Harry regained consciousness. With it came thoughts of the worst: Death Eaters, Voldemort, and imminent torture. None of that met him when he finally opened his eyes. He was sat upright in one of the forbidding chairs he'd seen Barty Crouch Jr in during his trial, shackles at his neck, wrists and ankles.
It wasn't exactly a source of comfort to realise he was in the Ministry, but the roar of fight-or-flight in his mind diminished. It did not fade entirely. The Ministry were a largely unknown quantity under Scrimgeour, but he'd faced the Wizengamot, Umbridge, and Cornelius Fudge. He could face the unknown bureaucrat sat across from him even while he desperately prayed that his friends had gotten out safely.
The slim, long-haired man was dressed in a pinstriped suit with a black robe layered on top. Meeting Harry's gaze with a cool nod, he cleared his throat.
"Finally awake, Mr Potter," he said. "You're in the custody of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
Harry didn't bother to answer, too preoccupied with the fact he couldn't feel his wand or notebook on him. This could have all been avoided if he'd bothered to bring his Invisibility Cloak or if he'd simply asked Blaise to Disillusion him. So caught up in getting the wards dealt with, he'd abandoned his common sense.
Damn his impulsiveness.
Moving from his self-chastisement, Harry took in his surroundings. The vault-like room was empty apart from his own chair and the bench the man was sat on. The walls were covered in a black, triangular metal mesh. There was something about it that made Harry feel trapped, as if the room were dead, and this impression wasn't helped by the fact that he couldn't see a single door. Extending his senses confirmed his suspicions. He'd naively hoped that by some miracle he'd feel the heavy embrace of Blaise's magic just outside waiting for him, but there was only nothingness.
"Inert magical lodestone from floor to ceiling, Mr Potter," the man said. "You'll find not even a squeak of wandless magic is possible within these walls. We learned the hard way the first time during the First Wizarding War when Bellatrix Lestrange wandlessly summoned a wand and massacred a squad of Aurors."
Harry's silent tactic broke at the mere mention of the hated witch's name. "You think I'm anything like her? Who are you?"
"Pius Thicknesse, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I'll be questioning you. In answer to your first question, one could argue that attempting to infiltrate a well-respected Ministry employee's home, particularly one currently under the enhanced vigilance that comes with witness protection, would be the act of a Death Eater."
Harry shook his head at Umbridge being a well-respected anything.
Thicknesse retrieved a pile of parchment from the bench next to him and pulled an officious-looking quill from his pocket. He held it up to his lips.
"Calibration test. It is six thirty pm, and the date is the twenty-second of June 1997. The lead interrogator is Pius Maximilian Thicknesse, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, questioning one Harry James Potter on suspicion of trespassing on a private residence and attempted sabotage of Ministry enchantments. Please commence."
He placed the quill to the parchment, and the quill jumped into life, copying his words verbatim. Harry had to have been out for more than two hours, and that realisation was strangely calming. It was more than enough time for his friends to have returned to Hogwarts and alerted Dumbledore.
Once the quill came to a halt, Thicknesse leaned in, resting his arms on his knees.
"You are Harry James Potter of 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?"
If cooperation would spare him Veritaserum or worse, Harry would play along for now. They both knew that this was a farce. "Yes."
It continued like that for several minutes; Thicknesse asked a series of questions that served to prove his identity. Harry would have been lulled into a false sense of security by it if not for the shackles holding him tight to his seat.
That and the intensifying prickle of his scar. It was a foreboding sign.
"The wood of your wand is rowan, Mr Potter?"
Harry frowned. "No, it's holly."
Thicknesse smiled thinly, and Harry had the horrible impression that he'd miscalculated horribly.
"Now that I'm assured of your identity, we can proceed to your presence at Madam Umbridge's property."
Harry maintained his calm as best as he could under the piercing weight of Thicknesse's eyes.
"Were you at the residence of Dolores Jane Umbridge this afternoon?"
"Yes."
"Were you present at the ward-line of her residence?"
"Yes."
"Did you intend to attack her?"
"No."
"What of your accomplices? What were their intentions?"
Before Harry could answer, a door materialised into existence to Thicknesse's right. It yawned open, offering a peek to a warmly lit corridor before Umbridge appeared. Even in her customary pink robes and her black, velvet bow on her head, her wrath was terrible to behold. Her hands drew his attention. They were incredibly red and shiny, as if the skin had recently been healed.
Harry barely held in his laugh at realising Blaise's letter curses had pulled through.
"Has he confessed yet?" she demanded.
"Cease," Thicknesse said to the quill. "Erase the last two lines."
It did as requested before falling limply across the parchment.
"Director, I asked you a question," Umbridge said.
Harry knew hatred oozed from his very being as he met her gimlet-eyed gaze. Thicknesse's presence was likely the only thing stopping her from finishing that Cruciatus Curse she'd hinted at a year ago.
"Madam Undersecretary," Thicknesse said, finally turning to face her. "I am in the middle of questioning Mr Potter."
The scar on the back of his hand twitched as Umbridge passed the threshold of the room. It sealed shut behind her, the door melting seamlessly into the wall.
"Thicknesse," she simpered. Her saccharine tone was discordant enough normally, but when coupled with the murderous hatred in her eyes, it was unnerving. "You do remember who recommended you to the Minister for this position, don't you?"
The wizard frowned. "Of course, Madam Undersecretary."
With every step Umbridge took towards him, the locket taunted him with its presence, glimmering brilliantly from her fleshy neck. Yet the pain in Harry's scar didn't intensify in its presence and a tiny seed of hope bloomed in his chest, realising that his friends had been successful.
He hoped they weren't too worried and that they were safe.
"Hello, Dolores," Harry said, feeling a savage smirk on his face. "Hope you've been well."
Umbridge's hand twitched at her side, reaching for her wand before thinking better of it.
"I'd hoped that the message had sunk in, Mr Potter," Umbridge said in a heavy whisper as she stood in front of Thicknesse, filling his vision with her loathsome frame.
"I must not tell lies," Harry confirmed.
"It would seem not!" she screeched in his face. "Raiding a senior, esteemed Ministry official's residence like a common brigand with your little friends!"
