Aurora could only be convinced to leave her father's bedside at the very end of visiting hours that day. Andromeda made sure her belongings had been brought to Tonks Cottage already, and Ted had dinner prepared for them and Dora getting home. Dora was staying the night, too, and for a short while Aurora could try and pretend that it was a normal evening, two years ago, before the world had changed so much. But doing so scared her; doing so reminded her of a world where she did not have her father with her, where she was lonely and uncertain and adrift, and she could not take to it.
The time seemed to pass so slowly and yet, Aurora had no idea where it went. Once everybody else went to bed, she stayed up, unable to sleep even though she felt exhausted. Her mind just kept turning over the image of her father in that bed, of Pansy crying before her, of the last moments in the Ministry before everything fell out of her grip. She replayed memories in her head; meeting her dad the first time, rescuing him from the Dementors with Harry, the first time she allowed herself to admit that she loved him. How she wished she had said it more, realised it sooner; how she wished she had been able to love him all her life.
She turned the light on around midnight, and fished Umbridge's letters and the report she had written up out of her trunk. She couldn't think on this; there was nothing to do for her father, and so she had to do something, anything else, fill the pit of dread inside of her. If she couldn't save her father, she could at least wreak some revenge, make some meagre attempt at justice.
The High Inquisitor's handling of events at Hogwarts School is indicative of a failing Ministry, grasping for control… Corruption at the heart of the Ministry has been enabled from the very top… Those with money and wealth are rewarded by the Fudge administration, with no investigation into their funds or their operations, and not a thought given to the morality of their positions…
It wasn't enough. It didn't feel like enough, to just go for Umbridge or Fudge, their already crumbling regime. She wanted to burn them all, the entire enabling pureblood society. Starting with the Parkinsons, and the Malfoys, and Traverses and Goyles and Crabbes and Carrows. It wasn't fair that her father was dying and any of them might leave this war unscathed, as their families had always managed to.
She stayed awake by candlelight until dawn broke through, and kept writing for hours until the rest of the house woke for breakfast. The report on Umbridge and Fudge was amended with veiled suggestions that Lucius Malfoy was using his wealth to influence the running of St. Mungo's. She only had a hunch about Crouch, but she didn't care for evidence right now. She just wanted to make them hurt. Just in case Lucius might be deemed not guilty this time, and weasel his way out of punishment. She wanted to destroy him, too.
She sent the finished report off to Skeeter, to be sent on to an editor she saw fit. Then she sent a less sensationalised account of her evidence and suspicions to Simeon Gilbert, head of the Progressive Party.
She sent Amelia Bones a tip-off about Mr Parkinson's tax evasion, and the supply of illegal potions in their cellar. She wrote in unidentifiable, capital letters, to Lucille Travers' mother, telling her of her husband's affair, and her brother-in-law's enabling of it.
When Andromeda asked how she slept at breakfast, Aurora gave a quiet, mumbled, "A few hours, I suppose," which did not seem to convince anybody.
She was back in St. Mungo's as soon as they let her, with the Tonkses all gathered at her side, and, to her surprise — and, though she would never admit it, relief — Harry Potter. Apparently Madam Pomfrey had discharged him now, too, and Hermione Granger had been pestering Dumbledore on his behalf to let him come.
"The Healers can't tell me much of use," Aurora told him as he sat down next to her, across from the Tonkses. "They're saying he'll pull through, but, I don't know. Maybe they just have to say that. I don't think I'm that lucky."
Harry made a humming noise, frowning. "He looks better than I expected, at least."
"You think?"
"Yeah."
Andromeda and Ted glanced each other. "I need a coffee," Andromeda announced. "Ted, dear, give me a hand. You kids want anything?"
"You know my order," Dora said.
Harry shook his head and Aurora said, "Just a regular tea, please, if that's alright."
"Of course, sweetheart. We'll be back soon. Remember to let a Healer know if there's any change."
The moment they closed the door, Dora came round the side of her father's bed and said, "Okay, I need to debrief you two on some things."
