twice to adjust my vision to all the gold suddenly blinding me.
Okay.
That's a lot.
Ron is goggling. Hermione is taking notes with the inventory booklet open in her hands, listening with rapt attention as Ragnok points out various items he thinks would interest the Lady of a High House.
Sirius finds the closest couch and flings himself across it, pulling out a pocket watch and smothering a yawn.
I manage to see the time over his shoulder.
My fists clench, and I turn my back and close my lips and scream, because it's already two o'clock, and every second I'm down here is another opportunity for one of Riddle's lackeys to discover that Hermione. Is. My. WIFE.
Merlin. I don't know what to do with that. Wife. Bonded. Mates.
Fucking Mortimer.
Now THAT is information that would have been beneficial. Because 'your soulmate is some chit named Granger,' is a hell of a big difference between ' First Set of Bonded Mates in a Millennia.' By the way, you'll be able to share thoughts, and dreams, and magic, and when the bond seals, a notification will go out to anyone who's interested!
Ron is right. All the horrible shit happens to me.
Hell, Hermione and I even share the same initials now.
Yet nothing at all is different. It makes… perfect sense.
The only thing that's changed between us in my mind, and now I have an excuse to think about her as much as I do. To want her, to need her in the way a fish needs the water.
It's elemental.
It's magic.
I've always loved magic.
The Mating Bond activated with a kiss. The kiss. Friday last. Which means as of tomorrow, we've been married for two weeks.
But with that one little change, comes a whole bag of consequences. Because Hermione as my friend was one thing. Hermione as my wife is another thing entirely. With the act of a kiss, she's become the most wanted woman in Britain, and we didn't even know it.
For weeks now, that information has been sitting somewhere buried in the Ministry, ready to bare its secrets to anyone who comes looking.
I kick out in frustration and knock over a pile of antiques. They crash to the ground in a thunderous roar, the sound of gold against rock painful on the eardrums. The sudden silence of my family is deafening.
Right.
"Ragnok," I say, closing the space between us and giving him a bow. I never thought I'd be thankful for books on Goblin customs. "Thank you for your hospitality this afternoon. At this time, I need to speak with my companions alone. Could you give us a few moments to discuss some business?"
He returns the bow with that sickly smile on his face.
"Certainly, Harry. Just ring the bell when you are ready to be collected. I will ensure that several carts are sent down, as I'm sure your Lady Wife will be needing them."
He turns to Hermione, giving her the deepest bow that I've seen yet.
"Mrs. Potter-Black. It has genuinely been a pleasure. I look forward to many years of prosperous cooperation with you. The trunks we spoke of are in one of the back storage rooms. You are already keyed to the wards. They should come to your call. I will have the books we talked about pulled and ready for you by the time you conclude your visit today."
Hermione positively beams at the little man.
"Thank you, Chieftain. If you are agreeable, I'll owl you next week, after I've gone over the documents you've given me. And the books, of course! I'd love to discuss your knowledge in greater depth if you have the time for it."
His smile makes me cringe.
"For you, madam, I can make the time."
He bows to her again, while Ron and Sirius both hide their snickers.
"Chieftain," I say before he can leave. "If you would wait for me just outside, I have other business to attend to while my wife concludes her," is she really shopping in the Potter vaults? "Her organizing of our possessions. I'll be just a moment, and we can ride back together."
"As you'd like, Harry," he says, then turns and heads back into the caverns.
As soon as he's out of ear shot, the others turn on me.
"Where in the world do you think you're going, Pup?" Sirius asks.
"Harry James Potter!" Hermione hisses.
I turn to Ron instead. He's got his hands in his pockets and is watching me with amusement in his face.
"I'd bring you with me, Mate, but you can't do magic outside of school yet. I need you to stay here with them. I'll be back as soon as I'm done."
"Doing something stupid, I take it?" he asks conversationally.
"No."
"Yes!" Hermione and Sirius say as one.
Ron shrugs, then asks, "Is this one of those situations you'd like me to point out that you're behaving irrational and slightly unstable?"
I think about it for a minute, then admit, "Probably."
"Good," he says, turning to look through the piles. "I've done my job for the day then."
"Ronald!" Hermione growls and stomps her foot, gaining my attention. "Harry!"
Ragnok is still waiting for me.
"I'm going to the ministry," I tell them, my voice as calm as ice. "Alone."
