Harry Potter and the Statute of Secrecy

by MightyQuill

19 years after Voldemort's defeat, Rose and Albus begin a new adventure at Hogwarts, while Harry hunts down the burgeoning and obscured face of dark magic in Britain, and Hermione fights for equality in a Wizengamot steeped in the influence of former Death Eaters. Soon, they will be forced, along with the whole wizarding world, to question the very rules their lives are built on.

Disclaimer: I do not own or claim any rights to the world of Harry Potter, or to the characters, words, or ideas created and explored therein. Many thanks to J.K.R. for her continued openness to fans building off her fantastic world and story.

A/N: This is intended to be canon through the seven books, but not with the movies, TCC, or Pottermore, though I certainly won't hesitate to use these when interesting. Reviews are hugely appreciated! I value any feedback that might make the read more enjoyable for the next person, and I love to hear and engage with readers' thoughts about the story! If you enjoy, make sure to follow to keep caught up. :)

Please read responsibly, this story is rated T and contains themes of depression and anxiety, as well as some language.

ooOOooOOoo

Albus Severus felt an agitated snitch flutter its way down his stomach as Platform 9 3/4 receded from sight. A few other first years lingered at the window to wave, until their parents became an indistinguishable blob on the crowded platform. Then they trickled off, giggling to a friend, grimacing at a pamphlet, or wiping a rather persistent eyelash out of their eye, to try their luck in one of the compartments that lined the carriage. Albus remained near the window as a group of older girls who must have just changed into their blue-hemmed robes briefly crowded the hallway, and then, pausing as a unit to grin knowingly into the one of the compartments, strolled on through to another carriage.

Albus played his dad's parting words through his head. Albus Severus. Albus Severus. Two headmasters of Hogwarts. One of them was a Slytherin, and he was probably the bravest man I ever knew.

Dumbledore was a hero.

But Snape? Albus didn't call him Severus. He wasn't brave. A brave man would never choose to hurt people and hide behind a mask. Bravery was about facing your fears. Snape couldn't even ask a girl out.

James had asked 4 girls out. The last one said yes.

Another girl, she had a messy bun and a shirt with "Witch, Please" in big cursive letters on the front, skipped into the carriage and peeked in through the window the other girls had stopped at. Her eyebrows jumped up, she threw both her hands over her mouth like a chocolate frog was trying to escape, and she tiptoed out of the carriage, shaking with giggles.

Albus's curiosity got the better of him. He scooted over to the frosted glass, pressed his nose against it, and peered intently through. The inside of the cabin was distorted, but Albus felt the snitch rise into his throat at what he saw.

A large shadow writhed furiously, appendages flailing around like it was an insect person trying to rip itself apart. Its groans and shudders were muted by the doorway, but it was clear the creature was in some kind of pain. Albus was frozen. How could this thing be here…in the Hogwarts Express? What was it? Albus tried to remember if he knew any magical creatures with 4 arms. No, it must be a mutant. Was it safe? It just sounded scared, but his mom had always warned him never to approach a magical being he didn't know. Or non-magical. But Albus was pretty sure he could handle a muggle, even an armed one. His dad had taught him and both his siblings to cast expelliarmus as soon as they had developed object permanence and their magic didn't blow people up by accident.

Well, James was the one who-

Suddenly, one of the creature's arms stopped writhing, and pointed directly at Albus. The whole thing was still for a moment, then it seamlessly peeled in two, and half the shadow was looming up against the window.

Albus lurched back in fright, tripped on the hem of his robe, and sat down hard on his bottom. His eyes teared up, and he let out a word his mother would have been very upset to hear him say. But as the door turned open, his fear turned quickly to embarrassment.

Albus's god-brother and honorary cousin Teddy was standing in the doorway, tall, skinny, with pink cheeks, and hair halfway through the process of melting from the same bright color into his usual ginger. His favorite scarf, a multi-color disco of moons against a midnight black background, was hanging with one side precariously long and over a shoulder. In a moment that offered a great deal of clarity, Albus glimpsed Victoire sitting against the back bench, smoothing out her skirts and tucking a blonde lock behind her ear. Albus noticed that Teddy's hair was very mussed up, whatever color it might be, but Victoire's somehow remained perfectly statuesque, in a… waterfall sort of way. James would have muttered something about veelas and blushed. Albus didn't really get it. Mussed up hair looks fine too… like… his mom's, after a match. His dad always liked to tuck it back, and kiss the top of her head. Or like…

"Al, blimey" Teddy ruffled the ginger strands further. "Sorry mate, didn't mean to scare you. Y'alright?"

Albus pushed himself up quickly and flattened his trousers. "Fine, sorry Teddy, sorry, I didn't think, I thought…" his voice trailed off with a bit of a croak. An insect man? Christ.

"No worries mate." Teddy appeared to have regained his usual effortless cool. "Have you said goodbye to your mum and dad yet? Must be nearly…" the pink cheeks returned in force.

Teddy had graduated last year.

"Can you apparate off the train?"

Teddy grimaced "Not bloody likely. I'm sure they have wards up so Ravenclaw third years don't splinch themselves."

Albus shivered. Uncle Ron had once regaled his splinching story quite vividly. Mum had words with her brother over that one. Dad said it hadn't really happened that way. Aunt Mione said it had too, Ron was just leaving some of the story out. Dad asked if that was like how Aunt Mione had left some of her teeth out in fourth year. Mum had to come back from having words with Ron and break them apart too. They weren't really mad, of course, they did that sort of thing all the time. Mum said they had been doing it since they met, and they'd probably be doing it until two of them had been put 6 feet under.

