CHAPTER 43: The King's Gambit (Part 1)

Potions Classroom

December 21st, 1995

5:30 a.m.

A blinding light hit his eyes before his back exploded in pain as he crashed face-first into the dirt without even a chance to react to his blow. A loud bark started him instantly, ejecting his body from the ground as he looked for the threat before his eyes settled on a chubby, black bulldog. Small for his size, its bark almost made Harry think there was another dog nearby as the animal howled at the tree that had torn at his back mere moments ago.

And up that tree hid a black-haired young boy, no older than seven. The tree branches he was clutching onto shook violently, but not as much as the boy himself. Losing himself at the sight, Harry drew closer to the tree, not taking his eyes off the terrified kid. How small he looked, he could never imagine himself looking so tiny, so… fragile.

"Get down here, boy!" The guttural growl would have startled him, if he hadn't expected it. He didn't have to turn to see her, the mass of fat, booze, and forty years of shitty decisions that was scurrying towards the boy with wide strokes, like an obese penguin struggling to walk through the snow.

The silence was filled with the dog's relentless barking.

"Thug! Vandal! I'll have you smacked for abusing my dog!"

"I-It was an accident!" The boy's pathetic sobs made Harry cringe. "I swear it. I didn't mean-"

"Liar!" Marge Dursley cut him off harshly, looking dreadfully close to climbing up the tree herself just to yank the boy down.

A hand to his throat shoved him backwards, the surrounding scene dissipating into darkness before he got assaulted with thousands of voices screaming directly into his ear. He closed his eyes, forcing all the voices out as he focused on the force assaulting his mind, obtaining all the information he had sworn never to reveal to anyone.

Over the past couple weeks, the lessons had gone past his Hogwarts years and into his time with the Dursleys, causing memories that he had begun to consider meaningless compared to everything else he had lived through to begin creeping back into his mind - assaulting him in his nights along with everything else he had lived through. Like a black, thick liquid slowly taking over every inch of his consciousness, forcing things he had long forgotten - long forced himself to forget - back into his life.

While he was in the middle of an exam. While Umbridge berated them over not finding out anything about the prank played on the Slytherins. While Theo, Pansy, or any of the other wankers tried to talk to him about Warrington, or Bedivere, or any other fucker he now had to be on guard about.

And through all of this, there had been no progress. Not once had he managed to impede Snape into his mind, or even stop him and force him out once he'd gained access. His mind had proven itself useless, his strength and force of will too weak to stop Snape as he relished on all his suffering, taunting him about it during their early morning sessions. Even during class, discretely humiliating without anyone noticing the meaning behind his cold words.

He'd grown to hate Snape from the moment the man even looked at him, but he'd never thought his hate could go this far - this raw and consuming, where the mere thought of the man made him feel naked without his wand in his hand.

With one final potent shove, the force around his neck released him as his feet lost balance, and he was sent toppling backwards. Landing on his arse and hitting the back of the head, the immediate dizziness that overtook him was much more preferable than what would happen if he hadn't managed to somewhat catch himself during the fall.

Standing up, Harry gained awareness of his surroundings. He was in a small living room, the light shining from the windows, even as a cosy fire was burning in the ingle. The wooden walls, adorned with portraits and book-filled shelves, contrasted against the crimson couches with golden blankets draped upon them. In the centre of the room sat two twin cradles - one golden yellow and the other mahogany - a baby in each.

For a mere second, Harry didn't recognise the host of most of his nightmares after third-year.

How different it looked, bright and orderly, scarce of any horror, savagery, and corpses. The destroyed cottage he had grown accustomed to visiting every evening was near unrecognizable in its original state. Its intended state.

But that thought didn't stick inside his head for long, as a flash of red-hair overtook his vision. His eyes landed on the woman, and Harry nearly gasped as her face lacked any bruises and cuts. Her clothes - muggle and soft - undamaged and perfect. Her eyes, so much like his - only vivid with life, while his had run cold. There was no sign of all the trauma she would be forced to undergo, of the nearly unrecognizable corpse she became after days and nights of torture.

