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xi. out of silk (queen's counsel)
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On the 29th of March 1999, at 9:37 AM, Harry starts smoking again. Stands outside the Ministry and breathes in his first drag since December, leaning against the bleached, stone walls of Whitehall. Cigarettes aren't allowed inside the Ministry (or more like: it is not a Thing That Wizards Do), and by now, the bad habit's become an excuse to get out of the building. They say it takes the average Muggle between five and eleven attempts to quit completely so perhaps - despite what the wizarding world seems to think - he's not that special, after all.
London is experiencing its first whiffs of spring, that week. The plane trees along the roads bear fruits that Hermione sneezes at, and while the thermometer has barely reached seventeen degrees in the afternoons, Harry's already seen multiple young men running around the place in shorts and t-shirts. Just yesterday, a lady on the tube was aggressively waving a piece of paper in front of her face, trying to create an unnecessary breeze. Whenever he's managed to escape work (or, alternatively: the wizarding world, the trials, the shite), Mia and he have hung out in parks, or stood around wooden barrels outside pubs. Plastic pint glasses filled to the brim with cheap lager between their palms, the rare rays of sunshine filtering between the surrounding buildings, drawing rectangular shapes of light against red bricks, sharp angles like magazine cutouts. Since last summer, Harry's committed to staying off the strong stuff so they only have a couple, sit down and laugh, play Muggle card games. She teaches him the rules without question, without asking how one survives an entire childhood in the Muggle world without ever playing Go Fish .
He likes it.
They relax - or try to. Mia's anxious, waiting for the results of her job applications, lays on the grass and closes her eyes with her head on his chest, picking at the skin around her fingernails. For the first time since he met her, Harry wonders what will happen if (when) she leaves, and what it will mean for them. Ron tells him they can always do the long-distance thing ('I mean, it worked for me and Hermione. Hell, we're getting married,') but Harry's not sure it's a question he should even be asking.
'I can teach you poker,' Mia suggests, once. They walk down the street from their local under fading cracks of daylight in the sky.
'Don't you need tokens for that?'
'You can play with other things.' He sends her a curious look and she promises to show him once they get home.
She does.
He pays for their drinks, these days. For their food, their bills - hell, even their TV licences. He's covered her rent up until the end of June, cash in the hands of their greedy landlord. At regular intervals, Mia insists she'll pay him back - 'all of it, with interest, I swear,' and keeps a close tab of every cent she owes him. Harry's stopped trying to explain he doesn't care - it kind of makes him sound like a bit of an arsehole, so filthy rich he doesn't even give a fuck where his money goes. He would much rather she do something about her father, confront him about the mess he left her in, because that does infuriate him. Instead, she continues to get lunch with the man once a week, fancy restaurants with white table cloths (he walked her there, once), like nothing happened. Off the top of his head, he could name half a dozen people who literally gave their lives to protect their children (hell, even Petunia would have for Dudley), yet this cunt was ready to let his own daughter starve , bullying her into doing what he wanted. 'I just want us to get on,' she explains, shaking her head. Doesn't want to 'make a fuss,' or risk losing him again. 'I'll be done with school soon, anyway,' she shrugs, then drops a kiss at the corner of Harry's mouth. 'I'll pay you back, I swear -'
'You know, that's not -' (again.)
They go round in circles, so he stops bringing it up.
He ended up telling Ginny about the loan. Didn't particularly want to, but she is C.A.S.H.C.O.W.'s treasurer, after all, and whenever Mia does pay him back - which he knows she will - that is where the money will go. He gave her just enough details to justify his decision ( she was going to be homeless, Gin ), wanting to avoid what he anticipated would be a very Ron-like reaction ( You're throwing your money away, Harry! ). Surprisingly, though, his "ex" was actually rather chill about it. I reckon you did the right thing, she wrote back. Would probably have done the same. It was a welcome take - until he began complaining about Mia's father and he could tell she rolled her eyes. Just leave her be, she told him. No offence, but you don't know what it's like to have parents.
The fact of the matter is: lately, Ginny's stopped talking to Molly. It's driven the Weasley brothers up the wall (driven Harry up the wall, frankly, considering all that Mrs Weasley has done for him), but the one time he tried to bring up the matter, call Ginny out on it ( gently , but still), she said: Well, I'm sorry but I can only tolerate so many howlers that come inches from calling me a slut. Witch Weekly and half the wizarding world are already doing it, I don't need my own mother to add to the noise. For Harry, it's been a difficult position to hold, staying put like Switzerland between both forces whenever Molly worriedly whispers to him: 'Have you heard from Ginny?' He says: 'Yes, Mrs Weasley. She's okay, Mrs Weasley,' and escapes through the Floo with Teddy in his buggy as quickly as humanly possible. Maybe stop acting like this, then, he almost writes back, but doesn't. Keeps his thoughts to himself because he already got into a near-altercation with a couple of blokes at the Auror office the other day, and he doesn't need to get into arguments with her, too. He saw them walking down a corridor, bent over and laughing coarsely at a magazine held between each other -
'Well, yeah she's fit but wouldn't fuck that you know, don't know where she's been -'
From behind them, Harry raised his arm without even thinking about it - Dean was quick, grabbed his wrist and held it down before he could aim. Thank Merlin, Ron was off work, that day. 'Leave it,' Dean said. 'Not worth your job.'
Harry set his jaw and bit his tongue and almost screamed that yes it was worth his bloody job, as a matter of fact , but by the time Dean finally loosened his grip, the two idiots had already turned the corner.
Harry didn't ask, but he did wonder, later, what Dean thought of it all.
I already know what you're thinking, Ginny wrote, which was perhaps a stretch. You think it's better to have mum and dad and the boys judge me, than them be dead. And, that's kind of the issue, Harry. It's the only spectrum you know, and it's a rather unbeatable argument. Of course, I'd give anything ( anything ) for Fred to send me a howler right now but - family's more complicated than you think. It's not all black and white. Mia's just doing what is right for her, I think.
Everyone is begging him to leave it (leaveitleaveitleaveit), these days - so, he does.
Of all places, he's found refuge in Muggle libraries, as of late. An unlikely turn of events, you might think; it started at the beginning of March when he and Mia went to see The Cranberries. 'What? Did you really think ours was the only war there ever was?' Seamus laughed when Harry later brought it up, and a cluster of vague memories spread like fog in his brain: Vernon praising 'Maggie' for 'getting the Falklands back,' something about bombs in Wembley, and a place called Yugoslavia? It's funny how, before Mia came into his life, he used to think of himself as knowledgeable about Muggles. He and Hermione referencing Cinderella was enough to confuse Ron, and his understanding of tube turnstiles had blown Mr Weasley's mind. Now, it rather feels like being a jack of all trades and a master of none. When Mia mentions her mum's parents were from Jamaica, he is mortified that she has to point to it on a map.
'It's mad the stuff they don't teach you in that school of yours,' she laughs. There is no resentment in her voice, just bafflement. 'Have you ever heard of the Windrush?'
He rages at Hermione the next morning. 'How do they expect us to share a whole world with Muggles when they don't teach us anything about them?'
She sighs. 'I think the point is that we don't really - live with them, you know?'
Mia's already moved on, by then. 'I mean, I suppose it makes sense, you already have to learn about all that magic stuff,' she says, suggests they walk to Primrose Hill that afternoon - 'the weather's gorgeous.' Off the worktop, she grabs her backpack and fishes out a water bottle to refill it. Harry sits down at the kitchen table, shakes his head.
'No,' he says. 'Tell me about the Windrush.'
He's not sure why, but it sounds important.
So: ultimately, in '99, in exchange for lending her the money, Mia gives him a very precious gift: her uni library card. To Hermione's complete astonishment, Harry actually uses it. Borrows some books but generally finds magazine articles easier to digest, as well as audio cassettes and VHS tapes.
At school, Harry remembers that unless they had a Very Pressing Concern, Hermione liked to squat the library because she was hungry for knowledge. She seemed to feel safe surrounded by books and information, concepts like the nine uses of alihosty or the Theory of Resonant Charms broken down into neat, aesthetically pleasing, bullet-pointed lists. His quest is a different one. It is one for answers. Like: how could you see shipping people halfway across the world to rebuild a country after a war as a remotely viable plan? (thankfully, the idea does not seem to have crossed Kingsley's mind). Or: why does Seamus often sound like he is on the side of the bombers? And: who the hell did the Falklands belong to in the first place? Because, let's face it, whatever side Vernon takes is usually not the right one. He remembers the first days of his Auror training and the way Giulia told him people always had reasons (motives) for doing the things they do. That spring, that's what he's after - motives.
