Knowing Where to Look

by la baguette

Meet Gawain Robards, Auror- This is the story of a man who had lost hope in the world, in humanity, in himself. And of his unexpected means of finding it again with some subtle help from the Boy Who Lived. But who is helping whom? A new POV of the Ministry reformation after the Battle of Hogwarts, tracking Harry's rather unusual assimilation into the Auror ranks. *Post-war canon

8. 7- Potter's Tale

Chapter 7: Potter's Tale

---

Ben was still chortling as they stepped out of the lift, but Gawain noticed Potter sober almost instantly. As he watched, the smile slid off his face, and Potter stepped forward into the windowless hallway and paused. He was staring down the hall at the black door that led into the Department of Mysteries with a sorrowful look on his face that Gawain did not fully understand. He fiddled absently with something in his left hand, but it disappeared into a pocket before Gawain caught sight of what it was.

Gawain paused next to him, followed his eyes to the door, then looked back to Potter. "Alright?"

Potter nodded slowly, not taking his eyes from the door. He licked his lips. "I really hate this place," he said finally. Then he took in a deep breath and began to walk down the hall, offering no further explanation. Gawain and Ben followed, flanking him on either side.

Potter had been telling the truth when he had said he didn't need guidance in finding the courtrooms. He moved down the windowless hall and turned the corner to the left, descending the flight of stairs into court chambers without a hint of misdirection. But now his movement lacked the quick confidence that he had exhibited up in the Atrium. He kept his face forward, not looking around. But the further they got, the more his feet seemed to drag as though each step closer added a kilo of additional weight to his ankles.

They made their way down the stone corridor, their footsteps echoing down the hall. On either side, they passed heavy wooden doors with iron keyholes that led into the holding cells. Abruptly, a howl like that of an angry beast and the pounding of fists rang from one of the cells on the right, making Potter jump. Gawain noted his hand had moved automatically to his right hip pocket, but it hovered here, not drawing the wand.

"The holding cells have been full since Hogwarts," Gawain offered in explanation.

"They wait here until trial?" Potter asked.

"Yes. After that, assuming they're convicted, they'll be shipped off to Azkaban to serve out their sentence."

"That is if we have any guards left in Azkaban…" Ben added wryly.

Potter looked at him questioningly. "Why would there be no guards in Azkaban?"

"Kingsl—the Minister— is trying to pass a prison reform bill to improve conditions and remove the Dementors for good, replacing them with wizard guards," Gawain explained. "But he's getting a lot of pushback. Mostly people worrying about where the Dementors will go and who they may attack if we're not steadily supplying them with souls to feed on. So now no one quite knows what to do with the place."

Potter sighed and shook his head. "Politics," he muttered disparagingly. "Heaven forbid that we should actually treat prisoners with an ounce of humanity."

As they moved on down the hall, Gawain pondered this comment. He himself had no love for the Dementors or for Azkaban, but he would not have blamed Potter for being less sympathetic or even vindictive in regards to the Death Eaters' fate. After everything the boy had been through with the Death Eaters, Gawain would have expected Potter to have been all too happy to see them handed over to the Dementors without another thought.

Torches cast their broken light across the stone of the passage as they walked. Some of the holding cells were quiet, but muffled roars and taunts and pounding could be heard from some of them in response to the sound of their passing footsteps. Gawain cast a glance at Potter, but the boy kept walking, his face blank and straight ahead. He was happy there were no windows out into the hall that might have allowed the Death Eaters to actually see who was passing by. He imagined that would create a great deal more ruckus.

"Which courtroom?" Potter asked after a short moment in which the only sound had been their footsteps echoing off the stone floor.

"Eight," Ben supplied, gesturing to the correct door just ahead. "The whole Wizengamot was already in there when I left."

"Lovely," Potter muttered under his breath. He paused outside the entrance to Courtroom Eight, staring at the dingy door as though wishing it and everything behind it would all just melt away.

Looking at his face, Gawain abruptly understood why Potter had been so adamant that the hearing should proceed today. Coming here had taken all of his nerve. He couldn't help but note the irony in the fact that the Chosen One, the boy who had duelled He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and prevailed, who had ended the War almost single-handedly… That this same boy was standing here before him, afraid.

Gawain felt the humour in it. But he also felt pity. It was sometimes quite easy in talking with Potter to forget that he was, after all, just seventeen. And that he really was quite alone here.