She went to her husband, a small, almost sad smile on her face, before she gently kissed him and sat on the arm of the couch. James Potter, too, looked unrecognizable from the image he had of him. A spitting image of himself, without all the scars, gashes, and dry blood coating it. Lupin had once told him he was the spitting image of his father, and he could see why now. He was jovial, he could almost feel his elation from merely looking at him. Expressions and sounds that felt so foreign from someone looking so much like himself.

And yet, he could see a part of himself in them - even now. The weary and nearly haunted quality he could see behind his mother's eyes as she turned and addressed the other two people in the room. The way his father kept his hand always so close to his holster as he scratched his wife's back with the other hand.

How wry it was, the only familiarity he sensed from his parents were the veiled scars of war.

"They're gorgeous," the voice finally brought his attention to the other couple.

The man was tall, standing proud with broad shoulders, a sharp jawline and a short, somewhat military, hairstyle. He looked older, perhaps a couple of years senior to his parents - his face serious, solemn even. His wife stood in front of him, a round face and long blond hair running slightly past her shoulders as she gazed adoringly at the babies, though he could see a hint of melancholy.

"They are, aren't they?" His mother responded.

Suddenly, the floor dropped out from under him, and he fell into a bottomless abyss.

"NO!" Harry screamed, willing himself in a futile attempt to return to that memory. But it was for naught, and for once, Harry didn't attempt to fight against Snape. He wanted to stay in his mind. Wanted to visit those lost memories, those good memories. Ones he hadn't even known still existed within him. Across two months, there hadn't been a single solitary memory that had brought him anything other than horror, despair, sadness, or loneliness. No memory that even made him feel, just… neutral.

And the one time he witnessed a good memory, one that brought him a sliver of hope, it was ripped from him.

Harry crashed into the cold, hard ground, the pain from the fall almost negligent in his current state. But he wasn't back at the cottage, with just a look he knew not to expect his parents or anything other than misery from this memory. He recognised the room immediately, lit only by the moonlight that entered through the window, he was surrounded with portraits of the Dursleys. On a closer look, he realised he didn't quite remember these photos.

The Dursleys were too young, Dudley barely looking older than a toddler in most of them. Looking around the room, he felt unsure of when he was. It was the dead of night, he couldn't remember a single time in all his years with the Dursleys when he was out of his cupboard after hours. The lack of any human presence quickly put him on edge, but not as much as the sudden sounds he heard.

Barely concealed rattling coming from the kitchen. Cupboards being opened, he could almost see the cereal that loudly landed on a ceramic plate. Slowly, he inched towards the kitchen, trying to peer in into the memory he had landed on before all the lights of the living room and kitchen burst into brightness, causing Harry to scatter backwards, fleeing from the large form of Vernon Dursley as he made it down the stairs and headed straight for the kitchen.

A sudden, deranged snarl snapped him out of his frozen trance as he shot upwards.

"Stealing our food!" Vernon cried out as Harry tentatively moved towards the kitchen, completely lost in an unknown memory. "How dare you!"

"I was hungry!" A small voice whined.

"You were grounded," Vernon thundered, and as Harry crossed the living room and peered into the kitchen, he saw Aunt Petunia standing near the bottom of the staircase, wearing the same contemptuous expression she always used whenever he was in her vicinity.

"I was hungry. So hungry. Please, Uncle Vernon-"

"You were grounded," Vernon repeated furiously, darting inside the kitchen a moment before he heard a squeamish yelp. As he turned, Harry finally saw himself. He was skin, nearly skeletal, and so very small. Four… maybe five years old. His hair shorter than he ever remembered it being and a tear falling down his face as Vernon dragged him out the kitchen by the ear. "And until I say otherwise, you are not allowed to leave your room and steal my food-"

Vernon suddenly stopped, and Harry could've heard his heart crash against the floor as he saw it, too.