Harry sneered at her. "I was acting alone."
Her chubby hand grabbed his chin, digging her gaudy rings into his jaw as she squeezed it. Harry's pain tolerance had always been good, so he stared back up at her, hoping that every bit of loathing he had for her was made perfectly known.
"Dolores," Thicknesse said warningly.
Her carefully maintained smile wobbled a little, offering a peek into the madness the twitching hand at his chin merely suggested at.
"Do. Not. Lie. To. Me," she whispered to Harry, ignoring the wizard behind her. "I know that… foreign wizard, Leandro Almeida, was with you, looking to steal my Selwyn heirloom. Once I've gotten everything I need from you, and you're tucked away in a cell in Azkaban where you won't be able to even make a peep of a sound, I'll make it my life's work to have him join you."
"Good luck with that," Harry said. He eyed the locket around her neck. "Umbridge is your unremarkable, common name, not Selwyn. I hope you never forget that, even with your new, shiny necklace."
The grip at his face grew vice-like, but Harry stared up at her murderous eyes and powered through the pain by indulging himself with the idea of spitting at her.
"You'll always just be a common toady, a yes-woman quill-pusher, an accomplice to the worst in our society, and the worst part is – "
Harry hissed as his cheek stung with the power of her slap, but he opted to continue digging in the knife. She was derailing the interrogation, buying him time.
"The worst part is they'll never, ever accept you."
She frantically drew for her wand with her free hand, but Thicknesse held her arm fast.
"Madam Umbridge! Please leave."
"I will not tolerate this defiance," she whispered, and her voice rose once more to a shriek. "I will not have it, Director! A prompt confession from this… filthy half-blood, or I'll have a wizard of the correct stature handle this case."
"Such as, Madam Umbridge?"
She giggled hoarsely, even as her eyes bulged in their sockets. "Yaxley, of course."
Releasing Harry roughly, she stepped away. The door reappeared once more, and another was stood at the entrance.
"Dawlish! You have the Veritaserum?" Thicknesse asked.
The tall, grizzled wizard nodded and stepped forward, a damning vial of translucent liquid in his hand.
Harry had met the Auror before in fifth year when he'd been effortlessly defeated by Dumbledore, and he'd seen him around Hogsmeade patrolling. Of all the people in the room, Harry found himself oddly discomforted by his presence above all others. While Thicknesse was a consummate professional and Umbridge was herself, there was something in Dawlish's eyes, a hardness that spoke of things seen and done, that made him seem like a lion among sheep. He'd never connect the man in front of him with the constantly Confunded and jinxed individual that had become a laughing stock of the Order.
There was a queer smile on Thicknesse's ordinarily placid face as he accepted the Veritaserum. It was a shocking contrast with the calmness in his eyes. It looked like it didn't belong.
"I must applaud your calm, Mr Potter," Thicknesse said. "Sadly, it's all for naught. You'll share all you know in due course."
Umbridge giggled from the doorway. "All your secrets, Potter. All of Dumbledore's secrets. You'll share them all."
With a flick of Thicknesse's wand, Harry's mouth was magically held open and additional shackles appeared around his chest and thighs. There was no room for struggle, but he didn't need to.
Dawlish exploded into motion, and Thicknesse fell onto Harry's feet, subject to a lightning-fast Stunner. The potion shattered, the liquid forming a small puddle on the unconscious wizard's robes.
"Don't let her get away," Harry cried, able to move his mouth freely once more.
With predatory grace, Dawlish turned to face Umbridge.
"Dawlish, I'll have your wand for this!" Umbridge screamed.
She fumbled with her stubby wand, but Dawlish moved incredibly quickly. Unable to turn his head, Harry couldn't see the struggle. There was a brief yell from Umbridge, and then there was a loud crack. She fell back into his vision, staring blankly at the ceiling, mouth open in one final, soundless scream.
"You… you killed her," Harry whispered.
The burly Auror smiled at him, even as his deadly hands carelessly pushed Thicknesse off Harry's feet. "I must admit it was a little personal. Will you miss her?"
Harry shook his head, though his eyes couldn't leave Umbridge as Dawlish stood in front of him. He'd made it look too easy, like swatting a fly.
"Aren't you meant to be patrolling Hogsmeade with Savage, Proudfoot and Tonks?"
With a tap of Dawlish's wand, the shackles freed him. Harry leapt to his feet, stretching and hoping to encourage circulation to his dead legs as soon as possible.
"She hit you," Dawlish murmured, sounding furious. With a jab of his wand, the aching sting of Umbridge's rings against his cheek vanished.
Dawlish nodded approvingly as Harry smiled in relief. "Dumbledore sent me. I wasn't given much time to prepare, so I fear we may have to fight our way out. There will likely be Aurors and Hit Wizards to get through."
Harry accepted his wand from the grey-haired Auror. "Non-lethal means, right?"
"Of course," Dawlish said, "though I can't make any promises for Thorfinn Rowle if I see him."
Without another word, Dawlish made his way to where the door had last been visible. He didn't pay Umbridge any mind, but Harry walked to her body. Dawlish watched silently as Harry vanished the locket around her neck.
"I'm ready."
They walked down the narrow corridor at a brisk pace, eventually reaching an unassuming black door. Harry could feel the magic of haphazardly cast wards bleeding off it. While Dawlish quietly assessed the enchantments, Harry simply broke them with a careful flick of his wand.
"Excellent. You may be useful yet," Dawlish said in a low whisper. "I'm told you're an aspiring wardmaster. Cover me."
With a powerful Blasting Curse from Dawlish, the door flew off its handle. Dawlish charged through, his wand at the ready. Harry stepped in after him, finding themselves in a tightly enclosed waiting room. Several witches and wizards were waiting for them, and they stared nonplussed at Dawlish, not able to see Harry crouched behind him.
"Dawlish?" One wizard asked and a second later he fell to the floor, petrified.
"Potter!"
Harry rose every ward he knew around them, and he guarded the deadly Auror with his best Shield Charm and carefully aimed Stunners. Between Dawlish's lightning-fast offense, his wand a maelstrom in motion, and his own contributions, they were very quickly surrounded by the now unconscious occupants of the room.
