Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!
Chapter Sixteen: Another Visit to the Ministry
"Because I thought you needed someone to help you."
Snape leaned forward across the kitchen table. Harry simply watched him. He was grateful that there were other people in the room: Trumpetflower, studiously reading the Prophet and pretending the argument wasn't happening; Rose, watering a plant she'd bought on her trip to Muggle London; Connor, trying to describe hippocampi in a letter to Parvati. It reminded Harry that other people could see his emotions, if he let them escape his control. He did not let his hand tremble on the cup of tea. He didn't let himself put down the cup of tea and reach out to Snape.
He's suffering enough already. If he doesn't care about embarrassing himself, that's one thing. But I won't mortify him in front of others.
"I do not need the Seer," Snape hissed.
Harry wondered, distantly, if this was what it had been like for Snape and Draco, when they thought he needed healing and he insisted he didn't. But no frustration gripped his chest, the way it seemed to have happened with them. All he felt was a general weariness, with determination like sliding stone under that.
"Joseph agreed to come," said Harry quietly. "He has as much right to be at Cobley-by-the-Sea as you do. I can't force you to talk to him. You asked me why I invited him. I answered. That's all."
"As much right as I do?" Snape's face had gone white, leaving his eyes like staring black coals. "So I am only as welcome a guest in your house as others are?"
Harry could feel the listening silence become listening silence. Trumpetflower no longer turned the pages of the paper. Rose's murmuring to the plant, which was withering in the sea air, had gone silent. Connor held as still as if someone had just summoned a thestral.
Harry had already decided on his response to things like this, or he might have sat there and flushed. As it was, he felt dull heat creeping up his cheeks, but he simply drained the last swallow of his tea, walked over to the counter, and began running the water to clean the cup. He was getting better with cleaning charms, but water still worked the best.
"You did not answer my question," Snape said to his back, his voice betrayed.
That's because I was close to saying something I would regret. Harry reminded himself again that Snape was suffering. The dreams were taking their toll on him nightly, but, judging from his reaction to what Harry had said about his mother, he was definitely not in the mood to discuss them with anyone else. He needed to know that Harry wouldn't give up on him, but he didn't need poking and prodding. Harry would walk away when he got angry.
"Most people are welcome in Cobley-by-the-Sea," he said, when he knew that he could keep his tone even. "People who swear to the Alliance. People who don't, and who might be looking to become part of the Alliance. People who need my protection, and wish to claim it." He turned around, bracing his hand on the counter behind him, and looked up at Snape. "People whom I love."
"You did not answer my question," Snape repeated.
Harry shut his eyes and turned away. Snape was a Legilimens, and still more skilled at that than Harry was himself. He would see the rage if Harry met his gaze much longer. He might already have noticed the small leak of magic that made Harry's cup tremble.
He left, walking upstairs to the bedroom he now shared with Draco. Draco was still asleep, though—the only reason Harry had eaten breakfast without him—so he leaned against the wall and took several deep breaths, counting to ten in Mermish, an old distraction technique Lily had taught him.
When he finished, he had returned to a much calmer state, and told himself, again, that Snape was suffering, but didn't want to talk about his suffering. Joseph was in the same house with him now, calm and patient, and not engaged with as many different tasks as Harry was. Harry hoped he could delegate the actual handling of Snape to him, since Snape had made it clear how unwelcome his ward's inquiries were. Joseph would not give up.
He pushed open the door. Draco sighed and rolled over, then abruptly sat up, as if missing Harry's warmth in the bed, and blinked at him. A moment later, he snorted.
"Went to breakfast without me?"
Harry felt his face relax into a grin, almost against his will. "Did lots of things without you," he agreed in an appropriately solemn tone. "Woke up, breathed, showered, ate breakfast."
"I might have shared in the shower, at least." Draco's voice was low and teasing in a way Harry had never heard it before. He flushed, but he didn't think it was as much as he would have at one point. He shook his head in wonder. Trust this to be the most comfortable bond I have at this point, rather than the most awkward.
"True," Harry said. Draco's eyes brightened, and Harry laughed at him. "But since sex appears to drive most other thoughts out of your head, I did want to know what you were mumbling about last night. Something about Unspeakables and a paper?"
