Shatterpoint

2

The Minister's chair had never been a bed of roses.

1725. That had been the cursed year, the date 10th July. The day the Warlocks' Council had convened for the last time, and had proceeded to vote unanimously for the new Minister to take office. There had been no revolution, no blood shed on the open streets. In darkness were all threats met, all who vocally opposed creating the post of Minister neutralized in quiet and terrifying silence. Minister Rowle had promptly gone on to abolish the special judiciary powers of the Council, bringing out the Wizengamot in its stead as the only source of legislative and political power in wizarding Britain.

It had been a massive change, the potential risk colossal and incalculable to the mundane eye. The Minister had not survived the aftermath.

William Potter had stepped into the newly vacated shoes, and if people had whispered of dark dealings and a life bargained away in the hope of power, they had quietened soon enough. History remembers the day Minister Potter had sworn his oath, the start of an era of peace and prosperity in wizarding England hardly matched anywhen else in its bloody and grim annals.

It had been 1734, July 31st.

William had been the first and only Potter who had held the mantle of the Minister of Magic of the British Isles before him. Sometimes Harry wished William had also been the last.

"There had been three abductions in the last week." Amelia said, her brown eyes regarding him with occluded neutrality.

"Three that you have confirmed." He corrected her, sitting up straighter on the ornate high-backed chair. "How many complaints?"

"Eight, but one girl has already been found trying to escape the country with her boyfriend." Amelia replied. "She's been detained and charged with civic disobedience."

"Sedition." He said.

"But Minister – " The tone was protesting, but the notes chimed bitter resignation. He didn't smile, had no reason to. He was the Minister.

"It's a time of trials for England, Amelia." He spoke with authority, cautiously building upon the normal voice with faint traces of power. "Some decisions, harsh as they may seem, have to be made." He reached out with his senses, isolating, encompassing the occluding shield the old witch had erected. It wasn't the time for brute force.

"Our country is going through a civil war," Amelia growled. "Of course we have trouble! But you, Minister, will do well to remember that aggravating the masses is never a good idea – "

"I only do what is necessary, Amelia. You, of all people, should understand my position." He said softly, holding back all traces of hostility that tried to bubble forth from within. Her hate he could see, yellow-white, flickering with ugly venom under her well-crafted calm. It pushed, against her and against him around her.

"What I understand," The Head of the Magical Law Enforcement spoke softly without the barest hint of outward emotion, "is that you are young for this position, Minister Potter. Forgive my rudeness. But wizards far more advanced in their years had not proven equal to the task you face now. The country is sliding towards the edge, and you must excuse us if some do not prescribe to the popular concept of your omnipotence."

"You feel that I'm not doing my job well?" He asked, listening to her heart. The skipped beats screamed of fear.

"You have been… harsh, of late. Unusually harsh. Your popularity has suffered because of it. You know this." She didn't look him in the eyes.

"I must make harsh decisions that nobody else will, Amelia. That is my job. I am the Minister of Magic of Britain, and in times of civil war my word is Law." He was firm, cold and mercilessly firm. "Charge the girl with sedition. It will discourage others to follow the same road. We must not lose our witches and wizards to other countries. They cannot be allowed to pass the borders without our permission. It'll turn into a mass exodus otherwise, and quickly."

"It will be as you say, Minister Potter." Said Amelia Bones. He listened for the unsaid words.

"I hope that your department will act upon the reported crimes with its usual zeal." He said, signaling the end of the conversation. He watched silently as the witch gathered her things, leaving the office in silence.

The formality of speech had been embarrassing when he had taken this job first, had been difficult. Yet now it was natural as charms, the nuances and subtle hints flowing with ease that would've worried him years before. Now it seemed… an advantage. The Change waited behind the mirror, mocking and cruel. Yet he suspected that he was surviving in this world of hints and hidden knives only because of it.

He was a dictator, they said. Let them say what they willed.

He was worse than that, much worse.

He had killed Lord Voldemort to take his place, they said.

