ccxxxix. lying little witch
Harriet kept her eyes fixed on the dent in the wall.
She couldn't decide how it'd gotten there, but in the hours she'd been sitting at the crooked table, she'd created half a dozen scenarios in her head to explain where it'd come from. As far as she could tell, someone had been slammed against the bricks, most likely by an overzealous Auror.
Her stomach rumbled, protesting having missed breakfast, lunch, and most likely dinner by this point. She'd been given water and one bathroom break but otherwise told to wait, that she needed to have patience while the Wizengamot assembled. Harriet stayed in the tiny room allotted to her and made up stories for the marks on the wall to spare herself from being sick.
She wondered if this was the room they'd taken Snape to after his trial. It looked familiar.
Mr. Dirigible kept talking to her as he paced. He had to cut a narrow path in the negligible space, and his hip kept nudging the table's edge. "They'll commence the trial by bringing forward the charges. They are charging you with the premeditated murder of Terry Boot and the use of Class-A prohibited magic, but they know the best they can get is voluntary manslaughter, which still carries a fifteen-year sentence in Azkaban."
Harriet stared at the wall. She'd only been alive fifteen years; she couldn't conceptualize what spending the next fifteen in Azkaban would be like.
"The prosecution will present their evidence, we will refute it, and they will challenge that refutation. We will give evidence to your innocence, they will refute it, and we will challenge their refutation. It's a very reciprocal process. We will have to be patient."
Harriet nodded, feeling very far away from herself, far from the room and far from the Ministry. She looked down at her hands—hands that seemed to belong to someone else—then at her lap, her blouse, her robes and skirt. None of it fit quite right after she'd grown a few inches and missed a few too many meals. Harriet felt like a snake still wearing old skin, too weary to shed it.
"Their argument hinges on Bartemius Crouch Junior having been convicted and imprisoned within Azkaban at the time of his recorded death, thus unable to commit the crime. It will be difficult—."
"But you had to be difficult," Crouch hissed, his pale, sweaty face too close to her own as his hand skated against her thigh—.
Harriet bit her tongue and scowled at the table, forcing the image out of her head.
"—consistency in your story will give them nothing to challenge. No matter the political leanings of the current Wizengamot, no one will be keen to send you to Azkaban, Miss Potter. Even if you were guilty, you are still the last of a Noble House, and it is seen as bad form to end a line in such a manner. So long as you do as I have told you—."
"What has he told you?" Gaunt demanded, mania in his voice, fingers twisting like long spider-limbs in her matted hair. "What do you know about the prophecy?"
Harriet didn't scoff at her barrister, though it was a close thing. Oh, there certainly were people on the Wizengamot who would see her off to Azkaban with smiles on their faces, no question about it. Truthfully, Harriet wasn't sure Gaunt was among that number. Having her carted off to a cell in Azkaban suited him fine, but if it was what he wanted, he would have pushed the Aurory and DMLE to make the charges against her ironclad. He would have ensured she never saw a trial, suspended her rights via some old, outdated law, and she would have disappeared into the system. As Mr. Dirigible had pointed out to her before, there were a lot of holes and suppositions in what happened, and if Harriet fought, the case would fall apart, insubstantial as it was.
No, Gaunt had already gotten what he wanted: a quick peek in Harriet's head, though what he'd been looking for in there, she wasn't sure. Now, he wanted Harriet to lie. It was what he needed and what he expected of her, what he would expect of any self-serving Slytherin witch. He wanted her to tell the Wizarding world it had been a tragic accident and let them continue blindly under his leadership, if only to save her own skin.
Harriet's hands balled into fists.
Many wouldn't consider it very Slytherin of her to risk her freedom like this. They said self-preservation was a key trait of her House—and Harriet didn't disagree, but she thought it all came down to how one defines self. Where did she decide to draw the line on what she was willing to defend, on what she considered hers? At the end of her skin? Her family? The magical world? Humanity?
"It doesn't matter if you kill me, if you kill Dumbledore—until it is just you, the Wizarding world will never be yours."
"Then it will be just me."
She shut her eyes, breathing in, forcing her hands to relax. It didn't matter if she went to prison; for the sake of her loved ones, for the sake of the world that had saved her from the drudgery of Number Four's boot cupboard, Harriet would tell the truth. She considered it a greater act of self-preservation than her lying would be. After all, what point was there in freedom if she traded the gray walls of Azkaban for the gilded bars of Voldemort's dream?
Mr. Dirigible sensed Harriet's distraction and stopped speaking, peering down at his young client. He exhaled a short, exasperated burst of air through his nose. "Have you heard a word I've said, Miss Potter?"
