"Woah!"
Eyes still clamped firmly shut, Harry threw his hands out from his body in the hopes of grabbing on to something to steady himself. His hands curled around something firm but it didn't prevent him from falling to the ground in agony. Clamping his fist in his mouth, Harry managed not to make a sound and lay on the ground to wait for the pain to stop, dropping his soiled jumper in the process. Slowly it began to subside and he was able to breathe normally again. He was only vaguely aware that the tingling feeling that had been proceeding his recent use of magic was absent.
"Okay," he murmured to himself, "I'm not in a hurry to try that again."
Fighting to remain conscious, Harry sat like that on the floor until his head stopped spinning. When he was confident he wasn't going to be sick, he pulled himself shakily to his feet and had his first proper look at where he had landed.
He was indeed in the Minister's office; his hands were resting on the back of a plush armchair adorned with red leather which was seated in front of a broad, mahogany desk. A large window sat behind the Minister's chair – one of the many fake windows inside the Ministry. The view was of a bright, sunny morning looking over London, and while Harry knew it was merely an image, he still smiled at the sight; he was home.
Suddenly a thought struck him that almost made him fall over again.
'What time is it?!'
Harry tore his gaze away from the fake London and scanned the room for a clock. He found one sitting on the wall above the door behind him.
6:53am
Sinking to the floor again, this time with relief, Harry let out a small laugh at his luck; a time difference of 8 hours exactly. He looked at his hands and was pleased to see that the bleeding had almost stopped. Leaning his head back against the chair, he allowed his eyes to move around the room again, slower this time. Noticing one of the walls covered in newspaper articles, he decided to investigate and pulled himself back to his feet.
Harry took a couple of shaky steps over to the wall which was covered from floor to ceiling in articles from the Daily Prophet. Every article that mentioned Death Eaters, Voldemort or Harry was taking up the space in the middle of the wall. Headlines such as 'HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED RETURNS', and 'HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE?' were fairly worn out with withered corners; Harry could picture the Minister, whether it be Fudge, Scrimgeour or now Kingsley, running their hands down the columns of black ink searching for clues.
In the middle of all of these was a brand new article that had clearly been pinned up only recently, evident by the crispness of the page and the subject to which it referred. 'THE DARK LORD DEFEATED' stood out boldly taking up more than half the front page. Harry leaned in closer, hoping to find news of what happened after his disappearance in the smaller print; however, when he got a closer look, all there was to read was a note directing readers to page two for the full article. Annoyed, Harry leaned back from the wall and was about to go and look around the rest of the office when his eyes fell on another headline, smaller than the first but on the same front page.
'THE BOY WHO FLED: WHERE IS POTTER?'
'Despite the resolution of a disaster plaguing us for years, a new mystery has surfaced after this morning's events at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: where is Harry Potter? Witnesses lay claim that once defeating You-Know-Who, Potter disapparated from the scene just as numerous Death Eaters sought vengeance and unleashed curses upon the waiting crowd. Potter's disappearance has raised eyebrows over his true loyalties, as –'
A sudden noise behind him interrupted Harry from the article, as he turned around to watch the office door swing inwards. Acting on instinct, Harry whipped the Elder Wand out of his pocket and held it aloft, ready to jinx anyone who had come snooping. When he heard a voice talking to themselves, Harry lowered his wand and allowed a smile to appear on his face.
"Six fifty-nine," rumbled the deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt from behind the door. "Don't see what more we can –" Kingsley had just appeared from around the door and spotted Harry, who was still standing next to the wall of newspapers. A frown appeared on his forehead for a fraction of a second before he finally realised who was standing in his office and a wide smile broke out on his face. Kingsley opened his mouth as though to speak, but then seemed to remember that his office door was still wide open; he shut it hastily and faced Harry once more.
"Harry!" he boomed, taking three long strides to grasp Harry's hand in a firm handshake. "You're damn good at cutting things fine, you know that?" he joked, the smile still plastered on his face.
Harry was pleased to see that Kingsley didn't appear to be harbouring any injuries from the previous day; other than a few cuts and bruises, he seemed perfectly unscathed, and his tall, broad frame still commanded respect in a reassuring sort of way. Harry couldn't help but feel better with him in the room.
"It's great to see you too, Kingsley," he said honestly. "What happ–" he began, but Kingsley interrupted.
"You look awful, Harry. Pale as anything. Sit." He gestured to the plush armchair that Harry had steadied himself with earlier, and moved around to the other side of the desk to take a seat in his own chair. Harry quickly sat in the chair and tried to ask his question again.
