"Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Mr. Potter," Kingsley Shacklebolt says in his deep, calm voice.
Harry is ensconced in Sirius's armchair, with Sirius sitting perched on the arm; Kingsley is sitting on the couch, and there's a woman with him, someone Harry's never seen before. Her appearance had been a surprise to Sirius, too, and she's yet to be introduced; they'd just sat down. Remus had excused himself to the balcony for a smoke.
"Sure," Harry replies. He leans a little into Sirius's side. It's only a day before the Wizengamot session, and he'd known Kingsley would be coming, but hadn't expected this stranger as well.
"You know me, I am aware, but for the record: I am Kingsley Shacklebolt, a Senior Auror with the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement. My companion here is Amanda Krasno; she works for the Department of Magical Child Welfare. She agreed to come along and help with my interview today, and is very good at keeping things confidential."
"However," Amanda says, sitting forward a little, "if you'd be more comfortable just speaking with Kingsley, I can leave. While I have more experience with cases like yours—and don't worry, Mr. Potter, he hasn't told me much at all—Kingsley will manage just fine and I don't need to be here."
Harry thinks about it for a moment, then says, "It's fine." It's not, really, but he doesn't want them to know how nervous he is. Asking her to leave will probably make him look like a scared baby.
Amanda gives him a look like she probably knows that he's not okay with her being there, but she doesn't say anything. She just sits back again on the couch and lets Kingsley take over.
"Good, good," he says. "Well, Mr. Potter, Sirius has told me that he's intending to sue for custody of you, which is frankly quite pleasing for me to hear. I do not really believe that there will be any issue among the members of the Wizengamot with the case. He has blood right, was close with your parents, was named in their will as a potential guardian, and of course is a high-ranking pureblood, whereas your aunt and uncle are muggles. The last is discrimination, but it helps you in this case."
Harry nods when Kingsley stops talking, as he seems to be looking for an acknowledgement.
Amanda says, "Still, there's a chance there'll be some contest. This interview will help you and Lord Black decide what you might want to say in front of the Wizengamot, and be a sort of… practice session. As well, while I know you don't want to draw attention to it right now, if you some day want to press criminal charges or otherwise seek reparations in either the muggle or magical worlds, you should collect whatever evidence you have now, and try to get an account of what you remember of their treatment of you. If you really struggle to tell us about it today, I'd encourage you to write a journal, but sometimes it's difficult to put words on paper. Plus, this way, we have multiple witnesses hearing the same version of the story from you. Kingsley and Lord Black saw your living quarters at your aunt and uncle's house, right?"
"Right," Harry says. "Sirius saw the second bedroom—I mean, my room. And they both saw… they both saw the cupboard."
"The cupboard?" Amanda prods gently.
"That's where I slept." Harry knows his voice is too quiet, but he can't help it. He looks down at his hands. "Before this summer."
"You mean like a broom cupboard?"
Harry nods. "The cupboard under the stairs."
"Okay," Amanda says. "Thank you for telling us about that. Would you like to tell us more?"
Harry shrugs and looks up at her. "Do you need to know this stuff?"
"It helps us to understand how to help you," she says. "What sorts of things you'll need, or that might be harmful to you in the future because of harm that's been done to you in the past."
"Oh," Harry says, frowning. "Like how I don't much like small spaces."
"Exactly," Amanda says. "You're very bright, Harry."
He shrugs. "If you say so."
Sirius rests a hand on his shoulder then, and leans forward a little to say, "She's right, pup. Don't put yourself down."
"Okay, Sirius."
There's a pause. Then Amanda says, "Is there anything else about living with your aunt and uncle that stands out in your memory as being particularly bad, Harry?"
Harry thinks about it. There were plenty of things that weren't great, but he knows that some of them weren't that bad. Like Harry Hunting—sure, Dudley was a bully, but that wasn't abuse. "Aunt Petunia tried to hit me with a frying pan once," he offers. "They almost never hit me, so that stands out, I guess."
"Almost never?"
Harry shrugs. "Uncle Vernon grabbed me sometimes, and once or twice he threw me into the cupboard before locking me in for punishment. And Dudley beat me up sometimes, when he could catch me."
"Dudley is your cousin?"
"Yeah."
"Did your aunt and uncle ever try to stop Dudley from hurting you? Did they ever encourage him?"
"They never told him not to," Harry says. "They told me pretty often not to 'spoil his fun' when he complained about me not letting him win at games and such. Sometimes he was talking about Harry Hunting, which is what he called when he and his gang would chase me about and beat me up if they caught me." Harry smiles a bit. "Once I was running away from them and I ended up on the roof of the school—maybe I Apparated there? Can magic do that on its own?"
Kingsley and Amanda exchange a look, and then both look at Sirius before refocusing on Harry. "It's possible," Kingsley says finally, "though uncommon."
"Oh," Harry says. "… Sorry."
"No need to apologize," Kingsley says. "It's not your fault, Harry. What other accidental magic did you experience when you were a child?"
"Uhm," Harry says. "Well, once I grew back my hair overnight after Aunt Petunia gave it a really awful cut before school. Oh, and I made the glass at a snake exhibit disappear at the zoo last summer—the snake was quite friendly, really, and very polite after I let him out."
"It didn't try to eat anyone? That's good," Sirius jokes.
"And he said thank you," Harry informs him.
There's a pause.
Then Sirius says, an odd, strangled tone in his voice, "Did you talk to the snake, Harry?"
"Er, yeah," Harry says. "Is talking to animals not… normal for wixen?"
"No, Mr. Potter, it is not," says Kingsley. His voice is still calm, but now it's more like he's making himself sound that way. There's tension in his face. Amanda, beside him, has gone a little pale. "Have you spoken to any other snakes?"
He nods. "Sure, though really just the portrait in the Slytherin common room. It's not polite at all, but it is funny."
"You should try to avoid doing so in front of others," Kingsley says. "Parseltongue—the ability to speak to and understand snakes—is a rare gift and one that runs in only a single British line."
"James's paternal grandmother was from India," Sirius says, "and not the first from that region to marry into the Potter line. That's likely where it's from."
Harry looks down at his hands once more, at his own brown skin, and realizes that he's never actually known where his family was from before. Some were English, he knows that: he and Sirius are related. But India, close enough to pass down dark skin and silky black hair, makes sense.