She nodded, mouth twitching, though she didn't look up. An impossible weight leaned itself against her shoulders, and for the moment, Harriet wanted to rest. She would need her strength when she walked out of that room. "Do you have family, Mr. Dirigible?"
The question gave the usually unflappable man pause. "…Yes."
"Have you told them—you know? About what I've seen? What the Headmaster said?"
He shifted. "No. I haven't."
Again, Harriet nodded, having expected as much. "It's scary, innit? Thinking he's out there?" She tilted her head enough to flick her eyes in the wizard's direction. "Scary, but not as scary as pretending he isn't there. That's the real nightmare, sir."
Mr. Dirigible shifted again, then placed both hands on the opposite end of the table, leaning forward. "Miss Potter, let me be frank. You are about to prod a sleeping dragon in the eye. If you go into that courtroom and tell them You-Know-Who has returned, Minister Gaunt will do all he can to see you put in Azkaban."
Harriet looked away. "His name is Voldemort."
The Aurors came soon afterward, and they laid manacles around Harriet's wrists—cold, unyielding iron inscribed with runes meant to inhibit magic. They sat against her skin like sharp, prickling knives, the edges pulling and scraping, threatening to cut. The Aurors allowed her to walk under her own power as they escorted her into the corridor, and they needed only to go a few meters to reach the required door. One Auror opened it, and the other urged Harriet inside.
Heads swiveled, dozens upon dozens of eyes gleaming ghoulish and grotesque in the harsh torchlight as they watched the young witch enter the courtroom. Silence fell over them in a heavy veil—but whispers continued beneath it, wending through their breathing, quieter than the loud jangle of the chains around Harriet's wrists.
A chair waited for her, wreathed in chains, but the Aurors chose not to lock her in when Harriet lowered herself to sit. She told herself to be grateful for that, but all she could think about was the chains jerking to life when she wasn't paying attention and snaking around her throat. She swallowed and lifted her chin.
She couldn't guess how many people were there, what with how the light shielded their faces from view in the pit, but Harriet could see rows and rows of plum-colored robes joined by sets of maroon and black. There were Aurors, both those who wore the golden pins and those who didn't, and other Ministry people. There were people in civilian clothes and what looked like a reporter with his long quill and scroll of parchment. Harriet turned her head, desperately searching until deliberate movement in the periphery of her vision brought her gaze to the front row on the left. Mr. Flamel had leaned forward against the rail so she would see he and Perenelle were there. They smiled, and Harriet didn't try to return the gesture, worried she'd sick up on her shoes.
At the head of the room, exactly where he'd been seated when Sirius was in her place, lurked Minister Gaunt, and just as he had during Sirius' trial, he appeared bored with the proceedings. His red eyes roved over her, and his lips curled into a pleased grin.
Next to Gaunt, Madam Bones leaned down to listen to something one of the many Ministry twats said, nodding her head and muttering something in response. She called the room to order.
"Criminal trial of the accused, Harriet Dorea Potter, resident of the London Borough of Islington, held today, the thirtieth of July. The interrogators are myself, Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Minister for Magic, Marvolo Cadmus Gaunt. Court Scribe, Anne Katrina Gambol. Counsel for the accused will state his name for the record."
"Dorian Dirigible."
"Charges against the accused are as listed: one count of murder in the first degree of Terrance Simon Boot, and one count of Class-A prohibited magic usage. How do you plead?"
The words flowed in an eerie mimicry of the sole trial Harriet had witnessed just last summer. For a moment, the memory tugged her in two directions—sitting in the stands, sitting in the pit—and Harriet didn't reply. Mr. Dirigible cleared his throat, and she stuttered, "N-not guilty."
Her answer barely broke above the swell of murmuring, crushed in the malignant echo filling the dark, vaulted chamber. Madam Bones called for silence again, sounding peeved.
"Please give your defense, Miss Potter."
Mr. Dirigible jumped in before Harriet had the chance to open her mouth. "A terrible error of judgment has been levied against my client, dear members of Wizengamot. There is no refuting the tragedy of what happened to young Mr. Boot on the twenty-fourth of June, but the crime has simply been laid at the feet of the wrong person. Worse yet, a friend of the boy's, who in his final moments attempted to save his life."
Mr. Dirigible stood with his hands folded behind his back, his posture straight, unmoved by the many questioning eyes bearing down upon him.