Harry sat up. Aurora slumped back in her seat, squeezing her father's hand.
"In the days since the battle at the Ministry, there have been five pretty significant developments. First, multiple Death Eaters have been discovered and convicted, and sent to Azkaban. Second, Lord MacMillan of the Progresives was killed, and his faction is pretty much on the verge of a coup, possibly even tearing Fudge apart with their bare hands for his incompetence. They're furious that this could be allowed to happen, on the Ministry's watch, and that his involvement — as a hereditary peer — was ever even necessary in the first place. As such, for the first time in a long time, the Progressives are the party with the most public support behind them. And MacMillan was a good friend to Dumbledore. That's got his popularity back up — people are supporting him in MacMillan's name. Umbridge has, of course, been ousted, but retains her position with Fudge until he officially steps down, which, I'm told, will be soon.
"The Order's secretive as ever, but Dumbledore reckons we'll have a role to play, even though it'll be at his command, not the Minister's."
"D'you think Scrimgeour'll make a good Minister for Magic?" Harry asked eagerly.
Dora took a long moment to answer. "I think he'll get shit done. But he's pretty ruthless. A good man — but, still." They all let those words hang in the air for a moment.
"We've got to go vote for his confirmation, haven't we?" Harry asked, turning to Aurora.
"We have to vote for whoever we think should fill Fudge's shoes," Aurora corrected. "Personally, I still think Amelia Bones would be the better candidate. I should probably do something about that."
She didn't even know how to go about trying to campaign on Bones' behalf — Bones herself had put her name forward, but the Progressives had gone solidly behind Scrimgeour, with so many of them having worked with the Auror department. But her head was too much of a mess to try and do anything right now, and she could not stand the thought of leaving her dad for long enough to deal with it.
There was still so much to do. She had to write to Leah, send flowers and condolences, ask about the funeral, if there was anything she could do. She had to know what was happening with Hestia's death — Remus had disappeared for the last few days, and she hated how he didn't even try to be there for her father, even now — but she did not know how to write to Apollo Jones, or bear the thought of interacting with him. She would have to go to the funeral, out of duty, especially if her father was unable to do so, which seemed likely. But she feared one more funeral might break her.
"Anyone's better than Fudge," Harry said, and Aurora fixed him with a firm look.
"Don't say that again, please."
"Well — alright, but at least Scrimgeour'll fight!"
But for what, Aurora wondered. He had taken to the werewolf ban with gusto two years ago. His family was considered pureblood for at least four generations now. She didn't trust that he would fight for anything more than the status quo. Perhaps that was all that was needed, for now, but even so, the thought of just accepting that made her uneasy.
"I suppose," she said slowly, "we'll have to see what happens."
"Don't worry about politics now," Dora told them both. "Just think about Sirius. Everything else will sort itself out."
That was blatantly untrue, and Aurora was sure Dora knew it. It bothered her; the platitude prickled.
There was a small movement from her father, the tiniest flexing of fingers against her palm. Aurora's heart picked up in hope, but then he stilled, and so did she.
She sighed, and said, "I want to make a speech at the next Assembly meeting. After the new Minister is selected. When they set out the new agenda and we have to confirm it, I — I just feel like I want to do something. Say something, you know?"
"I'm sure that'd be a great idea," Dora said, "but maybe don't tell my mum, it'll give her a heart attack thinking you're going to go off on one in front of everyone."
"Ah." She winced, recalling yesterday's argument in the common room with a start. "Yeah, I…"
"We're back," Andromeda sang as she and Ted came back into the room, levitating cups of tea and coffee in front of them. "Everything alright?"
Aurora nodded, thin-lipped, and took her teacup carefully from the air. "Thanks, Andromeda."
She gave her a wistful, sad smile and sat down beside her, placing a hand on her knee. "You're very welcome, dear."
-*
Aurora managed to start writing a letter to Leah late that night, having returned home with only a little more hope about her own father's situation. At least she had hope, she thought. Leah had none.