He listens to the Muggle radio. Or, lets taped documentaries run in the background while he watches Teddy. (In hindsight, probably not the best material for an eleven-month-old, but what can you do?) To Harry's surprise, it turns out that between 1990 and 1999 alone, about 100,000 people are estimated to have died on Muggle battlegrounds - that's only counting the ones the UK was directly involved in. The numbers are breathtaking, staggering. From the summer of '95, he distantly recalls the low drone of the telly, fighting in a place called 'Srebrenica' - he can't believe he was so focused on trying to identify any sign of Tom on the news that he never actually listened to them. There's still a war going on right now, he later finds out, in a nearby place called Kosovo (he has to look that up on a map, too) and well, at least there is space for it in his brain, now that Tom is dead.
He likes to talk to Mia about that stuff because she's able to fill in the gaps. He likes to talk to Ginny about it because - well, there's not much else to talk about. She responded politely to his question about Amycus at the start of the month, about how she felt, but he wasn't quite sure what to make of her words. I don't know. How I feel changes, you know? Right now, I'm writing to you and I can't help but think of how much I miss last summer. For all the shit with the Commission, and everything I was hiding from you, and the funerals, I also miss running around London with you. And, the way you'd sneak into my bedroom at the Burrow before you moved out, remember that? Those fucking creaking stairs. And, the way mum and dad reacted when they found out. That awkward talk dad gave us? He can't help but smile. It feels like a lifetime ago. It felt euphoric. Free, remember? Being alive. Now my sex life is feeding half the staff at witch weekly, probably allowing them to bathe in fucking caviar, and mum … I'll never tell her what I told you. She'd never forgive me for it.
He doesn't know what to respond to that. I miss it too, he confesses. It's true.
About Amycus, it's not that I'm trying to hide anything, I just don't know what to tell you that I haven't told you already, you know? Is there anything in particular you want to know? I mean, I can't remember what I wrote last year, but I know it was a lot. He loved his dogs, I suppose. Maybe that's a bit strange but there were pictures of them in his office. A golden retriever and a black lab, named Marie and Maisie. He said he'd picked the names because muggle names were good for dogs. I think his aunt was watching them while he was at hogwarts. He'd write to her almost every day, asking about them. He liked talking about them, so I suppose I asked a lot. It made him happy.
He's not even sure why the thought occurs to him. Why he even cares. Life's just weird, sometimes. What happened to them?
To the dogs? she answers. I dunno, hahaha. Are you opening a shelter?
He bursts out a laugh.
In other news, the trials continue to plough on, that March. Hearings, objections, speculations, liabilities and defences - the Law with a capital L, like an academic discipline that lives don't depend on. Aenesticised aesthetics, two-steps removed from its contents. Harry's kept testifying to the fact that he doesn't know 90% of the people he is called to testify against - by now, even the press seems to have grown increasingly disinterested. The trials haven't been the sensational spectacle they clearly hoped for, instead buried under mountains of procedures, very few witnesses, unknown accused parties, and verdicts that go: guilty, guilty, guilty. The nonsense the Ministry has engaged in by calling Harry as a witness in every single trial hasn't gone unnoticed and by now, even his fellow witches and wizards have become bored with the whole process. It's not stopped the criticism, of course, but has definitely focused it on the Ministry, rather than on the accused themselves.
According to the many commentators of this Earth, the sentences are too harsh (or not harsh enough). The trials are too public (or not public enough). The witnesses are (or aren't) the right ones, the MPS communicates too much (or too little) about its strategies, the hearings are too slow (or too quick). In a society where everyone has a stake and an opinion on the matter of punishing those responsible for the crimes they endured, there is not one thing the Ministry seems to be able to do right. One morning before heading into work, Harry even catches a 'member of the public' intervening on a show on the wireless: 'Well, no one's testifying, and most of the files are sealed - I mean, I don't know about you but with the inflation, I've more pressing concerns than reading legalese in The Prophet. I don't blame Potter for not giving a fuck. They're taking up his time for not'ing.'
At this point, Harry's just too confused to say anything and Mia simply raises an eyebrow at him at the mention of his name.
Everything he's read about the Muggle world hasn't really helped, either. While he is struck by the similarities between theirs and Every Major War Trial Ever (the disappointed expectations, the lack of examinations of the root causes of it all), it's not provided many answers. He skims over reports from Nuremberg, then the Nazi-hunters, the Klarsfelds and others, and all the arseholes who fled to South America. They caught some of them (just like the wizarding world caught some of theirs ), but it never sounded like enough. When Klaus Barbie was finally tried in front of the French courts in '85, he denied even being who everyone knew he was. Gave a new name, a new identity, claimed his extradition was illegal, refused to acknowledge the victims and stayed in his cell until the end of the hearings.
He was convicted, but what good did that do? he asks Ginny, then. It's not like putting these arseholes in jail ever prevented atrocities from being committed ever again. I'd always thought that was the point, you know? Catch the bad guys to prevent further crime? I just don't get how someone who - he keeps the first thing that comes to mind to himself - who instructed Neville to cast Cruciatus curses on eleven year olds could love his dogs so much.
What is this? Ginny asks, writing back. A mid-life crisis? Gonna resign and buy a new firebolt to fly across the australian desert? What would you do then? Let them all go free, thanks very much, have fun with the rest of your life? (Of course not, he thinks). Hermione's worried about you, you know? She says you're been watching gore-y Muggle 'videos' about wars? I'm not sure what those are but it doesn't sound good to me either.
He rolls his eyes. Hermione should maybe mind her own business. She says that like Giulia didn't bleed to death right in front of me two months ago, he observes.
Because, here's the thing: there are six litres of blood in the human body, and he knows damn well what three or four of those look like, spilled on the floor in a matter of minutes. Sometimes, he closes his eyes and can still feel it (feel her - warm and lifeless) at his fingertips. So, no, there is nothing in terms of evil that he hasn't seen before, nothing in what he watches that could shock him. It's the reproduction of it, over and over, that's incomprehensible. He reads about continental Europe, the way they shaved women's heads in 1945, punishment for 'collaborating' with the enemy. He closes his eyes and can't help but feel the tightness in his stomach when he wonders what would happen if anyone knew about -
For us girls, she wrote, it is just the way wars are fought.
He wants to fucking throw up.
Look, I don't think evil can always be explained or completely prevented, Harry, Ginny says. I mean, yeah, Amycus tortured kids, but he wasn't always like that, you know? When he was with me, he was kind sometimes. Like he just wanted someone to talk to. I remember one time after - a few words are scratched out, there, Harry can't read them - we had sex, he asked what I liked to do outside school. He said people had told him I liked quidditch. He said: 'I'd give you your broom for the night, but you'd just fly away, wouldn't you?' I promised I wouldn't. 'Alright,' he told me. 'Anyway, I swear I'll kill you if you do.' We went down to the quidditch pitch and tossed the ball between the two of us until the early hours of the morning. It was freezing, but the most fun I'd had in ages. He said he liked it when I laughed. I think he wanted me to like him. Maybe I did. I don't know, Harry, I was a much better flyer than he was but I didn't try to leave.
He reads that last sentence and thinks: tried to leave - to go where, exactly?
Anyway, Amycus Carrow isn't on trial, that March. He's dead. And, for that matter, his sister isn't either - that's scheduled for April and May, along with Draco and Narcissa. For now, all they've got are: Umbridge, starting on the 22nd, and Lucius Malfoy, a week earlier. Harry is called as a witness against both and on the 29th, when he finally caves and starts smoking again, he does so before taking the stand against his former teacher. By then, his palms are clammy against the fabric of his trousers and he can feel his own heartbeat in his neck. 'I need to get out of here,' he quickly says, walking past the guards and almost running out of the Ministry's waiting room. 'Just come and get me when I'm actually needed.'
Out on the street, he lights up a cigarette because, for the life of him, Harry can't bear to look at the dull, still life, flower pot painting in that place for a minute longer without wanting to scream.
He's spent too much time in that room, lately. Painfully beige walls and a circle of empty chairs around a cheap, wooden coffee table - the kind of place that reminds him of his visits to the Dursleys' family GP, Dudley drumming his feet impatiently - Petunia would forbid the 'dirty and strange' cousin from touching the toys in the corner, make him stand up and offer his seat every time a new adult stepped in. Harry remembers the confused look a woman threw at his clothes once, after she eyed Petunia and Dudley - Harry must have been five or six. 'Are you here on your own, lad?' she asked, concerned, and Petunia seized his skinny arm like a bony piece of meat, said: 'No, he's with us, he's my nephew,' in a voice that intimated the unfortunate treatment of this poor boy wasn't of her own doing.