"The only crime my client committed was one of punctuality; Miss Potter and Mr. Boot, hurrying to join their fellow students, fell afoul a third party's heinous actions. Indeed, the record catalogs the injuries Miss Potter received that night, as verified by Hogwarts' own healer, Poppy Pomfrey, and none of the spell damage inflicted upon her person is reflected in Mr. Boot's wand. It is only possible that a separate attacker acted to give her those injuries, and it was not the result of an altercation between my client and the deceased.
"You will also find in the record that the mediwizards of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries tested the body of Mr. Boot upon its recovery, and their findings are consistent with his life being ended by a Killing Curse. Testing my client's wand will find no such curse having been—."
"Hem hem."
Harriet had never heard someone clear their throat in such a pretentious way before, and it broke her from her stupor, head turning with the rest of the Wizengamot's to a woman sitting in the benches put aside for Ministry members. Squat and rather square, she had a wide mouth and unblinking eyes, a touch of pink peeking between her short neck and the collar of her black robes. "You should note, Mr. Dirigible, the Office of the Inspectorate could not prove or disprove the usage of any magic in Miss Potter's wand. It has been tampered with." The witch's large eyes narrowed and set themselves on Harriet. "We suspect Dark magic."
This news irked the barrister. "Failure of Ministry equipment and personnel is not a reflection of my client's innocence," Mr. Dirigible retorted. "The shortcomings of your office have no bearing upon this trial, Madam Umbridge."
Harriet's mouth felt dry, perspiration beading the nape of her neck. What did that mean? They hadn't been able to find what spells she'd used on her wand? That wasn't bloody good.
As she considered this, the witch—Umbridge, apparently—glared at Mr. Dirigible. "I disagree and resent your implications against my office, Mr. Dirigible. This only proves your client has done something to hide—."
Madam Bones raised her gavel and tapped it rather harshly against the banister. "Enough. There is plenty of supposition in this trial without the Office of the Inspectorate making claims that cannot be substantiated. If no record can be retrieved, Miss Potter's wand is inadmissible to this trial for both the defense and prosecution. Continue."
The only sign of Mr. Dirigible's annoyance was a slight twitch in his cheek, there and gone. "Mr. Boot's death is undeniably tragic, but the prosecution has mistakenly pointed the finger of blame at Miss Potter, and accusing her does nothing but impugn her exceptional character. Headmaster Dumbledore?"
The sudden segue stirred the audience as Professor Dumbledore, dressed in the same plum robes as everyone else, stood up.
"Could you give reference to your peers on Miss Potter's behavior as you've observed in your role as her Headmaster?"
"Certainly," Professor Dumbledore replied, giving a cordial nod. "Miss Potter is an exemplary student, well-liked by her professors and respected by her peers. She has performed great services for the school and her community and has recently become one of the youngest apprentices taken on by a master at Hogwarts. I have found her to be a witch of extraordinary talent, but beyond the attention she pays to her studies, she has shown her fellow students considerable compassion and empathy—."
Gaunt let out a loud, ringing sigh, using enough volume to cut across Dumbledore. "We get the picture."
Professor Dumbledore's eyes tipped toward him. "Apologies, Minister. I find it difficult to be succinct when considering my students' accomplishments, as many and varied as they are. I will summarize my thoughts by saying Hogwarts has been honored to have Miss Potter as a student, and in my opinion, she is incapable of fatally harming another human being, especially not in a manner as cold as unfeeling as what happened to Mr. Boot."
"Thank you, Headmaster," Mr. Dirigible said as Dumbledore resumed his seat. "As you can see, my client's reputation precedes her. She has no history of violence against others—and no prior knowledge of the magic needed to commit this crime. Witches and gentlewizards of the Wizengamot, Miss Potter is yet fourteen-years-old. The curse we are speaking of, the curse that took Mr. Boot's life, is magic most fully matured adults could not perform, even if they wished to do so. This is not a crime committed by a teenage witch, but by a dangerous Dark wizard."
"But what wizard is that?" demanded a stocky Wizengamot wizard—and Harriet answered him.
"Barty Crouch," she said, causing a ripple of movement in the crowd. Mr. Dirigible grunted, having wanted to blame the event on an unnamed wizard, but Harriet wouldn't play the idiot anymore. "Barty Crouch Junior."
"Junior—?"
"That wretched fool who went to—?"
"Is she touched in the head—?"
"Barty Crouch Junior is dead!" another cried, and before further arguments could be had, Madam Bones reasserted control over the courtroom.
"Miss Potter," she said, voice sharp and cutting through the lingering whispers. "I would appreciate it if you started from the beginning. Describe the events of that night as you remember them."
Harriet nodded, her gaze darting to the man at Madam Bones' side. Gaunt had gone still at her pronouncement, his interest settling on her like the hungry, malicious look of a cat trying to decide if he wanted to eat or torture his prey. She had his attention now. Her hands fidgeted.