"Yes." Draco leaned forward, obviously trying not to just eye Harry's chest, covered by a shirt though it was. Harry sat down on the bed to make it easier for Draco to focus on his face. Draco blinked and did so. "The Minister still hasn't contacted you?"
Harry shook his head. "No. And Fred and George seemed convinced that no one could detect the messages they passed to Percy. They were sending them disguised as pranks. Anyone who asks will think Fred and George just don't like their brother."
"Then I think he's either not going to say anything to you about the Unspeakables, or the Unspeakables themselves are interfering," said Draco decisively.
Harry frowned. "You don't know that."
Draco gave him a pitying glance. "Harry, don't you know anything? In politics, there's no such thing as an innocent silence. You hadn't had any post from the Minister at all, and given what you said happened to you in his Ministry, you should have. Certainly he wouldn't approve of his own employees attacking you. And if he didn't believe you at all, he should have demanded an apology. The story is spreading now; I received an owl from Mother yesterday that said she heard of it among people who weren't at your festival. So he should have responded, and he hasn't. I think someone's interfering with his letters. And yours."
Harry gnawed his lip. "And you think I should draw him out somehow? But if the Unspeakables are really interfering, how? They can stop information from reaching him in the Ministry far more easily than I can convey it."
"Do something that he won't have any choice but to respond to," Draco said. "Write an article about the attack under your own name."
Harry nodded slowly. "And you think the Prophet would print that?"
Draco raised his eyebrows. "Who said anything about the Prophet? I was thinking of sending it to the Vox Populi, Harry."
"That wouldn't work. No one would believe anything that anyone said in there," Harry said in disgust.
Draco gave a little half-smile. "You'd be surprised. Besides, if your name appears with the article, then it would be a simple matter for you to disavow it if it really wasn't yours. But claiming it? I think that will make a difference. And you heard Hornblower babbling on. He'd be glad to do you the favor."
"Maybe," said Harry, still unconvinced. "Why would that draw the Minister into responding where nothing else would, though?"
"Because, so far, no name has appeared, and the Prophet hasn't carried a story about it," said Draco. "And because he knows that you'd be protesting if your name was used without your permission—no matter how many people decided to disbelieve you. Your name appears, you support it, and he'll know that it's either true or the person who wrote the article has your permission. I think either would worry him, given what power the Boy-Who-Lived can command. So he'll contact you."
"At the least, I suppose it would make an interesting experiment to see what he does when an article like that gets published," Harry said slowly.
Draco gave him a feral smile. "Exactly."
"Right then," said Harry, and leaned forward to clap Draco on the shoulder. "I'll write it. Want to give me a hand?"
This time, he was the one who blushed, in the face of Draco's delighted laughter.
Harry blinked when a gray-and-black-spotted owl hurtled through the window of Cobley-by-the-Sea that very evening. He had thought Hornblower would take some time to read his article and get back to him; he must have articles pouring in every day, judging by how thick the Vox Populi was. But this owl had arrived just a few hours after he sent Hedwig off.
The owl extended her leg impatiently. Harry removed the message. It was brief enough, thanking him for the truth and for letting his voice be heard, and containing a payment of seventeen Sickles. Harry smiled and poured the money through his fingers, feeling oddly proud. It was the first money he had ever earned by simply doing something that wasn't magical. The power of his name was undoubtedly why Hornblower had agreed to print the article so fast, but that didn't matter. He had still earned this.
"It'll be out in tomorrow's paper?" Draco asked, leaning down to peer over his shoulder.
Harry nodded. "And, as you said, the Minister's response will be very interesting," he murmured. He was growing more and more concerned. Fred and George had owled him earlier, insisting that they had sent several messages to Percy, with codes that no one except those who were members of the Weasley family could have figured out, and had yet to receive an answer.
I doubt the Unspeakables can control all the ways this article can reach him, though, even if they are watching Percy's correspondence and the Prophet. People will talk about this even if Scrimgeour thinks the Populi is nothing more than rubbish.
Your move, Minister.