"Pathetic," Dawlish muttered.
As Dawlish passed the large table in the middle of the room, skirting past bodies with the same nonchalance he'd displayed Umbridge, Harry barely blocked the Disarming Charm from one of the prone wizards on the floor.
The wizard, with one of Fred and George's Shield Hats perched on his head, opened his mouth to curse them once more before suddenly collapsing to the floor.
Moody stalked around the corner, staff in one hand and his wand in the other. There was cold fury in his craggy face.
"Thanks, Moody," Harry said.
"You've got the lad. Good," Moody said after giving him a once-over. "Shacklebolt has the lift ready for you past the incident room. Just keep going straight and take the final right turn."
"You have my thanks," Dawlish said.
Before they could move, a sharp lance of pain ran through Harry's scar. Gasping in surprise, he lifted a hand to his scar.
"It seems rather inflamed," Dawlish said.
With a flick of Dawlish's wand, an icy cool spread across Harry's forehead. It didn't diminish the pain, but it did give him something else to focus on. Anything but the foreign triumph, fury and anticipation that warred within his mind. One particularly powerful jab of it had him nauseous.
"Easy, easy," Moody murmured, patting him on the shoulder.
Harry hissed against the pain. "He… he thinks he's got me."
"Double time then," Moody said without missing a beat. "I'll misdirect any stragglers. Off with you."
They took the rest of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at a steady run, stunning and petrifying any unfamiliar faces as they appeared. With the element of surprise, it was easy, and a small part of Harry wondered just how dependent even the DMLE were on Fred and George's Shield Hats. He'd seen at least half a dozen by the time they reached the end of the winding corridor. As they turned right, a magically projected voice filled the air.
"The Ministry will be going into lockdown level three within five minutes," the emotionless female voice said.
There was an air of urgency in them both by the time they reached the lift. Kingsley stood in front of the golden grille of the lift.
"Kingsley," Harry said, happy to see a familiar face.
He dipped his head in acknowledgement, but his face remained grave. "You have little time; the Minister has been summoned."
"Death Eaters are coming," Harry added.
Kingsley's voice was as level as always at the ominous news. "Then we will meet them. I will accompany you to the entrance."
They stepped past the golden grille and into the lift together. Kingsley tapped his wand along a series of runic buttons along the lift's golden frame, and they were suddenly lurching backwards, diagonally and upwards at breakneck pace.
"The lockdown," Dawlish said. "Will we have an exit?"
Kingsley turned from his vigil at the lift entrance. "Lockdown level three ordinarily disables all the lifts. Luckily, I know the override. Exit-wise, the anti-Apparition wards will first be raised, then the toilet entrances sealed, and finally the Floo Network disconnected."
They came to a stop with the voice announcing that they'd arrived on the ground floor. They exited the lift in a hurry, even as the voice continued to detail the simulated weather that could be found on the floor.
"We have perhaps two or three minutes," Dawlish said.
"I suggest we sprint," Kingsley added with a smile.
They pushed through the crush of people exiting the foyer connected to the lifts. Once free, they ran once more, entering the main atrium of the Ministry. The steady slap of their feet against the polished tile of the Ministry was almost as deafening as Harry's own breathing, and as they passed the Fountain of Magical Brethren, an oily voice called to them.
They all turned, wands at the ready.
"Shacklebolt," the wizard at the front of the group said. "I see you're stood in the presence of two criminals."
The wizard that approached them was flanked by perhaps a dozen others. Of them, he recognised Goyle Senior and the Carrows from the graveyard.
"Yaxley," Kingsley said. "I'm afraid we have no time to chat."
With a wave of Kingsley's wand, an earthen wall flew out of the ground, spanning the entire corridor behind them. It shook with the impact of multiple Blasting Curses.
"Go, Harry!" Kingsley barked. "You have little time!"
"Protego horribilis," Harry cried.
The shield hugged tightly to Kingsley's powerful form, and he nodded in gratitude at Harry as his improvised barrier began to crumble.
Harry hesitated once more, wanting to help, but Dawlish pulled him forward. And then they were sprinting past the abandoned security gates, the sounds of spell fire growing fainter and fainter with every step.
The fireplaces at the end of the long stretch of corridor were a welcome sight. There was a technician going from fireplace to fireplace, left to right, and at each of them, he waved his wand. With each spell another fireplace was extinguished.
Dawlish grabbed the mousy-haired wizard by the collar before he approached the last few fireplaces. "You will open a fireplace for us and immediately seal it once we're gone."
There was a strange, yet magical quality to the command in his voice. It was an insidious thing, and it made Harry want to assist even though he had no idea how Floo worked. If he hadn't felt the faint alien influence in his mind, he'd have simply ascribed it to his imagination.
He'd suspected it previously, but this strange magic confirmed it. Whoever this was, they were definitely not Dawlish.
The technician's alert expression faded into a relaxed stupor, and they answered Dawlish's request with a gentle nod. The fireplace furthest to the right erupted into flame, and Tonks, Savage and Proudfoot stepped out of it, one by one. Without a look in their direction, they ran to the quickly approaching sounds of combat.
"The Leaky Cauldron," Dawlish said before stepping into the Floo and vanishing in a pillar of flame.
Looking behind him, Harry found that Kingsley had been pushed back, but Harry's ward was still intact around him. Tonks and Savage fought at his side, each duelling two or three at once, but Proudfoot was already on the ground, unmoving. Projecting all his intent into their continued safety, he gifted them with a hex deflection ward before running into the Floo behind Dawlish, disappearing into the disorienting tumble of the Floo Network.
Landing on his knees in the Leaky Cauldron, he had no moment to recuperate as Dawlish grabbed his hand, taking him along in a dizzying series of Apparitions.
They eventually came to a stop, and Harry adamantly stared at the grass, fearful that he'd puke if he looked upwards.
His head was spinning.
"It would appear we are safe," a female voice said.
Heedless of his nausea, Harry looked up to find another in Dawlish's place.
The witch that had once been Dawlish was as tall as Harry and clad in sumptuous, layered white and red robes. There was so much of Blaise within her that it was painful to look at her. Harry saw him in her high cheekbones, the almond shape of her eyes, and in her cool regard as she assessed him. The most striking differences were that her eyes were a stunning sea-green, paler than his own, and her skin a dark olive.