"W-Where is it?" Vernon stuttered, but whether it was from overwhelming fear or anger Harry couldn't tell.

"I-"

"WHERE IS THE DOOR, BOY!"

"I don't know," young Harry cried. "I was just looking at it and suddenly, it was gone. Like magic. I swear I-"

Harry flinched away and closed his eyes, hating the way the crack still echoed in his head as squeakish sobs immediately spilled out of the boy's mouth. He didn't look back, couldn't look, as if his body had taken command of his mind and prevented him from staring at the scene. He kept waiting for it, the following blow, for the series of cracks and screams that would surely fill the room.

But they never came.

He was still hesitant as he opened his eyes and turned towards them. Uncle Vernon's open palm was in the air, shaking, as he held the young Harry with his hand clutching at his shirt as he pinned him to the wall.

But he didn't hit him again, instead, Vernon roared before pulling the young boy from the wall and shoving him inside his room - the poor kid crashing on the floor knees-first.

Vernon spluttered, a ramble of incoherent sounds leaving him before he grabbed a nearby shelf filled with framed pictures of Dudley, Petunia, and Vernon and dragged it towards the entrance of the cupboard. The glass from the frames shattered on the ground as most of the pictures fell to the floor, creating a rattle that sent a shiver behind his neck.

Vernon glared at young Harry, but couldn't bring himself to say anything before leaving, grabbing the hand of a suddenly pale Petunia and gently helping her up the stairs. And he didn't need to, the message was clear, and Harry could tell his younger version understood it as for the first time since he began delving into his memories before Hogwarts, he saw a glimpse of the boy who stared back at him every time he looked in a mirror.

The scene around him was consumed by a dark, thick liquid-like substance, leaving him standing in a dark abyss - empty of any images or noises other than his own breathing. And as fast as his surroundings disappeared, they appeared once more, only he was back where he had been only moments ago.

Inside the Potions Classroom with Snape right in front of him. The man was staring at him oddly, leaving an unnerving silence that immediately forced his guard up and for a moment, almost made him ignore the fact he wasn't on his knees nursing the fall.

"What?" Harry almost snarled. "No snide remarks? All you've seen from me, and you're left silenced by a mere slap?"

"You stopped trying," Snape stated monotonously, as if the issue brought no concern to him. "Have you forgotten what it is that will happen to your diminutive, pathetic mind if you do not take these lessons seriously."

"You never quite let me forget, do you?"

"Then perhaps you think yourself immune to any Legilimency attack. You think you have built a sufficiently strong protection against me. Then perhaps we should test it, truly test your no doubt impressive capabilities against an unfiltered attack."

Snape raised his wand at him, but before he could do anything more, Harry took a step forward and warned coldly.

"No?" He raised his eyebrow sardonically. "Then please, do me the honour of illustrating me as to why you've decided to avoid even attempting at protecting your own mind. Or is it that you have finally realised the service the Dark Lord would bring upon the world by shattering your paltry excuse of a mind and leaving you as nothing more than a vacant husk - only slightly better than a dementor's victim."

Harry glared at Snape with barely contained rage. "We're done for the day." He moved towards the door, but he was intercepted by Snape before he could make much progress.

"Your lesson is finished… when I say it is. It is your choice if you'd rather strengthen your mind or let me ruin it permanently; however, you are not leaving this room until I have said my piece."

"Then please," he spat. "Speak your mind, Professor."

Snape sneered, but didn't acknowledge the comment. "This is our final session of the term; however, I will be visiting your place of residency three times a week to continue these lessons."

Harry didn't give any response to the comment, there would be no dissuading Snape of this.

"I do hope you start taking these more seriously," the professor continued. "While rare, a highly unique case of a fifteen-year-old suffering an extreme, life-changing stroke wouldn't be impossible for muggle doctors to believe. Your relatives would be delighted from that outcome, I assure you."

"Anything else?"

"I couldn't help but notice a couple of gaps in your memory - your recent memories. Anything you wish to tell me."