After a second in which Potter did not move, Ben glanced at Gawain questioningly as though wondering if Potter knew how to open doors and whether they should just do it for him. Gawain gave him a bare hint of a shake of his head. Instead he waited patiently, looking to Potter.

When half a minute had gone by and Potter still made no move to open the door, Gawain cuffed his hand on Potter's shoulder gently and squeezed. It was a reflex and one that surprised even himself. "It's like you said. Best to get it all over with. You're not on trial. No one in there is against you; they just want to hear your story. No one is here to pass judgment."

Potter sighed. "That may not be why they're here, no. But they will." He licked his lips, shook his head subtly as though to wake himself up, then pushed the door open without another word.

The courtrooms were spelled to be soundproof. The eerie silence that had hung around the corridor melted away into a cacophony of voices as the door swung open. Witches and wizards of the Wizengamot were in their seats, all murmuring amongst themselves. They had clearly been waiting for some time, and there seemed to be quite a lot of speculation as to the cause of the delay.

But then, as abruptly the voices had hit them, they died to a silence as thick as the one in the corridor. All eyes turned to Potter. The three of them paused again just inside the room, looking around.

Each of the courtrooms was set up subtly different; Gawain honestly couldn't remember if he'd ever been in this one before. He had not spent a great deal of time down here in quite some time. The courtrooms had been used a quite a lot at the end of the First War, but rarely since. That was, at least, until Umbridge had started to make use of them for her ridiculous Muggle-Born Registration trials. This room was one of the mid-sized ones, large enough for maybe seventy people. There were three rows of stone stands arranged in a semicircle facing them, each higher than the one in front. A shorter pew with a curved stone table before it was at ground level at the front row. This faced the chair intended for the defendant or subject of the hearing. It was situated a few metres away from the front table and was facing away from the door where they stood now, conspicuously empty and awaiting Potter. Gawain heard Potter sigh and mutter something under his breath that sounded like, "Déjà vu…"

Gawain's gaze found Kingsley, seated at the far end of the hall at the curved head table. He was leaning over a pile of parchments on the table and speaking softly with Brannagh Roslyn when they entered, but he too looked up as the silence fell.

"Harry! You made it." Kingsley's voice was welcoming and relaxed. It jarred against the nervous energy in the room. "We weren't sure if you would. Come on in." Kingsley's eyes were less on Potter and more on Gawain as they approached. He seemed to be seeking reassurance that the risk was passed and that Potter was unharmed. Gawain gave him a single deliberate nod of assurance he mostly agreed with internally. At least down here they were quite safe, in the depths of the Ministry with five additional Aurors standing guard (Gawain had counted them immediately when they had arrived; and he had returned Margaret's raised eyebrow with a "don't even ask," sort of look). With a satisfied nod, Kingsley turned back to the papers he had been focusing on and began to stack them, his head bent to Roslyn as she spoke lowly in his ear, concluding their interrupted conversation.

Hands clasped behind his back, Potter moved forward toward them, Ben and Gawain following. Gawain was impressed with Potter. All hints of hesitation were gone. Potter kept his chin up as he walked, and he met the eyes of the fifty or so witches and wizards in plum robes gazing down at him, one after the other as he took in the dimly lit benches. Still the members of the Wizengamot were silent, all except Kingsley and Roslyn who were speaking in hushed tones.

"—Yes, well see to it, won't you, Brannagh?" Kingsley was saying as they at last reached the head table. "I do rather hope it will improve once we have Sandeep Amin back in the country—I told you he sent word he is on his way back? He is quite good at that sort of thing." Kingsley glanced up to Gawain and Harry distractedly, then nodded to Roslyn to close their conversation. Then he stood reaching out to shake Harry's hand over the table and did a double take.

"You cut your hair," he said conversationally. Potter paused and looked at the proffered hand with a look of sardonic amusement. He let out a small huff of laughter to himself as though enjoying a private joke, and glanced up at the rest of the Wizengamot before taking Kingsley's hand and shaking it. "I was just getting used to you with long hair," Kingsley continued pleasantly, shaking Potter's hand easily and ignoring Potter's moment of hesitation.