"That's well enough an excuse for those who know the Potter family's history and pureblood talents from Asia," Kingsley says, "but few meet those criteria. I would be careful, Mr. Potter."
Harry makes a face. "Let me guess: people don't like Parseltongues, do they?"
"Parselmouths," Kingsley corrects gently, "and no. They do not."
"Cheers."
Sirius reaches up to squeeze Harry's shoulder again. "It'll be alright, pup. Think of it like a secret weapon."
After that, Amanda steers the conversation back to the Dursleys and to the sorts of questions that the Wizengamot might ask. She also does Harry the courtesy of explaining why the Wizengamot might be curious about these things: mostly because they're bigoted and love sordid details about awful things muggles do, but also because wizen have very specific ideas about what constitutes child abuse, and also have a well of curiosity about it, as the straightforward kind is rather rare in the magical world.
Harry does his best to be honest. Some questions he evades: he does not at all want to talk about not being called by his name ever and how even now the word 'boy' makes him flinch, nor about the way the Dursleys referred to him as a freak and made certain that everyone in the neighbourhood thought he was a delinquent, nor about teachers and peers alike at school looking at him either down their noses or with distant pity, nor about dumbing himself down so as not to out-perform Dudley, who was distinctly average, in class. But he explains the cupboard and his chores, the Dursleys' obsession with seeming 'normal', and their denial of food and liberty for punishment or just because they could. Harry has never thought of these things as abuse, really. Discipline. Just the way of things, by and large. Maybe the last on the list, because he remembers being very small and afraid that he'd be forgotten in his cupboard and left to starve, before he figured out that they wouldn't go that far, if only to avoid the consequences. He's always known the Dursleys don't love him, and he's long over being upset by it. It's clear, however, that all three adults in the room are upset; they are of the belief that Harry's upbringing was abusive. He's not sure how closely he wants to think about that, really. He resolves to deal with it later, once this whole Wizengamot mess is finished with—better, he decides, not to let his own complicated feelings about the Dursleys get in the way of Sirius's getting custody of him.
Finally, Amanda and Kingsley finish asking their questions. Harry is left feeling wrung-out, and slumps back into the armchair once they've left. Sirius comes over and bullies his way into the armchair as well, maneuvering Harry until they're sharing the chair, which, given that it's not that large, means that Harry is sitting halfway on Sirius's lap. It's only a little uncomfortable.
"Sorry about that, pup," Sirius says, hugging Harry tightly. Harry leans into him. "It's done with now. The Wizengamot probably won't be so thorough, if they ask at all—they're mostly idiots, not like Kingsley. And I'll do what I can to keep them from digging for details."
"Alright," Harry says.
The balcony door makes a soft shushing sound as it slides open to admit Remus back into the flat. "All done with?" he asks. He comes over, smelling strongly of cigarettes.
"Mhm," Sirius agrees. "Sorry, that took longer than expected."
Remus shrugs. "I could have gone out properly if I were bothered. But Moony felt better about being close, even if I didn't much like what I was hearing through the glass."
"Sorry," Harry says.
"Not your fault," Remus says, and leans over slightly to ruffle Harry's hair, much to Harry's dismay. "None of what happened to you there was your fault, Harry. Your aunt and uncle didn't treat you properly, and once you've grown up a bit and gotten some perspective on that you'll probably understand that better. But for now, just keep in mind that none of us want you to apologize, even if we seem upset. We're not upset with you."
"Okay," Harry says, looking between Sirius and Remus. Sirius is still holding him tightly. It's a bit awkward—he's really too big for cuddling like this—but it's also nice. That they care about him, and all. Knowing that Sirius will be there with him and will be there to hug him just like this after the Wizengamot session is enough to make it okay that he might need to tell strangers—and Dumbledore—about the Dursleys. Knowing Sirius will be there would be enough to make most anything okay, really.
The 29th of July dawns clear, sunny, and warm. Remus wakes Harry up for breakfast; he's an early riser this far from the full moon, and is pulled back toward nocturnal habits contrary to his human preference as the moon begins to wax again. Sirius is sleeping in, as he does when he's able, and so Harry and Remus have tea and toast, and then bacon and eggs once Sirius is awake. Remus leaves for work, and Harry and Sirius head out for Diagon Alley. They have to pick up the new robes that Sirius had commissioned for Harry, finished just in time, and they have an appointment with a magical hairdresser in hopes that she can make Harry look somewhat more put-together than usual. The Wizengamot meeting starts at 3 o'clock, so they have time to run their errands and get lunch before they have to get to the Ministry.
Their first stop is the hairdresser. She tuts at Harry and then sets to work with scissors and wand in tandem, trimming stray curls and taming what's left. When she finishes she says that the magic won't hold for long, most likely, but she'd tried to keep as close to its natural state as possible so that Harry's own magic won't reject the changes. When she spins him around to face the mirror, he has to gawk for a moment; his hair is still flyaway, but now it looks purposefully tousled rather than like a hopeless mess. Shorter on the sides than the top, his hair actually looks curly, not just a wavy mess. Sirius grins at him from over his shoulder, tells him he looks properly handsome, like a real magical Heir, and is only stopped from reaching out to muss Harry's hair all over again by the deadly glare of the hairdresser, who takes Sirius's money and warns them direly not to touch it too much or the styling will be done for within the hour.
After his haircut, Harry and Sirius go on to the tailor's. Sirius and Harry had come to the Alley together some days ago so that Harry could be measured, and now he simply has to stand and let the tailor show him how to fit the layers of formal robes over one another: first trousers and a tidy white shirt to go underneath, to suit Harry's preference, then a fitted short tunic with a high collar in the deep red of the House of Potter, and then a shining black overrobe with silver embroidery, to show his allegiance to the House of Black, held together over his chest with nearly-invisible buttons and belted tidily with black leather as an accent. Sirius had helped Harry with his choices, explaining the symbolisms as they went: a shorter tunic and an overrobe close to Hogwarts style to symbolize his youth and student status, the colours of both of his Houses present but his to-be-declared Heirship worn most prominently, and, should he shake back the wide sleeves of his robe, a neutral cufflink to emphasize that he'd yet to choose a political stance for himself. All of it in light fabrics to account for the warmth of summer, though of course the Wizengamot chambers were kept at a comfortable temperature with magic. All of this seemed, at the time, very overcomplicated to Harry, but he has to admit that he looks good in the mirror. The tailor helps him out of the clothes once more after the fitting is complete and both Sirius and Harry have expressed their satisfaction and packs the layers away into a box with anti-wrinkle charms so that Harry can pull them on again just before they leave for the Wizengamot meeting. Sirius already has robes at home, and Harry is sort of excited to see them. Magical fashion is very different from muggle, and he's sure Sirius will look brilliant.