The letter was one of the most difficult she had ever written. It took up most of the night. Everything she tried sounded too stilted and formal, distant from the rawness of grief she knew Leah must be experiencing. She had done this before; she didn't understand how she could find it so difficult, when writing to Theo about his mother was so much easier and natural, easy to sympathise with. Perhaps it was the shock, or the unease of their relationship, or the guilt still burrowed into her heart. There were no right words, but she managed almost to find some that were not terrible.
Dear Leah,
I was so terribly sorry to hear the news of your father's passing, and for the role I fear I played in the events. I know there is little that I can do or say thag will make this easier, and nothing will ever fill the gap left in your life. But please know that, as your friend, I am always here if you wish to speak to me, or simply have some company with someone who understands what you are going through.
My condolences go to all your family. Though I didn't know your father well, he always stood out as an especially kind and thoughtful man, and I hope you can be comforted by the way I and many others remember him. Please, if there is anything I can do for you, tell me. I am here for you, and all your family.
Best wishes, and dear love,
Aurora Black
She couldn't bring herself to sign it as Lady Black. The title felt cold and political, and she needed, deeply, for Leah to know that she did not care because of politics or anything else, but simply because her friend had lost her father, and Aurora cared enough to feel her pain.
The next morning, Aurora glanced at the Daily Prophet with satisfaction. The Travers family home had been investigated and Lucille's uncle found, re-arrested, and taken back to Azkaban; her own mother and father were under investigation for harbouring him. Vincent Crabbe's father had been arrested for conspiracy and money laundering, and Pansy's mother for fraud and concealing evidence. Slowly, they were falling, one by one, and it brought her a grim satisfaction to see the way words could undo someone — the right words, at the right time, unspoken for too long and now unleashed.
Another owl had arrived for her, too. It carried three letters and a bouquet of freesias. She hated them. She didn't need the note to know they came from Gwen, Theo, and Robin; they were the only people she imagined would send her something right now. But flowers reminded her of death, not healing. Freesias were supposed to signify thoughtfulness, she recalled dimly from childhood lessons, but she looked at them and her nostrils cloyed with the smell of decaying flowers in a dusty room, a week after Arcturus' funeral, signifiers of other people's thoughts that she did not know what to do with.
She set the letters aside and asked Andromeda for a vase to put the flowers in, in the kitchen, where she wouldn't have to see them every time she came home. She knew they meant well, but the sight drew her back to a place of sickness and fear, and she couldn't stand the thought of another torrent of flowers and condolences and everything that that meant.
She was due at the Assembly at one in the afternoon, with Potter, but it left enough time for the two of them to stop by St. Mungo's and see her father again. "He's showing signs of improvement," Healer Wickens told Aurora and Harry when they signed in at the ward desk. "He was even conscious earlier. Just for a minute or so, but it's a very good sign."
"Do you think he might wake up if we're there?"
It was a terribly hopeful question. Aurora wished Harry hadn't asked it. There was no use setting oneself up for disappointment.
"Perhaps. I truly don't know — if he does, one of you should fetch a Healer immediately, alright?"
Aurora nodded, hoping Harry would volunteer for the task. If her dad woke, she needed every second possibly with him. When Wickens let them go, Aurora all but ran to her dad's room, slipping into the chair at his bedside. There was no response from him, except the light tremor of his fingertips. She tried not to feel disappointed.
"Dad," she started, "I hope you can hear me." No response. "They said you're doing better, so, that's good. Hopefully you can talk to me, soon. I've got so much to tell you."
Harry slipped into the room after her, taking the next chair. "Is he awake?"
"Not right now. Like the Healer said." She bit back the unnecessary words, Weren't you listening? There was no use being hostile. Not now.
"I just thought, maybe…" He trailed off, looking at Sirius. "If he could hear us. You know, it might help."
"He can hear us," Aurora said, sounding more confident than she felt. "I'm sure of it. But I don't know if it'll do any good. He'll have been able to hear most of the time, probably. It hasn't woken him so far."
"Right." Harry ducked his head. Silence fell between them, painful and stilted, and Aurora tried fruitlessly to ignore the sound of Harry's too-loud breathing in the quiet, still room.