He had many questions, but it wasn't the time for them.
"Thanks for the help, Madam Zabini," he managed.
Her calm expression melted into a warm smile, softening her immeasurably. It was hard to reconcile with the calculating deadliness of recent events.
Even if the rumours about her husbands were true, they were little more than a red herring for one so deadly.
"If we must with titles, Lady Zabini," she said in a low, rolling contralto, deeper than Padma's, but still unmistakably feminine. "If you're feeling particularly brave, Vittoria is adequate for family and friends in private."
It seemed like an invitation to Harry, so he took it. "Thanks for the help, Vittoria."
"It is my pleasure. My son spoke of you incredibly warmly in his letter," she said.
Her smile turned delighted at his bashful blush.
"I'd have liked for us to have met in better circumstances, but it is no matter. You are safe with me."
Harry thought of all her dead husbands, wondering if they'd been told the same. Blaise hardly ever spoke of her, and he hadn't dared to ask. It all left him feeling uncomfortably leery of her, especially with the effortlessness she'd killed Umbridge.
Still, he owed her a lot, and she seemed… nice enough.
"You said it was personal with Umbridge," Harry remarked.
Her smile faded, though she didn't balk at the subject change. "Last year, she said some particularly ill-advised things to Blaise."
She didn't give him time to digest that, time to ponder what kind of words warranted murder. She instead offered him her hand.
"Please take my hand."
He stared at her unassuming hand for a second before taking it. Her warm grasp was like touching a lightning rod, almost making him recoil in surprise. If she noticed his discomfort, she didn't say anything, and a second later, they were pulled once more in the claustrophobic squeeze of Apparition.
They reappeared on the doorstep of a handsome white building in Chelsea.
"Unfortunately, I've been warded out of this residence," she said, sounding horribly amused. "We'll have to take the more plebeian entrance."
Vittoria tapped her wand on the door, and with a click, it unlocked. Stepping inside, they found an empty house, void of any belongings or furniture. It was as if the owners had recently moved out.
The study was the sole exception. It was teeming with texts in bookcases, in boxes, and in hastily made stacks on the desk. As Harry idly inspected the contents of an open box, finding various physics and mathematics texts staring back at him, Vittoria immediately went to the bookcase on the right and tapped her wand along a series of books. A secret passageway appeared behind the desk. She led him through the corridor, and they stepped into a large workshop.
It was like stepping into another world. Compared to the sterile emptiness of the main house, it was teeming with magical artefacts. Most common were the astrolabes and spare telescopes that lined the walls, accompanied by sheafs and sheafs of star charts peeking out of the shelves overhead.
In the corner, a slim, black man was sat on a stool, peering intently up an array of telescopes, one after the other. They were all aimed at a vast tapestry of celestial bodies projected into the air from a large Pensieve-like bowl.
"Armando," Vittoria said.
The man didn't react, continuing to manipulate the panoramic view of the stars with absent-minded flicks of his fingers.
"Armando," she repeated, "now is not the time to continue our little feud."
"Vittoria. I leave in three weeks to join my wife and daughter, and you're still breaking in," he eventually said, and he sighed heavily. "I really need to hire a professional warder."
She laughed. "Save your gold and introduce yourself to one of Blaise's friends. He has more than a little warding talent, I'm pleased to say."
"Trace? I've already met her, and she's not a warder last I checked." He finally turned around, removing an intricate monocle from his eye in the process.
Armando's dark eyes made the customary drift upwards to Harry's scar, and he nodded, an amused quirk to his lips. "Wasn't expecting to meet you so soon, Harry."
"It's nice to meet you," Harry said.
Armando shook his hand, and he introduced himself properly, gaining a very familiar, melodious accent as he rattled through his names. Harry was sure there had been at least seven, maybe even more.
At Harry's shell-shocked expression, he laughed. "Armando is fine."
"The Portuguese and their names," Vittoria said fondly before she returned to business. "I need to use your Floo."
"Say no more."
He summoned his wand from a nearby table with a snap of his fingers. While it approached far slower than a Summoning Charm performed with a wand, it still met his fingers within a few seconds.
Harry stared. "Wandless?"
"That's how we learnt at Uagadou," Armando said, smiling at his awe. "It's less useful than it looks. Anything sophisticated or powerful requires my wand."
He rose to his feet, towering over Harry and Vittoria. Harry wasn't short by any means, but the man was probably around Dean's height.
"Follow me."
He led them to an adjoining living room. The fireplace burned brilliantly in the middle of the room, and on the mantelpiece above it were pictures of Armando and his family, a pretty curly-haired woman and daughter. There were a few with a young Blaise included, alternatively smirking and grinning at the camera.
Armando knelt in front of the fireplace with his wand in hand. "One moment. I'll need to remove some of the enchantments I placed here."
"More attempts to keep me out?" Vittoria asked.
Armando's silence was damning.
As they chatted, Harry found his gaze lingering on one photo of what seemed to be a younger Armando with an identical twin.
"Done," Armando said, stepping away from the fireplace, and his gaze followed Harry's. "That's Miguel, my late twin."
"Blaise's father," Vittoria added.
Harry had no time to truly study the easy-going smile of Blaise's father as Armando pulled him into conversation, clearly eager to meet one of Blaise's friends.
Harry learned that Armando was a member of the ICW Statute of Secrecy taskforce, specialising in observing Muggle astronomy advancements. He was masquerading as a postdoc at a university and about to take a tenured position in Oporto, and he seemed to take great pride in his ability to blend in with Muggles. Laughter had been shared amongst them when he'd shared some funny anecdotes of Blaise learning how to interact with Muggles.
With every word that Armando said, Harry's attention was drawn to how much he sounded like Blaise. It might be more accurate to say Blaise sounded exactly like him, considering the bits and pieces Blaise had told Harry about how he'd come to stay with his uncle. From pitch to cadence, the similarity was incredibly uncanny.
"As interesting as this is, we must be going," Vittoria said.
"Nice to meet you, Harry," Armando said, winking at him.
They shook hands, and he gave Vittoria a cursory nod before returning to his telescopes in the adjoining room.
