Disclaimer in Chapter 1.
Chapter XIII: A Strange Sort of Normal
"Sir, I think we've found something!" A pale, petit brunette told Sirius excitedly. He grumbled as he once again left his paperwork-laden desk and followed her into the laboratory to view her findings. She was far too eager for her own good...
As soon as he crossed through the double doors, his head was assaulted with such a disgusting cacophony of smells that bile rose in his throat. She spun around to face him so abruptly that he collided with her, knocking her into a table strewn haphazardly with flasks of various shapes and sizes. An Erlenmeyer flask, which until then was filled with a dark red, viscous liquid, shattered on the marble floor of the laboratory. The contents, when spilled out like that, looked quite a bit like a large bloodstain. Sirius groaned as he muttered his apology. Yet another expense he'd have to waste time writing off, and he'd gone far too long without coffee to be entirely pleasant.
The brunette didn't appear to care about the broken flask, nor did she care about his rather morose demeanor. She immediately launched into a lecture about the potion he'd asked her to analyze. "It's quite odd, actually. The potion appears to have no effect other than to nullify the affects of magic and magical devices. That's not quite right, either... it's more like a liquid sponge. It seems to soak up magic! Say this potion was ingested by a muggle. It would have no effect, of course, except to taste rather odd. Now if the same potion was imbibed by a magical being, it would dramatically decrease the amount of magical energy available to that person. The potion is incredibly potent; it might only take four to six full doses to drain an average witch or wizard of 90 of their magical energy. Someone like you might take upwards of eight or even ten. How many did you say Mr. Potter drank?" Her dark eyes bored into his, curiosity practically oozing out onto the ground.
Actually, Miss, after leveling a square mile of forest around his training area, he was force-fed 9 of those damned things every day for an entire week, along with upwards of three hundred stunners a day to help drain him more quickly... Sirius performed a few quick calculations in his head. His eyes widened at the implication. That's not possible, not even for Harry.
Coughing to cover his brief silence, he said roughly, "So, what did you bring me down here for?
The brunette looked rather disappointed at that, but nodded sharply and said, "Yes, of course, Sir."
She reached over a set of matching bottles and grabbed a small crystal vial half-filled with a liquid so dark it seemed to suck in the ambient light around it. His eyes widened as she held it up for him to view. "We just extracted it this morning, Sir. Preliminary tests indicate that it is a type of dragon's blood, but we can't be certain until the results of our final tests come back from Severus at around four o'clock tomorrow morning. That's good news, Sir, because if it is then there are only five outfits on the continent that are capable of trafficking it. This might be the lead we've been waiting for!"
His black eyes sparked to life at this. The potion that his Godson had brought back with him had proven an enigma. It was composed almost entirely of common and mundane items, save for this single ingredient. Dragon blood was promising. It meant they could follow it back to the trader, and hopefully to the buyer after that. Tomorrow promised to be a busy day, and Sirius Black couldn't wait to get started.
"Allow me to summarize the events of the evening. The victim, Ms. Peverell, had a column that told the entire world about you. It is now known to the courts that it was for this reason that you were suspended from your job. I would dearly like to know what exactly your job entails, Mr. Potter, but that is a question for a later time.
"You were suspended, and it was completely due to the column that Ms. Peverell wrote in each edition of the Daily Prophet. Overcome with rage at the prospect of losing your job, you devised a plan that would take you away from Hogwarts on the night of January 29th and into the private residence of the victim." The brown-robed wizard strode about the courtroom, gesturing wildly with his hands as he continued his story.
"Once inside, you raped Ms. Peverell and tortured her with the Cruciatus curse, a crime which I'm quite sure you know earns lifetime imprisonment at Azkaban. Once you let out your aggression on the victim, you used a very crude memory charm to attempt to cover your tracks. Fortunately, or unfortunately, it was entirely ineffective. She awoke the next morning and remembered enough to know she had been obliviated. Which brings us up to the present. So tell me, Mr. Potter: Why did you do it?"
