ccxli. a parting threat
Mr. Flamel's snores filled the claustrophobic holding room.
Harriet sat squished between him and Perenelle at the table, bouncing her leg. Perenelle had one of Harriet's hands tucked between her own, held atop her thigh. Every so often, her thumb would gently brush her knuckles in a slow, comforting pattern, though Perenelle's eyes were close to closing as well. Harriet couldn't blame the Flamels; they probably hadn't slept in twenty-four hours, so on edge waiting for Harriet's trial and relocation to the Ministry.
Harriet wasn't tired. Not yet, at least. The Aurors had escorted her and her guardians to this room hours ago, and there they'd remained, no further information given. What had happened? Were they going to send her back to Azkaban to wait for the trial to be reconvened? Could she go home again? How much more would she have to endure?
Perenelle shushed her nervous twitching.
"What if it takes longer?" Harriet muttered. "What if—? Am I going to Az—?"
"Non, ma choue," Perenelle said, stopping her from finishing the thought. She yawned. "You won't be going there. It is all right."
"Is—? Do you need to go home? You're both so tired. You can go home and come back—?"
"Non," Perenelle said again, her voice sleepy but firm. "We're staying with you until you're home."
Mr. Flamel continued snoring.
Another half hour passed before the door opened, the loud sound of the metal catch scraping the lock jerking Mr. Flamel from his slumber. Harriet expected Aurors ready to escort her to the courtroom again, but it was Mr. Dirigible who entered the room, followed by Professor Dumbledore and Sirius. The latter looked odd in their Wizengamot robes, and Mr. Dirigible had the appearance of a man who'd just had a massive burden lifted from his shoulders.
"What iz it? What 'as happened?" Perenelle asked, her hand tightening over Harriet's.
"The Ministry has found Bartemius Crouch. Junior, that is," Mr. Dirigible said, the air rushing from Harriet's lungs as if she'd been punched in the gut. She gawped at the wizard, at a loss for words. "He was found deceased in the Atrium during the trial. Though dead, it is readily apparent he only found himself in that state within the last few hours."
"What?"
Mr. Dirigible nodded, then broke into a rare smile. "They've dismissed the trial."
For a moment, no one spoke.
"You're joking," Harriet blurted out, hardly daring to believe what she heard. Maybe she'd fallen asleep after all. She would pinch herself if she didn't think Sirius would tease her about it until the end of time.
"Quite serious, Miss Potter. The prosecution based your arrest warrant and the basis of this trial on the impossibility of Barty Crouch Junior being at the crime scene. Discovering he was not, in fact, incarcerated—nor dead in June—invalidates the warrant. In other circumstances, they might have tried to restructure their argument, but the court has decided to suspend all criminal charges against you. You will be free to go once the Aurors arrive with final release documents."
Harriet continued to stare at her barrister, at a loss for words. It was almost hilarious. Months of worry and sleepless nights, gone in a snap. Gone with a simple choice of "suspending all criminal charges." The Flamels made happy exclamations in French and hugged Harriet, squeezing what little breath she had out of her.
"I—I don't understand," she gasped. "It's—over? Just like that?"
"Just like that. Minister Gaunt pushed for the dismissal," Professor Dumbledore explained.
"Why in the world would he do that?!"
"Well, prior to this discovery, he was quite adamant there are no free Death Eaters, and Mr. Crouch's presence proves that wrong. It also calls into question the efficacy of Minister Gaunt's security at the prison and within the Ministry itself. No matter his personal desires, the last thing the Minister will want is to continue giving you a platform of willing listeners among the ruling body of the British wizarding world. He will want you silent." Dumbledore smiled. "What liars fear most is the truth, dear girl."
"What Albus means is that you made Gaunt appear a fool this afternoon," Mr. Flamel grumbled. He flattened his hand against the front of his wrinkled waistcoat and tried to smooth it out. "He is being prudent by refusing to let you back into ze courtroom where you would give his dissenters the opportunity to make him look an imbécile."
Harriet's heart beat heavy in her chest, racing despite how breathless her lungs felt. Merlin's beard, she thought, on the verge of hysterical laughter. It was too easy, too simple. One dead Death Eater, and suddenly no one cared to try the teenage witch in their midsts, Gaunt scrambling to spin the story and salvage his image. A mad part of her wanted back into that room, back in front of those witches and wizards so she could tell the whole story and make them listen—but the rational part of Harriet's tired brain wanted nothing more than to walk out of there and never look back.
"Whatever his reasons—," Sirius interjected. "Let's get the fuck out of here before he changes his mind."
Her stomach twisted when the Aurors arrived, but they only returned her wand and had her sign documentation for her release. Harriet didn't even read the documents, leaving that to Mr. Dirigible, who grumbled under his breath as he read and pointed out which lines Harriet needed to quill her signature on. Then, the parchment was gathered and returned to the Aurors. The door opened, and Perenelle still held her hand as Harriet stepped into the corridor.