They have lunch at Diagon Alley and then return to the flat to get ready in the time they have left. Harry changes in his room, fumbling with the unfamiliar clothes a bit, and finally has to give up on fastening the cufflinks—simple silver bars that Sirius had pulled from his own collection of jewelry—himself. He just can't quite get the hand motion necessary, when Sirius and the tailor had both made it look so smooth. When he comes out into the living room, Sirius is already waiting. Sure enough, he looks incredibly dashing: he's wearing multiple layers as well, though his take the form of a sweeping cloak over a tabard decorated with silver runes over a long tunic over trousers, all in black. His tunic's sleeves are fastened at the wrists with garnet cufflinks, and Sirius's hair has been tied back into a short tail, the ribbon used to hold it also a deep red that matches Harry's tunic. The two of them match subtly but strikingly; Harry's sort of looking forward to seeing everyone's faces. He hopes Remus will take a photo of the two of them tonight so that he can show Hermione later.
"There you go," Sirius says, once he's fixed Harry's cufflinks. "Lookin' good, kiddo."
"Thanks, Sirius," Harry says. "You too."
"We're ready to knock 'em dead." Sirius winks. "Come on, we're Flooing. Let me put an Impervious on you to keep the ash off and then we'll go." A deft twist of Sirius's wrist sends his wand sliding into his hand from the holster on his arm and he charms himself and Harry swiftly before he turns to the fireplace and fetches a handful of Floo powder from the pot. "You remember how to do this?"
Harry nods. "What's the Floo address?"
"Ministry atrium. We'll go together, though—it's more difficult, you'll have to hold on tight, but you're not approved to pass through the wards by yourself yet. We'll get that clearance sorted for you at some point."
"Alright." Harry steps forward and allows Sirius to wrap an arm securely around his waist, and then once Sirius has thrown the powder into the hearth and called "Ministry atrium!" clearly, they step through together in tandem. The whirling feeling of the Floo is definitely worse with two of them together, and Harry trips on the edge of Sirius's cloak when they emerge from the other side. Fortunately Sirius is able to catch the both of them with only a minor wobble, and shakes his head to clear the dizziness.
Once Harry can see properly again and doesn't feel like a disturbed bobblehead, he takes a look around at their new location. The Ministry atrium is impossibly grand, with an immensely high ceiling paved with blue tile and polished dark wood floors. Many people are bustling here and there, some queuing for a wall of fireplaces opposite where they arrived and others at a desk with a bored-looking wix in a uniform. The wall they stand nearest is also lined with broad fireplaces, from which people Floo in in a steady stream. The centre of the atrium is dominated by a massive gold fountain portraying a witch and a wizard standing dominant over a group of magical creatures, including a wild-looking centaur who reminds Harry a bit of Bane, and a strange, small creature with bulging eyes and floppy ears. He's not sure he likes the thing much; it's very gaudy.
Sirius leads the way past the gaudy statue and through the wizen passing to and fro all around them toward a bank of lifts. They step into one, attracting looks from the other wixen who are already on board. There are only three other people, but all of them turn to stare at Sirius and Harry. Sirius, Harry sees, presses the button for Level Nine, the highest (or possibly lowest, as the elevator moves downward) available, and then looks straight at the door of the elevator in front of him in an aloof manner; Harry tries to adopt the same sincere disinterest in the other people, but isn't sure he does a very good job.
It turns out the atrium is on Level Eight, and so they are soon able to step out of the lift with the other wixen and proceed down a long hallway. Only one of the people in the lift with them continues down the black-tiled hall toward a distant door; the others turn left behind Sirius and Harry down a small flight of stairs. The bottom of the staircase delivers them to another long hallway, this one with rough-hewn stone walls lit by torches. On the left and right, well spaced out, are wood doors with heavy iron fixings. The remaining two wixen break off into two of these, opening doors to admit the sound of chatter and bustle from the rooms on the other side; once the doors close again, the hallway is silent.
Discomfited by the surroundings, Harry draws closer to Sirius, and Sirius places an arm around his shoulders.
"Nerve-wracking the first time, I know," Sirius says. "Level Ten is the courtrooms, so they're meant to be intimidating. Even just for spectators, who make up most of those who get into the rooms from this hall. Jury members, guards, prisoners and so on have access from other hallways."
"Oh," Harry says. That makes sense, from a certain point of view. "Where's the Wizengamot chamber?"
"Down there," Sirius says, gesturing toward the end of the hallway. Sure enough, there is one grand black stone door at the end of the hall, with silver numbers that say '11' on it. As they pass the courtrooms two-by-two, Harry sees that yes, there are ten of them. "Admittedly we could have Flooed directly into the antechamber, but I thought you might like to get a look at the Ministry."
Harry nods. "It's very… grand."
"That's one word for it," Sirius snorts, and then they're standing before the door. Sirius draws his wand once more and taps it, and it swings open before them without a sound, admitting them into the antechamber.
For an antechamber, it's a rather large room, long and rectangular. Three fireplaces line one wall, and set into the same wall next to them is a small booth with a witch who's in the process of accepting a cloak from a tall wix who has their back to Sirius and Harry. The other side of the room is home to several comfortable-looking benches where a few wixen are sitting, some in conversation with one another. The centre of the room seems to simply be an open space for folk to mill about and greet one another, which several wixen are doing. The walls are wood-panelled partway up and rough stone above that, leading to a high arched ceiling; the floor has a large patterned rug in the centre of it.
Several heads turn when Sirius and Harry enter, including those of two boys sitting on one of the benches to the right. Both of them immediately spring up and hurry over: not Theo and Neville, as Harry had expected (though whether those two would ever be caught dead in conversation with one another…) but Theo and Blaise.
"Harry!" Blaise says as they approach.
"Uh, hello Blaise," Harry replies. Sirius taps his shoulder and holds a hand out for Harry's cloak, which he quickly shrugs out of and hands over. Sirius goes to hand over their outerwear to the witch in the booth, leaving Harry to talk to his friends. "I wasn't expecting to see you today."