A brilliant unicorn burst out of Vittoria's wand, stamping on the floor impatiently. Vittoria stared at it for a moment before it vanished into mist with a wag of its tail.
"A unicorn? You're in the Order?"
Vittoria nodded at him, a teasing smile on her painted lips. "You'll come to learn that I'm one of a kind, caro."
She didn't overtly answer his second question, but Harry was certain he was right. Dumbledore didn't teach his talking Patronus to anyone but members of the Order.
What was going on?
After a tense minute, Dumbledore's phoenix appeared with a solemn nod of its regal head.
"In your own time," it said.
"After you," Vittoria said, nodding at the roaring fireplace, "Dumbledore awaits."
He followed her into the Floo with a hasty call of goodbye to Blaise's uncle.
The scene in Dumbledore's office was tense, and his catapulting arrival onto his hands and feet did little to mitigate the tension. Dumbledore was stood at his Pensieve, looking at it as if he'd just raised his head from it. He appeared incredibly grave. Ron and Hermione were sat at the desk talking intently, while Blaise was stood at their side, staring holes into Dumbledore.
"Harry!" Hermione and Ron cried.
Dumbledore immediately moved to meet Harry as he rose to his feet from his graceless landing. "Welcome back, Harry."
Quiet nights with Blaise had poisoned so many of their interactions, leaving Harry to the point of finding his very presence ominous, but he was still grateful for the rescue.
"Thanks, Professor," Harry said. "It's good to be back."
Harry didn't even know Blaise could move that fast. One second he was glowering at Dumbledore, and the next his pleasant, spicy scent was in Harry's nose, his hair veiling his vision and face, and the addictive feeling of his magic entangling with his completed him. Harry snuggled deeper into his embrace, relaxing for the first time in hours.
"I'm so glad you're safe," Blaise whispered into his ear.
"Me too."
Harry grinned at his friends over Blaise's shoulder, but their expressions faltered somewhat when the Floo flared behind him with the arrival of Blaise's mother.
"You have my greatest thanks, Lady Zabini," Dumbledore said, inclining his head gently.
"We share a common goal, Headmaster. I – "
Harry could feel Vittoria's heavy stare on them, and he guessed Blaise's letters hadn't mentioned the depth of their relationship.
Blaise eventually turned to greet his mother in rapid-fire Italian. Her shell-shocked expression had faded, but even Harry could notice her brief moment of hesitancy before she replied.
Hermione and Ron approached with a smile. Compared to the intimate comfort of Blaise's magic, their presence, magic and all, was more akin to a warm summer's day, but no less welcome.
"You two alright?" Harry asked.
He yelped when Hermione pulled him out of Blaise's arms and into a bear hug. It felt like she was trying to break all his bones.
"Better than you, I'd imagine," Ron said, audibly holding back a snigger. His expression darkened considerably after looking at Vittoria and Blaise's intense conversation. "There's a lot we need to catch each other up on, I guess."
After gathering around the desk and conjuring seats, introductions were made. Harry and Vittoria detailed their escape, and when word of Umbridge's death was made, Harry was not surprised by the heavy condemnation in Dumbledore's eyes. He was surprised by Hermione and Ron though: there was nothing but grim satisfaction in their eyes. Blaise had a particularly sharp smile, a mirror of Dawlish an hour before.
He wondered what they'd discovered in Umbridge's house.
"Lady Zabini, I thought I'd made it clear that there should be minimal bloodshed," Dumbledore said.
"Do not question my methods," Vittoria said. "You could have always deigned to do it yourself."
Dumbledore shook his head dismissively. "An argument for another day. Regardless, you have my thanks."
Vittoria's only response was a particularly thin smile.
"Considering the events and the bonds you have formed, I think we shall do this together," Dumbledore said. "Mr Zabini, if you will."
Blaise reached into his pocket, retrieving a small bag. He pulled the locket from it, and Harry's scar gave a sympathetic throb as it was held aloft. Fawkes squawked from his perch once it was placed on the table.
"Lady Zabini, being a noted classicist and historian, could you perhaps share the tale of Herpo the Foul with the young among us?" Dumbledore asked.
Vittoria nodded. "Herpo Stagiritis was one of the most prolific Dark wizards of the Magical Triangle states of antiquity – Greece, the Roman Empire, and Egypt. He was the first to breed a viable Basilisk, and he had an obsession in solving the philosophical question of the divisibility of the soul that was first posed by the Egyptian soul jar conundrum. He – "
Her face sank in her realisation. "Blaise. Do not ever touch that necklace or anything like it again."
Blaise frowned as Vittoria turned to Dumbledore.
"You have a means to destroy it?"
Dumbledore walked to the mount on which Gryffindor's sword sat, picking up the sword gingerly before returning to his seat at the desk. "You'll recall that this sword is goblin-made."
"Harry stabbed the Basilisk with it," Ron said immediately. "It's imbued with the venom, isn't it?"
"Exactly, Mr Weasley."
Vittoria just stared at them both, uncomprehending. "You have children slaying Basilisks in this school? With swords?"
"Twelve and thirteen year-olds slaying them and only surviving due to phoenix tears, mother," Blaise corrected.
Fawkes chirruped proudly from his perch.
"Identifying them without adult help too," Hermione added, and there was a coolness to the way she looked at Dumbledore that made even Harry cautious. "I thought the whole Basilisk thing was heroic at the time, a miraculous feat, but now I find myself wondering why everything in this school, this country, has to come down to children acting."
"Indeed," Vittoria said. "My son has shared much with me, and I still feel that there are significant omissions."
Dumbledore got to his feet, sword held at his side. "Let's first destroy this Horcrux, and then I will listen to your grievances. Parseltongue will open it, I believe."
Focusing on the snake on the centre of the medallion, Harry said open, and it came out in a sibilant slur of hisses.
The locket sprang open and with it came a shadowy apparition, filling the air above the desk with a noxious, black fog. Fawkes sprang off his perch with a shrill cry, and the phoenix began to circle overhead, singing a heart-rending song that lightened the heart and dispelled the malaise that had began to afflict them all.