"We should decide what to do. If he doesn't make it." Harry stared at her. She didn't know how he could make the thought of her father's death seem so shocking. "I can't remember everything I had to do with Lucretia and Ignatius... The Prewett side handled a lot of it. But I don't want Molly Weasley's help this time. I — I think I'd need to find a plot. He wouldn't want to be buried on Black family land."
"Are you mad?" Harry asked, staring at her. "You're talking like he's going to — he's not going to die."
"He might. And we need to be prepared. I don't think he'd want a big flashy funeral — the will should hopefully be straightforward—"
"He's not going to die," Harry said firmly, biting out the words, as though Aurora's mere suggestion was offensive to him. "We can't think he's going to die."
"He might. And then we'll be cast adrift and I won't have that, and it isn't safe for you to not know what you're doing."
"You're talking like he's already dead."
"I'm trying to be practical." She didn't have any black robes. She would have to procure some, somewhere, quickly. But she didn't want to. She had sat through too many funerals in uncomfortable clothes. "It'll be easier if we—"
"I don't want it to be easy," Harry snapped. "He's not going to die."
Aurora blinked, his words taking a second to set in. "You don't know that."
"I'm trying to be optimistic. You were optimistic."
"And now I feel like being a realist."
"Jesus Christ—"
"Don't bring your god into this."
"You're — fine." Harry took in a deep breath. He seemed to be counting to ten. Aurora tried her best not to glare at him. She didn't want to fight, he didn't want to fight, her dad wouldn't want them to fight. Death tore families apart, she knew that. They had to stay strong.
"Sorry," she said quietly, not looking at him. "I'm just trying..."
"Me too."
Silence hung between them. Aurora glanced at her dad and then back again, stomach turning at the pallor of his skin.
"Are you ready for this afternoon?" she forced herself to ask Harry, as politely as she could manage.
He stared at her, as though surprised by the question. She needed to focus her mind on something else. This felt concrete and tangible and like something she could do something about instead of sitting uselessly on a flimsy hospital chair.
"I think so," Harry said slowly, "I don't know what I'm going to say, if anything."
"How? You seemed to have plenty to say to Umbridge all year."
"Yeah, but — it's different. I was yelling at her, I was angry but, that's not really what the Assembly wants, is it? People are just coming round to me again, I don't want them all thinking I'm unhinged."
Aurora nodded, digesting this. "Fair enough." She frowned. "Do you have a first draft? I could help with it?"
"First draft?"
He said it like he had never heard of such a thing, like she may as well have said it in French. "Of your speech. You have written something, right?" The dazed look on his face told her otherwise. "Well. That's okay. Just, maybe… Speak from the heart. And don't yell too much."
"I'm going to be hopeless."
"You don't have to make a speech."
"Everyone will expect me to."
"Perhaps. That doesn't mean you have to do what they want. And you don't really have strong feelings for any of the candidates, do you? Say your piece about Fudge and be done."
"Tonks thinks Scrimgeour's the best option."
"Best of many poor ones." Aurora shrugged. "I want to be optimistic. I don't know enough about him or anyone else to know who I think should lead and frankly, I don't have the emotional or mental capacity to figure that out in the midst of all this."
"He's still part of the Ministry."
"That's kind of the only way to be Minister of Magic."
"Yeah, but." Harry let out a frustrated sigh. "Surely they're all shit? They're all part of it. None of these people stuck up for me last year, none of them tried to know the truth. Amelia Bones is the only one that came close. I know she's not an Auror but she's still law enforcement — and I liked what the Prophet said about her."
"You've been reading the Prophet?"
"Hermione made me. She's been saying all year it's good to know what the other side are saying. And it did have some decent interviews with the candidates."
"Damn. I'm impressed by your commitment. Lord Potter."
He glared at her. "Don't call me that. I don't want to be — anyway." He turned away, with what seemed to be a calming sigh. "That's just what I think. I don't like any of the lot from the Ministry."