Fuck. Over the past couple of weeks, Harry had idly wondered how Snape's Occlumency sessions would interact with Bedivere's memory lock. And while the Bedivere's ritual had proven strong, it wasn't perfect.

"Too much Firewhisky," he answered with a bitter smile. "You know our type. Lazy and arrogant. Aimless, idiotic drunkard that I am, I simply couldn't quite help myself."

Snape kept a fixed glare on his eyes, but Harry was not one to break eye contact.

"Is that all?"

"You best learn to mind your manners, Potter." Snape spoke carefully, opening a small gap for him to move towards the door. "The day will come when you'll need them."

Entrance Gates

10:25 a.m.

The cold air of late-December clashed gently against his skin as he walked his way to the gates. It was snowing, something incredibly common during this time of year and particularly irritating this morning. There was a reason why students mostly travelled by carriage towards Hogsmeade, the path was extensive and at the start of winter - it meant a battle through the snow-covered road.

It was a beautiful sight. The castle's sharp towers white as an ivory gull, with a gentle breeze and a steady flow of snow - staring back was as close as staring at Christmas itself. It hadn't been hard staying these past Christmases inside the castle, when most were gone, and he was left to roam free, unburdened by their presence. A cosy home from the winter cold, a place of peace and quiet - one of the few lies life had let him live with.

He had never left the castle during Christmas, not once had he returned to the Dursleys out of choice. Nor had he been invited to mansions or cottages to spend the holidays with his peers. But in the face of it all, the concept of leaving the castle and settling at Parkinson Palace was not at all daunting. The walls would run cold and the peace he so enjoyed would be taken from him, but he wasn't looking for peace anymore.

Pansy would be suitable company, an independent girl herself, he would not be bothered by her. While he enjoyed his time with his friends, this past month more than ever, he knew he'd still have his own privacy in the old halls of the Parkinson family. Bedivere was rarely at home, from, according to Pansy's insight, from her time with him in the summer. Days and nights spent inside the Department of Mysteries. The notion, brought him satisfaction rather than curiosity. Aside from a meeting here or there, he doubted he'd have much contact with the man. And with his emancipation around the corner, the use of magic - one without supervision for the first time in over a month - was nothing but stimulating.

His concerns lied elsewhere, as he did not know what to expect of the rest of Bedivere's allies. He had spoken of them offhandedly, merely mentioning them rather than fully introducing them to him. He knew of Carrow, his teacher, ever since Umbridge had terminated half of Dumbledore's chosen instructors. However, besides a few meetings after class with her seeking insight into his activities and her coy remarks, he didn't know what to expect of her. As for the rest, he didn't even know of their names. He'd eventually meet the lot, and he had a feeling he would grow to hate them all.

Theo had informed him that he hadn't even asked his father about the matter, claiming to already know the answer. While Kieran took a callous joy in informing him he'd be there every day to enforce his lessons. And suddenly, a trip back to the Dursleys didn't seem so awful, at least they had grown frightened of him over the years.

This winter break - one much longer than expected - would not be wasted in tedious studying for his duelling sessions nor focused on his practical sessions in the Room of Requirement. While he would miss the room itself, along with its simulations, he had no time to waste. Bedivere had promised him blood and the identity of the man who had set Dolohov loose on him, and he had no plans in aiding with his plan to fight the Dark Lord until his promises were met.

It had been awfully stupid of him, entering into that vow - Theo had warned him, and he had known it himself. While not binding him to any single person, it bound him to a cause. To Voldemort's death. An outcome he certainly favoured, but one he was now intrinsically a part of, fulfilling. Still, a part of himself, the rash and brave side the hat had warned him about years before, knew there was no other way. He was simply not someone to stand back and hand Britain to the Dark Lord.

His parents weren't, and he wasn't either.

But he'd force Bedivere to meet his debt first, for he would not rest until the man who hired Dolohov was on his knees - throat gashed out as the mouth that sentenced Susan to death would be useless for anything other than spitting out blood. It wasn't a long session of torture or a gruesome revenge that he sought - his mistake at taking out his anger on Dolohov rather than killing the man had been bad enough. He'd be more than satisfied with merely killing the man.