Years later, for Umbridge, Harry's look is professional - ready. Dressed in his Auror uniform (Kingsley's Department of Information insisted on it, make his testimonies look 'official'); he's not sure Petunia would even recognise him. Thinks she might glance at the cigarette between his fingers, the dark t-shirt, cargo pants and boots he's wearing; they all act like a magnet in the sun, making the fabric stick to his skin. She would tut and brisk past this strange, athletic, six-foot-tall boy (kid? man?) who, with all of his Auror training, could now probably take on her husband in a fight in a heartbeat. Sometimes, Harry looks at himself in the mirror and knows he hasn't changed much, is probably the same person she used to know - just trapped in somebody else's frame.
There have been - comments about it. Not from Mia, nor Ron, nor Hermione - not from people who see him every day and wouldn't necessarily notice incremental changes (or at least, are polite enough leave him be) but from the press. It started with the Americans, has only become harder to ignore these past few weeks with his more frequent public appearances at trial hearings. Auror training seems to have done Mr Potter some good, he read in an opinion piece in The Prophet, as though the fact that he's now got muscles in places he didn't know was possible is a sign of his overall health. 'You know, you and Ginny are the same,' Hermione tells him. 'She flies every hour under the sun. You no longer have a Quidditch pitch at your disposal so you just run and camp out at the Auror gym; it's the same thing.'
Maybe , he thinks. But, he reckons there are worse coping mechanisms, aren't there?
The both of them aren't treated the same, though. In the last report that came out about Ginny's love life, there was a comment about her calves being too big (what? he thought. How is that even a thing?) next to a flashing box with a picture of him on the stand, tired, unshaven - God, he reckons he really should get a haircut - next to a caption that inexplicably read: HOT DAMN, GINNY! Look what you missed!
Harry wonders if he should feel offended or angry (or flattered) but frankly, it's just alienating.
He's probably at least partially responsible for it, though. By then, it is already mid-March and he still hasn't said a word at the trials so the press has nothing else to write about.
He went 'no comment,' you see? At Lucius Malfoy's hearing. It was stupid - or maybe not. Impulsive, or maybe not. The man's trial was the first where Harry had to testify against someone he actually knew, couldn't decently tell the court they'd never met. His testimony took place on the 15th of March, less than two weeks after Mia's birthday, and suddenly, the date rolled around like a thunderstorm. Harry watched it advance, mile after mile, or day after day, until it finally crashed against his window. He waited in the waiting room (still a good boy, patient for his turn, back then), stated his name for the record with absolutely no idea what to say next. Hermione had warned him, he supposes, about the inherent flaws in his now infamous I'll-cross-that-bridge-when-I-get-to-it strategy; all safe and good until you actually find yourself right at the edge of the water, about to jump and with no bridge in sight.
When Lucius Malfoy appeared in court, that morning, he was escorted by a couple of prison guards. Harry had seen pictures in the press but the live, flesh and bone version of Draco's father was still a shocking sight. Lucius Malfoy, once proper and impeccable, blond hair brushed back and ironed clothes had layers of bags under his eyes. Wore Azkaban robes, grey and torn, in a state worse than Sirius's had been in those mugshots in third year. He'd also lost about three stones.
The moment he saw Harry walk in, he began shouting abuse. Called 'the kid' names and ranted about: wizarding institutions being prejudiced against him; Harry being a lying, petty child - claimed that he and his 'Auror friends' had attempted to kill his wife ( what ?), that the Order had manufactured evidence against him, making it look like his house (his own house! ) had been used as Headquarters for the Dark Lord. 'My wife and I never agreed to this!' he shouted, indignant; the Head Juror had to call 'Order!' about fifteen times until Lucius's escort was finally instructed to silence him.
All of these statements could have been true - none of it mattered when shouted with such confused incoherence. His army of lawyers looked embarrassed on his behalf - hell, even the reporters in the room did. Most of their articles later wondered if the new living conditions in Azkaban were the cause of such an evident loss of sanity. Maybe, The Prophet wrote, dementors sucking your soul was actually a better outcome than hours upon hours spent in isolation at a high security wing. And, when, finally, the barrister for the MPS walked towards Harry and asked if he knew Lucius Malfoy, he -
Well, there's what everyone else thinks about it. The press: while staying silent is, of course, Mr Potter's right, one does wonder, with his stubborn refusal to testify, time and time again, what he is hiding from the rest of us. The wider public: as previously mentioned, that he doesn't care, with varying degrees of agreement and sympathy, ranging from : 'Leave the poor kid alone! He just got caught up in this, it's not his job to save the world!' to 'Well, I just think he's an ungrateful cunt, is what I think!'
'I told you going "no comment," would make you look guilty!' says Hermione, unnecessarily.
Kingsley, as predicted, mostly acted like they'd all dodged an Avada Kedavra . Harry had followed legal advice, for once, and at least, the Ministry wouldn't be put in the awkward position of having to decide whether or not to charge him, once he admitted to one of his many sins. As a result of this much welcome news, the Minister even followed up Harry's testimony with an invitation for Ron, Hermione and he to attend and speak at the upcoming memorial ceremony, for the one-year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. It was as though the matter of the trials was already closed. Harry stubbornly refused to RSVP, prompting Hermione to scoff and shake her head at him. 'Like you would ever not attend , ' she said. He looked away. 'Why are you still trying to make the man's life harder, Harry, I don't get it.'
It's not like he could explain.
That March, everyone seemed to agree with Kingsley, even Mr and Mrs Weasley. After the news of his testimony (or lack thereof) hit the press, Ron's mother smiled and pulled him into a hug the following Sunday. 'At least you're protecting yourself, that's what you need to do.' And, aside from Hermione's reservations, Ron himself also seemed to think the same: 'Mate, it's your life, not anyone else's. You don't owe them shit.'
This would all have been great, of course, if Harry actually believed that to be true.
Because: he might not owe the Ministry shit, fair enough, but that doesn't mean he doesn't owe anyone anything at all - whether he likes it or not. In retribution for his actions, the first (perhaps inevitable) howler that came his way hailed from Narcissa Malfoy, before the jury had even come back with a verdict in her husband's case. A ten-page letter full of insults and threats which scared the shit out of Mia when it exploded in Harry's living room. The bloody thing screeched so loud it even woke up their downstairs neighbours' at six o'clock in the morning. Harry couldn't help but fear they would end up calling the cops on what probably sounded like a domestic. For the record, he would actually argue that his silence was probably kinder to Lucius than any truth he could have told (a fact that Andromeda herself acknowledged) but clearly, that is not something on which he and Draco's mother will ever agree.
' YOU BETTER NOT DO THIS TO ME AND MY SON OR I WILL MAKE SURE YOU DON'T LIVE TO SEE ANOTHER DAY, YOU USELESS -!'
When Ron and Harry recounted the story to Hermione over the weekend, Harry's best mate said: 'We are sitting here, having defeated Lord bloody Voldemort, supposedly having the time of our lives and yet we're still discussing these twats.' Hermione admonished there was no reason to use that type of language.
'The Malfoys have lost everything, Ron,' she said. 'Can't be easy for them. It's -'
'"Can't be easy for them ?" Have you forgotten about -'
They bickered for another fifteen minutes. Harry tuned it out and returned to his porridge.
He did regret the howler's spectacular self-combustion, though, when he later tried to take it to Robards' office and was left with an unimpressive pile of half burnt parchment. 'What's this?' the Head Auror asked. Then: 'What's that got to do with me?' when Harry explained.
'I don't know,' Harry faux-shrugged. 'Maybe next time Narcissa Malfoy shouts death threats at me at six o'clock in the morning I'll send her over to you,' he suggested which did finally make Robards look up at him, at the very least.
'Potter, believe me, I'm trying, here, I really am,' the Head Auror spoke, scribbling his initials on a piece of parchment in front of him. 'But have you ever heard of something called "insubordination"? Because it looks like you're toeing a very thin line, here, and I would hate -'
Harry sighed, audibly, then quietened under Robards' glare. He wondered how long he would keep his job as an Auror before getting sacked. ' Fine. Look, I just -' he tried. 'All I'm saying is: isn't she supposed to be monitored? I thought -' he quickly trailed off, unsure how to phrase the following question: How the fuck am I still receiving mail from this crazy bitch? without sounding too… insubordinating.