Protests explode from all sides, but I raise my voice and power over them.
"It shouldn't take me long. But it can't wait another minute. I'll apparate right to the visitors' entrance, and then straight back to the bank. I have the communication mirror on me, and the cell phone, for all the good that'll do. Oh."
I slip the bonding ring from my finger, and hand it to Hermione, who suddenly looks on the verge of tears.
"Put this back in the case, would you? I can't wear it there."
She takes it from my hand with trembling fingers.
"Slow down, Pup." Sirius demands. "What is going on?"
"Don't you get it?!" I demand, running my fingers through my hair.
I'm coming out of my skin!
"Hermione Potter-Black," I hiss, throwing my arm out in Hermione's direction. Her eyes are wide, her face tight, her bottom lip trembling.
"Every official document concerning you now has that name etched across it! Already, Riddle has spies in the ministry. How long until you think he discovers that we're married? He might have known before us, if we hadn't come to the bank! I'm going to the ministry, and I'm destroying every record that exists of our Bond and Marriage. If I have to burn the fucking Ministry to the ground to do it."
I kick out again, knocking another pike of trinkets over.
"Harry," Mi breathes, her hands already outstretched to comfort me.
"No!" I say, taking a step away.
"At least let us come with you," Sirius says. "It's too dangerous for you to go on your own."
I shake my head, stepping backwards as I go.
"This is the safest way. No one will expect me to walk in through the front door without an entourage. I'll go, do what I need to do, and slip back out again."
"I can't let you go alone, Pup," Sirius says again, his voice a little firmer.
"I'd like to see you try to stop me," I growl. "I'm of age, and thanks to your scheming, Padfoot, I'm also your head of house. As your head of house, I order you to stay here and keep my wife safe!"
Ron meets my eye from over their shoulder, and I can see him trying to keep his opinions to himself. I'm sure I'll hear an earful later, but I'm thankful at least I'm not fighting all of them.
"We need to make a plan," Hermione insists, anger pinking her cheeks.
"I need to keep you safe!" I bellow, and she takes a step back out of reflex.
I take a deep breath and close the distance between us. Take her face into my hands and push away the hair that insists on blocking my view of the freckled skin that covers her nose. I rest my forehead against her face and breathe in her scent. Strawberries and vanilla and the smell of old books.
It soothes me in a way that nothing has before.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. I— " Has she always been this beautiful, or is the bond coloring my judgement? Because even in jeans and a T-shirt, she glows brighter than any jewel in this vault. "I'm going out of my mind, Mi. Potter-Black. I feel like I just signed your death warrant. It's like seeing your face looking back at me from the wanted posters, only now you share my name. He can't find out, Hermione. He can't."
"Let me come with you," she begs, and I hear her pain in her voice. Feel her desperation in that little bundle of raw nerves in the back of my consciousness. Only she's desperate to stay with me, and I'm determined to get her as far away from me as possible. At least on paper.
"No. They make you sign in, remember. Hermione Potter-Black. I won't take the risk. I'll go alone. Charm, bribe, or curse anyone I have to, and burn every scrap of paper that links me to you. Then I'll be right back. You have my word."
She's practically snarling.
"If you fucking die, again, Harry Potter, I'll kill you myself."
I laugh at that.
"I'm not going to die," I assure her.
Her scoff could move mountains.
"You always die when you run off and do something rash!"
Okay well, now that's not fair.
"Kiss me," she says, and I lean forward to do so, but she stops me with a hand on my mouth. "Not now. The next time you die. I don't care when he sends you back. First thing you do is kiss me. We'll work everything else out later."
I snort through my nose.
"Deal," I promise.
She gives me a nod.
"I need the orb," I tell her, and without asking questions, she pulls the box with the bonding orb from her bag and hands it to me. I shove it into a pocket.
The need to run is coursing through me. She must be able to sense it.
"Go," she instructs, and gives me a gentle shove. "I have work to do here. If you aren't back in two hours, we're coming after you."
I give her a tiny smile, then turn my back on them and run from the vault.
I'm sure there's an assigned apparition point for the visitor's entrance of the Ministry, but I have no idea where that's at. I'm not even licensed at this point, so I don't think it really matters anyway.
I apparate right outside the giant phone booth that Mr. Weasley took me to for my Ministry hearing, and with a quick glance to ensure that no one saw me, push my way inside.