Even if a quick death was far better than he deserved, he'd rather a confirmed kill than an acrimonious opponent with a chance to retaliate.

Abruptly, Harry stopped in his tracks as he spotted a lone figure waiting on the other side of the gates. Wand in hand and face uncovered, the man was too far away to recognise. With distinguished red and gray robes, the man was either an Auror or a man pretending to be one. He had informed no one of his departure, besides Pansy and Theo, who were aware of Bedivere's scheme - no one should have known. And yet, there the man stood, proud and unflinching as he gazed back at him.

Hovering his hand slightly above his holster, Harry took a deep breath and continued his trail. He very much doubted Bedivere would have sent a man without warning, the old man was prolific in his need to control every possible outcome, whether it was through giving out orders or extensive planning. Bedivere Parkinson rarely left things to fate.

The gates opened as the man's face became clearer. He was tall and brawny, with long brown hair that reached his shoulders and a well trimmed beard. His cold gray eyes gazed at him, and Harry recognised them immediately by the clear disapproval that shone through them.

"Head Auror Scrimgeour," he bowed his head lightly, a courtesy Kieran had forced upon him during their etiquette lessons.

"In duelling, there is no more important talent to master than the ability to remain calm in the face of adversity," the Parkinson boy had told him. "And unfortunately for you, outright assaulting an enemy - especially if they happen to be a Lord of the Wizengamot - without any justifiable cause will lead to nothing but ruin and defeat. Civilized people - which you are not - fight their battles through dialogue, deceit, and manoeuvring that, while not always ethical, is either lawful or concealed. In these more subtle battles, it's just as important to keep your wits about you and refrain from giving into anger. Courtesies and general propriety, while seeming useless, are a means to help achieve this end. It's only once you've learnt to respect your enemy that you will be able to defeat them."

A pretentious notion, in Harry's mind, but one Kieran had had to beat into him before he finally adopted began adopting it - mostly to rid himself of his tedious comments than anything.

"Mister Potter," Scrimgeour greeted back with his own bow. "I was beginning to grow weary."

"I wasn't expecting company to my trip to the Ministry." He told the man as the two fell into a steady walk, not bothering to remove the hand hovering near his holster.

"After your incident last month, Amelia thought it wise to have someone escort you."

"Any rookie Auror would have done, their presence has kept us safe this past month. Surely, there was no need for you to escort me personally." He said, coating Kieran's polite words with a bite the Parkinson boy would have surely found egregious.

"You've grown to be a person of interest over the past weeks, Mister Potter. After being involved in two gruesome attacks in the past weeks, you can't blame an old man for not risking any other incidents.

Harry should've hummed, should've answered with anything other than the asphyxiating silence that settled between them. But he couldn't bring himself to, he could only play the polite perfect boy for so long. Eventually, those intrusive thoughts, the insults just itching to leave his mouth, would force their escape. And while he wouldn't have cared of that in the past, he had seemed to gain nothing but enemies ever since he drove a knife through Montague's face. And if Rufus' expression was saying anything, it was screaming its dislike of him.

Perhaps Kieran and Bedivere were right in attempting to change him, in teaching him the game the Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot played. A small courtesy here, a respectful tone there - in theory it didn't sound too hard. But in practice, he felt like a cornered lion. In the face of an endless war against people who would look down on him or a quiet life where he was forced to swallow his thoughts and feelings - he could not say for sure which would be hell ad which heaven.

What he did know is that he'd garnered plenty of people who wished to see him dead, and it would be wise to not increase that number before he could kill the other bastards that would see him below ground.

"I must admit," Scrimgeour cut through the silence. "I find myself surprised at your summoning to this Wizengamot meeting."

"I can't see why," Harry's voice held a hint of acerbity. "I'm a person of interest, you said so yourself. I can think of many different reasons why the Lords and Ladies of Britain will wish to question me."