Harry answered immediately in his signature monotone. "I am innocent of these charges, councilor. I have never been to Ms. Peverell's private residence, nor acted in a manner that could be considered inappropriate in a court of law."
The brown-robed wizard looked to be expecting this answer, though not in as many words. "I see. If that is the case then I have to ask, where were you on the night of January 29th?"
"That information is classified. I cannot answer the question." The black-haired Gryffindor said, somewhat reluctantly.
"How convenient. Mr. Potter, need I remind you that this is a court of law. Thus you are required, by law, to answer the question. Where were you on the night of January 29th?" The supercilious wizard asked him again.
Harry licked his cracked lips and looked down at the iron shackles that chained him to the sturdy wooden chair in the center of the courtroom. They fit cleverly over his limit shackles. Merlin, but he hated those cursed bands...
The Boy who Lived didn't worry about the questions. He had been trained extensively in counter-interrogation techniques, in the event of his capture. An untrained man with greasy brown hair asking him questions was the least of his worries. He did not think the Wizengamot was allowed to torture him for information, but he would respond no better to violence than he was to this weak questioning. His mission was still confidential, and disseminating classified information was tantamount to treason, considering the amount that he knew. He was incredibly tired and weak, but he had felt worse. It was quite hard remembering a specific incident where this was true, but he stubbornly held onto that axiom. "As I said before, councilor, that is classified information. You do not have the requisite security clearance. I cannot answer the question."
"You do not have a choice!" The wizard said fiercely, his nostrils flaring. "Members of the Wizengamot, due to the defendant's complete disregard for due process and this courtroom, I request that Mr. Potter be given the maximum dosage of veritaserum!" The veins in his neck were bulging in a very angry manner. Harry assumed that this man had many external stressors in his life.
A vote was called, and the on-site potions administrator stepped forward with a small, clear vial of liquid. The Boy who Lived had not been expecting this. He looked to his Godfather for silent help. Sirius just grinned wolfishly and flashed Harry a thumbs up. Don't worry, the Auror in Charge of Executive Protection motioned in the gestural language they had learned quite early on so that they could communicate silently. Just relax.
Harry did not share his Godfather's carefree attitude. What if he divulged classified information? Still, he could not refuse to take the veritaserum. After three drops had been placed on his tongue, Harry swallowed dutifully and looked up at the potions master with an expectant expression.
"What is your name?" The administrator asked quietly, studying the Boy who Lived with a practiced eye.
"Harry James Potter." He intoned respectfully.
"Are you a Death Eater?" The question was meant to cause a specific reaction.
"No." Harry droned again, his eyes taking on a slightly glassy appearance.
With a piercing stare and a short nod, the potions administrator said, "He is fully under the effect of veritaserum, councilor." He re-corked the vial and returned to the corner of the room to observe the trial.
"Now..." the greasy-haired wizard continued with a thin smile of satisfaction on his face. "Where were you on the night of January 29th of this year?"
Harry stared vacantly out at a point several hundred feet away, unblinking as he intoned, "That is classified information, councilor. You do not have the requisite security clearance. I cannot answer the question."
The councilor's agitated scream echoed down the hallway.
In all his years of service, Sirius Black had never seen anything like the scene that lay before him: A murder at a well-warded storehouse filled with rare potions ingredients (most of which were highly illegal) and expensive items like solid gold cauldrons, and not a single bit of it missing. It was as if someone broke in, killed the man and left without even glancing around. If the killer HAD glanced around, surely they would have touched something. Anything.
Instead, the only evidence that someone had even committed a crime was the male corpse in the office at the southeast end of the building. His throat had been violently slashed, the blood pattern indicated that a hooked blade was used with an extremely forceful impact. The suspect was almost certainly male, as females tended to not have enough upper body strength to create a spray pattern that size. Of course, there was no murder weapon on scene. No magical signatures, no fingerprints, no evidence of any other crime. Not a single trace of the murderer.