Rufus sighed and sat down slowly at his desk. It was only seven-o'clock, and he'd been in the Ministry for two hours already. He'd spent an hour and a half of that arguing against giving the Department for the Control and Suppression of Deadly Beasts new powers. He'd had unexpected support from the Head of the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures, who didn't like the new Department edging in on territory that Department nominally controlled, and still Amelia had almost won.
Every time he needed a reminder of how thin the ice he walked on was, someone was sure to provide three.
He reached for his teacup, and then an owl hurtled through his wards as if they weren't there and landed on his desk. Old Auror instincts had Rufus leveling his wand before he thought. The owl didn't move, though, simply sat still and ruffled her feathers. Then she gave him an irritated look, as much to demand where the owl treats and the admiration for her were already.
Rufus narrowed his eyes. "Deprendo," he said.
A mist of blue wavered up from the owl's feathers in answer. Yes, she was a magical construct, which explained how she had passed the wards, but didn't explain where she was from. The gray feathers with black spots looked vaguely familiar, but Rufus couldn't imagine what the pattern signified.
He noticed that she carried a thick coil of paper. Either it was a newspaper or a wrapping of many papers around a threatening missive. Rufus didn't laugh. It could be a Howler, but he had received worse things since he became Minister.
He cast Deprendo on the newspaper, too, but that was normal. Still, someone could have woven the newspaper with a hidden hex. He floated it off the owl's leg and spread it out in front of him, one hand ready to flick down in the motion that would call the wards to his defense.
Nothing happened, though. The newspaper unfolded, and Rufus could see the title and the dancing Maenads on either side of it. He grimaced. He'd heard of the Vox Populi—he had some of his own private spies, of course, who informed him the instant anything likely to cause enormous changes appeared in public—but he hadn't thought Hornblower would dare to deliver a paper directly to him.
Then he saw the headline.
Boy-Who-Lived Confirms Unspeakable Attack.
By: Harry
Rufus shook his head numbly. This—wasn't true. The Vox Populi had used Harry's name without his permission, and he would be angry when he heard. It might even break the cold silence with which he'd answered every piece of correspondence that Rufus used to try and reach him.
Nevertheless, he leaned forward and read the article, fascinated to learn what this unknown writer would dare to say. It was in first-person, presumably to maintain the illusion that such a thing had really happened, and ensnare those otherwise rational people who would believe that no one but Harry could know all the details of such a thing.
I visited the Ministry on August 8th, in order to try and gain information on the anti-werewolf laws the Department for the Control and Suppression of Deadly Beasts has passed. I ended up stumbling unexpectedly into a trap much deeper than I had believed any were laid. An Unspeakable pursued me out of the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures. He had a collar in his hand. I believe he was planning to capture me.
I had wrapped myself in a spell of my own creation which kept him from finding me in the lift we rode together, but he stood in the doors of the lift when they opened and held the collar towards my neck. I became visible long enough to call for help and duck under his arm. However, I quickly realized that the only person left in the Atrium who wasn't an Unspeakable was the checkpoint witch on the gates. When I called, she came running, but otherwise only Unspeakables closed in.
I protected Erica when one of the Unspeakables would have grabbed her, erasing the hand of the one who did so.
Rufus heard the paper crumple, and realized he'd reached out and gripped the side, nearly shredding it. He swallowed and eased his grasp as much as he could, so that he could continue reading the article. But his heart was beating much too fast, and his breathing was erratic, and he wanted nothing so much as to firecall Harry—assuming he knew where Harry was—and shout at him.
He used magic in the Ministry. He used magic against my people.
He had known that, of course, from hearing what the Unspeakables told him, and from what they confirmed of a spell placed on Aurelius Flint, but hearing about it secondhand and reading Harry's own not-even-apologetic account of it were different things.
Then Rufus shook his head. He'd fallen into the trap. Harry hadn't written the article. Someone posing as him had. But he would definitely have to speak to Harry, and soon, so they could correct this misconception that might seriously hinder the ability of the Department of Mysteries to continue working.
He went on reading anyway, his eyes sliding down the words in fascination.
Erica and I then ran for the lift that would transport us back to the entrance of the Ministry. There were Unspeakables ahead of us as well as behind us, however. One of them flung a Still-Beetle shell at me. The shell contains the magic of a Lord-level wizard, and would have frozen me to the ground, unless it was spelled to work as a Portkey. Then it would have transferred me into a cell where the Unspeakables, doubtless, could examine me at their leisure.