People crowded the passage. They crowded it all the way to the stairs and the lift, questions being flung over Harriet's head as she kept her gaze averted to the floor. Stepping into the Atrium caused her to flinch from the noise—the boom of Aurors ordering spectators back, the sharp, rising cries of questions and accusations.
"We should have asked Bones if we could use her Floo," Sirius groaned as they approached the masses, trying to find a way through. Alarmed, Harriet thought these people were there for her, but quickly realized most had their attention was fixed on the fountain. They found him in the Atrium, they said, Harriet remembered. Despite the distraction, some still turned to their group, and Mr. Dirigible cleared his throat.
"I'll deal with the press. Please see yourselves home safe."
"Thank you, Dorian—."
They continued while Harriet's barrister diverted attention, though they still found themselves trying to cut through the thick of it to reach the Floos on the far side of the Atrium. Harriet tried to peer past the shoulders surrounding her as their pace slowed to a crawl, wanting to catch a glimpse. Perhaps it was gruesome or morbid, but she wanted to see Crouch's body for herself, even if from a distance, and only for a moment. Just to make sure it was really him.
Harriet's fingers slipped from Perenelle's when she stepped in one direction and the older witch in another. It happened in a moment, and a maroon-robed man slid between them. Harriet turned to find her guardian—and a hand clamped onto her shoulder, cruel fingers digging into the muscle connecting it and her neck. A solid weight leaned into her back as the person bent closer to her height.
"Your little friends will die screaming," Gaunt hissed with fury into her ear, bared teeth glancing against her skin. "And it's your fault."
His words hit Harriet like an ice bath, and she struggled, yanking herself away. The hand released as the Auror between her and Perenelle moved, and Harriet spun around—.
"Harriet?"
She searched the crowd, eyes flashing from person to person. Perenelle took her hand again, holding onto it more securely. Harriet caught sight of a familiar back moving away from them, striding with angry purpose as the two Aurors at his sides ushered people aside. Shouts of "Minister Gaunt, Minister Gaunt!" followed him.
A softer hand touched her shoulder where Gaunt's had been, and Harriet winced, already feeling the bruise forming there. Mr. Flamel had his gaze fixed on the Minister's back as well, narrowed in suspicion, and he guided Harriet and his wife away, hurrying after Professor Dumbledore and Sirius. "Come. Let's get you home."
xXx
When Harriet stepped through the Floo, she thought Hermione and Elara were going to crush her ribs.
She had only crossed the grate in the kitchen when she heard a loud exclamation, and her vision was blinded by a fuzzy cloud. Hermione collided with her first, then Elara, and the pair wrapped her in a hug so tight it pressed the air from her lungs.
She hugged them back just as tightly.
"I knew you'd come home! I just knew it!" Hermione cried, voice muffled by Harriet's robes. Elara didn't speak.
Pop!
Harriet blinked, then found herself covered in silver glitter and green confetti.
"Cheers!" Fred hollered as he set off another of their inventions, this time filled with gold and red material, his mother chiding him for getting it near the cake. Ginny clapped with him, grinning, and George popped another before Mrs. Weasley could argue. Mr. Weasley smiled from his place at the table next to Remus, who rose to greet the returning group.
Harriet and her friends moved from the hearth, letting Sirius through, Harriet clinging to Elara's arm when her knees felt weak. She couldn't believe it was over. This morning, she'd been prepared for Azkaban—ready for it, braced against the final blow—and now all the tension fled her limbs, Harriet feeling as limp as a noodle.
Hermione noticed and squeezed her arm. "All right?" she asked.
"Great," Harriet replied, grinning. "Just—a lot to take in, innit? They didn't even reach a verdict, they just—well, they dismissed the trial."
Puzzled, Hermione replied, "It was a ridiculous trial to begin with, but I hadn't expected they would come to their senses in the middle of it."
"They didn't. They found Barty Crouch."
Elara gasped.
"They what?"
"Found him. Dead, of course. But Mr. Dirigible said they based the whole premise of their case on Crouch being dead already? So they couldn't sit there like a bunch of numpties and keep dragging out that lie without looking like morons, so they let me go." Harriet laughed, short and tired. "Apparently, Gaunt couldn't get me out of there fast enough. I thought he might have an aneurysm if I kept telling everyone about the Dark Lord."
Hermione frowned, catching the tension in Harriet's voice. "He's not going to be happy about this."
Cold sweat gathered at the nape of Harriet's neck, and the bruise hidden under her robes throbbed with heat. "No. No, he isn't. But bugger him for now. The less I think about the Minister, the better."