"Theo brought me as his guest," Blaise replies. "I wasn't planning on missing the fireworks."
"Fireworks?" Harry asks, alarmed.
"Not literally," Theo says. "But you and your godfather are going to make quite the splash today. I reckoned Blaise might like to see it for himself, and my father can't be bothered if I bring a guest. He's not even here today himself."
"Oh," Harry says. "Well, good to see you both, anyway. Having a good summer?"
"So far so good," Blaise says. "I've mostly been in Rome with my mother."
"Mine's been no worse than usual," Theo says blithely. "I am looking forward to the look on my father's face when he sees you. Lovely robes, by the way, who did them?"
Harry names the tailor he and Sirius went to, and both Blaise and Theo nod approvingly.
"Good choice," Blaise says. "I'm impressed; Lord Black doesn't come across as the type to have that sort of taste."
"I was raised as snobby a pureblood as you," says Sirius from over Blaise's shoulder. Harry had seen him coming, but hadn't warned his friends; their jump makes him snicker.
"I-I'm so sorry, Lord Black," Blaise stammers. "I didn't mean—"
"I took no offence, Heir Zabini," Sirius says. "If you think your parents didn't snark and gossip about their own parents when they were your age, you're wrong. We just like to pretend we've taught the new generation better."
"Yes, sir," Blaise says, stiff and formal. Next to him, Theo has stood up straight and put his shoulders back, his face firming into a stoic mask; Harry is reminded of the way the Slytherins put on a good face in front of the others Houses at school.
Sirius seems to notice it too, and glances down to say to Harry, "I'm going to make a quick round of greetings here—I see Lady Urquart."
Lady Alexandria Urquart; Harry remembers the name from Sirius's crash course in the who's-who of the Wizengamot. Urquart is one of the Ancient and Noble Houses, just like the House of Black, and holds a hereditary seat; they're a Light House, but Lady Urquart is allied with Sirius, if distantly, and is also very formidable. Harry doesn't know what she looks like, but is sure he'll be introduced at some later point, so he just nods to Sirius and turns back to his friends, who relax a little once Sirius is gone.
"You don't have to be so formal with him," Harry says to them. "He's really very casual about things."
"Maybe with you," Blaise says, "but you're his family. It's different with strangers."
Harry shrugs. "I guess."
They chat idly for another few minutes, trading stories about their summers—Harry's foray to the muggle theatre attracts a raised eyebrow from Blaise and a number of questions from Theo—and then Sirius comes back and tells Harry that they'd better get into the chamber before the session starts. Harry says goodbye to Blaise and Theo and lets Sirius fuss for a moment with the way his collar is laying, and then they head together toward the doors from the antechamber into the main Wizengamot chamber, Harry just a step behind Sirius.
The Wizengamot chamber is big, is what Harry thinks first upon stepping into the room. It's impressively cavernous, with a domed ceiling rising high above the circular room. Rising up all around are four concentric rows of seats, 48 in total, and in the top row there are twelve larger boxes, each with its outward-facing front wall bearing a crest. At the far end of the room from the doors, there are two decorated seats sat side-by-side with a curtain behind them, and just below them there's a small wooden chair and a desk where a wix seems to be setting up a typewriter. Many of the seats are already filled, including some of the high boxes, and almost every head turns to look at Harry and Sirius as they come through the door. Wixen in every colour and cut of robes imaginable, of every age, from some seemingly older than Dumbledore to Harry's own age. As Sirius leads the way over to a staircase that will take them to the top floor, a whisper starts making its way around the room. Harry can't hear what anyone is saying in detail, but he can feel the weight of their stares and knows that they're talking about him.
"Better get used to it," Sirius murmurs as they step onto the stairs. The moment their feet are settled on the steps, the stairs begin to move like a muggle escalator, conveying them swiftly up to the walkway that runs along behind the boxes. Twelve boxes, Harry thinks: one for each of the Ancient and Noble Houses that bears a hereditary seat in the Wizengamot. "This is what it's always like, and they've seen plenty of me in the past."
Harry sighs. "Really?"
Sirius shrugs. "At least they're whispering. When I first took my seat, they talked openly."
"I don't think I like the Wizengamot much," Harry mutters.
"Fair enough," Sirius says, laughing. He steps off the moving staircase at the top smoothly; Harry only stumbles a little. "Some of them are fine, but that's not a bad attitude, generally speaking. We'll see what you think at the end of the session, hm?"
"Yeah."
The Black box is near the end of the row, and Sirius steps down into it and finds his seat, settling his robes around him neatly. There's a smaller chair, just right for Harry, beside Sirius's; when he settles into it he finds it's actually quite comfortable. The box itself isn't especially decorated, just draped with black and silver curtains. In front of Sirius and Harry on the banister is a small version of the Black crest. From their vantage point, they can see the backs of the heads of every member of the Wizengamot on their side of the room and all of the faces of those across from them.
As Harry is looking around, someone behind him awkwardly clear their throat, and Harry turns to find that Neville has appeared in the entrance to the box.
"Hello, Lord Black, Harry," he says, when they've turned to look at him.
"Hello, Neville," Harry says. "Come in."
"I, um—"
"It's alright," Sirius says. "Come on in." To Harry, he explains, "Entrance to the box requires authorization from someone with the appropriate authority. You'll have the right to grant entrance once you're confirmed as Heir."
Neville nods, stepping down into the box. He's dressed very nicely, in the olive green and black of the House of Longbottom. In fact, it's probably the most put-together Harry's ever seen Neville look. He's more used to a sloppily-tied tie and a cowlick. Looking at this polished version, with his hair combed neatly and his shoes shined, a shining pin in the shape of the Longbottoms' ivy emblem on his breast, Harry isn't sure which he prefers.
"You look nice," Harry says. You don't really look like my friend, he thinks.
"Thanks," Neville says, and raises a hand to rub the back of his head, barely stopping himself in time from mussing his hair. That's more familiar. "You too, Harry. How's your summer been?"
"Pretty good," Harry says. "Sirius has been teaching me a lot."
"My grandmother has stepped up my lessons, too. She says since I'm at Hogwarts now I need to learn to comport myself with the honour and diligence of a true Longbottom." He sounds like he's quoting.
Harry smiles. "You've always seemed pretty honourable to me, Neville. Here, have you met Sirius?"