"Any one in particular?"

"Perhaps some fat Lord somewhere didn't bother with reading the Auror report and wished to ask me about the events at the Three Broomsticks." The words left his mouth before he could judge them.

"Perhaps," Scrimgeour considered, seemingly unfazed by his irreverence. If Scrimgeour already expected a sharp tongue from him - was there really a need to hold back? Wouldn't it only make it much more questionable if he suddenly began acting differently? Then again, the bastard might just chalk it up to grief. Most of the Ministry morons Umbridge had appointed had constantly highlighted how such impactful deaths at such a young age would change them as individuals - never failing to remark on how the previous teachings were at fault for such heinous violence. "Then again, a summons to the Wizengamot is rarely for matters the Lords would find… trivial."

"And you consider this trivial?"

"No," the man said coldly, turning to look at him with a wintry gaze. "But it's not my judgment that earnt you a summons to the Wizengamot."

The Three Broomsticks stood proudly in the heart of Hogsmeade. The building was neither pristine nor decrepit, it looked far from new, but long gone were the scars left by Dolohov's rampage. The establishment still held a sense of nostalgia to it, and there were no attempts at either convincing people this was something brand new nor ignoring the tragedy left in the wake of the deaths.

He'd avoided this place completely ever since it re-opened, and as Harry neared the door, he was reminded of why. It was the dark, marble slab to the left side of the door. As tall and wide as Hogwarts' absent gamekeeper, there were five names engraved into it - the white of the letters contrasting deeply against the black stone. He recognised them all. The owner of the pub that was made an example of as her throat was slit. The three students who were killed in the crossfire, the casualties of his vengeance. And Susan.

He looked away, couldn't bear the sight of it for long. An eternal memorial to his failure.

He tried not to think as the door opened and the two of them stepped inside. Tried to ignore the battered walls and corpses scattered all over the ground. The stains of blood and the rotting flesh adorning the tables and chairs. They were looking at him - staring. Not just the dead, but the people inside the establishment as well. The villagers and students, some frightened by his presence, while others gave him solemn nods and looked away.

"This way, Mister Potter." Scrimgeour instructed firmly, lightly shoving him towards the fireplace. For a moment, he stared dumbly at the lintel, his eyes searching for something while his mind turned taciturn.

"Oi!" A squeakish voice called out. Harry turned and saw a young man, no more than five or six years older than him. He was long and lanky, with a mess of curly brown hair that almost neared his shoulders and dull brown eyes. His face was covered with zits, adorned by a badly kept beard - untidy and full of holes, there almost seemed to be more hair on his left side than his right. His robes, black and ivory green, stained with much and dirt all over. "It's five knuts to use the floo."

"Five-" Harry stuttered incredulously as the man stepped in between him and the fireplace. "This is a public floo."

"Not anymore it ain't." The man sneered, puffing out his chest as he laid his arm over the mantle. "New management, new rules."

Harry ground his teeth, wishing Scrimgeour wasn't right beside him. Wishing, he could reach for his wand and jam it into the man's neck until he was weeping for mercy. Wishing he could do anything other than glare helplessly.

"Wait a second," the man abruptly pushed himself off the wall and neared him with a questioning look. "You're that Potter boy, aren't ya? Where are my manners? Charging five knuts to the saviour of the Battle of the Three Broomsticks, how shameful of me."

Harry tore his gaze away, nearly cringing at the honorary.

"Ten knuts."

"What!?"

"You heard me," the man spat. "Ten knuts, or you can try your luck at apparating wherever you're going."

"You can't do that!" Instinctively, he turned to Scrimgeour. "He can't do that!"

"It's his floo," Scrimgeour shrugged. "There are no laws prohibiting from him charging whatever he wants to whoever he wants."

"Precisely." The man gave a toothy smile. "Your efforts in apprehending the leader of the attacks and bringing justice to the village of Hogsmeade is much appreciated, Head Auror Scrimgeour. Consider this trip on the house."