Dad had a funny little smile then. "Or after"

Albus didn't think anyone else had heard him.

Teddy had said something "Sorry?"

The lank had bugged his eyes out, little by little, till they were barely in the sockets, as he usually did when he wanted someone's attention. They popped back into place. "I think I'll have to wait to apparate out from Hogsmeade… want to hang out with me and Vic on the way up?"

It was strange, Albus had spent dozens of afternoons outside Fortescue's, and twice as many warm evenings at The Burrow with his god-brother and Vic. They had been attached at the hip for years… Albus didn't know how James possibly could have been blindsided by it. But now, in the Express, and them having been… well, snogging and then some.

Teddy saw the expression on his face. "Hey, why don't you pick another compartment in this corridor, and get settled, and we'll join in a mo, yeah? This is a big day mate! No good spending it alone."

Teddy knew perfectly well that Albus liked to spend a great deal of his time alone, but it was true, now was not one of those times.

How much time would he spend alone at Hogwarts? If he was in Slytherin, it might be quite a lot. Come to think of it, though not for the first time, it might be quite a lot in any of the houses. He was not particularly bookish, at least not the school kind, not particularly brave, and nobody had ever accused him of being hardworking, unless that work involved catching shooting stars, and it didn't often. But above all, he pleaded, to the picture of the old, pointy hat he had in his head...

Not Slytherin.

ooOOooOOoo

Harry tossed the snitch again. It immediately bombed the ground with all the force its tiny wings could muster. Harry had to lean off the bench and put his left hand on the ground to catch it before it flew off the platform and into the great and spacious fjords of Central London. Poor thing. Must be feeling cooped up. The kids had been playing with it pretty much every day during the summer. Harry stuffed the golden ball into his briefcase, and he heard the wings fold. He imagined it doing this with a pout and a sigh of frustration.

Maybe he had been at home a little too long.

He glanced over at his old friends. Ron was looking more… beardy than usual, and was still pretending to be paying attention to the conversation the witches next to him were having. He couldn't hide the little yawns that kept popping out of his sunset-fringed mouth. He looked as old as Harry felt today, especially in that "dad-sweater". That was what Lilly called it. Ginny had taken both of the babies back to the burrow. They didn't like being called babies, of course, so nobody did it to their face. Except James.

James was the right name for the boy.

Ginny had let him pick the names. He still wasn't really sure why. To be honest, he wasn't really sure why she had wanted to marry him, after she got over all of that Boy-Who-Lived nonsense.

She had said that that was a problem, and she had sat him down and said he was brave, and selfless, and fair, and that she wanted a man like that to be the father of her kids.

But the thing was, all the times she said Harry was being brave, he was terrified, and he was never selfless, he just did what he thought Dumbledore or his parents or the Marauders would have done, and he certainly didn't think he was Unfair, but making sure the kids' dessert portions were divided correctly hardly seemed like it ought to be the central part of the conversation when it came to marriage.

When Harry brought the whole thing up with Ron, he just said "Hell if I know what Hermione sees in me mate. Bloody witches, go out with a twat like Krum just to show you they can, then they settle for some ginger-headed prick. Let me know if it ever makes sense to you, eh?"

When he asked Hermione, she immediately and rather insistently (Harry had an inkling that she may have been waiting for the topic to arise) suggested that he and Ginny try couples therapy. When Harry explained (sometimes they still had to do this for each other) that wizards didn't have such a thing (at least, St. Mungo's didn't, and Harry was hardly about to go and reveal his deepest places of hurt to Madame Pomfrey) Hermione pulled five separate business cards from her bottomless pouch (which looked very nice as a redwood brown leather suitcase) and explained that muggle therapists would do just fine, she and Ron were seeing someone, as was Rose for general anxiety, and that this wasn't something you could just wave your wand and fix, and you just had to be careful, if you slipped and mentioned something about magic, they would have to be obliviated, and if the obliviation went wrong, they wouldn't be able to do their job, and their job was very important, which is of course why Ginny and Harry ought to see one in the first place. Harry thought this all sounded very complicated, and if the idea was maybe more helpful than what Ron had to offer, the idea of paying someone what could easily run up to thirty galleons an hour just to listen to you seemed…

Harry had had a sum total of a brief but friendly snake and a disinterested cat lady to listen to him for the first eleven years of his life, and he had turned out… well, miserable, but that was why he had friends now.

Hermione was standing in the "respectfully, I'm in charge here" stance that she had rather grown into over the last two decades. She had achieved quite a lot in those years. Seven successful cases against particularly slimy death eaters. Six years of pursuing criminal justice under the restrictions the slimiest of the lot had put into place as he wrangled and salvaged political power. Ten years of battling, just emerging victorious last year, to become the first witch with no wizarding blood to sit on the Wizengamot. The only reason she wasn't the first muggle-born altogether was apparently a bastard descendant of Merlin's second wife who had polyjuiced his way onto the British wizarding council, the ancestor to the modern Wizengamot. The assembly had stoned him to death with mandrakes when they recognized his illegitimate bloodline. The mandraking was terrible, but the moving picture of the ancient wizard leaders with death in their eyes, and antique earmuffs over their greasy heads was enough to make the most hardline wizarding rights activist smile just a little bit.