Sirius rubbed his eyes tiredly. He'd been awake and on location for the last 20 hours, it was beginning to frustrate him. This was the lead he'd been waiting for, the one that would have led him to the bastard who managed to lock his godson up for a week. When his team finally arrived on scene, the corpse's blood hadn't even cooled yet. Whoever it was, they left just before they got there. If only they'd have moved in a few hours earlier, even a few minutes...
He shook his head to clear it of unnecessary clutter. There was no sense in playing that game; it didn't matter anymore when they had moved in. What mattered now was finding some hint, some seemingly insignificant clue that they could use. Sirius gritted his teeth and once again started his grid search of the back shelves. He wouldn't rest until they found that clue. Harry deserved no less.
Hermione poured the vile, smoking essence of rue down Ron's throat diligently, smirking slightly as his nose wrinkled unconsciously. She had been spoon feeding him for the last two days in between classes. It was nearing 10 o'clock at night; he was expected to wake up any hour now. More than anything, she needed him to know that she was there. That she had been watching over him. He was lucky that she paid attention in Potions class when Professor Snape went over various poisons and their effects. She hadn't hesitated for more than a heartbeat when her boyfriend's throat clenched shut, he might have died if it weren't for that bezoar in her backpack...
Repressing a shudder, she squeezed her boyfriend's limp hand reassuringly and picked up her book. She cleared her throat quietly and began to read aloud where she left off a few minutes prior, in the middle of an engaging chapter of Hogwarts: A History, on the previous Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts and their contributions to the school.
Ron always told her that he liked it when she read to him, and if it helped him to wake up a bit quicker then it was the least she could do. Besides, she loved this chapter.
"In you go, Potter." Kingsley Shacklebolt was weary. Not tired, as that word applied mainly to physical applications. No, he was weary. It was the kind of mental and emotional fatigue that seeped into your bones and made every step a labor. As he chained the unresponsive Savior of the Wizarding World to the wall of his holding cell yet again, he fought the urge to free his charge from his limit shackles. As much as he loved being an Auror, sometimes he really hated his job.
Harry was not guilty. That much was becoming increasingly obvious to the members of the Wizengamot and himself. He still muleheadedly refused to answer any questions about where he went that night, much to the displeasure of Councilor Doyle, but Sirius Black had testified under veritaserum that Harry was on a mission at that time, and the mission was nowhere near Ms. Peverell's home. It wasn't even in the same city. Harry's wand had not cast the cruciatus, which Ms. Peverell was still suffering the aftereffects of, nor had it cast a memory charm. He somehow threw off the effect of veritaserum, a feat previously thought to be impossible, but the Auror was beginning to wonder what, exactly, sounded too farfetched for the Boy who Lived.
Kingsley shut the door with a soft clang, locking it mechanically and tapping the iron bars with his wand to reset the wards. His gaze fell on Harry, who had resumed his sitting position in the corner. His usually vibrant green eyes were devoid of emotion and he stared blankly out into space, like he had been replaced with a very detailed stone carving.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry." He whispered through the bars, not expecting any reaction from the Boy who Lived. After a moment's pause, he turned to climb the stairs and was halted by a rough, scratchy voice.
"You are just doing your job, Kingsley. I understand." Harry's voice was completely apathetic and devoid of emotion.
Shacklebolt felt a spike of anger rising up inside of him. Don't say that, Harry. Don't tell me you understand. It would be so much easier to do my job if you hated me for it. Merlin knows I hate myself enough right now. Gritting his teeth at this irrational emotion surging through him, he nodded sharply and stormed out of the holding block.
"Are you still locked up down here, Potter?" A familiar, aristocratic voice filtered down the dank hallway into Harry's holding cell. He barely heard it due to his dull senses, even though he knew the hallway was only 30 feet long on that side.
Draco Malfoy walked casually into view; pale grey eyes reflected the light from dim sconces on the walls. "You look like you're enjoying your stay." he said. The sides of his nose crinkled as he sneered at his own joke.
Emerald green eyes locked onto the blonde Slytherin piercingly. "What are you doing here." He said quietly. This was an unexpected visit. He had not spoken to Malfoy since the incident on the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of term.