Robards paused his inspection of the report in front of him, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest. Harry suddenly felt rather awkward, standing there in the middle of the big boss's office empty-handed, wiped his clammy hands on the fabric of his trousers. 'Ah, yeah,' Robards agreed. That piercing blue stare again. 'And, with what staff, exactly? You and your mates?'
Harry looked to the floor and found that his shoes didn't hold the answer to that particular question either.
Because, here's the thing: in March '99, from a situation that was already tense, the Ministry of Magic as an organisation (and specifically the Auror Department), has now reached the verge of total collapse under the pressure exercised by the trials. After two years of war, resignations, deaths, loss of trust, confidence, people just moving on to other things - the last few months have now run the place far into the ground. New hires, like Harry, hardly started to fill the dozens of open positions and even then, half of them have pre-existing conflicts that prevent them from taking part in certain operations - the babysitting Narcissa Malfoy being an obvious example.
At their last staff meeting, Harry watched as a poor bloke from Payroll asked Robards if there was any way they could invest to brighten up the office with a bit of décor and ended up in tears. 'I don't think you people understand,' Robards shouted, 'that I have to police an entire nation in the midst of one of the worst economic crises in History with a staff of three hundred, a third of which are currently mobilised to prepare for and give evidence in trials which, frankly, none of us really give a fuck about!' After that, no one else dared speak. 'So, please, think about how much you really wish to stay in this department before coming to bother me with your budget request for a new fucking houseplant!'
On that note, the Head Auror stormed off, and the staff meeting later rescheduled.
This being said, on the bright side, Harry and Ron have finally passed probation. As did almost everyone else from their intake except for Terry Boot - who dropped out of the programme to join his father's business - and Susan Bones - who transferred as a trainee with the Magical Prosecution Service. On Monday, the 8th of March 1999, their cohort of newbies were all officially called into Robards' office in ranking order, and asked to choose what their next six-month posting would be. Harry walked in third, just behind Justin Finch-Fletchley who (infuriatingly) turned the situation around a couple of days before the scores were finalised. Expectedly, the bloke turned out rather action-man-y and grabbed the only available spot with the Hit Wizards, after Opal took one of the two open in Major Crimes. 'I expect you'll follow her, Potter?' Robards said, quill already in hand.
'No,' Harry shook his head. 'Put me down for Patrol.'
Robards looked up from his files ( again : a rare feat) and dropped his quill.
Harry had arguments prepared. Giulia, first, who had said patrol would be a good choice for rotations. Also, that he liked the variety. And, that the work felt useful. Plus, he knew what he was walking into: taking people's depositions, being there when they needed him, arresting the bad guys. Even the drunks and the petty criminals had their funny moments, to tell the truth. It made sense to him and it was his choice.
Yet, when Robards' mouth stayed open in confusion for a long while, Harry just waited. 'Potter, you're third in your intake,' the Head Auror finally stressed. 'I would probably advise against IntoxSubs considering your Potions scores but everything else… They don't typically recruit new intakes, but I'm pretty sure I could even talk to Section B…'
As far as Harry knows, Section B is a subdivision of the Auror Department no one ever speaks openly about. He's only heard the name a handful of times before, in hushed whispers in the break room. 'Yeah, I heard the door to their office is concealed under the floor, right after the Hit Wizards, you know that dead plant by the water cooler? No, I'm not sure what they do… They don't really socialise, mind you.'
Facing Robards, then, he smiled and shook his head. 'I'm not James Bond,' he said. Robards did not get the reference. 'Look, I was told we could choose our partners if we stayed on patrol for an extra six months,' Harry added. 'That true?'
Their looks crossed. Robards said nothing for a moment, his face unreadable. Harry tried as hard as he could to keep his own expression neutral. The boss's mouth finally curved into the slightest hint of a smile. 'Ah,' he said. 'So, you're doing this for Weasley, then?'
And, like, yeah, okay , that is actually the main reason Harry picked Patrol. So, what? Sue him. The fact is that Ron was too far down the scoreboard for them to both get Major Crimes and, 'I value working with people I trust,' Harry settled in Robards's office. In consideration of everything else going on in his life, Patrol with Ron sounded loads better than Major Crimes with random strangers. Perhaps, months ago, he might have picked it to continue working with Giulia, but -
Robards frowned, then sighed. 'Alright, fair enough,' he conceded, then scribbled Potter on a piece of parchment. The door flew open behind Harry as the Head Auror waved his wand. 'Now, get out of my office. Next !'
When they crossed paths in the corridor, Seamus asked: 'Still in a mood, then?' and Harry laughed.
'Yup,' he said.
To be honest, it's not just Robards and his staffing issues, though: everyone at the Ministry has been running around the place like headless chickens, lately. In the press, Kingsley's new administration has faced wave after wave of criticism which, frankly, hasn't entirely displeased Harry.
First, of course, there was all the shit around the trials and particularly, the Ministry's reluctance to call the proper witnesses to the stand to tell their stories. Surprisingly, even Molly Weasley (who gave a short testimony in front of the Commission as a member of the Order last summer) once told Harry: 'Well, I do wish Kingsley had told us it would be the only testimony we would give. I would have given my answers a little more thought, I suppose.'
Then, of course, there's been Kingsley's new deal with the Muggle government. While it initially garnered a lot of support, even beyond the most progressive circles (and fortunately did not lead to a Goblin uprising after the Ministry agreed to pay them off generously compensate their unforeseen loss of earnings), the question of the allocation of the funds soon came to bite them all in the arse.
Officially (and, for what it's worth, even knowing his own feelings towards Kingsley, Harry honestly believes him on that one), most of the recovery grants were distributed to a selection of wizarding businesses deemed to have suffered the largest losses during the war. Applications were submitted in the month that followed the passing of the bill and the list of successful applications was compiled by Ministry staff on the basis of a complex matrix including the difference between pre-war and post-war turnovers, expenses incurred to repair the sometimes extensive damages suffered within the premises, the viability of their recovery plans etc. It all sounded good - at least on paper. Because in actual fact, this thorough assessment led to an overwhelming number of grants being awarded to businesses owned by people generally known to have been on Kingsley and the Order's so-called "side," during the war.
The moment the allocation decisions were made public, a wave of disgruntled Knockturn Alley shop owners found their way into the many offices of different press outlets across the country, soon expressing their innumerable grievances, and less-than-favourable opinions of the current government that, according to them, was operating under unconscionable biases. At the Burrow, this strategy of course enraged George (and, in her correspondence, Ginny, who'd spent hours with he and Ron going over Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' accounting and writing their application) who slammed The Prophet against the kitchen table and expressed what sounded like a rather fair point: 'Their bloody shops weren't torched, were they?'
In response to this latest wave of criticism, the Head of Kingsley's new Money Matters Department, Bernardus Dee-Poquets, gave a rather unfortunate interview on Radio 5, attempting to 'give more context' on the decisions made. Instead of smoothing things over, this position only further enraged the opposition, prompting a spontaneous protest to take place in Knockturn Alley with placards that read: WE DON'T NEED CONTEXT WE NEED GALLEONS! (which, frankly, Harry also couldn't help but think was a fair point).
He and the other Aurors were soon called in for 'crowd control,' an idea that began sounding terrible as soon as they were asked to put on their riot gear. On the way there, Robards added fuel to the fire by making it abundantly clear to whoever was willing to listen that this 'peacekeeping' operation had been forced upon him by the Head of the DMLE and was neither his choice, nor his idea, which in turn also meant that no one in the Auror ranks actually wanted to go. That day, Harry's afternoon began with their unit chief whispering in his ear to make his hair blond and hide his scar with make-up again, 'just-in-case,' and ended with incapacitating shots being fired from all sides, fumigation potions thrown at a mob they'd kettled in on Burke Street, and a spell that sliced Harry's arm open, landing him in the mediwizards' tent for the second time in less than six months. Until he regained the full use of his fingers a couple days later, the letters he wrote to Ginny looked like they had been drafted by a six year old child.