Harry thought Hermione really ought to claim the honor, but of course Malfoy didn't want to give a mudblood an inch to celebrate, especially after they beat every odd to become his peer in the Wizengamot.

Especially this Mudblood.

Hermione was wrapping up the conversation, and looked to be giving the blonde witch in front of her marching orders. The top of Morgann Prewett's head barely reached Hermione's chin, but despite this, and Morgann having only been four years old when Hermione was destroying Horcruxes and facing down dark wizards, Harry had not seen another witch or wizard that Hermione respected in quite the same way. Morgann nodded once to Hermione's directions, and turned to stride through the brick wall with the golden numbers above. She caught Harry's eyes for a second. Bright green, like his. They really did stand out.

Hermione was walking over to where he sat. Harry realized he was bouncing his knee. He stopped. Hermione made you realize things like that.

"Ready Harry?" Hermione smiled. There was a little bit of tension in the corner of her mouth.

"Only for the last…" Ron wisely cut off his sentence at the warning narrowing of that mouth. He didn't have anything clever to replace it with.

Harry smiled slightly. Ginny had recently suggested at an opportune moment, that for Halloween, Ron and Hermione should dress up together as a teaspoon and sugar respectively. This comment had brought down The Burrow, both figuratively and a bit too literally, for in his throes of laughter, George had leaned a bit too far back in the old wooden table chair, and broken it clean in two. George had blamed it on Fred. Mrs. Weasley hadn't thought that was very funny. She hadn't thought it was funny the other two hundred times either.

Harry had learned that humor was George's way of dealing with loss.

"You know Harry, losing a twin is rather like losing an ear."

"Is it?"

"You never know you lobe someone till you have to let them go, Harry"

"…"

"Harry?"

"George?"

"You'll never guess Harry."

"Alright then, tell me."

"Today I was talking to McGonagall, she offered me a part timer in OWL's charms…"

"Really?"

"C'mon Harry, Flitwick didn't take down our swamp for the whole rest of the year, he loved us. Anyway, we hadn't really talked since I graduated…"

"Graduated?"

"Well, our NEWT's year was better than yours anyway Harry. If you'd stop interrupting, I could get to the good part. So I hadn't seen her since old Voldy blew up Hogwarts, and she said, "George, my dear, I have not yet had the chance to offer you my deepest consolations for your loss…"

Harry had groaned.

"And I said... I'm Fred, he's George. Honestly woman, you call yourself a headmistress?"

Needless to say, the interview had not gone well.

Harry had followed Ron and Hermione back through the brick wall to muggle London. Hermione was counting out pound notes from her briefcase.

"How much do you think the cab to Whitehall is, Harry? Oh, are you sure you don't just want to apparate? I know the Prophet will find out sooner or later, but it doesn't have to be today."

Harry shook his head "No, 'Mione. I won't have Lucius thinking I'm scared of him or his puppets. I'm going in the front door. Albus and James are both at school now, and Ginny can take care of Lily now that she's home..."

"Bloody hell Harry, you'll be back home in the evenings, this isn't war anymore."

Harry thought that the reprimanding look Hermione gave Ron was more out of habit than anything. Ron knew it too.

"Ron's right though, Harry…"

Ron gasped "You hear that mate? I'm right! Second time this month!"

"Excuse me Ron… Yes, three to Scotland Place please, and we're in a bit of a rush, sorry."

Harry ducked under the black roof after Hermione.

"Like I was saying Harry, Lily needs both her parents, and you know it. It's only been three weeks since Lily got the Snapchat dog… oh what do you call it… the, the… filter! It's only been three weeks since she got her face stuck that way, I told you it was a bad idea to mix magic and technology…"

Harry couldn't help a little smile

"Oh it's not funny, not to her anyway Harry, don't you remember what I was like when I was her age? Those whiskers were terrible…"

Ron gave Harry a little glance and put his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Honey, you've got a big job to do today, and you've slept like shite."

Hermione had opened her mouth to take a breath, and she looked a bit like a fish as she closed it slowly. Ron looked relieved when she closed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder. The rest of the ride was very quiet. Harry tried not to imagine the whispering hush that would fall over the bustling crowd as he stepped out of the old telephone booth and into the atrium of the ministry.

Watch out Lucius. Your least favorite Auror is back to work.

ooOOooOOoo

Rose thought the other first years were an awful lot.

Straight off the platform, she had run into Flannery Matthews, who was the only eleven-year-old Rose knew whose parents had let use beauty charms. Unfortunately, the girl was as perceptive as she was pretty, and since she always smiled with her mouth closed, Rose always imagined sharp and pointy teeth behind those bubbly lips.

Flannery had given her a rather plastic hug, then taken her hand and dragged her into a compartment chalk full of girls their age. Their names bounced over her like little chocolate toads. Avril, Tamar, Olli (Olivia), Ana, Kelsey, Junia, Komal, Deja…

She had needed to alphabetise them. Ana was anxious, Avril… had a nose like an anvil? That wasn't very nice. It really wasn't that bad of a nose. Oh, well, she was stuck with it. Who was next?

Rose had spent the first fifteen minutes really getting the names down, because she wasn't about to be embarrassed by forgetting in front of everyone.