Rufus frowned. If that was true…
But it wasn't true. It was an article written by someone posing as Harry, in a newspaper that would turn to rubbish, just like everything Hornblower touched did. And if there was the slightest hint of truth to this, then the Unspeakables who had attacked Harry were the same ones who had frightened Amelia. No one could say who they were or what they wanted yet. It was best to let their colleagues study and handle them, rather than blame the whole Department of Mysteries for something a few of them had done. Rufus knew Harry understood that. He had insisted that not all werewolves be blamed for the actions of one pack.
More proof that this article-writer is not him, Rufus thought, and continued to read.
I used fire to destroy the Still-Beetle shell before it hit me. The Unspeakable who had flung the shell had a ring that absorbed the fire, however, so it did not harm him. He next cast a small glass globe that appeared to contain a rose, and rang with the magic of time. I swallowed the magic, and broke the globe harmlessly. I do not know what it would have done, but I believe it was another attempt to capture me. After this, I locked my eyes on the Unspeakable and told him to move.
He did, and Erica and I made it to the lift. However, the Unspeakable dipped his fingers into what looked remarkably like a Pensieve filled with blue liquid instead of silver, and spoke the single word, "Obliviate." Though the liquid splashed on the floor far below the lift, it still took Erica's memory of the event.
I felt the compulsion to forget clawing at my own mind, but my will was strong enough to throw it off. I am not sure if the Unspeakables believed that I had forgotten as well, or if they were content to let me go because they believed I could do nothing against them.
I can and will do something against them. I have created multiple records of this event, including Pensieve memories placed in the basin no later than fifteen minutes after the chase was done. I have shown these memories to those who attended a certain festival marking me as Black heir, but I will show them to anyone who wishes to see. If someone owls me with a certain public time and place, I will arrive, carrying the basin with me.
Their greatest weapon is secrecy, and the terror of secrecy—altered memories, unknowable artifacts, the threat of vanishing into silence and never coming out again. If we destroy those shadows, they must face us in the light.
Rufus was almost light-headed with relief by the time he finished. The unknown article-writer had gone too far. He'd made claims that would be impossible to back up. The moment someone asked to see the Pensieve of memories of the attack, Harry would ask what he was talking about, and that would be the end of that.
On the other hand, the last lines concerned Rufus. Someone attacking the Unspeakables because they practiced secrecy, and prying into the shadows around them, would make it impossible for them to function. Rufus knew that most of them were loyal; the Stone that chose them made certain of that. Because a few had somehow managed to turn traitor was no reason for the rest to suffer.
What would make it worse was if Hornblower were to take it into his head to dig through the shadows. Rufus had encountered the man before, in the service of one fringe cause after another, though it had been three years since the last time he had really moved. Hornblower believed himself responsible to no one and nothing but the principles he had adopted this month. He was like a terrier, too, and never let go as long as there was something to be worried at.
Rufus looked thoughtfully at the magical owl, which still sat preening itself on his desk. "Can you carry a message for me?" he asked.
The owl looked up and hooted at him.
Harry had ignored all his owls so far, Rufus thought, as he reached for ink and parchment. But he wouldn't ignore this one, not when he saw the message Rufus had sent. It was simple—the false article torn free of the Vox Populi and wrapped in an envelope, along with a piece of parchment that said simply, We need to talk.
"I am glad you listened to sense," Draco said, as he flicked a mote of dust from a sleeve Harry did not believe actually had dust on it.
"I try," Harry muttered. He'd had a short argument with Draco first, of course, because he had feared that going into the Ministry with too large an entourage—an entourage that included werewolves—would smell of intimidation to Scrimgeour. But Draco had pointed out that the last two times he'd been in the Ministry, someone had attempted to kill or capture him. Harry had said that more people around him wouldn't prevent that, and besides, he would feel compelled to defend them all.
Draco had looked at him until Harry admitted that most of those he would take along were capable of defending themselves, and that, apart from a few communication spells to ask Hawthorn, Adalrico, Peter, and Narcissa if they would mind coming with him, was that.