Since then, most of the office has been reluctant to do - well - anything beyond the bare minimum, doing nothing to help Robards' staffing problems. Half the Aurors on Harry's floor have now repeatedly called in sick for a few days at a time with increasingly more outrageous excuses ranging from 'sleepiness,' to 'dragon pox,' and even once: 'wandrot' - a wizarding disease that Harry unfortunately decided to ask about at lunchtime in the middle of the trainees' table. Katie Bell almost choked on a piece of broccoli and Ron's whole face turned scarlet. The resulting explanation made Harry feel irrationally protective of the most intimate parts of his body for the rest of the afternoon.
With the end of their probation, Robards is now no longer their cohort's direct supervisor. Harry, Ron, Dean and Seamus (the Gryffindor dorms, version 2.0) have landed themselves in the same patrol unit, answering to their own Lead Auror: Dilip Radic, a balding, middle-aged bloke with the charisma of a crockery cupboard but who Harry finds, overall, nice enough. From what he gathers, Robards is still overseeing reports on their progress until the eleven of them choose their permanent postings in eighteen months, but generally, the man is back to handling his main Ministry duties: allocating headcounts, budgets, discussing enforcement policies with Kingsley and the Head of DMLE, resolving quarrels between departments, cases, etc. a role that was previously dubbed by Giulia as: 'the gruelling task of arbitrating disputes between entitled idiots.' Now, including a growing population of disgruntled employees. The constant sick leaves, originally meant as a show of support for their department head, have now backfired on him.
Which is why, a couple weeks later, when Harry tries to hassle Robards about Narcissa's letter, the boss just closes his eyes and audibly sighs. 'Look, Potter.' His desk is so chaotic that you can hardly see the top of the picture frame around a photo of his children. 'We have a trace on her and her son that prevents them from leaving the house. We released him so that he could be with her and frankly, shift the responsibility of her well-being onto someone other than Ministry employees. That's the most I can do right now. I'm sorry.'
That morning, all Harry hears in Robards' voice are sincerity and exhaustion and for a moment, he's not sure what else he could say. With his wand, Robards sends the pile of ash of Narcissa's howler into the bin. 'Look,' he adds. 'Kingsley's told me you turned down protection last summer; if you want to revisit that, I can see what I can do, but -'
'No,' Harry says. This time, he is sure. The last thing he wants is a bunch of his own colleagues tailing him around the place. 'I'm not scared of Narcissa Malfoy, I just -' he supposes he just doesn't like it, to tell the truth, doesn't like that the woman is clearly unstable, left to her own devices, and -
'I know you're trying to help but you can't save everyone, Potter,' Robards says. 'That's just the way it is.' Harry's mouth twists uncomfortably; he doesn't say anything. Robards finally smiles. 'Now, go on and get the fuck out of the building,' he says. Harry is already rolling his eyes before the boss even finishes his sentence. 'I know for a fact you're not scheduled in today and I can't have you working more than nineteen days in a row or else I'll have Wizarding Resources on my back, on top of everything else.'
Harry laughs, shaking his head. 'Well, don't tell me you're understaffed, then.' When he gets to his desk, he doesn't even hesitate before grabbing the keys to the patrol car. It is what it is.
That spring, as he and Ron work around the clock, Harry's best mate jokes: 'At least the overtime will pay for the wedding,' and they both laugh. It feels like the two of them against the world again, and that's better than everything else, right now. Harry's not sure why they even fought, or how he survived without his best mate for that long. Spring is a rebirth, too.
Which, well, lands them at that morning before his testimony against Umbridge, he supposes. By then, the days have gotten longer, brighter - daylight savings and better weather. It's a strange contrast with the approaching trial of a woman who will always remind him of one of the worst years of his life.
To him, she is a former teacher. That's all. (He's tried enough times to convince himself that it is all). Yet, to the rest of the wizarding world - she and her Muggleborn Registration Commission were reporting directly into Pius Thicknesse. She was the very intentional right-arm to an Imperiused brain, responsible for the arrest, wrongful imprisonment and deaths of dozens, if not hundreds of people.
After the lull and overall boredom of the last few weeks, her trial has reawakened a certain interest within the wizarding community - her name matters, you see. As such, the hearing themselves have been a security nightmare to organise. Each of the attendees has had to be searched, identified, and every belonging weighed and scanned to account for the dozens of bomb threats Robards' office has received. Access to the courtroom is as restricted as ever, with only a handful of press outlets allowed in, plus a couple of lawyers for each side. Her defence has already moaned about it in the press, saying her file is too large for just two people to handle but under wizarding law, there is no appeals process, so.
That March, her trial lasts a week. On the first day, the Head Juror reads out the indictment; they arrange scheduling. Harry isn't present - he finds out about the date and time of his own testimony from the press reports before the official paperwork even reaches him. As per usual, he's called in last - Monday, the 29th - after the defence's witnesses and what wizarding procedure refers to as 'neutral' witnesses. Aurors who've investigated the case, collected evidence against her, or former colleagues who testified as to her methods when she was in charge. In sum: Ministry employees, people the jury can 'trust,' and believe. Harry once made the mistake of asking Hermione what she thought about it, and bitterly regretted it when he was forced to listen to her twenty-minute rant claiming there was no such thing as a "neutral" witness, but that's a bit beside the point, he supposes.
As always, the prosecution goes in last. Harry is their only witness. 'Legally,' because, 'they had to call someone,' says Hermione. Given his most recent 'no comment' strategy, he was probably their safest bet for a minimum amount of fuss. They actually don't need any witnesses against her, apparently. Their case is 'airtight,' as they say, her sealed Ministry files included in the evidence and discussed privately amongst the jury in chambers - from what Harry understands, the contents were already more than enough to convict her. 'We don't want to ask people to relive their pain in a public forum,' the MPS recently justified their decision not to call any of her victims to the stand.
That day, Hermione and Ron rehashed their previous disagreements about cross-examinations ad nauseum, which Ron countered by reminding her that Umbridge never sought to dispute any of the facts in her case. 'She's admitted to everything,' he stressed. 'She's just saying all the things she did weren't illegal. Shouldn't be illegal. She doesn't need to question anyone for that. It's like she didn't get the memo You-Know-Who's dead or something.'
Harry let out an involuntary giggle before swallowing it the moment Hermione glared at him. 'You're just agreeing with the MPS 'cause you don't want to talk about how she tortured you in fifth year!'
'So?' Ron flicked a quick look in Harry's direction as he spoke, surprised but not displeased at his lack of denial. 'I don't want to air my dirty laundry in public. I reckon loads of people feel the same way.'
And, mid-movement, Hermione paused, about to grab a jar of biscuits from the top cabinet. If she had summoned it with magic, Harry's pretty sure the glass would have accidentally ended up in his face. She turned around and glared at him with a fury that almost rivalled that of You-Complete-Arse-Ronald-Weasley, wordlessly flew a hefty pile of almost fifteen magazines and newspapers from the newsrack to land in a loud thunk in front of him at the kitchen table. A couple hit his hand rather viciously ('Ouch!'); she promptly drowned his protestations with her own. 'You reckon?' she hissed. 'You bloody reckon?!'
And, of course, Harry knows what the issue is, there. Because: yes, loads of people do think like him (probably the same who earlier on thought the Ministry was wasting his time), but loads also think - well, differently . There have been people, mostly Umbridge's victims and their families, who have gradually started to come out in the press in the past couple of weeks, expressing genuine concerns and regrets about not being able to testify, not having 'their day in court,' so to speak (in the same way Seamus complained, last month, when they asked Flitwick to be the sole witness against Alecto Carrow).
'You know what's happening, right?' Hermione glared, armed crossed over her chest. 'Because under the guise of protecting people, with the sealed files and the witness bans, whatever Umbridge did with the full assent and cooperation of the Ministry will stay conveniently buried deep down, where no one can find it. It's appalling.'
'Sorry, whose side are you on, Hermione? I'm losing track here,' Harry countered. He has lost track of how many times she's questioned Kingsley's motives, but berated Harry for making his life harder, then blaming the man for burying shit under the carpet. She looked at Ron, who stayed silent in assent, then took her jar of biscuits and stormed out.
'You two are always so black and white, it's unnerving!'
All of this being said, it's not the stuff in the press or even Narcissa's reactions that are the hardest to handle with the trials - it's the opinions of people Harry knows . Because that spring, after his testimony against Lucius Malfoy (or lack thereof), Harry bears the brunt of Grimmauld Place's frustration at a post-war world that isn't what any of them dreamt of. The kids were all rebels, and they've now hit the brick wall of compromise and adulthood. As the start of Umbridge's trial draws nearer, Harry feels trapped, unsure what to do with himself, and the whispers he overhears aren't the most positive. Hushed - Seamus and Dean, like fifth year all over again. Their voices drop every time he enters the room.