But after this, she was quite bored by the conversation. They talked about where they were from, and the only one that wasn't a quiet little suburb (though Flannery opted to talk about her family's summer home in France) was Ana, who was boarding all the way from Venezuela. Apparently, there were some... problems... with Castelobruxo and Ilvermorny right now. Her family had needed to take what she called a Kori, a giant, aquatic anteater... They couldn't be truly tamed, only coaxed and encouraged by someone skilled enough… to travel past the anti-apparition wards on her country. Her younger brothers and sisters were living in Germany. Hogwarts was the only school that had responded to her application.

Flannery was clearly bothered by the lack of attention, and forcefully but skillfully changed the topic to… boys. Of course she would. The girls were enamoured with Teddy, of course, and one of them copped to a little bit of a crush on Professor Longbottom. Rose couldn't believe that the perpetually stumbling boy in mom's photos had really turned into the... man that came over for Christmas dinner.

So what if maybe she had a little crush on him too?

The English countryside was rolling by the window far too slowly for Rose. More than the welcoming feast, and her first grand view of the castle, and being sorted into Ravenclaw, she wanted to be in her Hogwarts dorm, with one of the many good books her mum had packed for her, surrounded by people that really really got her.

ooOOooOOoo

Harry barely had a chance to say goodbye to Hermione as they stepped into the atrium. Morgann Prewett, Anthony Goldstein, and a tall witch Harry didn't know whisked her away, holding up stacks of papers blurred by anti-snooping charms and murmuring importantly under their breaths.

"Always like that mate, don't worry about it." Ron was looking only marginally more respectable in his thick brown trench coat. Harry had half expected to be ambushed by The Daily Prophet, and to see banners of Lucius Malfoy hanging from the wood-paneled walls, the way Hermione talked, but in the pre-lunch hour, the atrium was quieter than normal, and looked mostly as Harry remembered. The bustle of London invaded the ministry through the ornate fireplaces lining the walls, the witches and wizards stalking by Harry and Ron seemed to have scowls of irritation plastered over their mouths, even in the thin crowd of late morning. They worked for the government after all, magic or not, and the wispy visuals suspended at every open location in the atrium, showing confiscated muggle footage of dragon attacks in Syria and dragon-pox outbreaks in Washington state, certainly did not improve moods. It had not changed either though, that every single employee, passing through the barrage of news and bustle of industry to Sparks for a cap or a focus charm, or on their way to the lifts and 8 to 12 hours of bureaucracy, paused for a moment, frozen in their step, at the base of the of the new centrepiece of the atrium. Hermione was sure the statue had been imbued with powerful compulsion charms, though she couldn't prove it, the thing was warded up tight as Malfoy's laundry room. The architect, Mr. Talborall Lingurdle, claimed that the only charm that a work of this magnitude needed was the charm the subject themself had possessed.

Harry's eye used always to be drawn first to the firework blue eyes sparkling out from behind half-moon spectacles, silver eyebrows raised indulgently, to let you in on a little secret. Dumbledore's glasses rested on his majestically knobbly nose in such a manner that they seemed to have simply grown out of the silver forest that covered his face, and indeed, much of his purple robe. His serene smile was partially covered by one of his gnarled fingers, stroking the beard in contemplation over a question that someone, most likely himself, had asked.

Drifting downwards, the serenity turned to violence. Coiled around Dumbledore' left leg was the body of a snake, frozen in a death heave. Dumbledore's right foot was crushing into the skull of the viper, his wand pointed downwards to increase the force of his step, or perhaps to finish the job with a wordless spell. The emerald green eyes of the snake were half-bright only, and the calm expression of Harry's former headmaster told you that the battle was won. All was well.

This had always been how Harry had seen the statue. However, seven years ago, Harry had been made to come in to work on a Friday night, unexpectedly needing to haul three children along with him to hand off to Hermione and Ron in the atrium. The maneuver had been a major turning point in his decision to become a stay-at-home father. While Harry was corralling a frenetic James and consoled a crying Lily, Albus had stood rooted to one spot, staring off into the distance. It had been a few minutes, and Harry was well into the process of thinking through how he might announce his retirement plans, when he had realized that Albus was shaking.

"Albus?" Harry remembered casting immobulus on James and kneeling down so he could see his son's expression. "Albus, are you alright?" There were tears and snot streaking his face. When Harry touched his shoulder, Albus had burst into a wail, and buried his face in Harry's robe. Harry had scooped the boy up and held him so he could wrap his arms around Harry's neck. The crowd and the noise must be terrifying him, Harry had thought. Albus was a shy boy, and very small, at the time. His sobs had subsided, but when Hermione arrived and Harry made to transfer the small human to her arms, Albus had refused to let go.

"Aunt 'Mione is going to take you to play with Rose now darling, alright? You're alright sweetheart, Daddy needs to go to work, Aunt 'Mione is going to take care of you."

Albus's arms had remained uncomfortably tight around Harry's neck.

"Sweetheart? What's wrong, Alby?"

Albus had pushed his head further into Harry's sweater. "Daddy?"

"Yes Sweetheart?"

The boy had lifted his ruddy face out of the robes, and pawed at his eyes. "Did the snake eat the tall man daddy?"