"Yeah, well, that makes one of us, at least," said Potter, running a hand through his newly cropped hair with just a bit of awkward timidity. "I kept catching sight of my reflection and jumping, thinking some stranger was there to kill me." He let out a nervous laugh. Kingsley smiled agreeably and just a touch sympathetically. Something Potter noticed, and he hastened to steer the conversation away from pity. "I let Mrs. Weasley do it. I think she appreciated being allowed to make me look less like a vagabond."

Kingsley just laughed fondly. "I'm sure she did." Kingsley was clearly trying to set a tone of casualness to the proceedings. Potter was putting in a valiant effort to support this, but Gawain could see a nervous undercurrent to his body language. They were not speaking quite loudly enough that the room at large was able to hear them. Gradually, the murmur of voices started up again as members of the Wizengamot resumed their conversations. Those nearby, however, were clearly listening in, still staring at Potter with frank curiosity.

Kingsley glanced to Gawain before looking back to Harry. "Sounded like there was a good amount of bother coming through the Atrium." His expression had shifted to one of worry and remorse. "Were you hurt at all?"

"Oh, don't worry. Only by your Aurors."

It took a moment for that comment to sink in. When Gawain turned an affronted gaze to Potter, he found Potter grinning at him.

Ben was snickering. "He's been taking the mickey out of Gawain all morning," he told Kingsley. "It's my new favourite source of entertainment." Gawain sighed, torn between grim amusement, shame, and frustration. He was never going to live this down. He gave a pointed look to Ben who shrugged, still smiling good-naturedly, and loped off to take up his post along with the other Aurors again.

Kingsley also seemed torn, unsure if he should be amused or worried. Potter noted his expression and hastened to assure him, "I'm fine. Honest. It was nothing." Gawain hardly saw how an assassination attempt could ever be considered "nothing," but for Kingsley's benefit, he decided not to press this point again. Kingsley was clearly troubled enough.

"I've had a preliminary report from Officer Gardner," Kingsley turned to Gawain, now. "He said he is prepared to set up a proper barricade if you needed it to evacuate Harry. Either now or later." Kingsley was frowning now. "I have to admit, I rather expected you to choose to cancel the hearing."

Gawain glanced at Potter who was looking back at him, his face hard, clearly ready for Gawain to resume his previous argument, now with support from the Minister. Gawain looked back to Kingsley, answering his unasked question. "Potter preferred to proceed. Turns out he can be quite persuasive." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Potter square his shoulders for a fight. "But he seems to know what he's getting himself into," Gawain continued. "He can make his own decisions." He glanced back to Potter who blinked in surprise before deflating. He was looking at Gawain with an expression of surprised respect.

"After the hearing, I've already planned to have the Patrol out in force to clear a path to the Apparition Zone. And Proudfoot is on arranging us a larger group of Aurors to help escort. We just need to send them a memo when we're ready, and they should meet us coming off the lifts," Gawain continued, ignoring Potter's look. "We always knew leaving was going to be more challenging once word got out that he was on premises. I was rather hoping fewer people would have noticed him arrive, but there's nothing for it now." Kingsley nodded, agreeing. They had already discussed this contingency, after all.

"You'll want to prepare a statement for the press, though," Gawain added as an afterthought. "A Daily Prophet reporter caught the whole debacle on camera. I suspect he won't be making us look good." Kingsley grimaced at that.

"I'll send a memo to Marianne Macmillan now. She can start drafting something up for you and arrange for a press conference this afternoon after we have Potter safely away," offered Roslyn, reaching for a quill and scribbling a message to the Press Secretary. Kingsley nodded in thanks before turning back to Potter.

Potter had been watching this exchange with a mystified look on his face. Gawain had almost forgotten he was there. A ridiculous notion, given that Gawain's sole purpose at this hearing was keeping Potter safe. Kingsley caught Potter's expression and frowned in concern. "Alright?"

Potter just shook his head bemusedly. "Look at you. A politician." It wasn't a compliment. But he at least didn't place quite the venom in the word as he had previously.

Kingsley gave a small embarrassed laugh. "I'm learning," he said. Potter just shook his head with a baffled smile on his face.

"Well, if you're sure you want to continue, we're all ready for you," Kingsley went on. He gestured invitingly to the chair in the centre of the room. Potter turned to look at it over his shoulder. His face was blank and unreadable, the smile gone. He took in a deep breath, looked back to Kingsley, and nodded once. Then he turned away and stepped over to the chair. The chains on the arms clinked threateningly as Potter approached. Potter's footsteps faltered almost imperceptibly at that, but then he proceeded.