"Would you prefer anarchy?"
Harry shrugged. "How should I know what I prefer?"
"It does seem rather a personal matter."
"As long as Fudge is out," he said, and from the force with which his voice changed, it seemed he had been telling himself this many times already.
Aurora merely hummed in agreement, watching him carefully. "I saw people are saying he's been part of taking bribes from people, too — Lucius Malfoy, for one. I reckon it's true, you know."
"As do I."
He frowned at her, cocking his head. "The Prophet said something about Parkinson, too. And Lord Travers... Did you say something to Skeeter?"
She smirked. "Perhaps."
Harry stared. He seemed to take a moment to digest this, then nodded, eyebrows raised. "Well. Well done."
"Thank you," Aurora said flatly. "I live for your approval."
After a moment's amused quiet, Harry said, in a hesitant voice, "I noticed there wasn't much said about Nott."
Aurora tried not to show the way that made her heart tense. "I figured the notice of Lord MacMillan's death covered it enough. And it was there — that Lord Nott and his son are both Death Eaters. I just didn't have anything else to get them for."
Harry raised his eyebrows. "You sound defensive."
"I'm not. If I could expose Theo's family for something else, I would, but I don't know anything. All I know is they're Death Eaters, which the Ministry knows now anyway."
"Right." He hesitated before asking, "You and Theodore are good friends, aren't you?"
"Yes." Her voice came out brittle. "We've known each other since we were little. His family never liked me much."
"I see." He took in a breath. "He seemed not too bad, you know. I spoke to him in the Hospital Wing — he was really worried about you."
It made her heart sink, and that made her feel even worse. "That's nice."
"He didn't like me much, I don't think."
"You were a bit of a twat the other night. I get it, though. We're all twats when we're stressed, aren't we?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah. He, uh, had a bit of a go, actually. Said some stuff, that he reckons I've not exactly been great to you, and I'm in no position to judge if he should be around you... Anyway." He paused. "It sounds like he really cares about you."
"And you're telling me this, why?"
He shrugged. "Seemed like something you should know."
He was watching her out the corner of his eye, curious. Aurora refused to meet his gaze, though her cheeks warmed. "I do know."
"Oh. Right." He frowned. "Are you two...?"
"No." She hesitated. No one could know, that was what she said. But this was Harry. Harry felt safe, in a twisted way — because he was in so much danger from every angle, because his presence by her side posed such danger anyway, having him know some secret felt inconsequential. Harry would never have reason to go to her enemies. And they all cared about Harry because of the direct threat he posed. He would die; he wouldn't be tortured. And she needed someone to know, and he was there, and it was quiet, and she said, "We were. I — I had to call things off. So we could be safe. His family would be furious, see, if they knew we were together, and they might be in Azkaban but if they get out, I won't be safe, and... Well, it was foolish for us to be together, anyway. There's no point getting close to someone you can never have." She felt her eyes burn, and turned away, embarrassed. "It was always going to be temporary. Anyway — it won't affect me going forwards."
Harry, tentatively, clearly unsure of himself, patted her on the shoulder. Aurora supposed it was meant to be reassuring or comforting; the motion instead made her laugh at its awkwardness, and she turned to him, shaking her head. "I didn't tell you that so you could pity me. But now you know. You can't tell anyone, though."
"Of course not," he said quickly. "I won't. Promise."
"Thanks." Aurora swallowed. "I hope I'm not letting it get in the way of my thoughts about his family. Theo hates his father and grandfather, of course. I — I know I can't let it get in the way." Harry nodded, and she forced herself to ask, "Do you think that I have? Let it get in the way?"
Harry considered, then shrugged. "I don't know what you know. I guess, maybe."
Aurora made herself think about this. She truly did not have any more information on Theodore's family that would indict them; she had suspicions, of course, that they probably harboured some dark objects, but the Ministry would investigate anyway. Perhaps, she worried, she was holding herself back from thinking about it, or considering the matter further. Perhaps she would never know what she was so afraid to think about.