"I suppose you could say that I am ... gloating? It's been a while since I've felt this good. And I have you to thank for it, Harry." Draco grinned, his impeccable white teeth shining in the firelight.
The Boy who Lived looked deep into Malfoy's eyes, searching. What he saw there made his blood boil. "Don't." he said, his voice weaker than he remembered it being.
"Don't what?" Draco asked innocently, his grin widening.
Harry ground his teeth together. It was hard to get angry with his limit shackles on, as emotions were tied heavily to magic. He hadn't felt much of anything but apathy since he put them on. "Don't hurt them, or Death will be the last gift I give you." His green eyes, cold and hard as marble, stared blankly at the pale Slytherin. His voice sounded so nonchalant and detached, he might as well have been ordering from a menu at a particularly low-class restaurant.
The Malfoy heir blinked in surprise. As quiet as the voice was, it didn't sound like the Boy who Lived was bluffing. Merlin knew he'd killed his share of Death Eaters, and Voldemort on top of that...
Bollocks. Draco Malfoy had pulled one over on Harry Potter, the Savior of the Wizarding World. He had won, proving to himself that cunning always won out over brute strength, given the proper preparation. This trial would go on for at least another week, to ensure the Boy who Lived was given every opportunity to weasel his way out of prison time. That gave him an entire week to punish the mudblood and her two blood-traitor friends. He'd already poisoned one of them, poison that was already causing immense pain and that would reach lethal potency in less than 12 hours, and the other two would meet their own fates within the next four days, if all went as planned. So far, the plan had proven remarkably effective. He hadn't used a single contingency; it had all played out like clockwork.
Yes. The Boy who Lived had to be bluffing. At best, he wouldn't be released until it was too late, and nobody would ever be able to prove that he'd had anything to do with the deaths. "You're hardly in a position to stop me, Potter, not that I even know which 'them' you are referring to. They must be rather special to you; I'll keep that in mind." With another sneer, Draco spun on his heel and walked away.
As the blonde-haired Slytherin's footsteps echoed into silence, Harry fought the panic rising in his chest. His magic was aching to be released, but it wouldn't do any good. His loathed limiters were still wrapped tightly around his hands. All the same, he couldn't let Draco do this. Not to his friends. The enemy was mounting to attack, and he was being restrained by legal, physical and magical countermeasures.
Even through the dim haze induced by his limiters, he could feel his anger rapidly overcoming his sense of panic. He needed to get to Hogwarts, as fast as possible. Draco needed to be stopped, even if that meant breaking out of the Ministry of Magic. Orders were orders, but these were his friends. He knew what he had to do.
With a long inhale, Harry attempted to focus his magic. As expected, every ounce of magical energy that he tried to hold onto was expelled through his back as heat. Concentrating, he began venting magic out of his back as fast as possible.
The temperature of the magical energy projecting behind the Boy who Lived heated up, and subsequently began to melt the chains that fastened him to the wall. The refracted heat was nearly blistering, it burned the clothes off of his back in a flash.
Red hot chains melted off of the wall, half-freeing the prisoner. Now he needed to get these limit shackles off of his wrists. He didn't have the key, nor did his guards. It was on a steel chain that hung around his Godfather's neck. No time.
Turning towards the wall, Harry stretched his arms up and lay flat against the warm stones. Without a moment's pause, to keep from thinking about the pain he was about to inflict on himself, he bent his arms at the elbow and interposed his hands into the searing hot magical discharge. The resulting scream caused several shouts of alarm from his guards at the top of the stairs. Clenching his teeth and locking every muscle in his body, Harry forced himself to keep his hands inside the inferno. He could imagine his hands cooking as the skin bubbled, but his senses told him his hands were freezing. What a disconcerting sensation.
After ten seconds of this agony, the cell brightened in a rush of sound and color. The Boy who Lived felt adrenaline coursing through him for the first time in nearly three days. Bringing his hands down in front of his face, he stared apathetically at what was left of his hands. From his fingertips to halfway up his forearms the skin was completely burned away, leaving nothing but blackened muscle and sinew. That was going to hurt quite badly, once the shock wore off...