What would he do when she told them Voldemort had returned? She imagined he might jump down and strangle her with his bare hands.
Harriet took a breath for strength and held it, a hard knot forming under her breastbone. She let it go, and it shuddered as the air left her lungs, and the first words of her story followed. It was the same as she'd told it before when Mr. Dirigible had her outline it, except Harriet forced herself not to stutter or rush the telling. She fixed her eyes on the railing in front of Madam Bones, refusing to let Gaunt unnerve her.
"He disguised himself with Polyjuice Potion to look like Viktor Krum, the Triwizard competitor. It was only later, after the potion fell, that he told me his name, and later still that I was able to confirm who he was. The wizard I saw kill Terry was Barty Crouch Junior."
Wizengamot members shared alarmed looks—or laughed. "That Death Eater scum passed in Azkaban!" one wizard called from the back, others echoing the sentiment, but Harriet didn't respond. She stared at Gaunt and watched as his lip curled.
"Be careful, Potter," he hissed, almost too quiet to be heard over the debate happening among the Wizengamot. Bones jerked in her seat, alarmed, though Gaunt continued to glare at Harriet. "Be VERY careful."
She pretended she didn't understand him. It came as no surprise he'd been informed of her ability, though what he'd made of it, she couldn't guess. It didn't matter now; he wasn't going to bait her into speaking Parseltongue in front of the entire Wizengamot, no matter if it was somewhat public knowledge.
The skin of her neck prickled and burned under her blouse's high collar.
"Why—," Madam Bones called over the din. "Would a man, supposedly dead, be on the grounds of Hogwarts?"
"Because he was sent there." Harriet's hands shook in her lap, palms tacky with sweat, parts of her body feeling numb as her heart raced like a charging Erumpent. "He was sent there by the Lord Voldemort."
The name received a round of gasps and outraged exclamations, shouts of "Impossible!" and dramatic swooning. She saw Sirius in his plum-colored robes arguing with a bloke next to him, and Lucius Malfoy's complexion nearly matched his colorless hair. He stared wide-eyed at the pit below, his mouth slightly agape. A witch had passed out, and the woman next to her fanned her face. That Umbridge witch looked like a puffed-up frog who'd eaten a bad fly.
The bloke from the Prophet had his quill out, making frantic notes as his partner's camera went off with a pop!
"I will have order in this court!" Madam Bones boomed, her voice magically enhanced. Harriet shrunk in her chair as the noise rushed over her, and so did several of the more fidgety Wizengamot members. It didn't matter now. Harriet had said what she needed to, and so long as word got out and some believed, Voldemort wouldn't be able to move unseen. People would be ready for him.
"Potter," Bones demanded. "What is your reasoning behind such a statement?"
"Because I saw him." Harriet did everything she could to keep her voice level, reaching for a sense of equilibrium when all she wanted to do was scream and be belligerent. If she didn't say calm or keep herself cool-headed, they'd write her off as a hysteric witch or attention-seeking teenager. Professor Dumbledore had taught her not to grow frustrated when presented with an impossible task, and Harriet couldn't think of a more impossible task than getting the Wizengamot to believe her. "I saw him the night Terry died."
"Explain yourself," Bones said, holding up her hand to stall the audience's objections.
"Crouch kidnapped me from the grounds—from Hogwarts' grounds. Terry tried to stop him, and Crouch killed him." Harriet worried her bottom lip with her teeth for a moment, then stopped. Mr. Dirigible remained next to her like a stiff, reluctant pillar. "There's a rule—or a standard, I guess—in the Third Task that a Portkey has to be used? So the Headmaster has to change the wards during that time. Crouch and Vol—You-Known-Who found out about the rule, and they used it to their benefit."
"Why would we believe this?" demanded a witch Harriet didn't know. "What on earth would Dark wizards want with you?"
"I dunno," Harriet lied. "It's my guess he wanted Neville originally, but he's not exactly easy to get to, is he? Crouch was probably running out of time, and he grabbed me as a last resort." Her gaze flicked toward Gaunt, her tone dipping into sarcasm. "It's the kind of mad, barmy choice a Dark wizard would make, innit?"
She had never seen him so furious before. It didn't reflect in his face so much as his bearing; he sparked with unspeakable rage, color rising beneath his bespoke collar, his body as stiff as stone. She'd defied him, and he would make her bloody pay for it.
Harriet faced Bones again, straightening her spine. "Crouch needed blood for a ritual so he could return the Dark Lord to his full power. I saw him. I saw him, Crouch, and his Death Eaters. He's back, and he's hurting people—."