"I don't know what to do," she admitted, "I want to have all the answers, a clear path to victory, but I can't even work out what I think victory is supposed to mean."
Harry let out a quiet hum. "Yeah, well, all I've got to do is kill Voldemort, and stay alive myself."
"Sounds easy enough to me." She shared a rueful grin with him, hands tensing in her lap. "If you can do it as a baby, surely you can figure it out now."
With a humourless laugh, Harry said, "I think if that were the case, Dumbledore wouldn't have looked quite so worried when he told me."
-*
Aurora was reluctant to leave her father in the early afternoon. He had shown little improvements, minor movements and response to her and Harry saying his name. But they had to go. She knew that he would want them to go.
They arrived in the Ministry escorted by Dora and Ted, and Kingsley Shacklebolt met them in the atrium. The marble floors were still scratched and scarred, and with every step Aurora felt like the whole place was going to come crashing down around her. Her head felt both empty and too heavy. She passed through the Ministry in a daze, down towards the Assembly rooms, where she and Harry separated to take their spots.
Lord Bulstrode gave her a nervous, sideways look. Aurora tried not to see Millie in his face. His nephew was a Death Eater, too, Harry had said. Their time was running out.
Around her, the seats filled up. Far too many people looked at her with pity, like she was some fragile bird dying on the pavement. She wanted to yell at them all that she was fine, that the last thing she wanted was anybody's pity, and yet, she also wanted them all to know how hurt she was, wanted to use that as a weapon to force their collective guilt and shame, to avoid feeling her own.
Many seats were left empty. The Nott seat, for one, and the Malfoy and Parkinson and Avery. Their lords had either been brought to Azkaban already, or were ashamed to show their faces and be lambasted here. At the last moment, just before the Assembly doors closed, Ernie MacMillan entered to a hushed room, ashen-faced, messy-haired, and sat where his father once had. Aurora could just about spy Leah and her mother and sister up in the shadows of the gallery. Ernie glanced at her, and then away again, gaze vacant.
A sharp pang went through her chest. She exchanged looks with Harry, who frowned along at Ernie from just a few seats away.
Murmurs started up as Ernie sat down. Beyond the empty Avery seat, Lords Abbott and Alpin whispered about the boy's appearance, what a great man his father was, and what a loss to the Progressive faction.
A moment later, Aloysius Vabsley brought the gavel down in the centre of the room, and brought Fudge to stand before them. The chamber went silent. There was not even a rustle of parchment or robes from anywhere on the benches or in the gallery.
"I stand before you here today," Fudge started in a wobbling voice, "to announce my abdication of the post of Minister of Magic. I open the floor to nominations from all Ministry Departments and the Minister's Council, and propose my own Senior Undersecretary, Dolores Umbridge, as my successor. I invite the Assembly to vote on whether they find this an acceptable replacement."
"No!" Harry's protest was immediate. He was halfway to his feet, gripping the railing. All heads turned to him. Umbridge, who was sitting primly at the edge of the room with the rest of the Minister's Council, turned pink.
"Quiet in the chamber," Vabsley said, with a warning look. "All those in favour, stand."
Harry sat down immediately. A handful of Conservatives and Moderates stood, but it was immediately clear that the proposal would not pass.
"I hear she's another one of Malfoy's puppets," Abbott murmured to Alpin, who did not look at all surprised. "And what I've heard coming out of Hogwarts school is simply frightful."
Aurora tried not to make it obvious that she was listening in, keeping her gaze fixed on the centre of the room, where Vabsley was reading out the list of nominees. All the nominations for Minister had to come from members of the previous Minister's Council, from leaders of the Assembly factions, or from heads of departments, or their junior nominees. Who was chosen often depended on how their predecessor left; it was rare for a disgraced Minister's council member to succeed them, unless they were on the council in the capacity of their Assembly leadership or department headship.