Neville nods and makes a bow in Sirius's direction. "Nice to see you again, Lord Black."
"Call me Sirius, really," Sirius says, standing to make his own bow. "You're friends with my Heir, after all."
"So you're really going to do it?" Neville asks, turning back to Harry. "Good luck, then. Not that I much expect you'll need it."
"I'll take it," Harry says, and holds out a hand. "Thanks for being here, Neville."
"Of course," Neville says, and shakes Harry's hand, meeting his eyes squarely. "I'm not much good at this whole politics thing, but I think you're going to be great at it, Harry. I… um, if this isn't—well. I hope we'll stay friends."
"I look forward to working with you," Harry replies. He's not sure he really has the right to do this, to make what Sirius called an 'overture of alliance', but Sirius doesn't interject and Neville's smile in response is bright and genuine. He really does look forward to seeing what his friend can do in the future. Neville had explained his own situation in a letter: the House of Longbottom was a Patriarchal House, but there wasn't anyone currently sitting in the Longbottom seat. The only surviving adult wizard in the male line was Neville's great-uncle, Algernon, who had abdicated the role of Patriarch and the seat to his own younger brother, Neville's grandfather, years ago, and so was unable to claim the seat himself. That left Neville as Heir, waiting until he came of age to take the seat himself. He could attend the sessions and even speak, but not vote, not until he turned seventeen. But once he did, he would have full control over his House and its affairs, and Harry was excited to see what Neville made of the House of Longbottom.
Neville lets go of Harry's hand after a long moment and clears his throat again, then says, "I should get back to my grandmother. But it was good to see you, Harry. And you, Lord—er, Sirius."
"Lord-er-Sirius," Sirius says, sounding amused. "Has a ring to it. Nice to see you too, Heir Longbottom."
"Bye," Neville says, and then ducks out of their box.
Once he's gone, Sirius gets up from his seat and comes over to Harry, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Nicely done," he says. "For someone who claims to hate politics, you're quite good at them."
"Had to learn something in Slytherin," Harry says. "Otherwise what's the point of putting up with all the prats?"
Sirius's laugh is loud enough that there are still people craning their necks to look up at the Black box when Harry sits back down and looks out over the crowd again. He tries out his most forbidding frown, modelled after some combination of Snape and McGonagall, on a few of the nearest rubberneckers, which is enough to make them turn back to their neighbours, much to his delight. Sirius, seeing it happen, pats Harry's shoulder again with another chuckle.
It takes another ten minutes or so, but finally the last stragglers from the antechamber filter in and take their seats. The Wizengamot chamber is about three-quarters full, which Sirius murmurs is about average turnout; those missing are either empty seats which will be re-elected, or those unable to attend, whose proxies will be held by their allies.
Most of the major magical families are represented here, Harry knows now, and a few of the minor ones. Technically anyone—or, any family—can hold a Wizengamot seat, one seat per Family or House. That means that most everyone important in the entire magical world is represented here today. Which is… very nervewracking. Harry settles deeper back into his seat and takes a deep breath, and Sirius reaches over to place a hand on his shoulder.
"You'll do fine," he promises, in a voice so confident and steady that Harry believes him.
Sirius had timed the encouragement well: as soon as his hand falls away from Harry's shoulder, there's a rustle of curtains at the bottom of the ring, and from behind the two ornate chairs emerge first Dumbledore in brilliantly purple robes, speckled with shimmering golden stars, looking calm and regal as ever, and then, hurrying after him, a man in green robes who Harry thinks he recognizes from a photo as Minister Fudge. They take their seats at the heart of the Wizengamot, and a hush falls, into which Dumbledore clears his throat.
"Wixen of the Wizengamot," he says. His voice is projected magically around the room, though Harry hadn't seen him draw his wand or cast a spell; either Dumbledore is really that powerful (not unbelievable) or there's some other device at work. "I welcome you all today to this session, for the new moon of July, 1992. For those who do not know me—" a quiet chuckle passes through the room, and Dumbledore smiles behind his beard, "—and for the record, I am Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore of the Dumbledore Family."
"And I am Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge," Fudge declares, without leaving space for Dumbledore to continue.
"Just so," Dumbledore says, still with that serene expression. "I call this session to order. First, I would ask for notice of proxies."
Lit wands go up around the room, about half a dozen of them. Dumbledore gestures to them one by one, and those who raised their wand speak up to say who they are and their Family or House, as well as whose proxy they hold. None of the names are familiar.
Once that's done, Dumbledore calls for a list of empty seats, at which Fudge produces a roll of parchment and reads off, "The hereditary seats for the Ancient and Noble Houses of Longbottom, with Heir; Nott, without Heir; Prewett, with Heir; and Prince, with Heir, are currently empty. There are an additional three regular seats currently vacant, and we are accepting nominations for election at the Winter solstice session, as in every year."
"Thank you, Cornelius," Dumbledore, says, which elicits a slightly grumpy sigh from Fudge, who seems to have forgotten that his voice, too, is amplified. "We have one matter of law only to settle today. Are there any addenda?"
At this, Sirius stands and places his right hand on the Black crest set into the banister in front of him. As he does, a mirage-like version of him appears in the centre of the circle down at the bottom, facing Dumbledore and Fudge. Harry restrains himself from saying "brilliant" out loud, because it is, but he doesn't know if his voice would be picked up by whatever charm is causing speakers to be audible to everyone in the room.
"The Wizengamot recognizes Lord Black," Dumbledore says, once the image has settled.
"Chief Warlock, Minister," Sirius greets respectfully. "I have a matter of blood to add to the agenda."
Whispers race around the room, and Harry can see necks craning to peer up at him and Sirius. Dumbledore seems unfazed, but Fudge's jaw drops.
"I see," Dumbledore says. "Thank you, Lord Black. Would you like to inform us ahead of time of the matter's details, or would it be better to wait?"
"I'm sure you have an idea," Sirius says. "And that being the case, I am content to wait."
"Indeed," Dumbledore says, and nods. Once he's done so, Sirius removes his hand from the Black crest in the box and his image in the circle vanishes; as he's sitting back down, Dumbledore continues, "Then our agenda today consists of a matter of law and a matter of blood. Any others?"