"Thank you," Scrimgeour gave a curt bow.

"Fine," Harry spat when the man turned to him. Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed a batch of coins, careless of their size or colour, and thrust them on the open palm before him. "Keep the change, will you? Get yourself some new robes, ones more becoming of… new management."

The man's eyes flickered between him and Scrimgeour for a second before he smiled nastily. "Be careful on your trip, lad, try not to kill too many kiddies."

His mind clouded as his heart saw red, but before he could retaliate the man had stridden away with Scrimgeour following him. He forced his hand into his pocket and attempted to appease his wrath to no avail. When Scrimgeour returned and cast the floo into the fireplace, a large green flame appeared, and Harry didn't think twice before he stepped through.

The Wizarding World had proved to be slightly lacklustre to what Harry had been expecting in his youth.

Hogwarts had been grandiose and striking, the first time he saw it, he had been impressed with its mere existence. Completely out of place with the world as he'd experienced it before, there was no doubt in his mind the castle had stood for thousands of years - hosting so much of the youth that built the nation. A part of him almost felt as if he was entering a bubble outside of time, outside of space. A place where the outside world didn't matter, wouldn't even be able to reach him. And while that childish notion had been forcefully discarded before the end of his first term, the castle still held that imposing and bold vision of what he'd thought a world of magic would look like.

Unfortunately, nothing else lived up to his expectations. Diagon Alley had been interesting at first, it felt fun and wacky and everything else his life hadn't been up to that point. But after his first year at Hogwarts, his return to this once wonderful place was cold and cynical. He felt out of place and slightly on edge, for he knew the cheerful image he was presented with was nothing but a facade - a street with buildings built slightly more quirky and coloured more brightly than in the muggle world, but it was still the same world he had always lived in. Hogsmeade and Platform 9 3/4 weren't special, there wasn't anything particular to separate it from any other village or platform in the muggle world.

When he had been told he was a wizard, and he was part of a magical world. He had expected castles and fortresses, brave lords and fair ladies. Dragons roaming over the sky twice a day and feats of powerful and majestic magic breaking his understanding of the world with every passing moment. Hogwarts had fulfilled that, but eventually, he would leave Hogwarts, and be forced to return to the grimy and unfair world he had grown up with, its only difference being the wand that would make it easy to sort files or make himself breakfast.

Ever since his arrival at Hogwarts, no other place had met the expectations of the naive boy he used to be. Until now.

The Ministry atrium was tall vast, and cavernous - it was longer than ten great halls put together and three times wider the size of Hogwarts' entrance hall. The walls were made of the darkest obsidian he had ever seen, the material polished and manipulated so much he could almost feel the magic vibrating off the walls as he stared at his reflection. Dozens of pillars shaped like Doric columns, made of shinning, untarnished gold rose from the lowest point of the ground to the edges of the ceiling - which was nearly two-hundred feet tall - where a massive flame lit up the room. A sea of golden stars shone down from the dark sky from the dome above, their size much larger than what he'd see in the usual night sky. For a moment, he was lost, floating in the middle of space - surrounded by stars.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Scrimgeour's voice made him turn, and the stars disappeared as he was returned to the world - and along with him, his anger as well. "Couldn't stop staring at them myself my first time here."

"Thank you for escorting me, Head Auror, but I can manage my own way to the Wizengamot chambers."

Scrimgeour smiled, a rare sight on his face, before he took a step forward. "I'm afraid Madam Bones insists."

"Of course she does."

Green flames flared endlessly as they travelled through the entry area, countless witches and wizards flocking in and out of the fireplaces, crowding the atrium. It was an ordered chaos, over a thousand people moving frantically in every possible direction without a single crash. Pink robes, yellow robes, orange robes, golden robes, black robes, gray robes - they all moved too fast to notice their faces. But once they were nearing the centre of the atrium, it wasn't the people who had his attention.