Amelia Bones, as Head of Magical Law Enforcement, should have been a nominee, but she herself had put Scrimgeour forward. Presumably, she wanted to keep a grip on the Law Enforcement department instead, with someone she trusted as Minister. Her speech nominating Scrimgeour was gracious, and his acceptance promised to work with her, to defeat the scourge of Voldemort and his followers. From the Department of International Co-Operation came the nomination of Maria Case, Crouch's shambolic successor; the Department of Mysteries put forward no one, by choice; the Department of Transportation put forward the rather dull Cameron Loos; the Department of Accidents and Catastrophes Terrence Caladon; and the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Percival Crane, one of the most vocal supporters of the anti-werewolf bill of 1994. Each made a compelling case, but in the end it came down to Scrimgeour and Crane.
Taking to the floor, Crane announced, "As Minister for Magic, I will seek out and destroy those magical creatures who threaten our civilised society and work with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to destabilise the Ministry's power from within the Wizarding world. Werewolves, vampires, giants — all have been utilised by dark forces to act against Wizarding society. I will ensure that Wizarding society remains safe. That all threats to our way of life are extinguished. And I will act decisively, firmly, as a Minister must."
He was met with raucous applause. Aurora's gut squirmed. What he said sounded nice, sounded useful — but behind it lingered an answer to the question no one seemed to want to ask, which was who did he blame? Not wizards, not humanity. He laid blame on the doorstep of all supposed Dark creatures. And it worried her, how he twisted things, to meet the agenda he had always followed. She did not give him any applause. She did not want to celebrate anybody in this place.
Scrimgeour was not much different, but he at least seemed to blame the right people. "We must act now," he told the Assembly. "The organisation known as Death Eaters have been operating in secret for far too long. It is time we stand against them, united. That means rooting out supporters of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's cause, restoring public faith in the Ministry, and leading the way in protecting the Wizarding population. Ultimately, we in the Ministry, and in particular the DMLE and the Auror Office, must be prepared to do whatever it takes to preserve Wizarding life, and end this terror."
It still felt meaningless, though Auror forced herself to give a light applause this time. None of them were good options; she realised, looking at the candidates, that she did not trust a single one of them with the power that being Minister bestowed upon them. Who was to say they would live up to their promises, who was to say they would keep any sense of morality about them when they held power in their hands?
When the Assembly broke after the candidates' speeches, Aurora made a beeline for Harry. They found themselves joined by Ernie, wringing his hands, seemingly unaware of the Progressive faction members trying to call him over.
Neither Aurora nor Harry knew quite what to do with themselves in Ernie's presence. All the usual words of condolence fell away when Aurora tried to speak them; they were too big, and yet not enough, and this felt like entirely the wrong place for them, and for him, too.
"Do you think—"
"Scrimgeour is the only way," Ernie said, wringing his hands and glancing between the two of them, "isn't he?"
"Well, I'm not—"
"He seems rather with it. Quite bright. Yes, I think he knows what he's about."
"Oh. Alright."
Ernie gave a decisive nod, then stared into the middle distance. Harry made a motion as if to try and pat him on the shoulder, and then thought better of it.
"I... Are you alright, Ernest?"
Ernie blinked at her, as though he had forgotten who Ernest was, then said, "Oh, yes. Quite alright."
"You know... It's alright if you're not. This must be a terribly difficult time. And having to come here, on top of it all."
"It's what Father would have wanted," Ernie said with a strained smile. Some part of Aurora hoped that wasn't true. He seemed so out of it and detached and still wounded. She doubted the late Lord MacMillan would have wanted to see Ernie struggle like this.
"Well. We all must vote with our own minds. I believe the Progressives may be waiting for you."
"Hm?" Ernie stared around, as though in a daze. "Yeah — yeah, I can go."
"You don't have to," Harry said, shooting Aurora a look. "It's alright. Anyway, we'll be called back to vote soon."
"No, I ought to go. See you both later."
He darted away, like he could not escape quickly enough. Aurora watched him go with an uncomfortable guilt squirming in her stomach.
"He's really not alright, is he?"
Aurora glared at Harry. "Well deduced."
"Should we do something, do you think?"