What had originally been a rather grim birthday party for the Boy Who Lived livened with news of Harriet's acquittal, and Longbottom didn't appear terribly bothered by being overshadowed at his own party. Sirius shared the story with the others of how Harriet's trial had ended, and he crowed over Barty Crouch's demise despite Remus reprimanding him.
"It's probably best not to extol murder in front of the impressionable teenagers," he said as slabs of chocolate cake got passed around with scoops of trifle.
"You can't tell me he didn't deserve it, Remus."
"Well—."
From his seat by Mr. Flamel, Professor Dumbledore interrupted the pair. "Murder is not something to be celebrated, Mr. Black." He peered over his half-moon spectacles, accepting a top off of hot cider from Mrs. Weasley. "He deserved to serve his time in prison for his crimes, and though his demise has granted us great fortune, it should not be delighted in."
At the table's head, Sirius shrugged. He had his Wizengamot robes open and hanging off his shoulders, revealing his wrinkled day clothes underneath. "I have to disagree with you, Professor. Death is kinder than Azkaban."
"Oh, I have no doubt it is, but you mistake my meaning. It is not about kindness, Mr. Black, but whether it is right for one man to take the life of another in his hands and to choose to end it." Professor Dumbledore sighed, softly shaking his head at his own thoughts. "Whenever possible, such a decision should be avoided. I would have preferred to see Mr. Crouch returned to his cell rather than interred in the earth."
Snorting, Mr. Flamel clapped him on the shoulder. "Your soft heart will be your ruin, ami."
"Maybe. I cannot argue it is often inconvenient, but what is right is not always what is easy."
Harriet listened to their conversation. Her brow furrowed as she poked at her cake, smearing icing along the plate's rim as George and Ron sang another birthday song for Neville. She didn't know if she agreed with Professor Dumbledore, but she didn't disagree either. She never wanted to be in a position where she had to decide whether or not a person deserved to die. It sickened her. When she witnessed Greyback's death, the Headmaster had told her not to mourn the creature he'd become but rather the potential he'd wasted and the people he'd hurt.
She wasn't sad Crouch was dead—Merlin, no. More than anything, she felt…guilty for how relieved hearing of his fate made her. What happened wasn't proper justice. He hadn't been forced to answer for Terry's death, to confess what he'd done, to give Terry's parents peace of mind. Instead, he got to shuffle off into the afterlife and didn't have to pay for the heinous crimes he committed or be held accountable. He was just gone.
Harriet stuck food into her mouth and chewed.
But Dumbledore had also mentioned there not being other options sometimes, or the right choices being difficult. If Harriet had to choose between Crouch going to Azkaban or being killed, she'd pick the former. But what if the scenario was more complicated and morally ambiguous? What if Harriet had to choose between killing Crouch or him hurting someone else? Or what if she had to pick between Crouch dying or her going to Azkaban?
Suddenly, Elara disappeared with a yelp—and in her place fluttered a black-feathered canary. Harriet dropped her fork and held out her hand on instinct, the little bird dropping onto her palm. Birds didn't have expressions like a person's, but Harriet decided this bird's was decidedly stunned.
Then, in a puff of smoke, Elara returned, her hair mussed and body stiff. The Weasley twins roared with laughter.
"Like them?" George asked, pointing at the pastries Elara had sampled. "We're calling them Canary Clusters."
"Brilliant spot of fun."
"Boys!"
Elara glared at the pair, carefully fixing her hair. "I'm going to hex your legs off."
Mrs. Weasley gave her sons a thorough telling-off for not warning others of what they'd put on the table, while Sirius found the whole ordeal excellent and had to sample one of the pastries himself. He flapped over Remus' head—and then landed on the other wizard when he changed back, resulting in a fair bit of cake going flying through the air, both blokes falling to the floor, and the group witnessing Remus Lupin's colorful swearing.
Harriet laughed until her stomach hurt.
No one noticed when Snape slipped into the room. He slid past the gathering without paying it any mind, and he went straight to Dumbledore, bending to mutter something for his hearing. The good humor on the Headmaster's face faded.
He cleared his throat as Snape straightened, standing too far from the main hearth for his expression to be visible. "Harriet," Professor Dumbledore said as he stood and set aside his beverage. "Could we have a word for a moment?"
Popping a final bit of cake into her mouth, Harriet nodded and stood, squeezing past her friends to reach the door and follow the Headmaster and Snape up the stairs into the foyer. "Is everything all right, Professor?"
Dumbledore didn't answer her immediately. "Yes," he said, though in a tense, unhappy voice. "It has simply been brought to our attention that, with your trial being now settled, Professor Slytherin is requesting your presence."
Harriet blinked. "Wh—what?" she sputtered, the taste of chocolate and cream turning sickly and heavy on her tongue. "But it's summer holidays!"
"Your house arrest is the only reason you've been allowed to stay as long as you have," Snape said. Harriet thought he sounded odd, but she was too upset by the news to consider why. "He wishes for you to return."
