"Grand treason."
The accused sat in a chair, bound to it so securely the very texture of the backrest's rungs was ingrained into his accusers stood, forming a ring around their captive.
"Wholesale slaughter of Muggles."
The interrogator's voice was a monotone, strictly neutral. He merely recited the crimes without attaching any real emotion to the words.
"The murder of thirty-seven wizards and witches."
The bound man ignored him, instead choosing to inspect his restraints. Iron shackles encircling his wrists and ankles hampered his freedom of movement. He flexed his magic, but to his disappointment found it unresponsive. Inert. Likely due to the magic-suspension wards inscribed everywhere across the floor and walls. They were hewn into the stone as hexagrams, geometric star shapes with six points, each of which bore a diagram.
He could barely discern the details of the diagrams from that distance, but saw that each of them corresponded to a field of magic. The diagrams on the points representing Transfiguration depicted mice and humans. Those on the opposite points showed feathers floating on bundles of air, representing Charms.
Skeletons adorned the lowest points, bones bent at impossible angles. Those points flared scarlet as the wards neutralized his efforts to stir his magic. A faint hum drifted throughout the holding chambers as they activated. The scribe writing the transcription of the interrogation and the other wizards in attendance shifted in unease, though their leader remained unperturbed.
The skeleton figure corresponded to the Dark Arts .
Judging by the intensity of the light they emitted, Harry strained the suspension wards to their limits.
The question flitted at the back of their minds: if the wards failed for any reason, what manner of magics would they face?
It was unlikely they would ever find out. The wards were fueled by the incense that hung thick in the air. It was ground from Kingsfrond, a herb native to the Mediterranean and identifiable by the silvery veins marking its leaves. It possessed unique magical properties which included the function of powering wards.
The fragrance and the smoke wafting to every corner of the rom emanated from incense coils that hung above. From his vantage point directly below them, they resembled spirals, beginning at where the material was connected with a chord attached to the ceiling and then widening. Glowing embers traveled along the spiral, smoldering and burning away the incense at a languid pace. The coils had been set alight at the start of the interrogation. They could burn for extended periods of time, hours and even days, rendering him harmless.
Merely taking his wand posed more of a nuisance than a limitation - the Inner Circle members wielded such control over their emotions they could work themselves into a rage with Occlumency, the heightened anger allowing them some freedom with wandless magic.
His captors were free to do what they pleased with their magic though. Blots of dried blood dotted the central portion of the hexagrammic wards, shed by every member of the interrogation party. Blood magic exempted anyone who had bled onto the wards from being targeted.
The speaker continued, assured that his subject was helpless, and that he was not.
"The creation of five Horcruxes."
At last, a hint of nervousness crept into the interrogator's tone.
Harry Potter smiled serenely, tilting his head in acknowledgment.
The scribe muttered under his breath, as if marveling at how far Potter had fallen.
Albus Dumbledore, after defeating Grindelwald, had famously likened winning the trust of the populace to climbing a hill. The initial uphill climb was pure toil, spent facing distrust and mockery. Once cresting that hill, gravity worked with rather than against him. The comparison was remarkably insightful. Dumbledore, after achieving the deeds that made him legend, was rarely questioned. From the Wizengamot to the Order of the Phoenix, all accepted his decisions without reservation. The same could have applied to Harry. At a certain point his heroics were undeniable and the slander and ridicule disappeared from the press. A little longer and he would have been the most respected wizard in the Isles.
To think, all that loyalty squandered after fighting so hard for it. He had already owned the hearts of the people, but chose to be reviled instead of beloved.
Perhaps Harry knew it, even regretted it.
For a moment, the scarlet lights flickered as his efforts at reaching his magic slackened.
The interrogator scrutinized his subject.
The first thing about his appearance that struck Head Explicator Alexander Maazel was that Harry looked as if his soul was whole.
He distinctly remembered Voldemort's features. The structure of his face was blurred, as if the contours were carved into wax. His eyes were tinted with a demonic crimson, and his skin colored an unnatural paleness that bordered on gray, as if suffering from necrosis. The general rule was that the more Horcruxes created, the more misshapen the appearance of their creators became. Harry possessed the pallor, but there was too much definition in his cheeks and chin, and his eyes were as green as ever. He looked human, charming even.
How had he preserved his image?How had he succeeded in doing what Voldemort had not even attempted?
"Each of these deeds are punishable by death. Your lesser crimes by imprisonment."