They stepped out of the lift and moved towards the Minister's office. Harry hadn't replied to Scrimgeour's owl; he'd simply appeared, and deliberately brought along people who wouldn't mind waiting hours if Scrimgeour couldn't see him right away. He didn't want any more post intercepted by silent enemies he was sure, now, must be the Unspeakables. There was no one else who would have both the interest and the undetectable methods to keep Percy from contacting his brothers, or to isolate the Minister and Harry from one another.
Harry turned the corner into the final hallway that led to the office, and saw Wilmot, as well as an Auror he didn't know, guarding Scrimgeour's door. They straightened at the sight of him. Harry gave a soft snort. He didn't believe they hadn't known he was coming. Messages had presumably raced through the Ministry the moment Harry came in with twenty people surrounding him.
"The Minister has visitors," said the Auror Harry didn't know, a small, prim woman whose severe hair and brown eyes reminded him of Vera. Vera, of course, had never looked that unsympathetic, or had that tight a grip on her wand.
"We'll wait," said Harry politely.
"On what?" the Auror demanded.
Adalrico was already taking several small objects out of his pocket—crumpled pieces of parchment and crumbs, mostly—and Transfiguring them into chairs. One was large, elaborate, draped with banners of silver and green, and took up half the hallway. Harry winced a bit, but he sat down when Adalrico elaborately bowed him towards it, sneaking a glance at the Auror. The look on her face was priceless.
"On these," Harry said, and noticed that the other chairs Adalrico had Transfigured, he gave to the werewolves. He felt a wave of warmth that burned up the embarrassment of a few moments before. If anyone walked past and noticed that the people sitting down, except for Harry, had amber eyes, while the pureblood wizards remained on their feet, that should tell them where this particular delegation stood.
"And how long do you intend to wait?" The Auror had recovered herself quickly, Harry had to give her that. Her hold on her wand had increased, though, to the point where her knuckles were the color of milk.
Harry shrugged. "Until the Minister is done speaking with his other visitors. I didn't tell him I was coming, so of course I didn't have an appointment."
The Auror stared. Harry ignored her, and turned to Narcissa, who was examining the size of the hallway with a cool, appraising gaze. Harry smiled. "Not as big as the entrance hall in Malfoy Manor?"
"Truly," Narcissa murmured, "if things had been different, Lucius might have been Minister. I was estimating the number of ways this hallway could be improved. There are not many. The Ministry has always been grim." She cocked her head to the side, and a faint smile touched her lips. "Grim would suit Lucius, but he would demand an environment more imposing, I'm sure."
Harry snorted. Lucius was supposedly working on a very important project at which he couldn't be disturbed. If it was anything like his other important projects, it would end in a few months and never be spoken of again.
He glanced up as he realized someone was missing. Narcissa still examined the walls. Adalrico had Transfigured his last chair and stepped back with a flourish. Hawthorn, wearing a slight glamour charm that made her eyes appear hazel instead of hazel-tinted amber, was quietly speaking with one of the werewolves about Wolfsbane. The rest of the pack lounged on chairs as if they couldn't believe their luck. And Draco had moved up to stand at the arm of Harry's seat.
Harry frowned. Where's Peter?
He saw a flash of gray along the wall near the Aurors' feet, and sighed. Peter had slipped into rat form and gone ahead. Harry knew he had to trust him to take care of himself—that was something he really needed to learn—but he couldn't help thinking the Minister's office might have wards on it that would imprison or hurt Animagi. His hand absently rubbed the stump of his left wrist.
Wilmot and the suspicious Auror showed no sign of noticing that something was wrong, and shortly, because he was looking for it and for no other reason, Harry saw the small gray shape returning. Peter slid round the far corner behind Adalrico and then came strolling back a moment later, as though he had arrived to join the group late.
His eyes found Harry's, and he mouthed a single word.
Gray.
Harry hissed beneath his breath. That meant Unspeakables were in Scrimgeour's office right now, dressed in gray cloaks.