Aurora did not know what to say. She merely stared after Ernie, watching the way he floundered trying to fit around the older lords of the Progressives. "I don't know if there's anything we could do. Nothing we can do will bring his father back."
Harry's face clouded with guilt, and Aurora pushed back the part of her mind that whispered this was her fault, she had endangered MacMillan, that she should have been smarter and cleverer and that being around her was too dangerous, that no one would want to be near her anymore, that everything had been ruined the moment she told anybody else what was going on.
"You think MacMillan would really have voted for Scrimgeour?"
"I don't know. I don't know that it matters now. He is te best choice. But we can still make our speeches."
Harry looked at her with a frown. "I didn't think you were going to say anything."
"I want to." She needed the new administration to know what she thought, wanted to shout it to the world. She was in enough danger already — she may as well speak the truth. Perhaps it would help. Perhaps they had to dream of the future, hope for something better, to get through this oncoming war.
The bell to reconvene rang through the hall, and Aurora and Harry nodded sharply at one another. "Good luck," he said.
"Same to you."
Tentatively, he reached out his hand, and Aurora shook it.
When she returned to her seat, she could see Leah MacMillan peering over the gallery railing, staring into space. Aurora searched for Theodore in the shadows behind her, but saw nothing.
The vote went in Scrimgeour's favour, but only just. They were not united enough to make it matter, and that worried her; divided, they could not win. And she feared that the speech she had prepared might only divide the chamber more, yet, the more she heard her peers go on about policy and economic realities and strategy and flimsy safety measures and pamphlets, the more furious she got that they all seemed to be circling the issue that had got them there in the first place.
When Vabsley asked for speakers, Aurora stood, hands shaking, and tried to look steady as the room turned to her and went silent.
"I should like to say something," she said. Her voice was too quiet; even the amplification of the chamber could not make it echo loud enough.
"Many of you know my face already," she began, "though my voice has been, I fear, rather too quiet, during my time in this Assembly." A creaking of chairs from around the room. She looked around at dark faces and hoped some of them were interested for good reasons. "Now, I was only a child when the first war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named ended, and now as I and my peers grow into our early adulthood, he has returned, to a world that really does not feel so unlike that which he left fourteen years ago.
"I sit here and listen to everybody debate fine points of policy and safety and war, and that is all well and good, and will hopefully save lives. But I feel we cannot ignore the world which this world has erupted in. I see so many empty seats here, from those who agree with You-Know-Who and are too ashamed or afraid to show their faces, or those who have been caught attempting murder in his name.
"Over the past few years, we have allowed ourselves to ignore outright blood supremacy from our peers. The ideology which the Ministry claims to wish to fight, in fact has lain at its heart, and at the Assembly's heart, for generations. To simply fight a group of people, is not enough. It may save lives. It may stop the ideology taking over. But it will not stop it forever.
"Less than two years ago, this Assembly voted for the demonisation and dehumanisation of werewolves, building on a legislative principle supported by the supporters and campaign of You-Know-Who many years ago. Look around you at these empty spaces; those which were once filled by people exposed to be Death Eaters. How can we trust one another to maintain this war, and its principles thereafter?
"This war must be fought, and it must be won. But to win the war is not enough; we must know what we are fighting for.
"My proposal today is this: we must all agree to condemn the principles of blood supremacy as supported by You-Know-Who and his supporters. And we must put in place protections for those most vulnerable to being victims of the crimes thag such ideology encourages.
"It is not enough to fight an evil. We must put a name to it, and we must uproot it entirely. We must not let it take hold. You-Know-Who did not appear from nowhere and change the world; he built his foundations here, in the social circles around this Assembly, and from there he drew his first supporters. We, too, must be held accountable. We, too, must protect the people of this country. The Ministry will fight, but the Assembly must plan for the future, too. We must make a better world. So that You-Know-Who cannot rise again; whether in body, or in ideology. Thank you."
She didn't really know what to do when she finished, to silence and then a smattering of applause. It wasn't buoying like she had hoped it would. The words were carved out of her and left her feeling empty. They were a start. They were maybe useful, and they felt good to say.