'He's the only one of us,' Seamus says. There is the sound of his mug, dull against the wood of the kitchen table. 'The only one of us these feckers have invited to talk, and he does not'ing about it. Says not'ing about it. Fecking shite is what it is. He's just saving his own arse, saving Kingsley's arse. And, after everything, everything we've been t'rough, it just - You know what? I'd really started believing in 'im, I t'ought -'
'Seam-'
'Ah, don't you Seamus me like me mam.'
Before Harry can even process what is happening, that day, Hermione is the one who pushes him aside and flings the door of the kitchen open. Storms in, facing a suddenly terrified Dean and a stunned Seamus, lashing at the both of them and brandishing her finger, pointing at the House Rules she drafted last summer. 'NUMBER 6,' Hermione articulates. 'NO GOSSIPING BEHIND PEOPLE'S BACKS. WE TALK TO EACH OTHER.' Harry is surprised to find the House Rules weren't, in fact, cursed, but supposes this reminder doesn't have the intended result when Seamus rises up from his chair, standing tall facing the three of them, glaring daggers at Harry's face.
'Well, I've no problem calling him a coward to his face if that's your issue!'
To which Ron, who followed them into the room behind Harry, has already responded by drawing his wand and threatening: 'What did you just say?'
Seamus and Dean retaliate in kind, weapons aimed at Ron's face and Harry notices Hermione's fingers wrapped around hers. She aims at the floor. He looks at Ron and makes a decision before it all takes a turn for the worst. 'Expelliarmus,' he says.
The spell is instinctive, not particularly thought-out; Harry only realises what's happened when his gaze falls onto Ron's outraged features, mouth wide open, then focuses on the two wands now in his hand. The extra one isn't Seamus's. Hermione's look worriedly darts back and forth between the both of them, the boys all breathing hard with the adrenaline. At least, it seems Harry's actions were startling enough that the moment's passed.
He's fucking tired, he wants to explain. And, they're not fifteen anymore. The stunned silence that fills the space between the five of them is seemingly louder than his own breath and he quickly places Ron's wand back on the kitchen table. His best mate reaches for it, but puts it back in his pocket.
'I'm going for a run,' Harry says.
'Harry -'
'Leave him alone, Hermione.'
The flat's empty when he gets home, that evening. It's the weekend; Mia's gone to Manchester to see her mother and he misses her like he'd miss the tip of his fingers, like - like, she would sit on the couch and talk to him about things he doesn't know: Muggle History, and the Peter Principle, Chanel and Vuitton (Gaulthier, is the one she's said she wants most, says he's different and makes clothes for people, not supermodels, and Harry has tried to remember that, at the very least), like she allows him to move into a different world, other than fucked-up one he lives in.
I mean I know Seamus is your friend, he writes to Ginny, instead. Remembers how over summer, she said they'd got to know each other last year, being trapped in the castle with the Carrows after them, and when Harry had uncomfortably asked how much, exactly, she'd gotten to know Seamus, Ginny had burst out a laugh, shook her head at him. 'Seamus isn't interested in me,' she grinned.
'Gin, everyone's interested in you,' he countered, dropping kisses against the side of her neck, probably biassed (to him, she is and will always be the most beautiful girl he's ever laid eyes on), but -
She giggled. 'Seamus is not interested in girls, Harry -'
'Ah,' he frowned. ' Oh. '
(Well, he supposes being observant about that sort of thing was never his forte).
Anyway. But he went too far , he adds, that night. I know Ron will want him out of the house and honestly, I'm not sure how I can say no. I mean, it feels wrong to make someone homeless but …
It's another day before Ginny's answer reaches him and by then, Mia's thankfully back in London. They order a Chinese - she fills him in on her weekend and he tries to explain who Umbridge is, why it matters - she listens, but sometimes, he feels like he's moving mountains to just get lost in translation. 'That's a very mean thing for Seamus to say, Harry,' Mia tells him. 'I'm sure he's got his reasons but -'
Stop it Harry, you and I both know you won't kick him out of the house, Ginny, on the other hand, responds. It's like being stuck between a rock and a hard place: it sometimes annoys him that Mia doesn't - always get it - but it also annoys him that Ginny does gets it. He sighs, doesn't exactly like the fact that she's right. He'll just have to deal with Ron, he figures. But, it's not because you have qualms about him being homeless. You just think he's right. And, he is. So, stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something about it.
Well, he thinks, at least Mia was kind enough not to call him out on his bullshit. Annoyed, he doesn't write back for a while.
In the end, it is already the 26th of March 1999 when the jury finally comes back in Lucius Malfoy's case. His lawyers have spent an extra week trying to get him off on grounds of insanity, to no avail; Draco's father gets life, regardless of anything else that could have been done. The man was branded with the Dark Mark, anyway, so the verdict simply reflects what the law says.
It doesn't matter. Not really. It's a Friday evening and the weather is glorious, so the wizarding world just… celebrates. Schadenfreude at its finest, and the Malfoys have finally fallen far from grace.
Harry's people get drunk - too drunk - that night. Unfortunately, instead of joining in, he and Ron are stuck in work, spend the evening policing their mates, covering a double patrol shift. They arrest a couple of people for shooting celebratory spells in the middle of Piccadilly Circus (thankfully, the crowds make the incident go somewhat unnoticed) and prevent a bunch of idiots from breaking into Quality Quidditch Supplies ('Ah, come on! We just wanted to go for a riiiiiiiiiide !'). By three o'clock in the morning, the night finally comes to an end when they get called in on a bar-fight-turned-drunken-duel at the Leaky; Harry has to fix Hannah's broken nose himself, she explains she tried to stop both parties from stupidly injuring themselves - one of them more or less fell on her face. 'I'm so sorry for calling you. Tom usually handles these things, but I was alone at the bar tonight, we didn't plan for -'
'It's fine, honest,' Harry promises. 'I mean, it is our job, you know?' which thankfully makes her laugh. He's about to summon hand towels from the pub so that she can clean her face when shouts echo from further down the alley. 'I'm alright!' one of the men they just arrested drunkenly swears as Ron tries to help him off the ground. 'Don't touch me, I'm alright!' before promptly falling back down. They probably shouldn't, but all three of them let out a few giggles.
'Did we save the wizarding world for this ?' Ron quips.
Once the commotion ends, the two other lads they called for back-up take both drunkards back to the Ministry's holding cells. The three of them: Hannah, Harry and Ron, sit on the ground by the Leaky, at the edge of the pavement of a now deserted Diagon Alley. Two shots of Firewhiskey and a can of Coke. It's the end of their extended shift; they should probably have clocked out hours ago - that time of night between the late-nighters and the early workers, and Harry nurses the fizzy drink in his hand, sometimes touching the cold of the aluminium to his forehead. Hannah says she hides the Muggle drinks in the cooler under the bar, kept for a few, select customers. 'To Lucius Malfoy, I guess,' she says, and downs her shot, along with Ron. The three of them laugh.
They sit there for a while, watching the world move. Another drunk wizard hobbles past on the other side of the street, waves, then bends over to vomit in the gutter. 'Oi! Move on!' Ron shouts, startling him with the authority of his uniform; he has to hang on to the bin not to fall. 'Gross,' Harry's best mate adds once the man is out of earshot, words soon turning into a long yawn. 'Come on Harry, let's drive the car back to the Ministry and piss off. I'm knackered,' he suggests. Harry smiles.
'Just go be with Hermione,' he suggests, which he knows is the subtext, here. She's spending the whole weekend at Grimmauld, for once, and not bunking off early on Sunday to study for her N.E.W.T.s. The last time Harry had breakfast with her last weekend, she barely looked up from her colour-coded notes and schedules. 'I'll drive the car back, don't worry.'
'You sure?' Ron's eyes have lit up like Hogwarts in the night.
'Yeah,' Harry grins, nodding. 'Go on.'
'Ah, mate, I owe you one,' Ron smiles.
As he turns on his heel and Disapparates, Harry thinks: well, that is one good thing.
Later, Harry helps Hannah bring a couple of beer kegs back inside before driving back. She thanks him, locks the door behind them. 'If I leave it open, they come back in like flies,' she smiles. Harry notices it doesn't reach her eyes.