I'm not arriving during their busy time this visit, so there are only a handful of people walking around the atrium instead of hundreds bustling from the floo's and rushing to their business. I garner second, and sometimes third glances when people recognize who I am, but luckily, no one stops me before I get to the visitor's desk.
It's the same Wizard as last time, his face marked with shaving scars and wearing the hideous blue security robes. He pays me little attention and is instead shoving half a roast sandwich into his mouth.
"Welcome to the Ministry," he says through a half-chewed bite. "State your business."
Only years of watching Dudley and Ron eat keeps my face clean of the disgusted sneer I feel tugging at my lips.
"Harry Potter-Black," I announce firmly, my heart thundering in my chest, "To meet with the Minister of Magic."
The wizard chokes on his food, his eyes bugging when he finally looks at me. I take a hasty step back when bits fly from his lips, and he hacks and thumps on his chest in an attempt to get the food down the right pipe.
"Uh."
I plaster a bland smile on my face, waiting patiently for him to get a grip on himself.
"D-dooo you have an appointment?" he garbles out, fumbling with a stack of parchment on his little desk.
"No," I say politely, rocking back and forth on my feet. "But I'm sure she'll be willing to see me. I'm friends with her Grandson, you see."
He fumbles with the papers some more, a dribble of food stuck to his chin.
"I—"
Another wizard walks by in the same blue security robes, and I flag him down.
"Harry Potter-Black, to see the Minister please," I force out between clenched teeth.
He does the same double take, but then moves behind the desk and, after verifying I don't have a meeting scheduled, lifts his finger.
"One moment, Sir," he says, before walking in the opposite direction. I go ahead through the screening process, letting the bumbling moron in front of me weight my wand and print me the visitors badge. Harry Potter-Black.
Just like I thought.
It's been legal for all of three hours, but distinctions like that make little difference in the magical world. You don't have to wait for faxes and paperwork when your name is changed magically.
Mi's has probably changed twice in the last two weeks. Once when we kissed, then again when I signed the adoption paperwork.
How long until some magical form indicating the marriage and name change shows up on some filing Wizard's desk, waiting to be shoved into a cabinet. How much money would they make by slipping a copy of that form to the nearest reporter.
At least Skeeter is still in the jar on Hermione's windowsill.
The security wizard makes his way back.
"I apologize for the wait, Mr. Potter, but the Minister's Office has asked that you make an appointment for a more convenient time. She is unavailable at the moment."
I let my air out slowly, thankful to Merlin and Circ and Morgana that I left Ron and Mi back at the bank. I hate using this card. It makes me want to puke.
Ron would never let me live this down, even if we lived to be a thousand.
I clear my throat and give them a smile.
"That won't work for me, I'm sorry. Please inform them that The Boy Who Lived requests an immediate conversation with the Minister. I won't be leaving until I get one. If that can't be arranged, I'm sure the papers would love to hear that our newest Minister has declined an invitation to speak with the person who defeated You Know Who when he was only a baby. The only person to ever survive the killing curse. I've come to offer her my congratulations on her new posting. I won't be leaving until I do so."
Their eyes are bugging out of their head, the fool sitting down still with food on his chin.
I know I'm probably cringing, but I can't help it. That was painful. I don't even need Ron to witness it. I can hear his laughter ringing in my ears anyway.
"Ye-yes sir, Mr. Harry Potter, sir."
"It's Mr. Potter-Black," I say, remembering the whole reason for this farce. "I've been adopted by Sirius Black."
That does it.
The semi competent one takes off at a run, awe and fear making him desperate to do my bidding.
If this is the level of Wizard we have guarding our Ministry, no wonder Riddle is able to take over so easily. There was barely any fight. This is why.
"You have a little," I scrape at my chin, and the sitting Wizard blushes, bringing both of his hands to his head in a rush and wiping down his face.
The second wizard is gasping when he gets back.
"Follow me, Mr. Potter-Black," he huffs, and we head towards the lifts, his pace quick and his chest heaving.
I've been up here before, when we infiltrated the ministry a few months ago. In a few years? Either way it's a familiar path as the elevator rises in its cage until the disembodied voice announces, "Level one, Minister of Magic and Support Staff."
"It'll be a few minutes until they're ready for you sir," the security wizard says, leading me over to a sitting area. As we pass through open offices, head peek out down the hallway, watching as I'm led to the dead end. When I look over my shoulder and glare, faces scurry to jump out of my view.