No one else indicates a desire to speak, so Dumbledore nods again and proceeds. He introduces the legal matter: they're not voting on it today, because this is the first time it's been introduced, but one of the lesser Houses has drafted a bill that would… something about taxes. Harry doesn't really understand; Dumbledore reads it out and it's all in dense legal speech. The only thing he catches is the name of its sponsor: one Asphodel Parkinson, which Harry recognizes as the name of Pansy's mother.
Sirius leans over and murmurs, "You'll get used to the legalese, but for now, what you need to know is that they want muggleborns who go back to the muggle world to pay income tax on their muggle income to the Ministry of Magic as well as to the muggle government."
Harry blinks. "That sounds…"
"Punitive," Sirius says darkly. "Yes. It's a questionable bill—they've couched it all in terms of 'wixen who benefit magical services'. They're implying, of course, that muggleborns or halfbloods who work muggle jobs and don't pay income tax to the magical government are leeches, taking advantage of magical resources and not giving back. It's not true, of course."
"Hm," Harry says. He glances at Sirius. "Is this sort of thing… normal?"
Sirius sighs. "Unfortunately, yes. In fact, this is fairly mild; it's not unlikely to pass. The discrimination is masked by wording that makes it sound like it's purely meant to be fair, egalitarian, and ultimately beneficial to the magical world. Which it would be—at the expense of muggleborns, who increasingly, by laws like this one, are forced to choose between rejecting magic, giving up their wands, and living entirely as muggles, or leaving the muggle world completely and immersing themselves in magical culture instead, where they have significant disadvantages. It's a more insidious, less murderous version of Voldemort's aims."
"And the people who put these bills forward—" Harry begins, and Sirius nods.
"Are by and large Voldemort's followers, whether or not they were Marked Death Eaters during the last war." He gestures to the floor, where Lady Parkinson is presenting her case. "Case in point: Asphodel Parkinson was never Marked as far as I'm aware, but her husband was and is still in Azkaban. She's also a close associate of Lucius Malfoy, and they're both allied with Lord Flint."
Lord Nicodemus Flint, Head of one of the Dark Ancient and Noble Houses. Sirius had told Harry that Flint was the only bastion of Death Eater loyalty among the Ancient and Noble Heads, but certainly not the only pureblood supremacist; the others had simply chosen to stay ostensibly neutral in the war. That, Harry had thought at the time, and still thinks, is almost more despicable than choosing a side and sticking to it, even if you weren't going to fight. They were willing to go with whichever side that won instead of actually making a stand of any sort. From the Slytherin perspective Harry supposes he can understand it, because it was a war and speaking out got a lot of people killed or thrown in prison at the end of it all, but Slytherin or not, he's still willing to stand up for what he believes in. He just wants to do it effectively.
A few people make speeches down on the floor. Madame Parkinson first, and then Lord Ogden who's pretty straightforwardly opposed, then a Master Burke who seems to be in favour but talks incredible circles around the whole thing, until Harry can't really quite gather what his stance is at all. Then the image of a slightly stooped old woman with a long braid of silver hair that falls in a tidy line down the middle of her back appears in the circle as Lord Burke's fades, and Sirius sits forward, grinning.
"This'll be good," he says to Harry. "That's—"
"The Wizengamot recognizes Lady Ollivander," Dumbledore says.
"Like the wandmaker?" Harry whispers, and Sirius nods.
"Watch."
The Lady of the Ancient and Noble House of Ollivander takes a moment to clear her throat, and then says in a clear, strong voice that seems unmatched to her small stature, "How do you define 'magical resources', my Lords and Ladies?
"For it is clear to me, and I think therefore that it should be put in plain terms, that this bill implies that a muggleborn must either accept this tax or give up their wand." She gazes around the room, a motion of the mirage that must echo her actual motion; it's impressive, really. "As someone with a, shall we say, vested interest in the business of wixen buying and carrying wands, this is troubling to me. Magic is the birthright of all wixen, and to see them discouraged from its use and from interaction with it—for that is what you imply—is heinous. In the short term, perhaps there is no harm. Yes, perhaps muggleborns who work in the muggle world might be encouraged to make some contribution back to the magical world. But it might be in the form of their business in our shops, their children in our schools, and their voices in our votes. Yes?"
"Hear hear!" cries Sirius, startling Harry; he's echoed by other voices around the room.
Lady Ollivander smiles and nods. "Well then. I have said all I shall say."
Her image disappears, and Dumbledore waits until the general murmuring of the gathered Wizengamot has quieted before clearing his throat and saying, "Is there anyone else who would speak on this bill?"
There are, of course. More who support it than oppose it, unfortunately, though the wind does seem somewhat taken out of their sails by the Lady Ollivander's comments. Sirius is content to ignore the speeches and brewing debates, and instead says to Harry, "A formidable woman, Lady Ollivander is. No clue what her relation is to the Mr. Ollivander in the shop—they're probably cousins or some such—but she's got a certain amount of influence."
"She's Light?" Harry asks, trying to remember what else Sirius had said about her during his who's-who. Not much.
"Yes," Sirius says. "Though on the neutral side of it, at times. The Ollivanders don't much care about blood, but they care an awful lot about magic. The only reason she respects me at all is that I'm powerful; she has the same respect for all of the Heads of the Ancient and Noble Houses, for Dumbledore, and for any number of those in the seats down there. Anyone with less actual magic at their disposal is… less worthy of her consideration."
"So… she supports the bill because she wants muggleborns to come into the Wizarding world and stay here?" Harry asks. "Not because she thinks they shouldn't be punished for wanting to work in the muggle world. Just because she thinks that punishment isn't the way to go. She thinks a law like this will make muggleborns give up magic entirely, instead of going the other way."
"That would be my guess. Very astute of you, kid."
They listen to the remaining speakers. Sirius doesn't speak, and Harry doesn't ask why; he reckons Sirius is saving it all for his own item. Harry's not really sure at the end which way the Wizengamot will vote; it seems pretty equally split, at least among those who spoke. Sirius's expression is neutral, and Harry hopes that they can talk after the session about what Harry should have been paying attention to in order to get a better idea of the currents in the room. There's not a lot going on—only a single speaker at a time, and most of them unfamiliar to Harry—but at the same time Harry expects there's a lot going on, in the glances that the Peers throw at one another, the postures and expressions of those they can see, the whispers from one person to the person seated next to them.
Finally, it ends, and Dumbledore declares that there will be a short speakers' list to be collected before the next session for final statements on the issue, preceding the vote. If anyone wishes to speak on the issue, he says, they should express interest in such to the Minister.