Gawain melted back to his post against the wall and out of the attention of the watching Wizengamot. Margaret nodded to him as he took his place beside her. Potter, meanwhile, took a seat in the chair. No. That didn't describe it quite right. Potter lounged in the chair.

Gawain raised his hand to scratch his beard in a vain attempt to cover his smile. Potter's posture was deliberate, he was sure of it. Potter sat back in the chair, leaning an elbow heavily on the left armrest, determinedly ignoring the chains. He reclined back against the backrest and stretched out his legs before him, crossing them at the ankle. Finally, he tented his fingers together and looked up at Kingsley, waiting attentively. Everything about his posture said, Bring it on. What do I care? If Gawain had not seen the nervousness on his face out in the corridor, he would have believed the sentiment. But Gawain recognised it as an act. A most impressive one, really. The boy had a quite remarkable mastery over fear for one so young.

"Well, looks like we'll be getting started, everyone," Kingsley called to the room at large. Kingsley was better at schooling his face than Gawain, but he saw a muscle twitch in Kingsley's cheek too. He rearranged some papers, bringing a fresh sheaf of parchment to the forefront for note-taking. There was a very brief uptick in excited whispers from around the room, before it settled into a silence full of anticipation. Kingsley glanced around the room to ensure he had everyone's attention. Most unnecessarily, really. One could have heard a pin drop.

"Ninth of May, testimony hearing of Mr. Harry Potter before the Wizengamot," began Kingsley, in a loud formal voice. The only other sound in the room was the scribbling of a quill as the court scribe copied down his words. "Presiding over this hearing are Kingsley Shacklebolt, Acting Minister of Magic, and Brannagh Roslyn, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Court scribe, Mafalda Hopkirk." Gawain saw a falter in Potter's forced calm and noted his eyes dart in the direction of the scribbling quill, before turning back and again wiping his face blank. It lasted only a fraction of a second, but Gawain could not read the expression at all.

"I would like to remind all persons present today that any and all information discussed in this hearing is highly classified. There may be discussion of certain dark magics that we cannot afford to have as general knowledge. Madam Roslyn will be overseeing a committee to produce a redacted copy of the transcript of today's hearing which will be released to the press tomorrow. Any pieces of information that are not included in the official press release will be considered top secret. I am sure I do not need to remind any of you of the oaths you have taken to uphold wizarding national security." He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of each person in turn. Some nodded, some shifted uncomfortably in response. "Harry," Kingsley said, turning back to Potter, "I will do my utmost to help maintain your privacy where possible. If you have any requests to make in the redactions, feel free to let us know, and we will do our best to accommodate them."

Potter let out a very small humourless laugh and said "I appreciate the sentiment. Privacy is rarely a luxury I've been offered." There was a small bustle of not-quite laughter around the room. Gawain thought it was less at his words and more at the barely contained excitement at hearing Potter speak officially for the first time. The irony of this when coupled with Potter's comment was not lost on Gawain.

Kingsley waited for quiet to fall again. "I really don't have an agenda for you, Harry. I was rather hoping you would just tell your story from the beginning, and we'll do our best not to interrupt you too much. Though I'm sure questions will come up as you go."

"Right…" said Potter. He licked his lips, frowning down at his lap. He seemed thrown by this. He had been clearly expecting more direct questions. "Trouble is… I honestly don't know where the beginning is. And it's likely to be a rather long story."

Kingsley gave him a kindly smile of encouragement. "We all ensured our agendas were kept light today; we have nowhere else to be all morning. You have our undivided attention." Potter grimaced, clearly not finding a great deal of comfort in this.

There was a moment of silence while Potter collected his thoughts. When he didn't immediately speak, a small clearing of the throat came from the stands. "If I may, Minister?" came a wizened voice.

"The Chair recognises Griselda Marchbanks," Kingsley nodded to her politely.

Griselda Marchbanks leaned forward. She was an ancient woman who barely came up to Gawain's elbow. Yet, if her reputation was accurate, he would rather never find himself on the wrong side of her wand. But she smiled kindly at Potter and looked every bit the sweet old grandmother at the moment. "I do not mean to interrupt your train of thought, Mr. Potter. I just thought I might make a suggestion." Potter nodded to her, politely attentive. "Albus Dumbledore was once a member of this institution. And a friend to many of us. His death has been long shrouded in mystery that I think several of us were rather hoping you might shed some light upon. Perhaps, if you think it appropriate, you could start there? And perhaps address the rumours that you were having private tutoring lessons with him throughout the year before his death. Most irregular. And quite an honour, I would think—not many can claim to have had the opportunity to learn from Albus Dumbledore directly. What was he teaching you?"