"Thank you," I say, and offer my hand for the man to shake. He looks at me with startled eyes, and gingerly takes my hand. The motion starts out gentle, until he's shaking me so fiercely my entire body jostles.
I yank my hand from his grip, giving him a sickly smile, and then wipe my sweaty palm on my jeans when he takes off back towards the lift.
The Minister's door is closed.
The seating area is pleasant at least, and instead of taking a seat, I walk to the nearest portrait, giving it a nod when he introduces himself.
How many of these portraits have frames in other locations? Even now, is Dumbledore aware that I've stormed the ministry? Is there a pureblood descendant of Malfoy on these walls, listening and waiting for the opportunity to whisper his gathered information to his master?
"Hem, hem."
Adrenaline surges through me, and I jerk like I've been hit with a stunner. In a single move, I pull my wand and sword both, twisting on the balls of my feet and aiming for the sound of that voice.
My wand comes to rest a foot from Umbridge's nose. The sword an inch from her throat. She screams in terror as my weapons come to bear on her, covering her face and scrambling backwards. She slips over her own feet, landing in a heap on the carpet as her cries call her co-workers from their offices. Wizards in robes and uniforms come tumbling out from open doors, wands raised at the ruckus. Tonks skids to a stop beside me, hair pink and grey Auror robes dingy. Madam Bones pulls to a halt behind her, her monocle dangling from around her neck. Through the din of people, I spot Mrs. Longbottom, her wand in her hand and irritation pulling her eyebrows together.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demands, pushing her way through the throngs of people. "Don't you all have work to do? Back to your offices, the lot of you."
With a glare that would make grown men cry, she forces her employees into compliance by sheer willpower alone. In twos and threes, they scamper back from where they came from. All except those that spilled from the Minister's office themselves.
Hermione pulls through my bloodstream, my fingers tingling at the panic she's throwing out. I try to calm my breathing, and tell, show, something , to her, that I'm okay. When the pulsing in the bond bleeds into relief, I give her a mental hug, then shut the link tight.
The only decent piece of information Mortimer gave me. I put the bundle I've come to associate with Mi into a trunk, and snap the lid shut with a click.
"Mr. Potter!" Mrs. Longbottom snaps, still attempting to wiggle in front of Madam Bones. Tonks steps aside with a squeal, rubbing at her side and giving the diminutive Minister a dubious glare. "Is there a reason why you're holding my Undersecretary at wand point?"
I find it curious that she doesn't mention the sword. If the way Madam Bones' eyes pop out of her head is any indication, she does too.
"It's Potter-Black, now," I reply conversationally, bowing as slightly as I'm able. "I've ascended to Head of House in my adopted father's stead."
"Congratulations," Mrs. Longbottom says dryly. "Kindly put your wand away."
I don't.
Instead, I address the Head of Magical Enforcement.
"I made you a promise, Madam Bones, to rid you of your dark wizard problem. I thought I'd start right here. You don't get much darker than Delores Umbridge. She could share Voldemort's soul and you'd never tell the difference."
I could throw my memories in a pensive and prove it.
The woman in question is whimpering, her bow sitting askew on her head. She's lifted on one elbow, her legs a jumble and her skirt displaying an unflattering amount of pink underthings.
Suddenly I'm nauseous again.
"This is exactly what I've been telling you, Augusta." God, her voice makes me sick. Even pleading, she sounds like a simpering child. "The boy isn't right in the head. Stun him, quick, and get him in St. Mungo's before he causes any more damage."
All eyes flick to me, and I don't bother to fight my smile as I stare down at the woman on the floor.
"I have a bit of a temper problem," I admit. "Though I'm sure if you were in my shoes, you'd suffer from bouts of rage too. It should make you furious, that a blood purist sits so near our Minister. Whispering little tales in her ears."
Blood crimsons the cheeks of the toad like Witch, giving her a sickly hue to match the pink of her frock.
"Tell me, Minister. Has she started dropping hints about Hogwarts yet? Offering to lower herself at your behest to spy on the headmaster. Has she shared her theory about Dumbledore's Army? A ragtag group of Mud-bloods and half-breeds and children not yet old enough to do magic outside of school?"
Mrs. Longbottom gives very little away, but Madam Bones either doesn't have a very good poker face, or my second outburst in front of her in as many weeks has stolen it from her. Her eyes harden to slits, and she takes a step closer to us.