Harry did not remember how he had ended up consoling Albus, or how Hermione had managed to get the three children out of the atrium in one piece each. He only remembered that as Albus struggled to re-bury his head in Harry's chest, the statue that dominated the center of the atrium had in that moment seemed to take on a new and terrible life. Feeling like he was trapped in a childhood nightmare, Harry's eyes had connected with those of the snake, and in a sickening reversal of paradigm, the emerald slits were at once no longer fading into glaze of death, but alighting with devious intention, the muscles coiled around Dumbledore's leg were no longer going limp, they were tightening with new fury, and suddenly, Dumbledore's boot atop the head of the snake had seemed moronic and precarious, and his peaceful gaze simply looked like the gaze of an old man who had lost track of the conversation.

Albus had forgotten the whole thing by the next morning, but Harry had not.

"Harry!" Ron was gripping Harry's forearm "Stop making eyes at your teacher mate, we have company."

Harry met Ron's gaze and followed it ahead to the lifts, where two figures were striding forward with intent. The first, who had a slim build and a shock of blue hair performing over their wire frames, was casting a complex suspended spell Harry had become far too familiar with recent years. He let out a low groan as the vivid reflection of him drew closer, gathering more and more attention as the scattered crowd in the atrium recognized who the reporters were approaching, and as several of the "screens" suspended in the room also changed to show Harry's dejected form being approached.

"HARRY!" A dark-skinned witch wearing a chic black robe and dusty pink cloak broke ahead of the pack and offered a very distracted glance up to Dumbledore as she neared Harry "I'm Wizzread reporter Mela LaPierre reporting live from the ministry, and I have with me HARRY POTTER, you know him as the former Hogwarts student turned Auror who defeated the mass murderer Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort by his followers…" Harry had started to stride briskly towards the lifts, and the blue-haired spell caster had to swivel on their heel and jog to keep Harry's profile in view. "Harry, what's your business at the ministry today? Is this a show of support for Gamotwitch Granger's Auror restriction bill? Or are we going to have the pleasure of seeing you back in Auror robes shortly?" Mela didn't pause for Harry to answer, but rather turned to face her companion as the small groups of wizards and witches that had paused to watch the impromptu interview unfold to allow Harry and Ron access to one of the lifts. "Check back in to Wizzread Live shortly as we discover the reason for this rare appearance from 'The Boy who Lived'. Now, back to Yasmin Tyler, tell us your seven favorite bedroom spells, and we'll tell you what your patronus should be…" Harry let his breath out and rubbed an eye in relief as the lift descended, containing only himself and Ron.

"Bloody hell, you'd think the hacks would recognize me too, by now"

Harry chuckled.

In the absence of any passengers waiting for the lift on the higher levels, or perhaps at the discretion of whatever spells directed the lifts, Harry and Ron's ride was comfortably silent, and Harry let himself slip for a moment into the worry that was heaviest on his mind. Albus had always been sensitive, and even barring trolls in the dungeon and dark lords on your professor's scalp, Harry hadn't met a student yet who had really felt comfortable in their first year. Neville and Luna had particularly rough times, and while Albus was thankfully not cataclysmically clumsy or perilously difficult to understand, if Harry had to pick a childhood friend that his son reminded him of, it would be the one or the other. He had put a positive spin on the sorting for Albus's sake, but he couldn't help but worry that the hat might feel the need to simply make up a fifth house for someone like Albus.

He felt Ron's hand on his shoulder as the disembodied voice announced the second floor. "Hermione told me to tell you, like a bleedin' owl, but still, she isn't wrong, you have enough to worry about today without doing the worrying for Albus and Rose too… so… keep your eye on the snitch, yeah?" Ron gave him a lopsided grin, and Harry remembered, feeling a bit foolish, that this was Ron's first time sending off his child to Hogwarts. He had been caught up in his own worries… well, it wasn't a new habit, but it wasn't one he was fond of. Harry reciprocated the half-embrace.

"She's a smart one. And… well I figure if anyone doesn't need additional worrying, it's those two."

Ron and Harry disentangled a bit awkwardly as the door opened, realizing at more or less the same time that walking into the Auror headquarters attached at the shoulder to another wizard was not quite the look either was going for.

"Well, see you at home honey." Ron flashed his friend a stoic grin as he stepped into the marketplace of cubicles and floor-to-ceiling arrest warrants. The banter and gallows humor that floated into the elevator like a thick syrup brought Harry back instantly. Those dry chuckles were the sound of war.

"Harry!" Harry turned, and saw, to his right, a face that still brought him a surge of confidence.

"Kingsley, er, Shacklebolt, sir…" before Harry could embarrass himself further, Kingsley pulled him into a warm handshake.

"Good to see you back Harry." Kingsley pulled back and grinned widely. "About time too, my job was getting boring."

"I suppose I'm good for that if nothing else."

Kingsley chuckled and turned to lead Harry towards his office. "I think you'll find that you're good for being quite a bit more than a poster boy, now that I'm back in head of this department."

ooOOooOOoo

Hermione tried to focus on the flower petals folding and unfolding in her mind. They were Gryffindor red, like the ones Ron had cast her for their anniversary.

It was very him, wasn't it. It was a miracle he hadn't covered the bed in lion pelts and dressed up as the Fat Lady.

Still, they were very nice flowers, and it hadn't hurt that they been lying next to a sizzling hot full English, and at five o'clock, too.

Five o'clock, breakfast. Five twenty, fireplace meeting with Morgann. Five thirty, Rose was awake and hysterical, never mind that she had repacked twice and had four hours to spare, what if she forgot something.