He smiled at the thought. Maybe they really did know what they were talking about.

William Potter had been the only of his family who had held the mantle of the Minister of Magic of the British Isles before this. With his every breath Harry wished he had also been the last.

He waited in his office, patient. Minerva and Molly and Arthur were there, too. Molly was weeping, Arthur trying to console her and looking at him with eyes that held silent accusation. He looked at Minerva, all thin lips and narrowed eyes, the anger in her expression shockingly expressive for a witch trained at occluding.

Why was he waiting? For what, whom? He looked around, but Fawkes' perch was empty. He was waiting for him to come back, he realized. Something was happening… something important…

The world was pale, colourless. Less real than it should have been, his senses told him. Flat and stale, a vision through a cracked glass.

Gold and yellow fire burst into the room, the familiar trill soothing yet without their usual power. Fawkes alighted on his perch, looking at him with knowing eyes. His claws were smeared red, he observed. The red of blood.

Few things lived on this earth whose blood could survive the phoenix's fire. Few.

What was he waiting for?

Not what, something told him. Not what, but who…

The stairs alerted him, the wards pulsing faintly and telling him of wizards and charms. Three, he sensed, and a spell of levitation.

They entered.

He heard Molly's shriek, Arthur's gasp. Saw the body being lowered to the floor. Saw nothing for a time after that.

Prophecy, he told himself, remembering. Prophecy. James and Lily.

The boy didn't look at him, kept looking down as Molly and Arthur gathered around the girl lying on the floor. The other boy was mute, silent. In shock, he recognized. Minerva was crying, quietly.

He looked hard at the Chosen One. The bloody sword gleamed in the small hands, the Founder's name on it engraved with dormant power.

The boy looked up.

The eyes were red with tears, ablaze with guilt and grief. They veiled what lay deeper within.

Was this what he had been waiting for?

He tried to look away. Did not. Could not. It was his responsibility.

He saw trust, friendship, love. He saw them shattering, screaming as despair's fire set the soul ablaze.

Swords were forged thus. Diamonds.

He did not look away as blackness came and swirled around his vision. Light fell away from him, sound vanished into silence.

He did not forget the eyes.

The Saviour did not flinch as he woke from his stupor as the white owl landed in front of him. He did not have to concentrate to keep his hands steady as he retrieved the parchment tied to the bird's leg, beady owl eyes glaring at him all the while. He did not mind – it was refreshing, of a sort, to know malice as it is and not hidden behind broken notes in honeyed words or sharp silences that veiled dark intent.

He held off breaking open the seal till it was gone, flying through the open window as the dying sunlight shone pale on its white wings. Then he opened the scroll, smoothed it out, his movements practiced and speaking of preoccupied absence. His eyes sharpened as he started reading.

Sir,

According to your instructions, I have endeavoured for these past eleven months to find out the whereabouts of the objects you had mentioned. However, little has changed since my last letter and I remain largely unsuccessful in my efforts. No mention of such things has ever been made in the documents kept by the authorities here that deal with those events in particular. Nor have the people who remember those times been helpful to any great extent, perhaps understandably.

The "stories" you had mentioned are well-known here; indeed, the symbol itself is thought of to have originated from the legends. I have been, however, unable to find anything further, and can only conclude that the symbol had been only an indication of the sentiment of the party (and the individual) involved. Nothing suggests that it had ever represented anything significant in a material way. In short, I do not think that the individual had ever really hoped to find the legends but had merely used the fables to propagate his idea of the correct social hierarchy.

Barring your interest in researching this topic further, I would like to return and resume my duties.

Yours sincerely,

Harriet Jones

He slowly set the letter down, a frown marring his brows. He was lost in thought for a few moments, then shrugged and laid a finger on the scroll waiting on the desk. A small blue spark played over the aged parchment for a moment as his lips moved over a word or two, then it cracked and disintegrated into fine white ash. He blew it away with an impatient breath.

He help up his right hand, close to the eye. A whispered word, and something blurred the air for a moment, coalescing into a ring that now adorned his index finger. He narrowed his eyes at the simple stone, the symbol etched on it now half-faded.