He stands in the middle of the pub; she walks towards the bar and behind it, rare golden strands in her brown hair catching the overhead light. From the storage underneath, she pulls out another whiskey glass and places it on the counter as Harry approaches, facing her. He watches as she pours a couple of inches in each, brown liquid kind of evening; he sits on one of the stools, she stays behind the bar. He fiddles with the note she slipped him with his Coke earlier: i need to talk to you. It is hardly the kind of message he wants to read.
'I don't drink Firewhiskey,' he observes.
'I know.' The smile she wore the whole time Ron was here is completely gone, now. 'You might after this.'
He wishes he could claim not to know what this is about. Doesn't dislike Hannah Abbott as a person, but frankly, the only thing they've ever talked about, really, is C.A.S.H.C.O.W. and when they do, it's usually with Neville and Luna, or Anyone Else, for that matter. She wouldn't have asked him to ditch Ron for anything related to C.A.S.H.C.O.W. He looks up at her; she avoids his gaze. He can't blame her, not when he's personally avoided being alone in a room with her since January.
Hannah looks down at her drink. There's enough sadness in her gaze to fill an ocean. 'You know, the thing is,' she says. Runs a hand over her face; her eyeliner is smudged under her right eye - not like: dirty or unkept but just: tired. Like: late nights. 'In the autumn, the Carrows split the list of students and went through all of our parentages. I got Alecto Carrow. Lucky me, you know? When I gave her my name, she said: "Well, at least that's done, we can already cross your mother off the list, can't we?" She just laughed.'
With the back of her hand, Hannah wipes a couple of tears from her cheeks. Harry sits, watching her, in silence, not because he doesn't know what to say, but because he knows there is nothing he can say. In the past, people have said a million things to him; they were never the right ones. 'Sorry,' Hannah adds, quickly. 'I had her sixteen years,' she says. Tears roll down her skin but her voice doesn't shake. 'Guess it's a bit rich of me to complain.'
Harry sighs, shakes his head. 'No,' he says. There should be words he could find, he thinks, words that exist to explain he doesn't know what is worse: knowing, or not knowing what you lost. Words to explain that Sirius and Giulia, and Remus don't feel the same as his parents, that he can't begin to imagine what it would have been like to miss his mother like that. 'It's not the same,' he says. Hannah sniffles, wiping her cheeks again, nods.
'I thought I was done crying about it,' she explains. Breathes in.
'It's fine.' It really isn't. None of it is.
They sit in silence, for a bit. Hannah's fingers move against her glass; she doesn't wear any varnish and her nails are bitten halfway down. She closes her eyes, opens them to catch his gaze when Harry finally dares to speak. 'I reckon that's not what you wanted to talk to me about, though. Is it?'
Hannah's mouth twists. 'No,' she tells him. Her index finger traces a vein in the wood of the bar between them. She looks up, smiles that same sad smile. 'You know, I've been thinking about it for a long time,' she begins. Her fingers move to dance around her glass, liquid twirling. Harry hasn't touched his. 'Trying to figure out if me telling you would make things better or worse, on balance.' He watches the glass touch her bottom lip, distorting its shape. She shakes her head, places it back down without drinking. 'But then, these past few months… You already know, don't you?'
She looks up. He holds her gaze. About what? he asks, in his head. Imagines Hannah biting her lip, glancing away. Perhaps, this is a mistake, she'd say. He studies her face, now, the faded black rimmel around the corner of her eyes. They're too old to play games. 'Yeah,' he nods. 'I know. She told me.'
'Oh.' For the first time, Hannah looks genuinely surprised, almost pleasantly so. 'I didn't think she would,' she says. Then, quickly shakes her head, amends. 'Not that she doesn't trust you.' A pause. She swallows. 'Or love you.' (It's stupid, isn't it? The way his heart tumbles against his chest.) 'I just - well, even in the thick of it, she didn't tell any of us.' Hannah looks down. 'Not that - it excuses anything. I mean, looking back, I - I should have known. It just never occurred to me, you know? Before I found out. That he could -'
Hannah sets her jaw, sighs. Never finishes her sentence. It isn't one anyone would ever want to finish. She grabs her drink and downs it before staring right back at him. Here it goes, Harry thinks. The thing he's been dreading for weeks without even wanting to put words on it.
'I only found out because I overheard them talking about it,' she adds. 'Alecto and him, I mean. I was -' her voice cracks; she looks away. 'I had detention with her. Got there early, wanted to get it over with. He was there and she said -'
Again, she doesn't finish her sentence. Harry glares, feels like he can't breath. His voice is at the edge of a cliff. 'What did she say, Hannah?'
'No,' Hannah says, shaking her head. Her tone is proud, final. She doesn't shy away from his gaze. 'I'm a Hufflepuff, so I won't say. We don't tell people things that will hurt them when there's no need.'
'Hannah,' he insists, annoyed. 'I need to know what she -'
'No, you don't,' she interrupts. 'Trust me, you know enough.'
And, for a very long time, that night, Harry says nothing. He looks at Hannah, in front of him, and thinks: perhaps, he always knew. Or at least, had an inkling, ever since Kingsley first told him Alecto Carrow wanted to call him as a witness, back when Hermione panicked, thought the woman wanted to see him go down for setting a Cruciatus curse on her brother. It never fit. Never felt like the Carrows, never -
'Harry, she knows,' Hannah reiterates, unnecessarily. She bites her lip. 'She doesn't care you tortured him. She's going to argue that -'
She trails off. Looks down at her empty glass. He can't keep his eyes off her face. The downcast glance and the nervousness, and the way she doesn't know what to say. He knows what to say. The words leave his mouth. He's suspected it for a while. 'She's going to say I killed him,' he says. Hannah looks up. 'That I killed him 'cause he raped her.'
And: Hannah doesn't know everything, that night. Because, he's pretty sure she takes his phrasing, his nonchalance, as fact. But, it's the first time he's ever said that word out loud. Not the first time he's thought it, of course, debated the exact phrases he should or shouldn't be using for weeks back in January, thought about all the ways in which it may not apply - not now, not to her, not to them. 'Maybe, I did [like] him,' she said, and 'I slept with him,' and 'I fucked him,' and 'it was my choice,' but it never was, was it? Not really. And, while Alecto's lawyer might still not see it that way, might actually argue Harry just killed his client's brother out of jealousy and passion, while Ginny herself would probably hate him for even thinking the word, it's just tumbled out of his mouth, now, and he won't take it back. It feels right. She was raped. And, she did nothing wrong, nothing to deserve it, but that man held a wand to her head and did it anyway.
He feels bile at the back of his throat. This isn't the kind of conversation he wanted to have tonight.
Tears are clouding Hannah's gaze again, now. She apologises. 'I should have told you sooner,' she mutters. 'I'm sorry, I wasn't sure… She begged me not to tell anyone. Then, when I figured you knew, I - I wanted to find a solution. Not just come to you with more problems. Now, if you show up, she - Ginny won't survive it if it all gets exposed.' Her hands are shaking with frustration. 'And, if you refuse to show up, Hermione said you'd go to jail. I asked her, you know?' Hannah looks up, pleading. 'What would happen if, for whatever reason, you - she asked me why. Got annoyed 'cause I wouldn't tell. I thought - I should have kept Ginny safe. I was older. I should have told McGonagall; she never suspected anything. Gin hid it so well. I should have -'
'It's not your fault, Hannah.' The words escape his mouth without thinking; she looks up, startled. He would like her to close her eyes and breathe. 'She didn't - doesn't - want anyone to know.' He catches her gaze, forces a smile. She returns it - barely. 'As for Alecto, it's like Umbridge. It's my mess to deal with, not yours.'
Hannah smiles, her lips pressed together. 'Yeah,' she nods. 'It's always you against the world, isn't it?'
He bursts out a laugh.
She walks him back to the patrol car, that night. They are mostly silent on the way there, both wrapped in their own thoughts. Harry thinks he needs to leave, now. Think. Think, quick. She speaks as his fingers wrap against the metallic frame of the front door. 'You know, when I asked about Umbridge, Hermione said you didn't want to speak about what happened to you.' Oh, here we go, he thinks. Hermione should sometimes mind her own business. 'I do get that, actually,' Hannah adds, though, before he can object. He frowns. 'It's a shame they won't let you speak about anything else, though,' she shrugs. Her cheeks are red, still, make-up ruined, but at least, she isn't crying anymore. 'You've always been good at standing up for the rest of us.'
He lets out a short breath, somewhere between a sigh and a smile. Good - yeah, maybe. It's cost him a lot. He'd do it all again in a heartbeat. 'Thanks, Hannah.'
'No,' she shakes her head. 'Thank you.'