Then he looks up toward the Black box and he says, "I would now call Lord Black to the floor, to present his matter of blood before the Wizengamot."
Sirius rises again from his seat and lets his palm fall onto the Black crest, and once more his image appears in the circle. He nods his head regally to Dumbledore and Fudge, and says once Dumbledore has recognized him, "Thank you. I bring today before my Peers a matter of blood, as the Chief Warlock has said; a matter that has weighed heavily on my in the past year, since my ascension to the role of Patriarch of the Ancient and Noble House of Black.
"As you all know, I'm not exactly the marrying kind." There are a few chuckles around the room—some probably just because Sirius has a bit of a reputation from when he was in school, and others because they know that Sirius happily lives with a male werewolf; it's a joke either way. "This comes with the issue of, shall we say, issue. I have no blood Heir, and have no real prospect of ever acquiring one in the traditional manner. And so I come before you today to announce that I am accepting as my personal Heir and the Heir of my House the son of my heart, Harry James Potter, son of James Potter, the Head of the House of Potter."
Sirius turns toward Harry in the box, and with his free hand he gestures for Harry to place his own palm over Sirius's, on top of the crest. Harry does so, and sees his own image appear next to Sirius's in the middle of the floor. In his opinion, the two of them make a striking picture; clearly the Wizengamot agrees. Chatter breaks out among the Peers, the room filled with hubbub in an instant. Fudge looks taken aback, and Dumbledore has leaned forward in his seat, turned to look up at the real Harry and Sirius in their box.
It becomes apparent after a minute that the talk isn't going to die down on his own, and Dumbledore raises his hand and snaps his fingers. A sound like a gunshot echoes around the room, and a hush falls. Into the new silence, Dumbledore says, "This is unorthodox, Lord Black."
"Not really," Sirius says. "Harry is of my blood, if distantly, and his father and I were brothers in all but blood; anyone you asked could tell you that. An adoption of this kind, given those factors, is actually fairly routine."
"You're Lord Black!" shouts someone from among the seats. A wizard that Harry doesn't recognize rises on the other side of the room. "No Lord of the House of Black has ever accepted a halfblood into his House!"
Sirius sighs. With his voice magically amplified, it's clear to everyone in the room exactly how unimpressed he is with that comment. "I accept halfbloods into my House," he says. "Harry isn't even the first—I'm sure you all recall the memorable session in which I restored Andromeda Tonks to her status as a daughter of the House of Black, and granted membership to her husband Theodore and her daughter Nymphadora. The lattermost is, of course, a halfblood. And her father, Ted, is a muggleborn—and was my previous Heir, in case you hadn't noticed. If anything you blood supremacist types should be happy."
The wizard sputters, and his neighbour, a woman with grey-streaked blonde hair in a severe ponytail, reaches over, snags the back of his robes, and yanks him back into his seat before he can embarrass himself further.
"Thank you, Madame Bones," Sirius says dryly. "Are there any substantial objections to my choice of Heir?"
"Not so much an objection," Dumbledore says, "but I must, of course, do my due diligence when it comes to the law, Lord Black. You are aware, of course, that you have no legal status as Harry's guardian?"
"I am aware that declaring him my Heir qualifies as a declaration of intent to sue for such status," Sirius replies, meeting Dumbledore's gaze with a steely look on his face.
"Do you have documentation from Mr. Potter's family permitting you to assume custody?"
"You know full well that I do not," Sirius says. "However, I am happy to inform this body that I am in need of no such thing."
A murmur goes around the room, and Dumbledore sits back again in his seat. "Lord Black, you are a respected figure in this assembly and I do not doubt your word, but I am afraid I must insist that you elaborate."
"Harry's aunt and uncle are unfit guardians for a magical child—or any child—and thus I am exercising my right as a magical blood relative and a member of the Wizengamot to remove him from those circumstances and claim him as a member of my House, and therefore under my protection," Sirius says. "I am happy to provide evidence if you desire it, Chief Warlock."
"Please do," Dumbledore says. "Though first I would very much like to hear from young Mr. Potter himself on the issue. Harry?"
"Uhm," Harry says, and then flushes slightly. Not the best start, really. There're just a lot of people watching. "I'd much rather have Sirius be my guardian than my aunt and uncle, sir. He's right that they're not, er, fit guardians."
Dumbledore frowns. "I see. I believe that you think so, but you must understand, Harry, that my position does not allow me to take you entirely on your word. You are a child, and I must ensure that you are not being removed from circumstances that are acceptable into ones that may be overwhelming; accepting Heirship of an Ancient and Noble House when you were raised in the muggle world—" There are shouts of dismay alongside gasps from the audience; clearly Harry's background isn't well known. "—is sure to be difficult," Dumbledore continues over the noise.
"Dumbledore, you cannot claim that a muggle home is better than a magical one for a magical child," shouts a voice from among the seats; Harry thinks it was Lord Ogden.
"Never!" cries another, in agreement.
"Even so," Dumbledore replies calmly. "I must do my due diligence."
"Fine," Sirius says. "I am content to speak to what I witnessed myself when I went several weeks ago to retrieve Harry from his aunt and uncle's home, if you will accept that as evidence; otherwise I can call other witnesses. Or you can ask Harry himself."
"I should like to speak first to Harry himself," Dumbledore says. "Lord Black, please return to your seat and allow us to get Harry's perspective."
"Certainly," Sirius says, and makes a point of saying to Harry before releasing the crest and therefore the amplifying charm, "I'm here if you need anything, Harry. Don't let them intimidate you; you know the truth."
Harry nods, and Sirius slips his hand out from under Harry's. His image in the circle vanishes, leaving Harry's alone, but he doesn't sit down. Instead he places the hand that had been on the banister onto Harry's shoulder and stays close beside him.
"Well then," says Dumbledore. "Harry, what about your home circumstances makes you feel that your aunt and uncle are not fit guardians?"
"I had thought you knew, sir," Harry says. "Professor Sprout said you'd be hearing about the cupboard and all when she came to introduce me to magic."
Harry can't see from where he is if Dumbledore's expression changes, but his voice seems purposefully light when he says, "Professor Sprout did recount a moderate concern, but nothing that to me warranted your removal from your aunt and uncle's home, Harry. I wrote them a letter about the issue, and when you arrived at Hogwarts and did not follow up with her or myself, I assumed things had improved."
