12th August

Today is the day. I wake at five o'clock. The meeting last night went on until three in the morning, so I bunked out [fell asleep] at my room in London, rather than risk Apparating home (never try it when you're exhausted. I did, and ended up about 300 miles off) so it was a sleepy start in the kitchen. Drowsily I kick Crookshanks who mews and hisses at my pale bestockinged feet.

"Shurrup [Shut up] Crookshanks," I mumble before shuffling off to work. Footsteps upstairs tell me that Harry is up too.

So this is my working morning, Reader. Six o'clock and I'm at my desk watching the zombie night shifters clear off. Auror work is either incredibly dangerous or incredibly dull. Nobody watching me brew the early morning tea or set up the heating spells (Magical Maintenance on strike, again.) would think that a week ago I had fought my way out of a dangerous and suspect house.

Now it's Joan's turn to be out on a mission, which is where she is today. With my diary secretly balanced under my desk I start dictating a report to a dog eared quill while writing this diary at the same time. Not easy. The in tray is in good shape, thank goodness. Savage, another Auror similar in ilk to Dawlish, never reads anything in his in tray. He simply moves it from in tray to out tray with a scribble in the margin; under consideration or (if it's a good day) under active consideration. There's a running gag with the Child Aurors: under consideration means he has lost the document, under active consideration means he's trying to find it! Although actually, he talks a lot of sense for someone who doesn't know what they are talking about.

Also Savage can never Summon anything. Joanie does it for him a lot of the time, mainly because she's nice or because otherwise nothing would ever get done. One time she tried to Summon a briefcase full of Sirius documents whilst trying to tie her shoelaces. Consequently she couldn't see what she was doing; her aim was about a foot too low. The thick, chunky red briefcase hurtled dangerously past Kingsley before colliding with Dawlish's head, contents spilling in the process. Thoughts of Dawlish reeling and stumbling, surrounded by a blizzard of white and cream paper butterflies is unforgettable, and humbling too, to his arrogant memory.

Before long, it's ten to eight and harry has come in to the shock of his life. The Marion he has seen and knows, is loud and argumentative, makes decisions in the Order and is at ease with her friends. She is generally calm and mild- maybe friendly, probably cheeky: in jumpsuits, cardigans, ballet pumps and neon make up. Her hair is lemon blonde streaked with black. Uneven in length too, falling out of a messy bun.

But the professional Marion is bureaucratically immaculate. Cold, composed, brusquely efficient. Trademark red robes, kitten heels (try to make me look older to visitors) "natural healthy-looking" and dyed ash blonde hair. (Three layers of hair dye.) It's in a chignon, not a hair out of place. She is a subordinate to her colleagues, dependant on their good will. Why give an opinion when it will only be ignored?

"Morning Weasley," I say carelessly, not bothering to look up. "Kingsley wants to speak with you. I'm also required-"

"To represent the Auror Office, I know," Arthur says back, feigning exasperation. I tidy my desk with a sweep of my wand and look up to see Harry staring at me like I'm some kind of mutation of the tooth fairy.

The memo flutters in the moment they leave. What on earth is Fudge playing at? Eight o'clock, down in old Courtroom Ten, no less! So pointless. There was no problem with Madam Bones' office. I leave a message with Sue; and head on down. I forwarded the memo to Arthur but I doubt he'll get it anyway. The system is slow and congested lately, again thanks to Magical Maintenance; it takes ten minutes for a memo just to go from one department to another. One memo took two and quarter hours! I thought magic was supposed to get results quicker.

I get more familiar as I get closer. I can almost hear the cat callings, the jeering, the taunts and the insults.

"Liar! Liar! Liar!"

"Cursed brats!"

"Kill 'em all!"

"Push 'em through the veil!"

"Justice for all, I say."

"Give them school? Nonsense, they don't deserve that!"

"What about William Mons? He died 'cause of them!"

"Lock the brats up!" "String 'em up!"

Unkind words from a world that doesn't care. For a six year old, I was hated and despised. The spoken and unspoken prejudices of mankind's judgement and folly. Hate me, more vehemently than some Death Eaters. Once again I must encounter the wizarding legal system, full of elitism and corruption, favouring those who fit the ideal and eschewing those who don't. Like me. This goes on, before and after me. A vicious circle of intolerance, benefitting some and bringing despair on others. You can't know it until you see it; and when you see it you can't bear to know.

I enter hell. A place where justice isn't blind; and isn't true.

It's the same people. Fudge and Umbridge, the terrible two and those like Madam Bones. Their good hearts don't let them see the harm of the others.

I take my seat at the side, eagle eyes watching me as always. I can't stand to look at Fudge, look squarely in the face of a fool who can't understand people who are different. I still haven't forgotten what he's done, or what he could do. I won't forget what he did to me and my sister. And what he didn't do to so many others who now walk free and favoured. For once forgiveness lets me down. Forgiveness like Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle and Rowle. Those too rich, too generous, too unwavering in bare-faced flattery to ever possibly do wrong. Only Barty Crouch Senior and Madam Bones ever had enough sense to do their jobs, though both were mistaken about this "beneficial" system.

Rowle lurks behind bars, an intangible threat. And he will haunt my dreams until the day I die.

Welcome, Harry Potter. Welcome to hell.

Later

"We haven't got time to listen to more tarradiddles, Dumbledore, I want this dealt with quickly-"

I can't stop rolling my eyes at that. Why bother with legal procedure if he will only cut it short?

How dare he ignore the Wizengamot Charter of Rights! How dare he ignore the greatest of human laws! A human is a human and has the right to be seen as a human! I bristle with indignation. It was bad enough earlier, with Fudge intercutting Harry whenever he saw a chance. The term is interrogation, not interruption though that seems to matter so little now. The laws are changed to the will of the Minister, to suit the times. A crime is a crime if the Minister decides that it is a crime. Right and wrong don't come into it. Harry has been let off charges before, but now the subject is brought up in an attempt to support the argument. The Daily Prophet says what the Minister wants it to say. Small mercy that most of the Wizengamot listen to their consciences. You are either rich or honest in the Ministry.

Harry is holding well under fire. At least their questions are in a language that he understands. He defends himself well, if ineloquently. I can tell he's getting frustrated with this. Time is better spent solving problems not going around in circles collecting more money along the way.

Now it's Mrs Figg's turn to face the lions. Anyone can get riled with Fudge getting under their skin, but Mrs Figg knows how to stand up for herself.

Before I really begin to despair with universe and slam head against the jury bench screaming to hurry up I'm dying of suspense over here; it's voting time.

"Those in favour of clearing the accused of all charges?"

Despite furious glares from Umbridge, I raise my hand nonchalantly, as though I hadn't known I would be voting to clear him since it all b****y happened. She can go eat flies, (or Doxy eggs- either suit me) because my vote counts as much as anybody else's. Fudge can't complain, I'm Scrimgeour's choice, and he's warming up to me a bit more now.

Everyone starts weeping out. I know he can't act any other way in public, but I do feel slightly stung as Albus glides past as though I'm just another person, another Child Auror.

Malfoy's been talking to Fudge. Again. They're going to his office, so I dawdle outside, ignored by passersby to eavesdrop on the conversation. Sadly, it's all humdrum stuff, no Imperiusing or anything I could manage an arrest for. Pity. I hate the Malfoys, the slimy worms. Fingers in every pie, money in every pocket. Dead fish go with the flow, so Lucius is a big rotten one. Always in the right, is Lucius.

Despite Malfoy's looming presence everywhere, there's a spring in my step today. We have the power to make things right.