The scarlet light that bathed them vanished abruptly. Harry had stopped trying to assert his magic.
The smile wavered.
"We are going to kill you four times," Maazel explained, steepling his fingers. "Spells such as the Killing Curse can force the soul to leave without inflicting a mark on the body. But your soul is no longer complete. It opens interesting possibilities. Who knows how long it might be forced to stay? You see, there are consequences to tampering with Horcruxes. You brought this upon yourself. Had you not broached the boundaries, you would be facing a kinder fate."
The former Head of the Auror Office's face whitened further.
Maazel leaned across the desk towards him. He longed to end Harry's existence, but doing so invited disaster and wasn't very possible anyway.
He mastered himself and, taking a deep breath, soldiered on.
"I offer you the chance to die but once. Tell us the locations of your Horcruxes and how to dismantle their defenses. We will destroy them, and you may die with some amount of honor intact."
Harry would not divulge his secrets, of course. Not to him.
They were not only colleagues in the Ministry of Magic, but peers in the Inner Circle of the Death Eaters.
Maazel grimaced, resisting the impulse to touch his left arm where the Dark Mark throbbed under the sleeve of his robes, burning with Voldemort's anticipation.
Those Horcuxes are precious, the pulsation seemed to say.
He did not know all the details. Harry had sacrificed much to gain the Dark Lord's trust, but he had done it only for one purpose. Voldemort had appointed Harry Potter his lieutenant only after making him a Horcrux. It was equivalent to shackling them together with the same chain, ensuring that Harry would not betray him. Sealing their alliance. Harry would have to commit suicide in order to kill Voldemort for good. The plan seemed sound in theory.
Unfortunately, all plans, no matter how well-conceived, came with their complications.
The Power Known Not referred to in the prophecy being an excellent example.
By becoming a vessel of a soul fragment, Harry had broadened the connection between his mind and Voldemort's to encompass their very souls. Harry had created five Horcruxes, to correspond to the five constructed by Voldemort that still remained. If he knew little about the situation, Maazel knew nearly nothing at all about the mechanics, except for the basics. If one of Harry's was to be destroyed, so then would one of Voldemort's follow.
The locations of Voldemort's Horcruxes were unknown and their protections formidable, but such measures were meaningless unless Harry's were similarly guarded.
The war favored the Dark Lord at the moment. Voldemort amassed ever increasing numbers of new followers and the Ministry was weakening, but that advantage could disappear overnight. Harry might have sent agents to retrieve his own Horcruxes and to destroy them. At worst, they were already gone, in which case Voldemort's survival was wholly dependent on Harry's, as the final Horcrux. At best, the Aurors had captured Harry before he could set his plan into motion.
Either way, killing him outright was out of question.
Harry Potter smirked knowingly.
"Not while we are in the same room."
"I could leave," Maazel suggested. "I will take an Oath, to leave the Ministry and retire to my home for the evening. There are plenty of Explicators eager to take my place. You may request whomever you wish."
Harry considered his proposal, then turned to the other wizards of the interrogation party, addressing the scribe.
"What say you, good sir?"
The young man holding the quill froze in mid-scribble, and merely stared at the opposite wall vacantly, mouth falling open. The delay confirmed Harry's suspicions.
"No, Maazel," he said gently, "Whether you stay or leave makes no difference when your entire staff is Imperiused."
Maazel openly clutched his forearm, relieved to drop the facade. Pretense got tiresome, especially when it was pointless. He briefly wondered whether Harry's Mark was similarly heated, before turning his mind to the matter at hand. The most ideal option eliminated, he considered those that remained. He could try to force the locations out, but he instinctively knew such efforts would be wasted.
Some men softened under torture, men like Potter hardened.
Explicators specialized in extracting information from unwilling minds, using a mixture of Legilimency and physical violence. The Dark Lord stringently conditioned his closest advisers against torture though, making Harry even less likely to yield to pain. Maazel knew for a fact that he himself would not break under the treatment of the Explicators. The same could be said for Harry, who he grudgingly admitted was the superior wizard.
"You leave me at an impasse."
Harry nodded somberly, mouth set in a thin line.
Slowly, Maazel drew his wand from its holster and slapped it down on the desk between them. Fingering it while Harry watched silently, he considered his next course of action. Harry had always been a nuisance of a rival, vying for the Dark Lord"s favor.
The corners of his lips curved into a bloodthirsty snatched up his wand, and with his other hand he gestured to his companions.
Harry Potter's slow death began in earnest.