The tallest of them was twenty feet high, a golden man in lush robes, wand outstretched into the air while a woman - a witch, slightly shorter than him - clutched onto his other arm. And around them were three golden creatures; a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf. They were bowing to the witch and wizard, their feet beneath the water while the couple stood above it. As they neared it, Harry noticed the sprouts of water that rose and fell across the fountain in unpredictable patterns.

Scrimgeour guided him across the mass of people that were forming in the employee registration and visiting entrance areas.

"Wizengamot members and visitors have a separate entrance," Scrimgeour had answered when queried. "Most Lords would think it blasphemous from travelling through the atrium to attend the Wizengamot meetings. Each Lord has their own office in the Wizengamot level, one with their own fireplace connected to the floo network."

Harry had opened his mouth, but immediately closed it, thinking better of speaking about his connection to the Parkinson's before the magical guardianship was given to Bedivere. Perhaps Bedivere thought the same, hence not revealing his hand by having him arrive through the floo in his office.

The Wizengamot level was much less grandiose than the atrium, no fancy ceiling or tall statues. They began passing through all the private offices - each Lord having their own golden plaque on it - and soon enough the entrance to the common area where Lords could wait and interact outside the meetings.

Suddenly, a door to one of the private offices opened brusquely, and Harry barely had time to stop in his tracks before he crashed against the shiny Longbottom plaque. From it, an old woman wearily walked outside. She was short, her face filled with wrinkles, for a moment, he wondered if she could be older than Dumbledore. She was wearing brown and green robes, along with a golden tiara with an emerald embedded into it atop her head - which matched perfectly with the emerald earrings and three golden rings she was wearing. Her hair was set into a tight bun, one that put McGonagall's to shame. Behind her was Neville Longbottom, wearing near identical robes to the older woman and glaring at him as if he were mere moments from ripping him to shreds.

"Ah, Scrimgeour," the old woman scoffed. "Your boy servant nearly crashed against my door. These rookies you train nowadays - HA! Can't even call them Aurors, they wouldn't have lasted a day back when You-Know-Who was openly wreaking havoc."

"Lady Longbottom," Scrimgeour bowed his head and kissed her hand. "A pleasure, as always, to see you. It's been too long."

"It's been too long," she mocked. "Avoid me the false pleasantries, they make you look like a fool. And you, boy, do you have no manners? Introduce yourself."

"That's not a rookie, Gran." Longbottom said bitingly. "That's Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter, why yes, I see it now. The resemblance to your father is uncanny, of course, I saw much of him in his last year. Alas, physical likeness isn't enough for you to come across as more than a cheap copy, eh, boy?"

"A cheap copy that is able to humiliate your grandson at every turn," Harry said coldly, without bothering to turn to the Longbottom boy.

The old lady scoffed. "As if that were some big achievement. Are you truly that proud of being better than a near squib, young Potter?"

Neville flushed red and for a moment, Harry was too stunned to speak. A moment Augusta Longbottom took advantage of.

"Oh, yes, I've heard plenty of you from my spineless grandson and his friends. Imagine my lack of surprise when you don't even meet my lowered expectations - nothing new, men rarely ever do. While you're hailed as a ruthless, violent force to be reckoned with, I see nothing but a spoiled child. Soon enough, someone will put you in your place, boy, and I'll be all too happy to watch."

Faster than he'd thought a woman her age could move, Augusta turned and looked at her grandson. "Come, Neville, we've already wasted too much time on this charlatan. We have a Wizengamot meeting to attend to."

Aaaaand… I completely left you guys hanging. Don't worry, the Wizengamot meeting will take up pretty much all of the following chapter. Though I will confirm there's one flashback as well.

By the time I'm posting this, I'm three chapters ahead and have finished writing the full arc. If you are interested in learning how to get early access to them, join my discord server using the following link: discord . gg / jyPfbGqhJT

I'm also working on two fanfiction related surprises that should be revealed fairly soon! (Maybe?) More info on that on discord as well!

As always, thank you for reading, favouriting, and commenting! I appreciate all of you! :)