Harry tilts his head, considering that. "Well, I suppose you were right. They did put me in Dudley's second bedroom instead of continuing to make me sleep in the cupboard under the stairs, like I did during the rest of my time living there."
Shouts of outrage from the crowd. Harry steels himself and continues, as if it doesn't bother him at all to admit to any of this, "They never liked me much, you see, Headmaster. And they hate magic. I had no idea I was a wizard, growing up, nor that Sirius was alive, but you can understand that I jumped at the chance to live in a place that I belonged when I met him and found out that he wanted me."
"I see," Dumbledore says gently. "I apologize for not taking Professor Sprout's concerns more seriously, then, and for not following up with you."
"It's alright. I don't think it's your fault, Professor." That's not true, but Harry's not here to undermine Dumbledore's authority. "You take good care of us at Hogwarts, but you can't know everything—and if there were something I'd wanted you to know, I'd have told you. As it was… I'm very glad that Sirius cared enough to look into it. And now all we want is for me to be able to live with him, and never have to go back to my aunt and uncle."
Dumbledore nods. "That seems fair, Harry. In that case, unless there are arguments, I shall consider this a successful suit for custody by Lord Black."
He gazes around the room, but none of the Peers indicate a desire to speak for a moment… and then Lucius Malfoy stands up. It couldn't be anyone else: Harry has never met him, but he's as blond as his son and just as pointy-faced. He's seated across the room from the Black box, and so Harry can see the way he looks up at the box, instead up at Dumbledore, when he places a hand on his family's crest.
"The Wizengamot recognizes Lord Malfoy," Dumbledore says, and Harry's projection-self shimmers away to make room for Lucius's, though when he makes to remove his hand from the Black crest, Sirius quietly tells him not to.
"Thank you, Chief Warlock," Lucius says. "Mr. Potter's statements are certainly enough for me to believe that he ought to be removed from the home of his muggle relatives posthaste… however, I would question whether Lord Black should be the one to assume custody.
"After all, I am sure all of us here remember that when Lord James Potter and his wife were declared incompetent and placed in St. Mungo's, Lord Black, then Mr. Black, declined to assume custody of his godson as their Will requested. That forfeit makes me wonder why he now wishes to take Mr. Potter as his ward and his Heir, when there are others who could take him in and Lord Black himself has other, closer relatives whom he might accept as his Heir."
Sirius reaches forward to place his hand on the crest above Harry's, and Dumbledore says, "The Wizengamot recognizes a rebuttal from Lord Black."
This time when Sirius's image appears, Malfoy's doesn't disappear. Instead, they stand facing one another, a study in shining opposites. Malfoy is wearing white robes edged in pale golden yellow, tall and slim, with traditionally aristocratic features that make him a study in masculine beauty and controlled hints at power and wealth. Sirius, on the other hand, is a dark and striking figure, of equal height but much wilder intensity, and he leans forward slightly as he speaks.
"When James and Lily—Lord and Lady Potter, and don't think any of us missed your omission of her title, Lord Malfoy—were attacked, I was a young man with a dangerous job and no idea of how to be a father. I had no confidence that I could have taken care of Harry, and believed that he would have a better life if allowed to go to his aunt and uncle. I was wrong, and believe me when I say that the depth of regret I feel for having made that decision is inexpressible. However, despite their abuse, my godson, the son of my heart, has grown up into an incredible child with vast potential, and I intend to do everything in my power to give him what he needs to live up to that, and that includes making him my Heir.
"We haven't formally moved on to the discussion period allowed for whether or not the Wizengamot believes Harry is an acceptable choice for my Heir, but I'm going to say my piece about it now," Sirius says, and steps up close to the banister, so that his projection-self steps right into the space of Malfoy's. "Not one of you can argue that he isn't an excellent choice. Instead you make your case now, Lord Malfoy, because you know that if Harry becomes my Heir, you'll be barred now and forever from any sort of grasp on the House of Black. Just looking at him, you know that you see before you a boy who will one day be an eminently powerful wizard, and with the power of this House behind him, he'll be nigh-unstoppable. Not the kind of person you want associated with me, of course.
"But for that very same reason, you have no case to make that would ever justify denying Harry the right to the seat of Heir. He might be new to the magical world in many ways, but magic will always tell. You all can see that he belongs among us, and I will see him take his place here—and, in fact, I'd like to see you try to stop me."
There's a long and profound silence. Then Lord Ogden laughs and rises in his seat to applaud briefly before placing his hand on his family's crest. Dumbledore recognizes him, and then he says, "Quite the speech, Sirius. I believe you have made your point quite roundly."
"Thank you, Tiberius."
Lord Ogden nods and then looks over at Malfoy, whose face is pale and pinched, looking altogether thwarted. "Well, Lord Malfoy?" he says. "Care to add to your previous questions, or has Lord Black addressed your concerns?"
"He has," Malfoy says, his voice tight, and sits back down, his image vanishing from the circle.
Lord Ogden vanishes too. Harry's image reappears beside Sirius's, even as Sirius looks around the room and asks, "Is there any other disagreement?"
There's none, fortunately. Dumbledore then says, "Perhaps then we might proceed directly to the confirmation vote?" He pauses for a moment, but when no one else steps forward, he continues, "In that case: does the Wizengamot hereby confirm that the judgement of Lord Black in selecting his Heir is sound and uncompromising, that he has chosen well and wisely, and that his Heir will in days to come stand well in his stead on behalf of their shared House? All in agreement, raise wands."
All around the room, wands go up, lit at their tips to register their agreement. It's most of the room—at least eighty percent, Harry thinks, though he can't count quickly enough to be entirely sure.
"All opposed?"
This time, no wands go up, and Harry sighs a quiet sigh of relief. Sirius, beside him, smiles.
Dumbledore says, "Any abstentions?"
There are a few of those, but of course it doesn't matter now what Lord Malfoy or Madame Parkinson or any of the rest of their odious crowd think. The vote passes; a moment later, Dumbledore says so. The projection of Sirius down in the circle bows, and Harry hurriedly follows his example.
"My thanks to my Peers and to our Minister and our Chief Warlock," Sirius says, and then pulls both his and Harry's hands off of the crest together.
Up in the box, Sirius sits down again in his chair and Harry sits next to him, and then Sirius turns to Harry and says, "Congratulations, Heir Black."