"Professor!" Finding Snape blank and unresponsive, Harriet turned to Dumbledore. "Tomorrow's my birthday! I only just—. I—he can't—."
Dumbledore shook his head. "As your master, he's within his rights to require your presence, though we had hoped he would not abuse the privilege over the summer holidays."
Harriet's shoulders slumped as she accepted the inevitable, frustration replacing the relief she'd allowed herself to feel for the past hour. "Is it even safe to be with him outside of school?"
"He cannot visit undue harm upon you," he told her, and his choice of words led Harriet to believe Professor Dumbledore had been reading up on the rules for masters and apprentices again. "A master's care for his apprentice directly reflects his own status and abilities. He cannot deny you common necessities, nor can he keep you from contacting your guardians."
"Yeah, just everyone else, right?" Dumbledore didn't argue, and Harriet couldn't help but sneer. "Brilliant. Just brilliant. Free from one bloody madman, then back under the thumb of another—."
"I will be there."
Snape's interjection startled Harriet into silence. Indeed, it apparently surprised the Headmaster as well, as his brow rose and mouth flattened. "Severus?"
"I will stay with them, Headmaster."
Something in Harriet's chest loosened. She found the prospect of spending time with Professor Slytherin less terrifying if Snape was at least nearby. She knew Professor Dumbledore didn't want any harm to come to her, but there was only so much he could do, only so far she could be protected. What rules mattered if Slytherin decided to curse her? Would that really stop him?
Instead of voicing her doubts, Harriet asked, "How long?"
And Snape said, "For the rest of the summer."
She nodded, then headed for the main stairs to pack her things. She waited until she had a floor between herself and the professors before she lashed out, throwing her fist into the wall. It didn't make her feel better; if anything, it made her feel worse, her knuckles scuffed and throbbing. The ache reminded her of the soreness in her shoulder.
Cursing, Harriet continued to her bedroom. It wasn't fair, but that was the point, wasn't it? Because other people got to enjoy things like holidays and day trips or lazy summer days spent at home with their families, and Harriet didn't. Harriet didn't even have a home or family—.
That's not true, her own thoughts refuted. That's not true at all.
Harriet released an aggravated breath and slammed her door shut behind her. Turning to the room, seeing her things already packed and sorted took the wind out of her aggression. Oh, she remembered. That's right. I put everything together already because I thought—. I thought I wouldn't be—.
Slowly, Harriet's fingers uncurled from their tight fists and hung limp at her sides. She stared at her packed trunk and neatly made bed. The dull, distant glow of Muggles lights buzzed beyond her drawn curtains.
That was no point in her anger. Her life had never been normal and it never would. She was raised in a cupboard and made friends with shadows and snakes, and there were people out there who would do everything they could to hurt or kill her. She would never be a normal teenager, and the faster she accepted that, the better.
Listless, her gaze rose from the bed to the desk and the line of envelopes carefully folded and sealed. She recalled how difficult it had been to keep her lettering neat as her hands shook and trembled, but she'd been possessed by a need to record her final wishes—all her love and regret and memories, the things she wanted people to know if they never saw her again. She'd spent so long on those, hours and hours writing by candlelight. Harriet didn't remember when she'd last slept.
Harriet tugged the rubbish bin out from under her desk and, one by one, dropped the letters inside. One flick of her wand and a muttered spell kindled a fire in the balled-up parchment underneath, and the smell of smoke tickled her nose.
This morning she'd assumed her life was over. She thought she'd never see her friends—her family—again, forced instead to endure an untold number of days between four gray walls on a cold island, visited only by the crashing echo of the restless sea and hungry monsters devouring her hopes and dreams. Her life was not what she wanted it to be and never would, but it was hers. Harriet was not ready for farewells and final wishes.
"Be careful, Potter," Gaunt hissed from the bench. "Be VERY careful."
She thought about Professor Dumbledore in the dining room, telling Sirius it was wrong to delight in murder. She thought about difficult choices.
"Your friends will die screaming."
"No, they won't," she whispered, voice fierce, the fire licking up the sides of the bins as the letters smoldered. The light flared across her spectacles. "Not before you do."
The last envelope disappeared in a crinkling twist of soot and cinders, and Harriet doused the fire. She grabbed her trunk and Atlas left on her desk—then threw open the window before she left. The curtains fluttered, and the blackened ashed drifted on the breeze.
A/N: I don't picture Harriet as being pro-death penalty. She is, at heart, kind to a fault and very empathetic, and not someone who wants to hate others or wish them death. It's something she's going to struggle with, especially as Slytherin's apprentice. For the majority of us, it's an obvious choice between Crouch being killed or going to Azkaban—but Harriet finds the onus of that decision difficult to bear and accept. Thank Merlin she has Snape lol.