She must be north of the border by now. Hermione's stomach turned. So far… Rose was so desperate to start, but she was so little still. Yes, Hermione had reserved a room in Hogsmeade so she could apparate there in a moment's notice, and yes, Neville and McGonagall and Flitwick had all promised separately to keep an eye on her.

But Scotland was very very far...

The clack of a gavel cut through Hermione's thoughts

"The Wizengamot is now called to order. I will preside over today's proceedings… We have a number of issues to discuss, the chair first recognizes Hermione Granger, muggle-born member of this council, to defend the proposed legislation limiting Aurors' use of the "obliviate" charm… Let's get this over with."

Hermione resisted the urge to shoot a death glare at the chair across the chamber. Let no man pull you so low as to hate him. Nonviolence is the greatest weapon at the disposal of mankind. She struggled not to trip down the steps on her hideous purple robe. Hermione hated this chamber. Legislative sessions simply occurred in the same rooms as criminal trials, and anyone trying to test the status quo was made to feel practically criminal. Of course, the Minister would read Malfoy's proposed legislation from the comfort of his fancy seat.

The obvious solution here was for Hermione to become minister.

The dark stone walls of the old courtroom seemed to be choking out the light of the torches slowly. A few low voices pittered across the benches until Hermione was standing still in the center of the chamber.

Someone less familiar with the members of the Wizengamot might have found the plum coated crowd staring down at them amusing, and be rather more concerned about whether their audience would stay awake through a five-minute speech than about how they would receive it. Hermione was very familiar with each member of the Wizengamot, and knew exactly who she was talking to. Eggwilde Prewett and Carter Fawley could be convinced. Esther Selwyn could most likely not, but she also couldn't hear very well, and apparently had a soft spot for women wearing the robes.

Hermione imagined a knife tip holding her chin level, and glanced for just a moment to where the three truly friendly faces were sat, clawing as much courage as she could out of the brief connection with the eyes of Arthur and Molly. Augusta Longbottom met her eyes keenly, but with a hint of respect.

Directly above Hermione, the faces were not so kind. Walden Macnair had none of the self-control that Hermione was currently exhibiting, and glared down as though trying to burn her eyes out sheer force of will. Hermione considered her inability to convict Macnair one of the great failures of her career. Ron had remarked once that the former executioner and death eater had "looked better in a hood", and, resting her gaze on the frown lines that seemed troweled into his cheeks, Hermione had to agree that age was doing the man no favors. And yet, as ugly as Macnair's jowl had become, the soul of the man sitting next to him was uglier yet. The smug regurgitation of pure-blood chauvinism that went by the name of Minister Dillwig had pretty enough salt-and-pepper curls, and would probably sit half a head above his cronies even without his special chair, but Hermione could swear… Yes, his nose definitely had an amber tinge to it today. Every day.

Dillwig leaned forward as the mutters in the bench quieted. "We will proceed in order of seniority." He glanced at his desk. "Selwyn."

What might be easily mistaken for a large turnip slowly rose up from the back row of seats, and began to speak in a voice barely steady enough to reach Hermione.

"Now, young lady, I must say dear, I'm very proud of you for making it here, and all the … boys were saying, I …"

A heavy-set wizard next to her reached out tapped her throat gently with his wand.

"Oh dear Regald, is this, is this really necessary? Oh, I'll need a thousand Werther's later…" her voice was just as shaky as it had been, but twice as loud. "Well, I'm very proud of you for being here, it's not easy for witches, you all should know, I had to steal Thompson's robes, four hours he was stuck in the loo…" Regald gently tugged at Selwyn's sleeve "Yes, yes, I deserve a little respect you know, not enough respect in this building, so dark and dreary. Anyway, Regald read me this, and I must say, it's absolute rubbish. How do you expect Aurors to protect the statute of secrecy if we take away their license to obliviate? I had a muggle lover once…" Regald had apparently ended the amplifying charm, and the rest of the sentence was lost. Almost immediately, a tall and heavy-bearded elder sitting just behind what Hermione affectionately referred to as "minion mile" stood up to speak, but Hermione cut in at a canter.

"Thank you for sharing your questions and your concerns Councilwoman Selwyn. I understand how difficult…" The wizard who had tried to speak had spat a particularly unkind word as he sat back down "...how difficult it is to accept major restrictions like this being put on some of Britain's bravest witches and wizards, especially when everything seems to be working well, but I want to remind everyone here of the figures you no doubt read in my report… Seven out of ten muggle obliviations erase more information than is necessary, compared to less than one out of ten obliviations performed by medical professionals in Saint Mungo's, and three out of ten muggle obliviations are performed poorly enough to cause the recipients severe distress. Damien Scamander's study linked botched obliviations to very high numbers of depression, accidental injury, and suicide of the muggles involved… The proposed law would not make it illegal to obliviate, it would merely mandate that obliviations are cast by Aurors or other ministry workers with the necessary training to perform the charm without harming the subject, and would restrict the memory charm to the necessary…"

"Someone should restrict these mudbloods!" The discontented wizard was back on his feet again. "Bloody dumb…" a roar erupted from the stands, and cut off further profanity, but Hermione couldn't make out exactly who was booing who. A wig slid from someone's head at the front bench, and fell at Hermione's feet as the entire room seemed to stand at once with a jabbing of fingers, a spittleing of wizened faces, and a magically amplified cacophony that truly no other deliberative body in the world could hope to match. Dillwig pounded his gavel uselessly, and Hermione grimaced at one of the flickering torches. Me too torchy, me too.

