Harry gets a lot of mail from his friends as the end of July—and with it, his birthday—approaches. Hermione, somewhat bloody-minded as always, is less than convinced by his letters telling her that he's fine, that Sirius and Remus are wonderful to live with, that couldn't they just discuss the contents of some of their new books? Instead she insists on saying that Harry should talk about what happened to him—and he will, he tells her. He's going to tell the Wizengamot all about it, and that's more than enough. Theo's letters are just as insistent, though very differently. His father, he says, had mentioned Harry not long after the solstice, had said that Theo should watch out for him. What happened? When did Harry meet Lord Nott? What had he said or done? Harry doesn't know how to explain to Theo that it wasn't like he was probably imagining. Instead he writes, things are going to be really different now. I don't know what's going to happen, because a lot has changed for me recently, but you're probably not going to like it. But you know what to do when things get bad. Then he hopes that Theo will be very, very careful.
Neville and Blaise both ask about Harry's birthday, and Harry writes back and tells them that he's not sure. He tells Sirius and Remus the same when they also ask what he wants to do, and they look at him and then at each other, and then Remus suggests gently that they just have a quiet dinner to themselves, and Harry can perhaps see his friends another time. Harry is surprised by the amount of relief that that gives him, and he ducks his head and nods and lets them take over the planning. He tells himself he'll write his friends and make plans to see them, but… whenever he sits down to write a reply to another letter, he doesn't do it; he decides instead, every time, that he's just feeling a bit too tired, too distracted, and he's too busy with preparation for the August Wizengamot session.
Truthfully, not seeing his friends does give him plenty of time and quiet to prepare for the Wizengamot. It'll be worse, he knows, than last summer; they hadn't even really asked any questions about the Dursleys during his assumption of the Heirship, and Sirius had been able to shield him from what debate there had been, but he'll have no such advantage this time around. He's sure they'll be awful, and he wants to be ready for anything that they might say. If he breaks down in the middle of telling the story, it'll only make him look weak, so he stands in the middle of his room and he practices telling it over and over again until his voice stops cracking down the middle, turning to a whisper, flooding with tears. He forces himself to remember all of the details, every line of Voldemort's face, the heat of the fire and the dancing shadows, Pettigrew and Crouch and the Carrows' raw voices chanting.
He'd told a scattered version to Sirius when he'd first stumbled through the fireplace into the lobby at Saint Mungo's, had shouted to anyone that would listen that Voldemort was back, he was back, he was coming—everyone had thought he was insane, then. They still do now, or at least the papers say so, and he knows that even among his friends not everyone had believed him when he and Neville first started saying that the Dark Lord had risen again. Blaise hadn't, and Theo… Harry thinks Theo hadn't wanted to. He's not sure about the older Slytherins—Gemma, he thinks, believes him; she'd sent a short owl telling him that she was here if he needed anything over the summer, but Gemma isn't all of Slytherin.
This Wizengamot session isn't going to help, Harry thinks. The Ministry isn't going to take the word of a thirteen year old boy against that of its most trusted advisors, not even a boy backed by the power and influence of the House of Black. But if he can change even one mind, it'll be enough. He doesn't care what the papers say about him; he just wants as many people as possible to get through this war. Including himself, if he can, though after the solstice his hopes aren't high.
But one day at a time. July ends, and he turns thirteen. He and Sirius and Remus have a cake, and Remus kisses his forehead and Sirius ruffles his hair, and they play card games and tell jokes until Harry forgets that there's a war on. Remus gets him another new series of novels and Sirius gets him a hand-curated basket of joke supplies from Zonko's and the promise of a shopping trip to get Harry another few new robes, so that he can look as "spiffy" (Sirius's word, of course) as he wants. Harry's Hogwarts letter has also arrived, including a permission form for Hogsmeade visits, which Sirius presents signed with a flourish, to Harry's pleasure.