Potter nodded a few times, taking in this suggestion. "Yeah… yeah, alright. Guess we couldn't exactly start with an easy question, could we?" he added more to himself. "Dumbledore." He licked his lips. "I was having…well, I don't know if I would call them lessons… More… discussions? Research sessions?" He shook his head. "Doesn't matter, I suppose. I was meeting with Professor Dumbledore quite regularly through the year before his death. We were analysing memories from a number of people. Memories which Dumbledore had collected to view in a Pensieve." Potter licked his lips again, picking his words. "Memories about Tom Riddle. His life. His youth."

"For what purpose?" Madam Marchbanks cut in, adjusting her magical hearing aid and squinting at Potter. Gawain caught Kingsley shooting a warning look in her direction, annoyed at excessive interruption, but no one seemed to be paying him any attention. All eyes were on Potter, the members of the Wizengamot leaning forward in their seats.

Potter blinked at her as though this was quite obvious. "To know one's enemy?" he supplied. "Dumbledore had inferred that Voldemort" (a ripple of flinches passed around the room which Potter ignored) "had been making horcruxes. And we were trying to determine how many, what they might be, and where he might have hid them."

Gawain felt like someone had just punched him in the gut. Horcruxes? Multiple of them? He looked around the stands. There was a mixture of response to this statement. The few who seemed to know what a horcrux was looked as shocked as he was sure he himself did. Others looked confused, clearly not familiar with the term.

"Forgive me, Mr. Potter. I think you'll need to fill us in on that bit of magic. I am not familiar with the term…" Madam Marchbanks seemed quite offended at the thought of any magic she was unfamiliar with.

Potter nodded, clearly expecting this. "Of course." His tone turned scholarly, rather as though he were sitting a practicum for his NEWTs. Quite fitting as he was addressing Madam Marchbanks who was also Governor of the Wizarding Examinations Authority. "A horcrux is an object in which a person has concealed a part of his soul. It requires an act of murder to split the soul. By killing people, Voldemort was able to fragment his soul and conceal pieces of it in a variety of objects. This protected him from death, even if his body were to be destroyed. And this is how he survived… well… you know. Er… How he survived when his curse backfired when… when he tried to kill me as a baby.

"Only if we first destroyed all the horcruxes Voldemort had made could we then kill Voldemort. I'm going to be using the name rather a lot, so you might want to get used to it right quick before you all give yourselves whiplash," Potter added as another wave of flinches went around the room. Then he continued without missing a beat. "Using the memories that Dumbledore had collected, we surmised that Voldemort had split his soul into seven pieces, and as such we were searching for six magical objects that he had concealed." There was a ripple of shock around the room. Gawain felt it too. Never had he heard of anyone making multiple horcruxes. Let alone six!

There was silence for a bit as the members of the Wizengamot digested this, and Potter waited patiently for them.

"I'm sorry," Brannagh Roslyn finally broke the silence. "But I'm afraid I do not understand why Professor Dumbledore would have been sharing this with you. I mean to say… I understand your history with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but… you were after all just a student. Why was he passing this information to you and not the Ministry?"

Potter looked to her for a moment as though uncertain how to respond to this. "Right…" Potter let out another of his small humourless chuckles. "I guess I need to go further back, don't I. Let's talk about the Department of Mysteries and the Hall of Prophecy first then…"

And then Potter began telling a story. An unbelievable story. A positively ridiculous story. One repeatedly punctuated by exclamations of shock and incredulity from all listening. So why on earth did Gawain find himself believing every word of it?

After Potter began talking, it seemed to become easier, and he found a rhythm to his words. There was little need to coax him on now. Still there were some interruptions for clarification, but at last people seemed, for the most part, content to simply let him speak. And speak he did. Then again, perhaps they weren't so much 'letting him speak' as they were all just too flabbergasted to be able to formulate words with which to interrupt him.

Potter spoke with an air of matter-of-factness, as though the task that had been placed before him was really quite simple and almost a little boring. As though it were perfectly normal to have had to go on the run from the Death Eaters and the Ministry of Magic and hunt about the country for horcruxes on a mission to destroy the most powerful dark wizard who ever lived. Surely every seventeen-year-old boy did this. No big thing.