He swallowed his anger and agitation. He had expected this might happen, after all; Unspeakables were stopping Scrimgeour's post. He was here, and if the Unspeakables attacked him here, they were going to face much more serious opposition than they had when he was alone or only with Erica. He forced his hand to relax and his magic, which had been rising around him, to sink back into silence, folded around him like cloth. He reminded himself to thank Snape for teaching him Occlumency, again; it helped him weight and sink his emotions, and it might be a tiny positive thing that would help rebuild the trust that had broken between them again with Harry's comments about Snape's mother.
Draco's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Unspeakables are here?" he breathed, so softly that the Aurors on Scrimgeour's door had no chance of hearing. Harry wondered if the wards he suspected the Unspeakables had strung throughout the Ministry would listen in, however.
"Yes, they are," said Harry.
Draco said nothing. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes instead. Then his hand fell limp on Harry's shoulder.
Harry restrained his agitation again. Draco had gone hunting with his possession gift. He was doing what Harry had asked of him. Harry could not, and would not, interfere, no matter how worried he was for Draco's safety in the minds of people who had things like the Obliviate Pensieve. He sat still and relaxed, and watched the bag that hung casually off Camellia's left shoulder.
Draco tapped his fingers on the side of Harry's neck much sooner than Harry would have expected. "Two of them in there," Draco murmured, again barely moving his lips. "Just telling the Minister that they know some of their own attacked you, but those are renegades from the rest of the Department of Mysteries, and what they need is undisturbed time to investigate the matter within their own ranks. They're having to work hard to convince him," he added. "I think Scrimgeour thought the article was entirely false."
Harry glanced at the bag hanging from Camellia's shoulder again. It contained Snape's Pensieve, and the memories. Draco followed his gaze, and a strangely feral expression overcame his face. Harry thought he'd seen the same expression in the eyes of wolves hunting deer.
Then he was trying to remember where he had seen pictures of wolves hunting deer, and thus missed Scrimgeour's door opening.
"The Minister will see you now," Wilmot announced a moment later, and Harry saw a flash of red hair disappearing back into the office; Percy must have come out and told him.
Harry rose, darting a glance at Draco. Draco grimaced and shook his head, eyes saying clearly that if the Unspeakables hadn't come out of the office, then Harry shouldn't enter it.
Harry shrugged back. If the Unspeakables attacked him in front of the Minister, he had no compunctions about using his magic to defend himself. And he didn't think Percy and Scrimgeour would try to lure him into a trap, which meant the Unspeakables had probably gone out a different way.
Draco hesitated, then nodded, but positioned himself at Harry's right shoulder. Harry had no objection to that.
Wilmot and the other Auror crossed their wands, though Wilmot looked regretful about it. "You're the only person whom the Minister wants to speak with, Harry," Wilmot said.
Harry spent a moment looking into his eyes. Wilmot turned his head just slightly aside, as most of the werewolves tended to do when fixed with a challenging stare. Harry didn't think he was treacherous.
He took Draco's hand and squeezed his wrist, hard, then cast a nonverbal Summoning Charm. The bag on Camellia's shoulder flipped open, and the Pensieve skimmed out and towards him. The female Auror jerked and shot a Stupefy at the Pensieve that Harry made it duck so as to miss.
"Nervous?" Harry asked.
"I wonder why?" Draco asked, giving the words a particularly nasty twist that Harry knew he must have learned from his father.
"You can't take that in there," the female Auror told him, as the Pensieve settled into Harry's arms.
Harry raised his eyebrows. When they push this far, it's time to push back. "I've been attacked twice in the Ministry," he said pleasantly. "I've agreed to enter the Minister's office without anyone at my back. Unless the Department for the Control and Suppression of Deadly Magical Artifacts That Look Just Like Pensieves has passed a new edict barring them from the Minister's office, I am going to take this inside so that he can see the memories of the second attack."
"You can't," the female Auror repeated stubbornly, but Scrimgeour's voice came from inside, firm and final.
"Let him in, Hope."
Hope gave Harry a look that said, "This isn't over." Harry gave her one back that he wanted to say, "Of course it isn't, you're still alive," and then passed her. He thought she recoiled. He didn't care enough to keep watching her, though.
Scrimgeour still sat behind his desk, the way he always had. A cup of tea stood near at hand, and in front of him was spread the copy of the Vox Populi that Harry supposed he had ripped the article out of. Or, no, actually, he realized as he came nearer. This one was whole, with the article he'd written on the front page.