It held no curse, he knew. He had seen to that. Knowing what state the old wizard was in by the time he had found him, the curse it had contained must have been terrible. He knew of only two people who could've managed that against Albus Dumbledore. Both were dead, one of them had killed the other before being destroyed by Harry himself.

Perhaps it was a memento of the Secret War, he supposed, another of those artifacts shaped by Grindelwald himself to help his allies of the Third Reich in the muggle World War Two. Had Dumbledore stumbled upon its location by chance and had gone to retrieve it, not trusting the Ministry with such information. That did fit the old man's methods… but something about this explanation wasn't right. He had learned to trust his instincts about these things a long time before.

He grimaced. And now even Hermione had turned up nothing. He had such hopes. She was the best researcher the Ministry had – their most brilliant analyzer. Yet she had found nothing about the symbol except the usual fables. The story told to children, about the Deathly Hallows.

He had such hopes. The Wand of Destiny would've been a nice weapon, but the Resurrection Stone… what mastery it must have been, were it true. To bring back the shades from the other side of the veil, to drag back who is gone from oblivion… what mastery of Death itself. If only it were true. Of course it had been a story – a fable to amuse children. And yet his instincts whispered that they were there, out in the world, there for him to find.

If only… he grimaced again. Then he carefully selected a blank parchment out of the bunch on his desk, taking up a quill. He wrote carefully, his face set and grim.

Madam,

You have been diligent in your duties. I am satisfied with your conclusions. We await your return.

There was no name, no address on the letter. He opened a drawer and hunted for a moment, coming up with a seal that looked just like the one that waited on his desk. He looked at it for a moment, then applied it to the scroll. A wave of his hands and the parchment vanished, to the outer desk and waiting for the owls to deliver it.

There was something he needed to do… what was it? Oh, yes… that girl. He took out a small silver badge out of his robes, an oval-shaped piece of smooth plain metal adorned with only a crown of leaves on the upside. The Minister's Badge of Office, first worn by his ancestor, a legacy that had become only another trinket that came with the job over the centuries, its secrets forgotten or ignored as more and more inept wizards found themselves on the Minister's seat. He closed his eyes for a moment, murmuring. "Invenio Nymphadora Tonks." He smiled for a moment at the name, sure that even he wouldn't get out of being cursed if she ever found out that he used her full name for the summonings. "Appello… Appello…" The metal grew warm in his hand. He placed in on the desk and busied himself with the mass of paperwork that awaited him.

He looked up as she entered his office, the oval face a familiar thing under green curls. He snorted.

"Take a seat, Tonks." He said.

"I'll rather stand, thanks," She was angry, he could see that. Her narrowed eyes were a dead giveaway.

"You heard about the girl, I presume." He said carefully, not pressing any particular emotion in his voice. She was one of the few people left whim he could take at face value, and they were al aware of that particular trick.

"Everyone heard." She dragged a chair and sat, her motions jerky and speaking of violence. He tensed, his muscles straining as instincts whispered to pre-empt the possible enemy. He had to struggle for a moment to relax. He wasn't in danger, he reminded himself. Probably. Hopefully. She was getting more and more angry in the silence, he noticed.

"Everyone's heard," She spoke finally. "Merlin, Harry, do you even know how old she is? Barely seventeen, if that – and now she's facing a ten-twenty year stint at Azkaban – and for what?" She was almost shouting now. "For wanting to get out of the country? I want to get out of the country, for Merlin's sake – "

"Don't be ridiculous, Tonks." He tried to speak calmly, and he had to say that he carried it off well. "We both know that letting her go is not an option. There're hundreds – thousands who would try to get out of Britain if they think have a chance. I'm sorry," And he was, he was, but maybe not really. "Mercy is not an option we can exercise right now. The threat of Azkaban is all that's keeping the society from a full collapse at the moment."

"Oh, I know all about your views," She said hotly. "So do Sirius and Remus – and they won't be happy with this, Harry. Count on that."