"I think we've entertained enough of this fairytale," Gaunt interrupted. He rose from his seat and leaned his hands against the banister, the gold ring upon his finger glinting like fire. His arms quivered. "I have no intention of entertaining the delusions of a manic, violent little girl—."
"You're the one who dragged me here," Harriet stuttered. "You're the one who put me on trial. If you didn't want to hear the truth, Minister, you should have reconsidered!"
Bones banged her gavel. "Order—."
"How dare you," Gaunt boomed, and the torches within their brackets flickered, uneasy bodies shifting. The Guardians of the Magical Right flinched. "You come into my Ministry, spewing lies—."
"I am not a liar." Harriet stood, the manacles rattling around her wrists. "The Dark Lord has returned. The world needs to know. The world needs to know he never really left."
"The world needs to know you are a liar." His eyes gleamed, ferocious as a dragon's, cunning as a snake's. "You claim Barty Crouch Junior killed that boy, and yet…you have no proof. Do you want to know what I think? I think you're a deceitful witch wanting to make up stories for attention. I think Terry Boot, bright child that he was, disagreed with your nasty attitude, and you killed him. Didn't you, Harriet? You killed Terry Boot."
"No!"
"Then where is he?!" Gaunt snarled, the banister groaning under the strength of his grip. Smoke rose in wisps beneath his bone-white fingers. "Where is Barty Crouch?!"
"I don't know!" Harriet cried. "I don't know, but—."
"Sit down, Potter," Madam Bones ordered before Gaunt or Harriet could say anything else. "I will not have this trial descend into a juvenile shouting match."
In an instant, Gaunt's enraged expression shuttered and blinked, replaced by a contrite smile. "Of course, Madam Bones," he demurred, resuming his seat. "Violence against children always incites my passion for justice. You know how doggedly I've campaigned for their safety in my tenure."
Liar, Harriet thought, hoping he could hear it, but he could probably read every letter in the glower she leveled at the bench. Murmurs thickened in the room again like a pervasive, choking mist, and Harriet's stomach sank. Not everyone would believe her, she knew that, but would it be enough? When others told them Voldemort had returned, would they listen?
"Now, if we could return to the matter at hand—."
The door to the courtroom popped open, and in trotted a portly wizard wearing a lime-colored bowler hat.
"For Merlin's sake," Madam Bones complained, taking off her monocle. She dropped it by her gavel with a dismissive flick of her hand. "We'll be here through the night at this point. What now, Mr. Fudge?"
The wizard—Fudge—didn't speak to the room at large, choosing instead to hustle up to the bench. Harriet thought she recognized the bloke, having seen him run errands for the Minister's office. At the moment, he went directly to Bones rather than Gaunt, and he leaned forward to speak into her ear. His pale, sweaty skin trembled.
The annoyance drained from Madam Bones' face as Fudge spoke, and her wide eyes flicked once toward Harriet, filled with alarm, before she rose. "This trial is in recess until this issue is resolved. Tonks, return the accused to holding. Aurors, with me—."
People stood, and benches creaked as bottoms lifted, the men and women in maroon robes exchanging glances before they followed the head of their department. "Bones!" someone called from the crowd. "Bones, what in the blazes is happening—?" But Madam Bones said nothing as she rushed from the courtroom, trailed by the running Aurors.
Tonks tucked a supporting hand around Harriet's arm and stood with her while the Wizengamot demanded answers, their voices rising in volume to cut over one another.
"Wotcher, Potter."
Looking up at her, Harriet asked, "What's happened? Where's Bones going?"
"I dunno. I have as much information as you do at the moment."
Turning her head, she searched for Dumbledore but couldn't find him. At the room's head, Gaunt stood and leaned upon the rail to peer down at Harriet, suspicion written across the sharp, clean planes of his handsome, hateful face. His narrowed red eyes remained fixed upon her even as Tonks tugged her toward the exit, and Harriet's last glimpse of the Minister over her shoulder was of him watching her leave. Professor Dumbledore stepped toward him, his mouth moving, and Gaunt finally looked away.
The persistent itch in Harriet's scar faded.
A/N: Much like Voldemort in canon, Gaunt underestimates Harriet. I struggled a bit with this chapter, wanting to capture different aspects of the characters: Harriet being determined and stubborn, but still being naive and fifteen, not always saying the right thing. Gaunt's wrong-footed, and we see those flickers of unbalanced rage while he's still making an effort to keep his polite society mask.
Harriet, staring at Umbridge: "…"
Harriet: "…"
Harriet: "Pardon me, but wtf is that?"