When Potter got to the point that he had realised Dolores Umbridge was in possession of one of the horcruxes and that he would have to break into the Ministry of Magic, the whole room gasped aloud.

Kingsley was staring at him with a look of astonishment. He massaged his temple and said, "Do you mean to tell me that you—Undesirable Number One— decided to walk into the Death-Eater-controlled Ministry of Magic?"

Potter made a bit of show of considering this. "Well… I seem to remember flushing myself down a toilet, actually. But yes, that's the general idea." There was a flutter of disbelief and some laughter. Kingsley pinched the bridge of his nose squeezing his eyes shut as though fighting off a headache.

Gawain found himself quite personally affronted. How could he have not known of this? That Undesirable Number One had actually strolled right into the Ministry? Ministry security was in large part his job to oversee. There was once a time he had thought himself quite good at his job, but in the short week that he had known Potter, the lad was quickly dismantling this impression.

"And…" Kingsley shook his head exasperatedly. "No one recognised you?"

"Well, no… We used Polyjuice Potion."

"Ah," said Kingsley nodding slowly. Gawain thought he looked like he might be sick at the thought of this whole plan. "And whose identities did you borrow?"

Abruptly Potter became awkward. Far more so than he had seemed at any other point in the story. He glanced off to his left, away from Gawain. From his angle, Gawain could just make out an uncomfortable grimace across his jawline. Gawain thought he was just looking away to avoid Kingsley's eye. But it was not until a sudden squeak of astonishment rang out loudly across the courtroom and there was the clatter of a quill being dropped in shock that Gawain realised he had actually been looking at a particular occupant of the room.

"I am so so sorry, Madam Hopkirk," Potter hastened to say. He looked sorry too. Mafalda Hopkirk meanwhile, was staring at Potter with wide eyes and a hand clamped over her mouth in shock. She seemed to just now be making a connection to something she had never fully understood. "Honestly, we only chose you because you were very predictable in the timing of your arrival in the morning. And the alleyway you favoured was well out of sight of others." Potter was speaking fast, imploring Madam Hopkirk for understanding. "I assure you we would not have done it if we could have found another way to get to Umbridge."

Mafalda was now clutching her chest and breathing hard. She shook her head in disbelief as she took up her quill again. Kingsley was looking between Madam Hopkirk and Potter with his mouth open. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "So you were, er… impersonating Mafalda?"

"Yeah, well… Hermione was."

"I see. And you and Ron…?"

"Ron was Reg Cattermole… Feeling really guilty about him too… We didn't know his wife was facing an inquiry from Umbridge as a Muggle-born. I think we made a right mess of it for them. We told them to leave the country— I hope they got off okay." Potter shifted uncomfortably. Of all the crazy things he had described to date, this clearly he regretted.

"And I was Albert Runcorn," he continued. "Feeling less guilty about him, actually. He seemed like a bit of a git." There was a splutter of stifled laughter at this. Gawain couldn't argue with this sentiment.

"Anyway…" said Potter. "The whole plan started to fall apart the minute we got in. Yaxley cornered Ron to go fix his office which was apparently raining…" Gawain heard a snicker from where Ben was standing watch. "And Umbridge grabbed Hermione to go down with her as scribe for the trials against Muggle-borns before we even made it off the lift. I couldn't think of an excuse to go with them, so we were all forced to split up. So I went up to search Umbridge's office alone."

"I'm sorry… So not only did you stroll into the Ministry of Magic," Kingsley clarified, still looking like this whole conversation was giving him a headache, "but you actually broke into the office of the Senior Undersecretary of the Minister? How exactly did you pull that off?"

"Combination of an invisibility cloak and a Decoy Detonator. And then I just sort of let myself in. It was really quite shockingly easy, actually. You might want to see to increasing security up there…" There was a flutter of slightly affronted laughter from around the room. Gawain bit his tongue, a feeling of pettiness riling his gut. Potter continued with a bit of a laugh. "I mean, I don't know who's in charge of security in this place but…" Abruptly he noted the glances being cast in Gawain's direction and followed their gaze. Gawain met his look with a stony expression. "Oh… right… Sorry." Potter swallowed and struggled to backtrack with a nervous look to Gawain. "I mean, I'm not saying it was all easy. But it wasn't anywhere near as hard as getting into Gringotts, for example." He gave a nervous laugh in an attempt to lighten the mood. Kingsley groaned.