"Kingsley, I need to know –" but he broke off as Kingsley raised a silencing hand.
"I understand you want to know what happened, and I am about to tell you, but I need to hear what happened to you first. Where did you go?" Kingsley sat back in his chair and peered at Harry, not dissimilar to how Dumbledore used to gaze from his chair in the Headmaster's office.
Harry didn't speak; how could Kingsley expect him to tell his story first? Was it not more important for Harry to know what had happened after he disappeared? As though he heard Harry's thoughts, Kingsley sighed.
"Harry, I know you don't want to wait, but it is vital you tell me your sequence of events first. I swear to you that I will tell you everything once you have finished." He said this very slowly, insisting that Harry understand what he was saying.
Seeing no other option, Harry launched into his tale telling Kingsley everything that had happened from when he disapparated up to his arrival in the Ministry this morning. He was careful, though, not to mention that Doctor Cullen was a vampire; Harry didn't feel as though that was his information to share.
"– and so then I came straight here," he finished, his mouth dry from talking so long.
Kingsley, who had been leaning forward to listen, sat back in his chair and let out a long breath before saying, "Impossible. Nobody can apparate those sorts of distances. Even Dumbledore could only manage a few hundred miles." Harry had wondered the exact same thing when Doctor Cullen had explained where he was, but right now he wasn't overly interested in his unexplainable transatlantic excursion. Instead he was dying for Kingsley to fulfil his side of the bargain and explain what had happened at Hogwarts. Harry was just about to interrupt the newly appointed Minister when he started speaking.
"Sorry, I suppose that's not important to you right now. We can discuss that later." Suddenly Kingsley's whole demeanour changed; gone was the bright spark in his eye that Harry recognised. This Kingsley looked old and weary – a man fresh off the battlefield. "Harry," he began. "What I am about to tell you is not good news. We haven't got a lot of time before I need to get you out of here again, so I need you to not interrupt."
"Wait, what –?" Harry started, but at the look in Kingsley's eyes he shut his mouth again and nodded his understanding.
"Harry once you left, things got out of the Ministry's control. Those Death Eaters who threw curses your way went on a rampage. Their only interest was getting out of there, and with no amount of self-preservation. The way everyone was gathered in the centre of the hall made it almost impossible for any of the Order to get to them and so, Harry," Kingsley took a shaking breath and closed his eyes. When he reopened them, Harry could see the struggle he was facing to speak. "In the fight that followed, more lives were lost. I'm sorry, Harry."
Harry's insides went cold. This couldn't be happening. No, it was impossible. Voldemort was dead. All of this was supposed to stop. There must be some mistake. Harry stared into Kingsley's eyes, desperate to see anything that could suggest he was lying – that this was some sick joke and that everyone was actually hidden somewhere nearby to welcome him home. Instead he saw his own gut-wrenching grief reflected back at him and he knew it was the truth.
"Who?" he heard himself ask.
Kingsley picked up one of the pages from his desk and held it between his hands, hesitating. "This, Harry, is the official list of deaths that is to be published in the next edition of the Prophet," he explained cautiously, but didn't hand it over. Instead he let out another sigh and spoke, "I want you to read it, except – I think – some of it you need to hear rather than read."
Harry was only vaguely paying attention. How could this meeting be going so wrong? He was supposed to have come back a hero, prepared to start a normal life, and yet here he was being told of more people who had died for him – because of him. He didn't want to hear it. He screwed his eyes shut as though he could get away from the awful conversation.
"Harry." He ignored Kingsley's voice. 'No,' he thought. 'I'm not ready, I'm not ready. Please don't –' But Kingsley couldn't hear Harry's silent plea. "Harry, I need to know you're listening to me."
Going against his own wishes, Harry opened his eyes and looked at Kingsley, whose own eyes were clouded by grief and pity.
"I am so sorry. Ronald was one of the deceased."
Ron.
Harry could feel himself shaking his head but he couldn't remember telling himself to start. All he was aware of was the increasing tightness in his throat that threatened to cut off his air at any moment.
His best friend.
The dull thudding in his chest became an audible thumping in his skull and he felt as though the room was closing down on top of him. He dug his fingernails painfully into his palms, reopening the wounds that had just begun to close.
His first friend.