ooOOooOOoo

Albus really thought he might pee himself or puke. Hagrid's bear hug had been enough to make it halfway across the lake without panicking, but as the boats full of first years approached the castle, the pain in Albus's stomach became overwhelming. That was the tower that Dumbledore had fallen out of. Albus had imagined, many times, what it must be like to fall out of a tower like that. He didn't know how long the killing curse took to work though. If you died right away, you wouldn't fall at all, you would just feel the magic hit you, and you would be gone. You would go… wherever you went. But if you didn't die right away, you would feel your legs crumple like a baby's, and you would feel the air start to push by you, maybe for a moment, you would feel the acceleration like pressure, until you hit the ground. Then nobody would care which house you had been in.

Dazed minutes passed by like seconds. Albus couldn't remember how he had gotten into the great hall, he just knew that now, the noise was stampeding him. The Hat sang a song, He was supposed to remember it for mum, but he couldn't focus. He couldn't cry, he needed to be in Gryffindor, he couldn't cry, he couldn't breathe either, if he breathed, he would choke, then he would cry, but he kept breathing, and his vision was blurry. The song was like a clock ticking, every line it could be over, and then, suddenly it was, and Albus flinched like he had been slapped. Then the hat was on a girl's head, and she went to Gryffindor. No, that was Ravenclaw, the cheers were too loud to finish hearing the Hat. And the next boy went to Slytherin. Please, please not Slytherin.

Suddenly, a hand was on Albus's shoulder, and he spun around wildly. A witch who Albus immediately recognized through his tears as Headmistress McGonagall was peering back into his eyes intently, lips pursed. Albus felt his thoughts spinning around in place, like a Ferris wheel. Why is she here?

McGonagall looked at him for a moment longer, then turned, and cast a spell that sent papers and quills flying out of her pockets in several directions. McGonagall's hand found Albus's, and she briskly turned and walked out of the main doors, towing Albus with her. For a moment, he could feel eyes on him, but the Hat came to the rescue by loudly declaring that whoever it was sitting on would belong to "RAVENCLAW"

McGonagall took only a brief glance down at Albus as they walked through the entrance hall. "You're not in trouble dear, so don't go worrying about that, at least."

They walked down too many corridors and up too many stairs to keep track of, but the sense of being lost felt like relief to Albus. The quiet was a warm bath. He still couldn't think, but he could breath, at least. McGonagall kept holding his hand, though a bit more gently, till they stopped in front of a stone gargoyle. Time started to slow down again as he looked at the statue. That was… the same stone gargoyle dad made them guess the password to every time he got to it in a story. It was always a candy. That made Albus like Dumbledore, when he was little. McGonagall leaned forward and whispered into the gargoyle's ear. It sprang aside, and Albus let his professor lead him up the moving stone staircase and into the head's office.

The only sound in the vaulted room was the white noise of muffled snores from portraits hanging on the wall, mostly portraits of old bearded wizards. Albus didn't look at the wall. Directly ahead was a clean, sturdy desk with two piles of paper on it. A heavy wooden chair sat behind, and one in front. McGonagall strode briskly to the desk, and reached into one of its drawers. She then dragged the chair from behind the desk around to the front, and beckoned to Albus.

As he approached the chairs, McGonagall held out her hand. A lemon drop. Her lips remained pursed, but her eyes were soft as butter on warm toast.

A house elf popped in with a "Crack!", and Albus nearly choked on the candy. Then it left the same way, and a large tray was left on the table, tea, with a lush array of scones and sandwiches. Albus's stomach hurt too much to think about eating, but they were mesmerizing to look at.

"Now then, Mr. Potter," McGonagall's brogue was clipped, but softer than Albus had heard it. "Help yourself. I've sent for Madame Pomfrey, and I'll stay here myself until she comes, but if there is anything you would like to talk to me about, I can promise that I don't bite, and that I am very good at keeping secrets." with this said, McGonagall waved her wand, and the papers from one of the piles came to hover in front of her eyes one by one, departing to the second pile, or shredding themselves into dust and floating gently into a waste bin at the table-side.

The smell of the food was slowly working its magic, and the knot in Albus's belly began to unravel. Albus felt almost suspended in a dream state as he began to eat, and found that the Hogwarts house elf food rivaled Weasley cooking. The sandwiches melded together to become a pleasant cloud of tomato, garlic, salmon and cream that filled Albus's head. The scones were rich and deep, the motion of adding jam and cream made the moment real and sentirous.

In a minute, a fully formed question popped out of the mess in the boy's head.

"McG… er, Profess… Headmistress?"

The papers lowered, and McGonagall raised an eyebrow.

"Erm, will I… Will I be allowed… to er. I mean, I missed the sorting…"

McGonagall smiled fully. "Well Mr. Potter, which house would you like to be in?"

Albus stared at his teacher blankly.

McGonagall stared back for a moment, then went back to her papers.

It took Albus a moment to process. "I… Gryffindor? But… Doesn't... Doesn't the sorting hat…?"

McGonagall peered over the brim of her glasses "The Sorting Hat has three jobs, at least as far as I have been made aware. The first is to come up with silly songs, the second is to hide an old sword, and the third is to find the most suitable environment for my students to learn in. If it, or any other anthropomorphic object in this castle, for that matter, is creating anxiety for one of my students, rather than helping them, I would very much rather do its job myself."