"Has anyone checked her legislative history, either? She's written and passed laws to curb the rights of Merpeople, Werewolves, House Elves, Goblins. I bet if you dug real deep, you'd even find an idea for a Muggleborn Registration Act."
A spell a sickly purple color spills from Umbridge's wand. I duck to the side, pulling my weapons to my chest and throwing up a shield in front of me. Madam Bones pushes Mrs. Longbottom behind her, a shield raised in front of them.
The Minister, however, drops to a knee below Madam Bone's outstretched arms, shooting a binding spell from around the shield. Tonks fires as well, and Umbridge ends up bound and wandless, spitting curses until someone seals her mouth with a gag.
"Somebody help me up!" the Minister admonishes, lifting her hand for assistance. "I'm an old woman!" Half a dozen different people lunge for her, knocking each other over before Madam Bones holds Mrs. Longbottom's hand steady while the older woman lifts from her bent knee.
"Dumbledore never mentioned what a pain in the ass you were, boy," she grouses, looking at the withering witch on the floor.
I don't know what to say to that. This wasn't on my agenda.
"Sorry," I say, scabbarding the sword for the second time today. I shrug.
"Bah," she says, dismissing me.
She points to the Umbridge, who's silently cursing me with her eyes.
"Someone set her up in one of the holding cells until we can fit her into the schedule." The Minister looks Umbridge in the eye. "If he's wrong, sorry for the inconvenience."
With that, Mrs. Longbottom turns on her heel and marches back into her office.
"Are you coming, Potter?" she yells over her shoulder, "or did you just come to make a mess of my hallway."
I scamper after her, suddenly all too aware of why Neville is as timid as he is.
She settles onto the couch in her office and pats the cushion next to her. I take the seat that's been offered, watching with weariness as five others file into the room.
There are too many people here. I can't let this many know.
Even Madam Bones feels like one too many.
"Now that that little display of showmanship is over with," Mrs. Longbottom says with something resembling respect in her voice, "Tell me what I can help you with. I'm sure you didn't just storm into the Ministry to point out the shortcomings of one of my aids."
I fight the urge to twitch under her glare, and instead place my ankle on my knee.
"No actually. It wasn't. I hadn't given Umbridge an inkling of consideration until I heard that obnoxiously phony little throat clearing thing she does. But then, I thought, best not waste a perfect opportunity."
Tonks openly snorts through her nose, then quickly covers it up by turning her head and coughing.
"Then get to the point, Mr. Potter-Black. I'm a very busy woman, who now has to add an afternoon interrogation to my list of things to do."
The oxygen leaves me in a slow puff, my cheeks filling with air.
"I need to speak to you alone."
"Absolutely not," Madam Bones declares, rising from her seat.
"I don't think that's a good idea, Madam Minister," Tonks agrees, shooting me a nervous stare. The three other assistants join in the rebuttals, while Neville's Grandmother stares me down.
"Dumbledore thinks very highly of you," she says.
The comment catches me off guard, and I start at the compliment.
"Thank you," I reply, unsure with what to say.
"My Grandson adores you as well. Helped him out of a few tricky spots in the past, haven't you?"
I tip my head in acknowledgement.
"Neville is going to be a very powerful Wizard one day. He simply needs to believe in himself." Speaking of. "I'm actually living in the Black residences now. We start defense training tomorrow. He's welcome to join us at any time. I'm also hoping to start a defense club next school year. I hope you allow him to participate."
Mrs. Longbottom smiles at me so quickly I can't be sure it was ever really there.
"What is it you want, Harry?"
Her bluntness pulls me up short.
I need to get her into the Department of Mysteries.
Bugger.
I school my face into the blank mask Umbridge taught me to wear.
I hate time travel. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Too much information is just as bad as not enough.
I hope she forgives me for this.
"Do you want to know why your children were tortured into insanity?"
Gasps ring out around the room.
Anger fills the hard lines of Mrs. Longbottom's face, and I try not to flinch as I remember Dumbledore mentioning something about scars gifted him by the elderly woman.
"I already know," she says harshly. "As do you. They were tortured for knowledge they did not have. About He Who Shall Not Be Named's whereabouts."
I nod my head to agree with her, but…
"But why did they think your son and his wife would have that sort of information? Help me, and I can give you answers to questions you never knew you had."