"Sirius and Remus," He snapped, "aren't the ones holding the badge of the Minister of Magic. I am. And I know that if we show her mercy, it'll be a hundred more like her tomorrow, and the next day – I'm sorry, Tonks, but she must go to trial charged with sedition. She broke a wartime Ministerial Edict. It's the law. And she is not a minor."

"So you think that this is going to help your popularity any? Skeeter will have a field day with this, ranting about freedom and Ministry oppression. And I," she said, "will agree with her. For once."

"I couldn't care less about the shit Skeeter writes, to be absolutely frank, Tonks." He shrugged. "Same goes for my so-called popularity… I can't even go out to the street without being mobbed by angry crowds these days. Everybody seems angry. As if Voldemort's cronies did anything better with the job."

"They didn't," She conceded. "But I didn't expect you to do something like this – "

"As I said," He interrupted, "I don't particularly care what happens to my popularity. We cannot be seen as weak to the masses. They think I can vanish mountains, your average wizard or witch. Even that barely keeps them from panic at the first whisper of another Death Eater attack."

"I don't know who taught you that being merciful is weak," She shook his head. "Merlin, Harry, she' only seventeen! What's the point in winning the war if we do things like these?"

"I know that it's harsher than it should be, under usual circumstances." He said. "However, officially, I can offer nothing." He coughed, once, clearing his throat. "The warder of Azkaban has resigned."

"Resigned?" She blinked, bewildered.

"Five hours ago, the poor man," He said. "Said that he's had too much of the cold and the dementors. I don't blame him. But the fact remains that I need a temporary replacement… for a couple of months, really. You're one of the senior-most Aurors I have that fit the criteria. So you're it."

"Oh…" Her face split into a broad grin. "But… you said five hours ago? Amelia saw you just an hour ago, didn't she?"

"It's fortunate that I had on hand such an able replacement," He shrugged, carefully not smirking. "You'll have to start your job tomorrow morning. I suggest you find a babysitter soon."

"Remus can take care of them," She said absentmindedly, still smiling. "Harry, did you get rid of the fucking Warden just to – "

"He's been wanting to leave for some time, actually," He cut in. "I just didn't think it was the proper time."

"And now it is?" She raised a grass-green brow.

"He really insisted." This time he smiled. "Go home, Tonks. You start at tomorrow dawn – and your first official business tomorrow would be the transportation of the accused after tomorrow's trial, if she is found guilty, of course. I suggest you send suitable Aurors of your choice for such a delicate task. Good luck." He nodded.

She nodded back, grinning still, then stood up to leave.

The question burst out as she turned the door handle. "Tonks… your hair…"

"What about it?" She touched the green curls, frowning.

"Why green?" He asked hesitantly.

"What?" She looked bewildered. "What green?"

Oh.

Damn. Damn. Damn. I need a Healer fast.

Should've known – she always keeps them violet, doesn't want to remind others of her talent – damn!

"You never get the jokes," He snorted, trying to laugh even though panic raced through his muscles, freezing this and this and that with its icy breath. "Go home. And say hi to Remus for me. Now shoo!" He waved her off, her face still puzzled as she left. He let out a shaky breath.

I wonder how much time I have before this becomes permanent… and I can't tell anybody, can I? Not even a Healer. And not Sirius… especially not Sirius.

Because I know.

I suspect.

I should've thought this out before doing it. The Dark Arts make you pay. Always.

If only you were here, Albus. Did you suspect?

Did you know?

I think you did. I think you did.

But I'm alive. And I killed him.

At least I did that.

You understood, didn't you, Albus? You understood. He was killing so many. So many. I had to find power where I could. However I could.

And if the price is murder and a piece of who you are – but I paid. I paid.

I'm still paying. I'm afraid I'll be paying as long as I live…

… as long as I live…

Immortality isn't all it's cracked up to be. Maybe you knew that. Flamel would've told you that.

Damn it, Albus. Damn you. You should've made me understand.

You should've stopped me.