Facing Dumbledore, the apparition shifted into a tall, masculine frame with shoulder-length hair and aristocratic features.
"Oh my," Vittoria gasped.
There was a seductive smirk on the ghost's face, but before it could say a word, make any movement, Dumbledore deftly stabbed the locket. It shrieked, the pitch and volume reaching a crescendo as the sword dug further into its container. With a final twist, the locket snapped in two, releasing a foul, black sludge onto the table, and the Apparition vanished into thin air.
Dumbledore sank into his seat, dabbing at his forehead with a hastily conjured handkerchief, and Fawkes descended onto his shoulder, crooning a slow, lamenting dirge. "Thanks, old friend."
Vittoria stared at the air in which the apparition had once existed. "It would seem our ghosts and dreams continue to haunt us, Albus."
Dumbledore vanished the mess and sighed. He still stared above the desk where the Horcrux had manifested. "Indeed. I believe Umbridge's attachment to the Horcrux strengthened it considerably. That was most taxing."
"Albus, it is time for the truth," Vittoria said. "No more lies. No more smokescreens. I'd have been weeks into my blood feud with the Malfoys if you hadn't convinced me to help you. Instead, I've spent weeks in Albania with my best and brightest searching for Ravenclaw's diadem. We found none of your precious myth, and I will not tolerate your evasiveness any longer."
Dumbledore peered up at her calmly. "And I don't expect you to."
The withering look she gave Dumbledore was one Harry had seen and been on the receiving end of many times. It was usually from Blaise.
"How many Horcruxes has this Voldemort made?"
"Seven, I believe," Dumbledore admitted. "The destruction of the locket leaves four."
Vittoria, the only one to have remained standing, had to conjure a seat for herself at that revelation. "And he chooses British artefacts?"
"Founders artefacts amongst sentimental items is my suspicion," Dumbledore said.
Blaise turned to face Harry, and his voice had a ghost-like quality to it. "He really is immortal then? Horcruxes are like soul jars?"
Harry nodded grimly.
"They are far more than mere soul jars, Mr Zabini," Dumbledore said.
By the time Dumbledore had finished his explanation of Horcruxes, in greater detail than he'd ever given Harry, Blaise looked furious. The hand he didn't have on the arm of his armchair was draped on his knee where he began to drum a rhythmless tattoo with his fist.
"Let me get this straight, Professor," Blaise said. "You've spent the last fifteen or so years proclaiming to all who'd listen that Voldemort would come back. You've known all along."
"I've had my suspicions," Dumbledore agreed.
"And your best plan is for an especially brave teenage boy and his friends to hunt down these artefacts?" Vittoria asked.
When put that way, it sounded ludicrous, so Harry was quite impressed with how honestly curious Vittoria had sounded.
"With my assistance, amongst others, I have faith that Harry will succeed," Dumbledore said.
"And what assistance have you given him, Professor?" Ron asked, and while he didn't sound anywhere as cold as Blaise or Hermione, his forthright tone had its own damning quality. "The Horcruxes are important and all, but we're all going to have to fight, you know? Harry'd be a lamb to the slaughter if not for Flitwick taking a chance on us."
Hermione cut off Dumbledore before he could hope to speak. "It honestly feels like you've done the absolute minimum, Professor. Leaving Harry alone in a broken, neglectful home, encouraging his martyr-like tendencies, forcing him to learn Occlumency under Professor Snape, and always pushing us to solve problems best saved for trained adults. Harry deserves better; we deserve better."
Her tone was incredibly bitter, and Harry wondered how long she'd buried her thoughts under her respect for authority.
"Everything I have done has been towards the eventual defeat of Voldemort," Dumbledore said.
Harry sighed, and Blaise leaned out of his seat, disdain evident in his cold eyes and twitching jaw.
"It's moments like these that make me realise how much I honestly despise you," Blaise said. "If things were done your way, Umbridge and Yaxley would be happily setting up their concentration camps, Ron would be dead, poisoned by Malfoy as he tried to kill you, and Harry's future would be a mere roll of the die."
"Concentration camps?" Vittoria asked. "That is not a term to throw around lightly, Blaise."
Hermione reached into her pocket, retrieving a folded stack of parchment. She made two sets of duplicates and handed them to Harry and Vittoria.
While he grew incredibly disturbed with every word he read, Vittoria was a blank slate for all the emotion on her face.
"I recall Grindelwald planning something similar, but his intended targets were Muggles," Vittoria remarked, and she had eyes only for Dumbledore. "I think we can both agree that it would be ideal if this Voldemort's insurgency was not be allowed to fester for decades like the last prominent Dark Wizard."
Dumbledore looked more aged than Harry had ever seen him, and his eyes flickered towards the spot where the Horcrux ghost had once been. In that moment, Harry would almost say that his eyes were longing.
"I'm disappointed, Albus. Deeply. What use is power if one doesn't use it?" she asked before getting to her feet and turning her back on him. "Inaction for one such as yourself is criminal."
"It's little more than another flavour of appeasement," Hermione said.
"Hermione, is it?" Vittoria asked. At Hermione's firm nod, she smiled approvingly. "History is a powerful teacher. Perhaps the Headmaster could stand to learn from Chamberlain."
She turned to Harry, stepping before him. "We will meet again this summer, caro. You will stay with me and Blaise, and we will have much to discuss."
Harry nodded his assent. "I'll look forward to it."
"As you should," she said, a glimmer of her warm smile on her face.
Nodding at Ron and Hermione, she bid them farewell.
Her lips brushed Harry's forehead before she turned to her son, offering him the same. They exchanged a lilting stream of Italian before she disappeared within the Floo.
The ensuing silence was deafening. Dumbledore seemed frozen in memory and deep introspection, eyes and mind lost to them.
"Your mother is… formidable," Hermione said, still staring at the Floo, "and she knows about World War Two politics."
Blaise shook his head at Hermione. "Not another fan. Slughorn's one too many."
A silvery lynx appeared in the office, and when it opened its mouth, Kingsley's slow, soothing voice filled the room.
"The Minister is coming."
Seconds later, the fireplace roared, and the robust frame of the Minister appeared. Compared to his haggard appearance in the Prophet, not even a month ago, he looked even worse. Poorly shaven, large bags under his eyes, and the cane he was heavily leaning on was a new addition.