No longer seeing the room in front of him, the sight of Ron's terrified face was burned into Harry's mind – the last eye contact he had made. His best mate since that first trip on the Hogwarts Express, who made him laugh for seven years, who stuck with him to the very end. Ron just couldn't be gone.
"Harry, talk to me," Kingsley whispered, but Harry could barely hear him. He was thinking of all the things he hadn't said. All the things he never would be able to say. He thought about all the things they wouldn't be able to share: graduation, birthdays, weddings. All of it now part of an impossible future. Harry frowned as his eyes began to sting. Ron had only just worked things out with –
"Hermione." It came out as a whisper; the constricted feeling in his throat made his voice quaver. Harry tried to clear it by coughing, but all he managed to do was let out a muffled sob. "Hermione," he said again, louder.
Hearing no immediate response from Kingsley, Harry looked up in fear. Panic clutched his throbbing heart as he searched Kingsley's face for an answer. 'Please, not both of them.'
Kingsley hesitated before replying, "Hermione survived."
Harry let out a breath he hadn't even realised he had been holding. He closed his eyes in an attempt to stop the stinging that had started again. He had to find her; only together would they be able to get through Ron's – he couldn't even think the word.
Kingsley had continued speaking. "She's currently in St Mungo's. But Harry –" he cut off as Harry stood up from his chair.
"I have to go and see her," he said with more determination than he felt.
"Harry, you can't. Just listen –"
"SAYS WHO?!" Harry spat. "I need to see her and nothing you can say will stop me!" He had never felt angrier. His face heated and blood pounded in his eardrums as he glared down at Kingsley with nothing less than pure rage.
"Harry – please – be quiet!" Kingsley urged as he stood up and made to move around his desk. Harry pulled out his wand and pointed it at Kingsley's chest. The Minister stopped dead.
"I'll be quiet once I've seen Hermione, HAVE YOU GOT THAT?!" He was screaming now, not caring who could be listening outside. Rage had clouded his senses and so it was only when his wand went flying out of his outstretched hand that Harry noticed Kingsley had pulled out his own wand and disarmed him.
"Harry, stop this! I know you're upset, but you need to hear everything before you make any rash decisions," Kingsley pleaded. He pocketed his wand and moved to stand in front of Harry, who had sunk back down into his chair. Harry felt as though all the fight inside him had been taken with his wand and he could now feel the despair creeping back into his mind.
"Harry," Kingsley began in a sombre voice. "I know you want to see Hermione, but it's just far too risky. Hermione is in St Mungo's because she had her memory wiped. She doesn't remember who she is."
Now Kingsley was being insulting, Harry thought. How dare he suggest Hermione could lose her memory? 'It's impossible,' his mind kept repeating. 'That wouldn't happen.' He voiced his doubt.
"No. Kingsley, Hermione was the cleverest witch of her age. That's impossible that she could forget," he insisted, his heart lightening at his assuredness. But when he looked closer at Kingsley and saw the heartbreak on his face, doubt began to creep back.
"Why're you looking at me like that? Kingsley, you're wrong. Stop it. You've got it all wrong. Please, stop it…" Harry's voice was barely a whisper as he pleaded with the Minister. Why was he not admitting that he was wrong?
"Oh, Harry, how I wish I could do that. You have gone through far more tragedy than is fair, especially for someone so young. The world lost many great witches and wizards yesterday. Ronald and Hermione were two of the greatest." Harry could only stare as a single tear made its lonely way down the face of the Minister for Magic.
What would he be doing now if those Death Eaters hadn't escaped? 'I would be mourning,' he thought. 'But I would have Ron and Hermione by my side.' Harry brought his fist to his mouth to stifle the sob that threatened to escape.
Twenty-four hours ago he had lost his two best friends and he hadn't even known. He had been half way around the world lying incapacitated in a hospital bed with a vampire as his doctor. He had left the wizarding world in mourning as he dashed about saving Muggles from plummeting to their deaths. For twenty-four hours he had prayed for a way home. Now he realised there had never been a warm reunion waiting for him.
Harry let his eyes wander around the room, too scared to focus in one spot lest tears begin to flow. Without meaning to, they found their way to the piece of paper that was still lying on Kingsley's desk – the official list of the deceased. Barely conscious of what he was doing, Harry reached forward and picked it up. His heart hammered in his ears as he began to read.
Remus Lupin
Nymphadora Tonks
Fred Weasley
The first several names he had known would be there, but still each one came as a blow to his heart.
Ronald Weasley
Seeing his friend's name written in ink cemented the truth – Ron was gone and he wasn't coming back.