The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop before the Minister rises from her seat.
"Leave us," she says to her entourage, and immediately they start to protest.
I cut in before it gets too loud.
"Actually, Minister. Perhaps we could take a walk?"
She dips her chin in a firm nod, rising from her seat.
"Stay here," she instructs her aides. "We'll return shortly."
We make it to the elevators, eyes from every office following in our wake, when Mrs. Longbottom finally speaks.
"You have me boy, what do you plan on doing with me? I'll warn you now, I may be old, but I'm faster than I look. If you think you could possibly outmaneuver me, you have another thing coming."
My jaw hits my chest, before I recover myself enough to almost laugh.
"No, ma'am," I assure her as we enter the lift. "I thought a trip to the Department of Mysteries would do us good. Give us a chance to stretch our legs. I've always wanted a tour."
Mrs. Longbottom hits the number for the correct floor, frightening away any potential passengers whenever the lift comes to a stop.
"Anything in particular you'd like to see, Mr. Potter-Black? There are several items of interest on that floor."
I look straight ahead, almost afraid to make eye contact with her. My palms are sweaty, and flashbacks of the last two times I was heading in this direction flash before my eyes.
"I hear the Hall of Prophecies is lovely this time of year," I say, hoping she can't hear the nerves in my voice.
"Beautiful weather they're having," she agrees, and I swear the woman is smiling again.
There's none of the hesitation in her step that haunted ours two years ago when we reach the appropriate floor. She strides from the metal box like she owns the building, waving away every Ministry employee that attempts to help.
"Minister Longbottom, Ma'am," a startled employee says, as we push through the corridor that holds the Hall of Prophecies. Mrs. Longbottom doesn't slow her steady gate.
"Ma'am," he says, calling after her. "You need to sign in."
She doesn't even look behind her, so neither do I.
"Lead the way, son," she says when we've shut the door on the Wizard manning the desk.
I clench my fists so she can't see them tremble, and step in front of her.
It's not as dark in here as it was the last time, the orbs giving off a dim glow to join with the torches lit on the wall. I don't need to light my wand, to find my way through the maze of shelving. I'll always remember what row it was, that I watched my Godfather get tortured, only to find out it was a figment of my imagination.
My hands are sweating when we reach the spot, and Mrs. Longbottom takes in a sharp gasp of breath when she sees our names written on the yellowing label.
S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D.
Dark Lord
And (?) Harry Potter
I reach for the dusty ball with shaking fingers, and without hesitation smash it into the floor.
"NO!" The Minister cries, her arms outstretched to stop me. But it's too late, and the ghostly white figure of a bespeckled Professor Trelawney, fifteen years junior, floats from the shattered glass.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."
"What have you done?!" she hisses, horror lacing her voice.
I look her in the eye and see the fear in her bones.
"When was your Grandson born?" I ask her.
Her voice is steady when she answers.
"The end of July."
I hope that my voice is as firm.
"How many times did your children fight and defy Tom Riddle?"
Augusta Longbottom is not a weak woman, but her hands shake at her sides.
"Three," she says in a whisper, her fingers rising to her mouth. "It could be my Neville," she breathes, and I shake my head no.
With the tug of my fingernail in the corner of the tape, I pull the label from the spot on the shelving, setting it on fire and dropping it to burn.
Then I look at the most powerful woman in Wizarding Britain, and remember she's still a mother without a son, and a Grandmother she'd do anything to protect.
For what feels like the hundredth time, I lift my fringe from my forehead.
"No, Madam Longbottom. It isn't. He chose me, and in doing so, picked the path that we are all on today. He chose the means of his destruction the day he killed my parents. The day he tried to kill me, and instead was forced from his body. Less than even the weakest ghost. But he knows the prophecy exists, and he'll stop at nothing to get his hands on it."
"But you've destroyed it."
I nod, unable to tell if the band around my chest is loosening in relief or tightening in fear.
"I did. But he doesn't know that. I need your help to defeat him Ma'am. What will you do, to help me destroy Voldemort a second time? For good."
"Anything," the Minister offers me, and if I were Riddle, I would quake at the hate in her voice.
I lift the Soul Bond container from my pocket and pull the orb from the box. Her eyes go wide, and her breath leaves her in a whoosh, when I hand her the tiny wooden sphere.
"Help me protect my wife."