"Good evening, Minister," Dumbledore greeted softly.
Scrimgeour scowled in response. "Dumbledore."
The wizard who followed him through the Floo was sprightly in comparison, managing to walk at a slow, but steady pace. He was incredibly advanced in age, his face covered in liver spots and wrinkles. Each of his ears was host to a massive shock of white hair.
Kingsley and Moody shadowed the two of them, seconds later. The bald Auror turned to the fireplace, and with a wave of his wand, it burned no more.
"Albus," the elderly wizard said in a powerful voice that belied his small frame. "Alzheimer's caught up with you yet?"
Ron barely stifled a cough.
"I'm afraid I've been spared for yet another year. This is Professor Saul Croaker of the Department of Mysteries, students," Dumbledore said with a wry smile. "I see the Minister has spared no expense on his entourage."
The old wizard turned to face Harry, peering curiously at him. "Wanted to meet the boy who smashed all our kit in the Time Department."
Harry, Ron and Hermione shared a look, remembering their haphazard escape through the Time section of the Department of Mysteries.
Dumbledore conjured two lavish chairs. Scrimgeour sank into his gingerly, Croaker followed suit, and the Aurors loomed quietly overhead.
"Dumbledore, what exactly is going on?" Scrimgeour asked. Compared to their previous meeting, there was no demand or expectation in his voice, just exhaustion. "Umbridge is dead in the most secure holding room in the DMLE after a team of Aurors apprehended Potter, Thicknesse is claiming to have been Imperiused, and there's an uproar about Dawlish going rogue when he was just found Confunded to Mars and back in the second floor men's toilet."
Scrimgeour leaned forward, keen intent in his eyes. "I need answers."
"While I cannot share all, not being party to all the details, you'll find that Harry and his friends' actions were conducive to the war effort," Dumbledore said. "Ms Granger, the letters please."
Scrimgeour took them from Hermione and passed copies to his entourage. There were only stony faces when they all finished reading.
"This is a crime beyond reckoning," Kingsley murmured.
"If I survive the summer," Scrimgeour said, looking at each of them in turn. He lowered his head in a shallow bow. "I'll see to it that you four receive an Order of Merlin. Second Class, at least."
Hermione smiled thinly, though she dipped her head in respect.
"And Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass," Blaise added. "We couldn't have done this without them."
"Of course," Scrimgeour said.
"Did everyone make it, Kingsley?" Harry asked, remembering Proudfoot's perfect stillness and dreading the answer.
"With the help of Mad-Eye and Robards, we managed to hold off Yaxley and his accomplices," Kingsley said, and his face grew pained and his tone shaky, "but we lost Proudfoot and Tonks was badly injured."
There was a brief moment of silence for the fallen Auror.
"Things are a mess in the Ministry," Moody said. "Rumours are flying, and we need to set the message straight, sooner rather than later. We need to have things under control before there's an emergency edition of the Prophet out."
"This will require a purge from top to bottom. Veritaserum the lot, I say," Croaker said. "I can't speak for the entire Department of Mysteries, but my lot in Time will stand with you, Minister. With Ms Greengrass having an involvement, I'll take the time to speak to her uncle Gareth from Death."
"Do as you will, Croaker," Scrimgeour said. "What say you, Dumbledore?"
Dumbledore peered at the Minister curiously. "They'll call you a dictator, Rufus."
"That's something to consider when the dust has settled," Scrimgeour said. "Can I expect your support, Dumbledore? Moody, even fresh from retirement, is one of our best, never mind Shacklebolt. I know they're yours, and I need your help."
"This won't be possible without you, Albus," Croaker said.
Dumbledore stared at Harry for a moment before he nodded sombrely.
"You have my support, Minister," Dumbledore said. "In fact, I will accompany you to the Ministry. It is perhaps time to do what should been done decades ago. The rot has been allowed to fester for far too long."
Scrimgeour smiled for the first time in what Harry could believe to be a long while.
Moody grunted. "About time."
"One thing, Dumbledore," Scrimgeour said. "Leandro Almeida. He's one of yours?"
Dumbledore eyes twinkled brilliantly, and he looked far more like himself compared to the resigned figure of the last hour. "No. Our acquaintance is difficult at best, but he is a more than capable wizard.
Harry fought his urge to nudge Blaise valiantly, but he knew he was grinning. With the way Kingsley and Moody were looking in their direction, Harry was certain they had an idea as to who Leandro Almeida was.
With that moment of brevity, Dumbledore turned back to them. "Mr Weasley, Ms Granger and Mr Zabini, it is late. Please return to your dormitories."
Blaise squeezed his hand before bidding goodnight with the others and disappearing through the door.
Dumbledore turned to Harry, a kind smile on his lips. "Please remain here, Harry. We must talk when I return."
Before he moved to the Floo with the others, he summoned a text from his personal bookcase, handing it to Harry. Flicking through it, Harry found a collection of notes, Arithmancy spell charts and essays on warding magic.
"Sir?"
"Professor Flitwick has become your champion, Harry," he said. "He has done what I should have done years ago, and so I prepared this for you. A little token to, perhaps, righting the course of our alliance."
Harry pondered Dumbledore's wording, long after he'd disappeared into the Floo. Even after he'd read his well-written, informative text several times over and practiced some spells, his mind was still stuck on the word alliance.
It was hours before Dumbledore returned, and he walked to his seat with a lethargy that spoke of bone-aching tiredness. In the now dim lighting of his office, there was a waxiness to his skin that had not been visible previously.
"Like last year, I find myself apologising to you once more, Harry," Dumbledore said. "My mistakes, as always, have been enormously larger than others.
Harry grimaced, already feeling a speech filled with promises and platitudes that would ultimately lead nowhere.
"Thirteen senior officials in the Ministry were discovered to be under Yaxley's Imperius curse, Thicknesse included. I daresay he may be perhaps one of the most talented users of that Unforgivable seen in decades."
At Harry's continued impassivity, Dumbledore sighed deeply.
"I find myself paralyzed, Harry," Dumbledore said. "My plans have been unravelled in strange ways by your proactivity and by the discoveries of today. Sadly, I have little time to amend them."