"Harry," said Scrimgeour, voice distant and neutral.
The Unspeakables did get to him first, Harry thought, but he was feeling unnaturally calm, rather than angry. He'd started thinking this morning, and each new "precaution"—the people here and talking to Scrimgeour, that the Minister seemed to disbelieve in his account of the attack altogether, the fact that he had a reason to think he was in danger in the Ministry and still had to leave all his friends behind—just tipped his thinking more and more in this new direction. Scrimgeour was acting as if he didn't care what happened to Harry; the Ministry, and its people, were more important.
I'm sure they are, to him. But I no longer need to bend over backwards to accommodate every little sensitivity he has, if he won't show me a moment's consideration.
"Minister," he said, and sat down in the chair across from Scrimgeour. He could feel Percy Weasley's intent gaze from the desk behind Scrimgeour's, concealed under a ward. He subdued another rise of irritation, but let the words accompanying the emotion through. If he has to have protection every moment of the day, why should I be treated any differently? I know there are people who want me dead, even if some of them are blind and wounded right now.
"I know the article is false," Scrimgeour started. "I summoned you to discuss who you thought might have the gall to do this using your name."
Harry half-lidded his eyes and drowned his temper in another Occlumency pool. "There is no trick, Minister," he said. "I wrote that article."
Scrimgeour's face tightened. Then he said, "And I suppose that you'll tell me the memories are in that Pensieve?" He nodded to it.
"Yes. So you can see it for yourself." Harry braced the heavy basin with his left arm and held it out. It sloshed, nearly sending some of the silver liquid over the rim. Harry frowned. I want a second hand.
Scrimgeour rapped his fingers on the desk for a long moment. Then he said, "If you say the attack happened, Harry, I believe you. But that leaves two things for us to discuss." He leaned forward earnestly. "First of all, you don't know who the Unspeakables who attacked you are. There's reason to think a division in the Department of Mysteries has split them into two factions, or even more. The ones who attacked you were those who do want to see stricter anti-werewolf laws passed. But that doesn't mean tarring all Unspeakables with the same brush is a good thing, as you did in this article. That hinders the ability of the loyalists to do their job, and sends the ones who did commit crimes scuttling even deeper into their holes."
Harry imagined his mind flooding with cool, calm silver, to hold back the frustration. "And where did you hear about this division, Minister?"
Scrimgeour shook his head. "I can't tell you that."
Unspeakables, then. Poisoning the well. "I couldn't see the faces of the ones who attacked me," said Harry intently. "Unless you can suggest some way to separate the traitors from the loyalists, I have no reason to retract what I said." He paused, then added, "I notice the Department of Mysteries didn't come forward to denounce what some of their members had done."
"It's complicated, Harry," Scrimgeour said. "I don't understand the full story myself, but I don't think anyone does. The Department will investigate it. I will ask you not to stir the pot further."
Harry smiled thinly. "I can't promise that, Minister. I stir the pot just by existing."
Scrimgeour took a deep breath, and his bad leg moved in a spasm, as though it hurt. Harry thought he was holding back frustration of his own. "The second thing," he said, "is that you used magic against employees of the Ministry."
Harry blinked for a moment, then said, "Who were trying to capture me."
"You're still a Lord-level wizard," said Scrimgeour. "And you're an absorbere. It's magic that others can't do. You know how I feel about that. Much as I felt about Dumbledore compelling my people, in fact."
"I saved one of your employees, though I couldn't save her memory," Harry said. "Doesn't that matter to you?"
"She's welcome to return to work at any time," Scrimgeour said. "The word I received was that she didn't come to work for several days, they couldn't contact her, and she's been sacked."
"They couldn't contact her because she fled from her flat," said Harry. "In expectation that Unspeakables would come after her."
"Tell me where she is now, then, and I'll tell—"
"I'm not going to tell you that," said Harry softly. Not when you had Unspeakables in your office, and they're probably listening to us right now. "She's mine to protect."