"Oh, Merlin, you mean the rumours about you breaking into Gringotts are true too?" asked Kingsley running a hand over his bald pate.

"Oh… yeah… Er… We'll get to that…"

And with that, he hastened to continue, clearly eager to bring the conversation out of the Ministry to somewhere his audience had less personal investment. Gawain was all too happy to leave this topic of conversation as well. He had already made a mental note to schedule a meeting to discuss security protocols with the Watchwizards.

Potter continued the tale, and it did not get any less ludicrous. Still Potter spoke casually. He spoke of evading Snatchers and Death Eaters and Dementors. He spoke of shared visions with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and piecing together his plans. He spoke of children's nursery stories and objects of lore like the Deathly Hallows and the sword of Godrick Gryffindor and the cup of Helga Hufflepuff. He spoke of skirmishing with Bellatrix Lastrange and the Malfoys and disarming them. The most emotion the boy showed through the whole discussion was a falter to his voice when discussing the death of a house-elf and an occasional small smile of pride when describing some clever feat by one of his friends.

By the time he got to the point where he flew out of Gringotts on the back of a Ukrainian Ironbelly, Kingsley had his head in his hands and a look of resigned dismay on his face. Roslyn was alternating between furiously scribbling notes to herself and frowning incredulously at Potter.

"So we have the diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, and the snake. That leaves one more," Roslyn was looking down at her notes as she summarised, more getting her own head around it than because it was actually needed. Gawain was quite sure everyone had a running tally in their heads.

Potter nodded. "Right. Two still to collect and no way to destroy the last we already had. Which brings us to Hogwarts…"

In a matter of months, Potter—Undesirable Number One, a man who literally everyone in the country had been looking out for— had managed to break into three of the highest security sites in Britain—The Ministry, Gringotts, and Hogwarts. The very idea was somehow both awe-inspiring and wounding to Gawain's pride. He decided to let this go as Potter continued. He kept his description of the Battle of Hogwarts quite brief, focusing on the discovery and ultimate destruction of the fifth horcrux.

"And what did Snape's memories contain?" Kingsley prompted when Potter paused to catch his breath and organise his thoughts some time later. The whole congregation was clinging to Potter's every word by now.

Potter sighed. "Some were just memories of… I think he was just trying to explain why he did what he did. Explain that had never really been on Voldemort's side. That he had been trying to protect me, because—well it's not really important now. A bit private… Suffice it to say, Snape was a double agent and he'd been working for Dumbledore the whole time."

"But he killed Dumbledore!" Madam Marchbanks interjected disbelievingly.

"Yes. At Dumbledore's behest. He was already dying, you see. Dumbledore was. And he knew that Draco Malfoy had been tasked with killing him, and he wanted to spare him from that. So he asked Snape to do it instead."

People were looking at Potter with open mouths, unable to form words to voice their objection to this. Something he took advantage of to continue. "But the most important memory that Snape gave me was one of a conversation he had had with Dumbledore shortly before Dumbledore's death. A conversation in which Dumbledore explained that Voldemort had in fact accidentally made a seventh horcrux when he had tried to kill me as a baby."

"Merlin, another one?" muttered Roslyn, scribbling something more on her piece of parchment and looking quite exhausted by the very thought. "What was it this time?"

"Me."

The word hung in the air. There was silence as everyone blinked at Potter. Slowly, a look of horror spread across Kingsley's face. He was understanding something that Gawain could not process.

Potter elaborated. "Dumbledore had come to the realisation that a piece of Voldemort's soul had attached itself to me that night, and this is why there was the connection between our minds. That I could see into his head... because he was part of me. And I was part of him. So. As a horcrux, I would need to die. And Voldemort would have to be the one to do it."

Kingsley was staring at Potter with a look that Gawain could only describe as devastated. It was the look of a man who had just been told that, while Father Christmas did indeed bring presents to all the children of the world, he also spent his free time drowning puppies for fun.

Potter, however, continued quite matter-of-factly. "So you can see the conundrum. In order to kill Voldemort, all of the horcruxes must first be destroyed. But, being a horcrux myself, I would have to die, and as such would not be able to kill Voldemort. Bit unfortunate, really.