There was a solemnness to his voice, and it all clicked for Harry. The silent resignation as he was lambasted, the focus on the Horcruxes, and the willingness to leave Malfoy to his devices.
"You're dying, aren't you?" Harry stated.
Pulling up his sleeve, Dumbledore revealed his blackened hand once more. Freed from the sleeve of his robe, Harry could see that the necrotic appearance stretched well beyond his forearm.
"Since last summer. I'm an old fool, Harry. Lost in dreams and memory."
"Sir… how can we do this without you?" Harry asked. Grief hadn't set in, but only due to the panic that he knew was rife within his frantic eyes. Not even in the Ministry had the fel touch of Voldemort felt so near. "I… I can't do this alone. Not without your help."
Dumbledore smiled sadly at him. "You have never been alone, Harry."
"There's got to be another way," Harry said. "Surely, there's something, some potion or person who can cure you."
"Harry," Dumbledore said, and his voice was a gentle plead for him to understand, to accept. "The only person who could do such a thing would be Voldemort. Professor Snape, even with his prestigious talent in the Dark Arts, has only managed to secure me until July."
"I'm not ready," Harry said. "I'm just a student."
Dumbledore peered at him over his glasses with utmost seriousness in his red eyes. "And yet I can't think of one better suited for the task."
Harry shook his head. "Are you still intending on Malfoy killing you?"
"No," Dumbledore said. "Following Mr Malfoy's altercation with Mr Zabini, I deemed it prudent to seek alternative arrangements with Severus."
It confirmed what Harry and Blaise had suspected, but it was still a horrifying blow to know that Dumbledore wouldn't be here in a month's time. He didn't even want to know when he planned his… suicide.
"Are… are you afraid?"
Dumbledore laughed. "This life has brought me much, and I'm deeply sad to not be able to see more of it. But no, Harry, I'm not afraid. The next great adventure, I imagine, will be even greater."
The smile on Harry's face in answer felt terribly bittersweet even to himself.
"You witnessed Lady Zabini in combat. Tell me what you think," Dumbledore said.
"She was really fast," Harry thought of Umbridge's fate, "and… strong."
Harry wanted to say inhuman, thinking of her offhand treatment of their enemies.
"The ICW Curse-breaker specialist, René Bertrand, that was commissioned to investigate the possibility of a curse on her estate after the death of Gunther Rowle found nothing. You'll find it interesting to note that he later penned an anthology of poems florid with saccharine metaphors about her beauty."
He didn't think she was a vampire, not with how warm she felt. Even now, he could still feel the ghost of her lips against his forehead.
"Is she a… succubus?"
"No, but I have my suspicions about what she may be," Dumbledore murmured. At Harry's inquisitive stare, his face tightened somewhat. "I fear she is something much older, much more terrible than that. I implore you to not ask further: as part of our bargain years ago, I swore an oath to not divulge her secrets."
Harry found it hard to believe Dumbledore would make such an oath. There had to have been something that she'd offered him, but what could it have been? The pain in Dumbledore's expression stilled Harry's tongue from pursuing that line of thought.
"Do you have any advice?" he eventually asked.
Dumbledore peered at him closely, though his eyes seemed to linger somewhere beyond him. "Trust not your base senses around her, Harry. Be very careful."
He recalled the drunken obedience of the Floo technician well enough, and he wondered what this meant for Blaise. Was he capable of something similar?
Dumbledore looked down at his pocket watch. "It's well into Monday morning, Harry. We shall continue this conversation in the evening."
Harry nodded. "It'll have to be late. I – "
"Don't worry, Harry. We'll meet after your wonderful Defence Association, of course. Bridges must continue to be built, and I sat in on Ms Li's succinct talk on Hit Wizard accreditation last week. You and your year-mates are doing a wonderful thing, Harry."
Harry smiled genuinely. "Thanks, Professor."
He got out of his seat, and he was halfway to the door when Dumbledore called after him.
"Do you think I've failed you, Harry?"
Being with Blaise was teaching him the importance of being selfish, of looking out for his own interests. Dumbledore had protected him in the past, but a life lived at another's whims wasn't one he was content to live anymore.
It was only his lingering affection for Dumbledore and his undercurrent of fear for the future that encouraged him to meet his once-mentor's eyes.
"As Ron said, I feel like a lamb being led to the slaughter, and I don't want to die."
Dumbledore's eyes widened with alarm, but Harry did not let himself be interrupted.
"If not for Professor Flitwick and Professor Slughorn, we'd have made no progress," Harry said. "If not for Blaise's deductions, Greyback and a number of Death Eaters would have free-reign in the school."
"They would not," Dumbledore said firmly.
Harry wanted to believe him, but he was just so tired, so jaded.
"Considering you planned on committing suicide by Malfoy, how would you know? Malfoy and his parents will never be worth taking the risk of Bellatrix and Greyback in the castle. What if Voldemort decided to come personally? You saw Blaise's memories in the Pensieve."
Dumbledore nodded. "I hadn't imagined Mr Malfoy would be successful with the Cabinets. Severus had – "
"If you refuse to deal with Malfoy yourself, why would you expect me to trust that Snape can do it? I at least respect you, as hard as it is these days."
There were tears in Dumbledore's eyes, but the poignancy of the moment was lost under the weight of the events of the day. The pedestal was broken, and Harry was his own man, for better or worse. Their relationship, if there were to be one with how little time they had, would be an alliance, not a paternalistic dictatorship.
"Has our trust fractured so greatly this year, Harry?" he asked.
Harry was silent for a long time. "It's as Lady Zabini said, Professor. What use is power if it's not used?"
"Things aren't so simple, but I realise that things must change," Dumbledore said. Fawkes descended from his perch and landed on the old wizard's shoulder, crooning gently at him once more. It rallied the old wizard. "What would you have of me, Harry?"
"You're the only one he's ever feared, Professor," Harry said. "You should live up to that title, and from what I understand, you have very little time."
Remembering Scrimgeour's general air of defeat and extreme course of action, Harry realised that the country had very little time.
He turned to the door, feeling like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "Goodnight."
Dumbledore didn't stop him again.