"What are you doing, Potter!" One of his guards, a relatively new one named Thompson, trained his wand on Harry cautiously, his eyes switching frantically between the melted chains on the wall and the disturbingly calm face of the Boy who Lived.
Harry turned towards the guard, a stern-faced man with tightly-cropped black hair, and said, "Escaping."
"Don't even try it!" The guard said, though he was more afraid than anything else. It wasn't every day that someone like Harry Potter told you he was going to break out of a Ministry holding cell. Merlin but he looked angry... It wasn't even supposed to be possible, the cell wards were far too strong!
"Where is the key." The Boy who Lived asked, trying to repress the feeling of weightlessness that seemed to accompany the recovery of his magical reserves.
The guard looked at his superior, then instantly cursed his mistake. Harry's predatory smile did nothing to appease his sense of guilt. "If you let me out, you can keep wards intact. You've got three seconds before I break them."
His superior was sweating profusely as he stammered, "M... Mr. Potter, you have to un-understand what you're asking... it's more than our jobs are worth!" Thompson wondered wildly if his boss was begging a prisoner not to escape.
"Three." The Boy who Lived brought his hand up ... Merlin's beard, what happened to his hands?! He made a downward swiping motion, and the bars shattered into dust. The magical backlash from the cell wards being broken launched both guards backwards, knocking them clear off of their feet. When the dust began to settle, Harry Potter was standing over them. His hands were blackened and patches of bone were visible, but he paid them no mind. "Don't look for me. I just have some business to take care of, and then I will return. You have my word."
His superior appeared to be sobbing incoherently and in no condition to speak, so Thompson said fearfully, "Why are you doing this?"
Emerald eyes met his, and he shuddered. "I've got to protect my friends, Thompson. Surely you can understand that. Call Sirius Black and tell him to get someone down here to set new wards, I'll rebuild my cell when I come back." And with that, Harry Potter ran down the hallway and up the stairs, disappearing into the light.
No sooner had Harry cleared the wards that surrounded the Ministry of Magic than he apparated to the edge of Hogsmeade. There was no need to attempt to tear through the immensely powerful Ministry wards unless absolutely necessary, and nobody else tried to stop him as he left. He almost felt sorry for the poor receptionist; she let out a bloodcurdling shriek as he ran past. This was no time for feeling sorry, though: he had to get to Hogwarts.
"Accio broomstick." He said, wincing as the pain from searing his hands finally began to catch up with him. As quickly as it began, he repressed the signals his nerves were sending him. Running full tilt towards the main entrance of Hogwarts, his broom intercepted him after about half a minute and he hopped onto it without delay, rocketing quickly and silently towards the Slytherin Common Room. Steering with his knees was something he'd had quite a bit of practice with; he could probably navigate the halls without incident...
"You should have seen his face when he realized that I did it. His mouth was hanging open and everything, the stupid git looked like he was about to cry!" Draco sneered, the thick laughter of his two goons echoed down the empty corridor. Crabbe and Goyle weren't good for much these days, but they always laughed when they were supposed to. If nothing else, he could count on them for that. Rather depressing, if the blonde-haired Slytherin thought about it, but he tried not to.
"What have you done to them." A voice, as cold as death, emanated from the far end of the corridor.
The youngest Malfoy nearly had a heart attack as he recognized the voice. That's not possible. He was definitely locked up tight in a Ministry holding cell when I left him...
All the same, Harry Potter was walking steadily towards them, his broomstick floating several feet behind him. He looked barefoot. Merlin's beard, what happened to his hands?! "What have you done to my friends." he spoke in a fervent, almost eager whisper. The killing intent was nearly tangible in the air.
Draco seemed rooted to the spot. His body felt three times heavier than he remembered, moving his legs would probably cause him to collapse. The Malfoy heir might have been hallucinating, but the corridor for ten feet around the Boy who Lived in both directions seemed to visibly darken with each step.