"Listen, Harry," Scrimgeour said. "The Department of Mysteries can't just reveal their secrets like that. The Stone chooses 'em for loyalty, and that's important. Even the traitors are acting in accordance with the Stone's wishes, though they've misinterpreted 'em somehow. I can't destroy an entire Ministry Department because it houses a few of my employees who haven't behaved as they should, and I can't order a full investigation when it would endanger the security of the British wizarding world."
"I understand," Harry said. "Likewise, I can't let people who turn to me for protection be hurt and do nothing about it, and when attacked I will defend myself."
Scrimgeour grimaced as if he'd swallowed a lemon whole. "I am asking," he said, "that you make a public statement acknowledging that there are some mistakes in your account, and that you leave the Department of Mysteries to punish its own, rather than dragging them into the light, as you put it in your article."
Harry tilted his head. "You fear the power of my name, don't you?"
"As you said, you stir the pot just by existing," said Scrimgeour. "And they're trying to find 'em, Harry—the traitors, I mean. But they don't need this. Not now. And not from the Boy-Who-Lived."
"I said I would use what power my reputation and my magic could give me, Minister," Harry said calmly. "And I am."
Scrimgeour stared at him incredulously. "So you won't even give them a chance to solve this on their own?"
"If they had come to me themselves and explained the nature and manner of the problem?" Harry laughed. "Of course I would. As matters stand, I have only your word—and, I suppose, theirs—that the division exists at all. For all I know, the whole Department of Mysteries does want to capture me, and those who came after me were following the Stone's orders. That doesn't even touch what they want with the werewolves. I won't yield on this, sir."
Scrimgeour closed his eyes and bowed his head. "That makes matters harder than you know," he said in a strained voice.
"Why?"
"I cannot tell you that." Scrimgeour refused to look at him.
Harry raised an eyebrow and stood. "Well. It seems that our communication problem isn't going to be resolved after all. Good day, Minister." He turned for the door.
"Harry. Wait."
Scrimgeour had been one of his most trusted allies at one point—or, if not an ally, a leader Harry could trust to defend his people—so he turned around. Scrimgeour had a hand extended to him, and the expression of pleading on his face made Harry's heart give a painful lurch.
"You are vates," Scrimgeour said. "Surely you can respect the free will of the Ministry employees in this matter? Surely you can give the Department of Mysteries a few more days?"
Harry shook his head. "Their free will extends until the border at which they attack me," he said quietly. "And I no longer make excuses for my enemies, Minister, any more than I doubt the abilities of my friends to fight. It's insulting to do that, really. If someone tries to collar me or tells me that he wants to bring me to trial for the death of his child, I believe him."
He turned away and stepped out through the door, brushing past Hope, who still stared at him suspiciously. Wilmot's gaze, by contrast, was appealing.
Harry didn't meet it. He wasn't Wilmot's alpha, and though he admired the man's courage to walk above the abyss that the Ministry had become for werewolves and still somehow hold his job, he couldn't spare Wilmot the agony of decision. The Minister seemed determined to trust the Department of Mysteries. Harry would not
He scanned his people carefully, meeting pair after pair of eyes, and murmuring spells that should let him detect any magic placed on them. He sensed nothing. Harry relaxed a little.
"Nothing strange happened?" he asked.
Draco, who'd taken a sharp step forward when he saw Harry and then controlled himself as if he didn't want anyone to think badly of a Malfoy's self-control, shook his head.
"Good," Harry said, and led the way back towards the Atrium. He was worried enough to want to Apparate them straight home from the corridor, but he couldn't without tearing through the Ministry's anti-Apparition wards and essentially poking Scrimgeour in the eye. He had no grudge against the Minister, or the other innocents whom the wards protected.
Besides, he didn't want to seem afraid, despite his failure to convince Scrimgeour to trust him above the Unspeakables.
I will not let them make me afraid.
He remembered, abruptly, the news he'd intended to warn Scrimgeour about, to prepare him. He hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. It wasn't news that directly affected the Ministry, and everyone would find out the truth in a few days, anyway. Scrimgeour could wait and read it on the front page of the Prophet.
I wanted to warn him to prepare for chaos. But chaos is what's coming, no matter how he tries to stall it, and I don't want to warn the Unspeakables.
Let's see what they do when Thomas's storm spreads its wings.