"Quite conveniently, however, Voldemort had told me where to go to find him so he could kill me, so that bit was easy enough. But I needed to make sure that someone else would then kill the snake and then Voldemort. I knew Ron and Hermione knew about the snake, but I wanted one other person to know before I went, so I passed it on to Neville Longbottom too, and man did he ever deliver on that promise… Anyway, I trusted that once the snake was gone, someone— anyone— would then be able to kill Voldemort.

"And then I just walked into the forest and let Voldemort kill me."

This was all said so anticlimactically. So simply. There were splutters from the stands as everyone tried to grasp what Potter was saying.

"But… but he didn't!" exclaimed Kingsley, grasping to try to find any kind of hope in this hopeless tale.

"Welllll… he killed me a little," said Potter, shrugging lightly. "Enough to kill the part of his soul that was inside me, anyway."

Everyone just stared at him blankly. "Right. Hard to explain. He used the Avada Kedavra Curse. And I woke up—or I thought I did anyway—in a sort of… in between place. Saw the piece of Voldemort's soul dying there. Had a really quite lovely chat with Dumbledore in Kingscross Station—that sounds a bit mad saying it aloud and it was probably all in my imagination, so let's just skip that part—but the point is, we came to the conclusion that Voldemort had tied our fates together when he had taken my blood to resurrect himself. And the theory was that the blood magic my mother had used to protect me would allow me to go back as long as Voldemort was still alive." He shrugged again as though this were really quite simple.

"So then I had a choice. To move on or to come back. Well, Voldemort was still alive. So was Nagini, the final horcrux. And he had the Elder Wand. And literally every single person I cared about was up in that castle. So… I went back."

"But how?" interrupted Madam Marchbanks.

"No idea. Just did. When I woke up in the forest, I had to play dead. If I revealed myself there… surrounded by Death Eaters and a very angry Voldemort… Well, then there would have been no point in any of it. It seemed like I was only out for a few minutes maybe. And Voldemort too… I'm not quite sure what happened, but all the Death Eaters were spooked and Voldemort looked as though he had just woken up too. Narcissa Malfoy knew I was alive, but she lied to him. Told him I was dead. Her son, Draco, was back at the castle, and she knew it was her best chance of getting back to find him. She took a big risk in lying for me.

"We came out of the forest, me still pretending to be dead. Neville killed the snake then, of course. God, but he was bloody brilliant, wasn't he? And then, well, you remember," Harry offered to Kingsley. "It got a bit chaotic then. The centaurs were charging and the giants and the thestrals. So with everyone distracted, I hid myself under the invisibility cloak to try to get back to the other side, but by then the fighting broke out again and Voldemort had made for the Great Hall, so I followed."

Potter paused for a moment, he was studying his entwined fingers, his mind lost somewhere the rest of them could not follow. "I had started to notice things. And things were making sense. Voldemort used the Cruciatus Curse on my body, but it didn't work. He tried to silence the survivors at Hogwarts, but they kept breaking through his spells. None of his spells were working properly. I'd died for them. For my friends in the castle. I maybe didn't stay dead properly, but the intention was there. And by doing that, I had given them the same protection that my mother had given me. And I understood it then. Or at least hoped I did. Because I was very much about to put that understanding to the test."

Potter paused again, chewing on his lip, not looking at anybody. "And so it was time to duel him. Just me and Voldemort in the Great Hall. It had to be that way. It was a bit of a wild theory. I wasn't at all sure it would work. Could have been a bit embarrassing if it didn't… But then again, I'd be dead, so I wouldn't have to face the fallout of that embarrassment." He shrugged again, not seeming too concerned by this thought. "The Elder Wand had belonged to Dumbledore. Draco Malfoy had disarmed Dumbledore, making the Elder Wand switch its allegiance to him. I had disarmed Draco Malfoy of his own wand which I was using at that point. So the theory was: I was then the master of the Elder Wand. Only one way to test it of course…" He trailed off.

"Which was," prompted Roslyn impatiently, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on Potter.

"Well, nothing for it. I just had to let him try to kill me again," replied Potter matter-of-factly.

"Obviously," Kingsley muttered, rubbing his temple, his eyes closed.

Potter glanced at him, a muscle twitched in his cheek. "Right. So we duelled. Voldemort's wand recognised mine and refused to work for him. His curse rebounded. Voldemort died.

"So. Any follow up questions or can I go home now?"