In a moment of supreme clarity, Draco Malfoy realized just how horribly wrong his plan had gone. He never should have visited Harry, never should have gloated. His greatest failing was that he needed to brag about his victories, but how could he have known this? In his wildest imagination, he never would have guessed that Harry Potter could be this frightening. It was akin to seeing the Grim Reaper, clad in midnight robes and carrying his unerring scythe.
Crabbe and Goyle were frozen in place on either side of him; he assumed that they were as scared of Potter as he was. Without a single word being spoken they both flew down the hallway as if struck by an invisible battering ram, skidding for several yards before finally laying still.
Draco felt his entire body go rigid, as if he was caught in a body-bind curse. Harry's hands hadn't moved, he didn't have a wand and he didn't say any words, it couldn't possibly be that! He struggled against the invisible bonds in futility. Panic ensnared his chest and snaked its way up to coil around his rapidly constricting throat. He felt incredible pressure on his neck, gasped as he tried to breathe normally. His heart rate doubled in the span of a few seconds. What was happening?!
Harry Potter had been through much in his young life, but he didn't think he'd ever understand why otherwise normal and average people fought so hard to make enemies. As he watched Draco flail helplessly, caught in his constrictor curse, he wondered: why did people do bad things, for seemingly no reason at all? Was it some inherent flaw in their character, or was it something related to their upbringing? What ostensibly random circumstances caused serial killers, rapists, child molesters, sociopaths? There was no benefit to be gained, that he could see. Therefore it made no logical sense why a boy as young and unskilled as Draco Malfoy would go to such lengths to ensure his own destruction.
A seed of doubt wormed its way into Harry's consciousness. Perhaps this was all an elegant ploy, and there were hidden observers watching? Or somehow he had given polyjuice to one of his friends and put them under the Imperius curse, hoping that he would kill them? The Malfoy heir had more cunning in him than Harry had originally suspected, perhaps this was all an even more elaborate stratagem designed to ruin him?
Just by squinting, he could tell that Draco was not under the influence of the Imperius Curse, and at the moment the Boy who Lived didn't care about observers. The entire Wizengamot could be watching, and it would not have bothered or distracted him. Harry Potter had been trained all his life to take care of problems. Draco Malfoy was a problem, a threat, and he was going to be taken care of in the only way the green-eyed Gryffindor knew how. Speaking of which, judging from the color of the pale Slytherin's face, the constrictor curse should have nearly asphyxiated him by now. Good.
The spinning heel kick crashed into the Slytherin's face with the force of a sledgehammer, propelling him sideways into the wall. He impacted next to a wall sconce, which he promptly appropriated as an improvised weapon. The blow seemed to have jarred him out of his choking paralysis and into a sort of fight-or-flight instinct. Flight was not an option; Harry was much faster than he was. Draco felt like a cornered animal. A hot, pungent liquid ran down his leg. He vaguely realized that it was his own urine. His breathing was shallow and erratic, he gulped a hoarse lungful of air desperately, willing himself not to pass out.
Suddenly, the WALL jumped out and rammed into him at incredible speed, sending him hurtling towards the ground. The impact left his vision swimming and the bitter, coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. Draco had bitten his tongue in the harsh impact. What the bloody hell was happening?! He scrambled away, regaining his footing and gripping the wall sconce like a drowning man clutching his lifeline. "Stay back, Potter!" he yelped in a panicked voice, waving the flaming metal rod madly.
"Show me!" Harry shouted as his emerald eyes blazed with fury, penetrating and then forcefully ripping out Draco's memories. There was a good reason why mind rips were usually collected when the subject was already unconscious.
With an excruciating stab of pain, Draco saw all his plans flashing through his defenseless mind. The triumphant discovery of that exceptionally painful poison he'd already fed to the mudblood lover, Weasley. The binary poison he'd planned to dispatch the mudblood with, the parchment he'd treated and the inkwell filled with the catalyst. The hidden room inside of his trunk where he'd planned to entertain the Weasley girl. The alibi he'd crafted to avoid suspicion. The 4th-year Slytherin student who he'd chosen to take the fall should anyone get close to uncovering the truth.