And, after dropping the car off, that night, it takes him an hour to walk back from the Ministry up to Islington. An hour to think. Feel the anger in his blood, let it flow and hold it in, an hour take a leap, really, and decide to burn down the Ministry.
Which, well, brings him to back now: smoking cigarettes, waiting for the guards to call him in to testify. He's worked all weekend for this. On Saturday morning, mere hours after his conversation with Hannah, Hermione found him in the kitchen at the house. Sat in her study spot, early morning; half-awake, having left Ron to sleep in upstairs, she seemed to take in the scene. The three dozen newspapers spread out across the table in chronological order. Everything that Kreacher could find in the house, dating back a couple of years - articles they hadn't yet thrown out or tossed in the fire. Harry's Muggle legal pad, scribbles in Biro pen; Hermione sighed and sat next to him, running a tired hand over her face. 'I'm not going to like this, am I?' she just asked.
He stopped to think about it. 'No, probably not.'
The match he lights to start the fire that burns it all down has a funny name, this time around. It is called: Section 23, §152.87 of the Criminal Evidence Act 1781 - a bit of a mouthful. It's his only plan, of course, so it better work, for once in his fucking life. Others - people - depend on it, on him.
According to what he's read between the hours of four and six in the morning, that Saturday, Section 23, §152.87 of the Criminal Evidence Act 1781 gives any witch or wizard called as a witness in a criminal trial the right to 'read into evidence any and all material which they reasonably believe to be relevant to the manifestation of the truth, as it pertains to the case being heard.' To do so, the witness must personally endorse the evidence submitted as accurate, under the threat of perjury.
'Harry,' Hermione whispers when he pushes the law book in her direction (she seems to hardly believe he's even opened it). 'This section is used to let witnesses refer to their notes, or bring in evidence like their own records, diaries, ect. it's not made for well - what do you want to do, exactly?'
He's not supposed to testify to anything he hasn't personally experienced, he's been told, but that may be the loophole. On the notes he's taken, overnight, there were names, addresses, people who Umbridge persecuted and -
'You want to read their testimonies into evidence,' Hermione says. 'You want to use the trials to give them a voice.' He can almost hear the wheels turning in her head.
He looks down at his notes. Looks back up at her. 'We've arrested the main people,' he tells her. 'And, that's great. But you and I both know that if we wanted to arrest everyone responsible, you'd have to put half the population in jail.' Hermione sighs. 'So, it can't be what these trials are about.' Having those who suffered be heard, feel seen, that's what it's about. 'I don't like that it's just about Umbridge, and I wish we'd done it with everyone, but at least we can do it now. Make her victims louder than her.'
Hermione closes her eyes. Sighs. 'This is mad, it's -' He opens his mouth, she speaks over him. 'No, I don't just mean legally , I mean - even if you wanted to do that, this would take months, years. You'd need to get people to write something for you, then you'd need to make sure what they said is true, fact-check for accuracy. And, the Ministry -' she trails off. The Ministry has enough on him to sentence him to a life sentence in Azkaban, if they wanted to. The air seems to stick to her lungs, but truth be told, he's already made that decision. If he gets arrested, then so be it. At least, it'll be for doing the right thing. 'How are you even going to find these people,' she half-heartedly objects. 'I mean -'
'I'll help.'
The voice rises from behind her. Focused on their conversation, they didn't hear the door to the kitchen open. Hermione turns around, still in her pyjamas, and stares. Harry just looks straight at the boy standing in the doorway. 'Seamus,' she starts -
'Dean will help too,' he nods. 'Hell, this whole fucking house will help. It's the right thing to do.'
Hermione's gaze finds Harry, across the table. She sighs. The thing with Hermione is: she knows a losing battle when she sees one. Her tone changes, from anxious to matter-of-fact. Hermione plans, she's good at it.
'You'll need someone to write your speech. You can't just read that stuff into evidence as is, you'll have to find someone to put it all together in a coherent narrative, get people to listen. I don't think I can -'
He smiles, nods, tells her not to worry. 'You coordinate people who want to help on what they need to do,' he tells her, nodding to the bedrooms upstairs. Seamus has already run up to wake them. 'I've got someone for the speech, don't worry.'
And, now, 'someone's just sent him the whole bundle at eight o'clock, this morning. Before that, the lot of them worked at Grimmauld all weekend, sending owls and Apparating to people's houses, trying to figure out who, what, where and when, and most importantly: who wanted to talk to them. 'Someone' wrote as they went, Neville and Luna passing documents through the Floo. I hope you trust me cause you won't have time to read all this before taking the stand, she wrote on a note, pinned atop a seventy-page file she sent back. Jokes aside, I think you're doing the right thing.
(There is that, at least.)
That morning, on the 29th, the guards come to collect him about an hour after he steps out of the Ministry. Harry is on his fourth cigarette (he might as well), when he spots an elongated, dark-haired woman in uniform exiting the public toilets, a few hundred yards up the street. He sighs, drops the fag to the ground. His hands are shaking; he shoves them inside his pockets. They make eye contact; he walks back towards her, nods when he gets within earshot. 'They broke for a short recess,' she says. 'You'll be up in five minutes.'
'Great. Thanks.'
And: one, two, three, he thinks. It's funny, he feels almost as nervous as the day they broke into the Ministry.
Umbridge attempts to stare him down, when he gets sworn in. Glares from the back of the room, sat between her own lawyer and a Ministry guard - Harry hadn't missed her. She is wearing the same grey robes Lucius Malfoy did; they make it look like the colour has drained from her whole person, like if he looks down to the floor, Harry will be able to see a pool of pink dye like blood at her feet. He averts his gaze; her face still makes him feel like fifth year, like she is Right and he is Wrong, like he is telling the truth and she is smothering it. Harry makes a fist of his right hand under the table, skin stretching with the motion - the words are there, but not legible. He's never been more certain of anything he needed to do in his life.
The MPS prosecutor's blonde hair escapes in low waves under her wig and pointed hat when she begins to speak. Harry steels himself. 'I'd like to read something into evidence,' he simply says.
It's a shock, to say the least. The defence immediately objects. So, does the prosecution. A shower of legal arguments wash over him. 'We can't tell you not to,' the Head Juror finally admits, ten minutes later (Hermione had checked, of course). 'But, Mr Potter, I hope you know what you're doing.'
The words file out of Harry's mouth before he thinks them through. 'Yeah, I hope so, too.'
He takes a deep breath, and -
' Dear Mr Head Juror, Members of the Jury, Members of the press, Professor Umbridge,
Our names are: Hannah Abbott, Katie Bell, Susan Bones, Terry Boot, Cho Chang, Michael Corner, Dennis Creevey, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Seamus Finnigan, Anthony Goldstein, Hermione Granger, Angelina Johnson, Lee Jordan, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Ernie MacMillan, Padma Patil, Parvati Patil, Harry Potter, Zacharias Smith, Alicia Spinnet, Dean Thomas, George Weasley, Ginny Weasley, and Ron Weasley. We are writing today in our capacity as former students of Miss Dolores Umbridge, who taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry during the school year of 1995 and 1996, and as members of an illegal organisation formerly known as "Dumbledore's Army."
We have asked Harry to read this letter on our behalf, not as a leader but as a friend, and the only one of us who the Ministry has so graciously invited to these proceedings. We have carried out extensive research into the acts committed by Miss Dolores Umbridge throughout her employment with the Ministry of Magic, both as a Professor in Hogwarts, but also as Head of the Muggleborn Registration Commission, under the supervision of Mr Pius Thicknesse. Through this letter, you will hear from the victims of Miss Umbridge's reign of terror, which we know to have been cruel and ruthless, beyond the needs of any government acting in war time. However, as a collective, we would first like to formally extend our condolences and thoughts to them, and hope that our words in this public forum brings them some peace and recognition.
We trust that the following will help the Jury and the wider audience of this tribunal get a better understanding of the accused's behaviour, leading up to, as well as during, the Second Wizarding War. This, in the interest of the truth, especially in respect of the trial of someone so keen on not telling lies.' (You couldn't help it, could you? he thinks to himself. She must have noticed he never added his own testimony to the mix. There were much more important things.)
So, without further ado, here are a few facts that, for the record, we would like to make known.'
He reads for three and a half hours, after that.
Dolores Umbridge's barbaric résumé.
It's the best thing he's done for his world since last May.
(And, yeah, he's got a plan for Alecto Carrow, too, but he'd rather not say.)