Albus had spent his whole life in awe of his namesake, and McGonagall had at times seemed a paltry replacement. Right now, Albus was thinking that she could very well be the most powerful witch in the world.

"As for your house." McGonagall's eyes grew fierce for a moment. "Our paths in life are never chosen for us, Mr. Potter. We may have a thousand roads in front of us, or one, but we must always choose whether we walk down it." A thumping sound from down the stairs announced the gargoyle's movement. "I imagine Madam Pomfrey's choices will be raspberry and chocolate, and I'm afraid that neither is as promising as it sounds, but I would take the chocolate."

However, it was not Madam Pomfrey who burst into the arched chamber, but a very out of breath Neville Longbottom, a weathered hand clasping his brambly brown beard against his chest, which was heaving like a dinghy in a storm.

"Prof… Minerva." He forced a deep breath in and out to steady himself. "You need to see this, right now."

ooOOooOOoo

Hermione was in the mood to kill. Mostly, metaphorically. But if the right person showed up? If Dolohov walked into the building with a wand out, Hermione wouldn't wait for the Aurors.

Bloody. HELL.

One vote, one bloody vote. Years of research, months of planning, and it came down to one.

It was Selwyn, of course it was, she knew she could get Prewett and Fawley on the day. She would have had Selwyn too, if her bloody...

Bloody, bloody, bloody, She sounded like a 12 year old Ron.

If her bloody son hadn't showed up and practically taken the vote for her.

It was a perfect example of the glaring inadequacies inherent in the system of the Wizengamot. No term limits meant half the people in that room were witches and wizards that lived through both wars and still believed in blood purity. It didn't help that wizarding folk could live so unnaturally long. Esther Selwyn could exist in a family system so patriarchal that her son taking political power out of her hands was seen as normal, and nobody on the council would bat an eyelid. Even the Weasleys had looked surprised when she had objected. God, she would love to cast a good reducto.

"Nonviolence is a weapon of the strong."

Bugger off, Gandhi.

It was close though, really close. Close enough to try again. Of course she would try again, it was just so frustrating…

A small pack of flying letters whisked by Hermione at top speed, heading back down the hallway to the courtroom. Hermione watched most of them whirl around the corner while one tried unsuccessfully to dive directly through the floor. When she turned back toward the lift, a wizard in neon green robes had skidded to a stop in front of it, coming from the perpendicular hallway. He was thumbing the button furiously and muttering to himself. His handlebar mustache was desperately in need of a comb, it looked like he had been trying to rub it off, and his eyes were glued wide open. Hermione picked up her step and reached for her wand.

Two witches wearing maintenance robes jogged in from the other direction before Hermione reached the lift, and she heard the tension in the wizard's gravelly voice as he greeted them.

"Do you know what's going on?"

One of the witches shook her head tightly, and the other looked towards the button as if she felt she could jam it better.

Hermione had nearly made it to the gate, and was opening her mouth to ask a question she had not quite thought of yet, when a piece of paper smacked into her cheek. She unfolded it quickly.

Emergency: All non-essential ministry personnel please follow normal evacuation procedure. This is not a drill.

Hermione looked up. A young wizard wearing midnight black robes had joined the crowd, and four pairs of eyes were meeting hers expectantly.

"It just says." Hermione was surprised to find her voice shaky. "It just says there's an emergency." Rose.

At that moment, the gate opened, and the wizards and witches shoved into it with one motion. The maintenance witch made it to the "close" button first, and hit it, and then the level 8 button, once each, but with the force required to kill a small animal. The doors seemed to taunt the occupants of the lift as they closed.

There was a near total silence on the way up, broken only the tapping of a garish green shoe.

Before the voice had finished announcing the atrium, Hermione and the small group were tumbling out of the doors, into the massive hall. The moment they did, however, all thought of evacuation ceased. The wizards and witches spread throughout the room stood as still as the dark lord's heart, every eye stapled to the images hovering through the room. Some of those eyes were crying. Hermione saw one of the maintenance witches bury her face in the shoulder of the other. Most were simply motionless. A lone nervous laugh hung in the air for a painfully long moment.

Hermione smelled her family's detergent, and saw a flicker of ginger and pale in the corner of her vision. An arm wrapped around her, painfully tight.

The screens that had been flickering with magical advertisements and culture a few hours earlier were now all showing only a single view, clearly taken from a slow-moving broom. Below and ahead of the caster, the city of London was spread out in all its glory, the London Eye commanding this horizon, the Thames just out of sight below the commercial buildings that lined Charing Cross Road.

A massive column of smoke was piling above the cherished entryway to the capitol of wizarding London. The building that was once the Leaky Cauldron was rent in two, the empty space between the still crumbling walls a vicious smirk at the onlooking world. Large piles of rubble were scattered hundreds of feet away, the two buildings nearest to the old bar were partially collapsed as well. Below, muggles were tripping out of the buildings, some carrying a backpack, others carrying a stranger, their faraway faces were coated with dust or blood. Wizards too, in every flavor of outlandish dress, fled the scene, some apparating, others attempting to blend in with the muggle survivors. Behind the obliterated gossip-hub, cobblestone streets scorched from the blast powerful enough to break the century old wards hiding it, was Diagon Alley.

And the muggles could see it.