A small splash landed on the page.
Harry hadn't known about the next names on the list; these were the people who died after he left.
Seamus Finnigan
Lee Jordan
Luna Lovegood
Sybill Trelawney
On the list went, each name becoming harder to read as tears blurred Harry's vision. With each name came a memory: Seamus' ability to set almost anything alight, Lee's highly biased Quidditch commentary, Luna and the Quibbler supporting Harry when the Prophet turned against him. Even Trelawney, whom Harry had always labelled a fraud, had stepped up in the final battle and taken her part.
Harry was struggling to hold on to his composure as the page began to swim before him. As he reached the end of the list, he could only barely read the final name, and he was so startled at what it said he had to wipe his eyes with his sleeve to make sure he was mistaken. But there was no mistaking it. Eyes now clear, the final name stood out from the others as an error – an impossibility.
Harry Potter.
Had the page simply not been edited yet? Harry recalled the words of the patronus that had visited him in the hospital – 'I need you to apparate directly into my office before 7am. If you don't, we may have to assume the worst.' If he hadn't made it before seven o'clock, they would have assumed him dead. But he had made it in time. Why was his name still on the list?
"Kingsley, I'm not dead," he croaked, his voice weak from the tightness of his throat. He looked up at Kingsley expectantly, waiting for him to take the sheet and cross off the last name saying 'Yes of course, Harry, that was only there in case of the worst.' But he didn't take the sheet. Instead he returned to the chair behind his desk, taking his time to sit down and get comfortable before he spoke.
"I know. But you need to be."
Harry's stomach plummeted.
"But – I don't – what –"
"Harry, listen to me. I need you to understand and we haven't got much time." And just like that, Kingsley's demeanour changed once more; the powerful leader was back. "When you left it was chaos – Death Eaters and our allies fighting for dominance. Once they were finally recaptured and the most recent casualties counted for, people started to whisper about your disappearance. At first most people saw it for what it was: those Death Eaters avenging the death of their leader and you taking the only available exit. Others saw different. They saw it as abandonment – a diversion to allow the remaining Death Eaters to regain control."
"What?! How could they – even after I –"
"Especially since you had just defeated Voldemort. They figured it was a perfect ploy to instate yourself as leader," Kingsley explained, a hint of ice in his tone. "In the space of a few hours, you had returned to being public enemy number one."
"That's insane," Harry croaked. He couldn't believe what he was hearing; how was it possible that the same people who fought by his side could turn on him so quickly? Thinking back to the Daily Prophet article on the wall, Harry reckoned he could now figure out what the rest of it would say.
Harry's mind suddenly jumped back to the recaptured Death Eaters, and he asked, "What's going to happen to those that were captured?"
Eyeing Harry warily, Kingsley responded, "They've all been sentenced to receive the Dementor's kiss."
"What?!" Harry cried. "That's not enough! They deserve nothing less than to die!" He was standing up again, arms in the air. The injustice of it all was too much for Harry. These people had taken his two best friends from him; they deserved nothing less.
"Harry, please, be quiet!" Kingsley urged. "This is the decision that has been made by the Ministry," he declared in a tone of finality. Spotting the anger and hurt in Harry's eyes, Kingsley softened his expression and said, "Harry, I know that this is dreadful for you, but if anyone finds out that you're in here you'll be arrested."
"Because everyone thinks I'm a Death Eater," Harry spat.
"The rumours keep changing, but it's the latest one that we feel necessary to convince people is true."
"You mean that I'm dead," Harry clarified. After all the times he could have been killed he never suspected that he would have to fake his own death.
Kingsley eyed him imploringly. "I'm sorry, Harry, but it's the only way for you to have a normal life. If people know you're still alive you will be constantly targeted, never able to settle down in one place."
There was a very pregnant pause.
To be honest, that didn't sound all that different to how Harry had been living the past several months. But Harry didn't know if he would be able to do that for the rest of his life: constantly disapparating and apparating, always looking over his shoulder waiting for someone to creep up on him.
"So where do I go?"
At this question, Kingsley leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. "I suppose that is up to you. Though you should know…" he paused, as though unsure how to continue. "Arthur and Molly Weasley have offered to take you in."
Harry's heart seemed to clench in his chest; he had completely forgotten to think about how Mr and Mrs Weasley must be coping, having lost two of their sons. The Burrow could never be the same without Fred and Ron, and Harry wasn't sure how he could ever fill their places.