All of it, all at once, flashed before his eyes. The agony was incredible, nearly as dire as the Cruciatus. A scream echoed down the hall, was that his voice? He didn't remember it being that high-pitched... it had to be somebody else...
The edges of his vision blurred, and then darkness claimed him.
Thompson ran a shaking hand through his short, black hair. He was still standing amid the dust and debris of the broken holding cell, being questioned yet again on how Harry Potter had managed to stage the Ministry of Magic's first recorded breakout. It hadn't even been an hour, and already he was beginning to wonder if the questions would ever end. He hadn't had it for long, but he was going to miss this job.
"Sir, it's him!" a plain-looking man with dark brown hair whispered fiercely to Kingsley Shacklebolt, causing his head to whip around quickly.
"Where." Kingsley asked, all business again as he drew his wand and walked towards the doorway.
A lone figure stood at the top of the steps. "Right here." Harry Potter answered the Auror, moving down the stairway quietly with his hands at his sides.
Shacklebolt didn't even bother raising his wand. If Harry had wanted him dead or unconscious, he'd have been made so by now. "Where were you, Potter?" He asked warily.
"I had to protect my friends. I brought someone back with me; please deposit him in a cell adjacent to mine. Here is the evidence I have against him." The Boy who Lived levitated a vial that contained several silvery strands easily recognizable as memories.
Kingsley didn't bother questioning Harry; he'd already proven that his word was his bond. Grudgingly accepting the proffered vial, the tall black Auror pointed at the ruined remains of his holding cell and said, "And just how do you expect to fix this mess, Mr. Potter?"
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the hair on his arms began to stand on end. Harry was gathering an immense amount of magical energy, and Shacklebolt had no idea what it was going to be used for. A surge of panic fluttered through his chest as took an instinctive step backwards.
A soft shockwave of concussed air hit the Aurors milling about the hallway, causing several shouts of alarm from those that were not watching the proceedings. Instantly, the holding cell returned to its previous state of unbroken dankness. Kingsley watched in awe as the Boy who Lived recreated the wards over the holding cell, overlapping them intricately, one after another. It was like watching a master carpenter plying his trade. Thompson gulped and whispered, "Bloody hell..." Nobody made a move to intercept or even distract Harry, seemingly content to watch on in fascination.
When Harry finally released his magic, he nodded and said, "That should be sufficient. You should get the wizard who creates your wards to tie the holding cell wards to the primary Ministry anchors. They will be significantly harder to break in the future."
As the Boy who Lived walked into the open holding cell and hooked his bare foot around an iron bar to close the gate, Kingsley found himself thankful (and not for the first time) that Harry Potter was on their side. An inexplicable swell of pride swelled in him as the iron grate clanged shut with a dissonant note of finality. Without another word, the green-eyed soldier took his seat in the corner to await the verdict of his trial in the morning.
A week later, everything was back to a strange sort of normal.
Ginny, who had nearly been turned away at the door after Harry's escape and return, was finally admitted by a smirking Kingsley Shacklebolt, who allowed her to stay and visit with the green-eyed boy for nearly two hours before finally kicking her out. It meant he didn't get to sleep until 2 am, but some sacrifices were well worth making, especially considering the sacrifices his prisoner had made for him.
In light of the new evidence admitted that morning, namely Draco Malfoy's testimony under veritaserum, Harry was released immediately with several long-winded apologies. Draco Malfoy was sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban for rape, conspiracy to conceal a crime and the use of an unforgivable curse.
Ron had shaken off the last effects of Draco's poison, and was now wondering why he knew the 21st Headmaster's favorite candy.
There were whispers everywhere Harry went, mostly about him from what he could discern. It was nothing new; he'd been acclimating to the whispers ever since Ms. Peverell began her column. As he climbed the stairs to the Gryffindor Common Room after Quidditch practice one night, he found that it really didn't matter anymore what people whispered. He was back at Hogwarts with his friends, where he belonged.