"Kingsley, I –" he began.
"Molly tells me that no matter what you will always be the son she never had. She wants you to be safe and happy, Harry," he offered kindly.
Harry was torn. His heart desperately wanted to say yes, yes of course he wanted to live with the Weasleys. They would be able to support each other, get through this horror together. His brain, though, was seeing the reality of the situation; if he stayed with the Weasleys, they wouldn't be able to stay at The Burrow, surely. He would be tracked back to them and that would put all of them in danger, something that Harry had sworn to never do again. He knew that they wouldn't care, that they would do anything if it meant that he, Harry, were safe. But the idea of the Weasleys leaving The Burrow and putting themselves in danger was too much for Harry to bear, and so there was only one decision he could make.
It was with a heavy heart that Harry said his next words.
"I can't." He looked up at Kingsley and saw that the Minister wasn't at all surprised by his response. He gave Harry a sad smile.
"I told Molly you might say that." Hearing this made Harry's heart hurt even more. He suddenly felt the need to explain himself.
"I just can't put any more people in danger, Kingsley. They need to still be able to live their own lives and they can't do that with me under their roof," he explained. Voicing his reasons was much more painful than thinking them, but he kept talking. "I just think I need to get away from the wizarding world for a while."
As soon as he said it, Harry realised it was true. He just couldn't face the idea of staying in this world without Ron and Hermione by his side. He had discovered magic with them by his side and they had all grown up in this world together. Even though the wizarding world was the only place he had ever felt at home, continuing on without his two best friends seemed an impossibility.
"I understand," Kingsley said in his deep, comforting voice as he sat back in his chair with a sigh. "Perhaps then you might like to return to America? Living among Muggles would allow you to remain hidden while keeping the name Harry Potter."
'So long as there's no vampires,' Harry thought.
"Ok," he said. "But first I have to see Hermione."
"Harry –" Kingsley began, but Harry held up his hand.
"There is nothing you can say to me that will change my mind," he asserted. He had made his decision. He didn't know how he was going to get in and out without being seen, but he had to try. His voice softened as he added, "I have to say goodbye."
Kingsley nodded, though reluctantly. "Then, I suppose, you may be in need of these." He opened one of the drawers in his desk and pulled out two objects. The first a small, beaded handbag, and the second a flowing, silvery cloak.
"Hermione's handbag? And my invisibility cloak? Where did you find these?" Harry asked, gobsmacked.
"They were both found at Hogwarts during the clean-up. Neville Longbottom gave them to me, thought I was most likely to get into contact with you," Kingsley explained.
"Where is Neville?" Harry had nearly forgotten about Neville, which considering the vital part he played in the final battle was quite unforgiving.
"No one is entirely sure. He returned home with his grandmother, but told her that he wanted to travel. We think he just needed time," Kingsley added softly. "Harry, using your cloak is the only way you'll be able to get in to St Mungo's without being detected. It is imperative that no one sees you, is that understood?"
Harry nodded, a new kind of determination filling him. He needed to do this.
From his drawer Kingsley pulled an old, empty ink bottle and sat it upon his desk.
"Portus."
The ink bottle began to rattle and glowed with a bright blue light for a few seconds before it faded and stilled once more.
"Harry, I don't know how you managed to apparate across the Atlantic twice in one day, but you look far too weak to manage it again. This portkey will take you back to the town of Forks at midnight tonight, meaning you have up until then to see Hermione. From there it is up to you where you wish to settle down." Kingsley handed the old bottle to Harry who pocketed it.
Both men stood up and looked at each other. Kingsley smiled, the gold hoop in his ear catching the light coming in the window.
"It has been an absolute pleasure to know you, Harry. I wish you all the best with your life, and want to thank you for helping to further each of ours. Minerva McGonagall extends her thanks and best wishes," Kingsley told him, the smile on his face increasing in size. "And so does Albus."
Harry stared. "What –?"
"I spoke with his portrait before leaving Hogwarts," Kingsley explained. "He is very proud of you, Harry. We all are."
Harry nodded his understanding and closed his eyes against the stinging that had just started again. He took a deep, shuddering breath before opening them again, and extended his hand out to Kingsley. The Minister for Magic reached forward to grasp it.
"Thank you, Kingsley. For everything."
"Good luck, Harry Potter."
Taking one last sweeping look of the office as he threw the invisibility cloak over himself, Harry took a deep breath and turned on the spot, vanishing into thin air.