August is hot and slow and steady. Harry practices telling his story to himself until he stops looking upset when he looks at himself in the mirror, until he actually stops feeling so upset, and then he goes and practices telling it to Sirius and Remus. That's different, because he can see the pain and the rage tucked around the corners of their eyes and sitting heavy on the downturn of their mouths, and they ask him clarifying questions that bring up new details that he'd somehow forgotten: the musty smell of that room, the feeling of Voldemort's wand pressed to his throat, the pain in his ribs from being kicked by Carrow. They hate it and he hates it and everyone hates it, but it has to be done. It has to, or that's what Harry tells himself to keep himself going. He'll tell the truth if it kills him.
He'll tell the truth about this if it kills him, is what he remembers when he's lying in bed at night, staring at his shadow-black ceiling and thinking about the other time he'd seen Voldemort's face. He can't tell anyone about that, not now, probably not for a very, very long time. If ever. He tucks that secret deep inside, wraps it in black shadow and arrogance and feeling-small, all the bitter badness that he'd used to pretend he was someone he wasn't when Voldemort was in his head, and he keeps it.
When Harry isn't clutching tight to his secrets or talking himself hoarse telling his story, he reads. He reads about Ancient Runes and warding because it might save a life one day; about astronomy and herbology, because it's interesting; about the next step to becoming an Animagus, because he almost feels ready. He reads about duelling strategy and defensive spellwork, magic he's not ready for and magic he already knows, and tries to narrow the gap between those things. And when he isn't reading, he's flying, letting the rush of the wind erase everything else in his head, or he's running until the soreness in his legs and his lungs wipes out the pain and fear tied in a knot in his gut. Sirius teaches him how to dance, too, and it lends him a little bit of grace, though he usually still feels like he's got more limbs than he knows what to do with. He almost feels like he's growing up. He gets taller. He eats his weight in treacle tart, when Remus lets him. He marks off the days on the calendar as the moon grows full, and Remus gets irritable and prowls around Harry and straightens the house up with anxious, restless energy until Sirius takes them both out to the moor to run until the moon is hiding her face once more. Then he marks the days as the moon wanes again, and Remus wakes up earlier and Sirius sleeps later, Remus goes back to work and Sirius becomes busy with pre-session Lordship business. The latter Harry is often included in: meetings with vassal Heads, with allied Houses, teas and dinners which are filled with double talk, and straight dealings over paperwork in meeting rooms at Gringotts. It's interesting, even if a lot still goes over Harry's head.
August's new moon is on the 17th. It feels both far too early and far too late. But the day comes, and Harry gets up in the morning and dresses himself carefully, one layer at a time: underclothes, then shirt and trousers, then a black vest with silver filigree buttons, and then a black over-robe, worn open and unrelentingly obsidian over the rest of his clothes. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he looks somber, his hair wild but the rest of him stark and clean. His eyes are bright green against his brown skin, and he touches his own cheek, thinking about the distant land of his ancestors and how little he knows about them. He doesn't know if they'd be proud of him for the way he's representing his family. Probably not.
Harry sighs, gives himself a nod in the mirror, and goes out to have breakfast. When he steps out into the kitchen, he realizes that he's managed to sleep in—Remus is absent, and Sirius is already up and dressed, scowling at the Daily Prophet with a cup of tea in hand. Maybe not a surprise that he's slept late, actually; he'd been up for a long time the previous night, tossing and turning as he worried about the coming day.
"Morning," Harry says.
Sirius looks up and a smile breaks past his scowl. "Morning, pup," he says.
Harry finds a plate already made up for him on the counter, a warming charm cast over it, and he brings it to the table to sit across from Sirius and scarf down the food, quick but careful not to spill on himself. When he's done, Sirius sets down the paper and looks at him squarely across the table.
"Do you feel ready?" Sirius asks bluntly.
"As ready as I'll ever be," Harry says. "I'm not going to give up now."
"No," Sirius says, half on a sigh. "I didn't think you would. I do believe in you, you know that?"
Harry nods. "I'm going to be fine, Sirius. You don't need to worry."
"I'm going to worry about you until the day I die," Sirius says. "And probably after. But I know you can take care of yourself—I know exactly how capable you are. The Wizengamot won't know what hit them."
Harry smiles. "Thanks, Sirius."
Sirius gets up and comes around the table to hug Harry close for a moment. "You are very welcome, pup. Now come on, we've got appointments to keep, and you slept away your morning leisure time."
Harry nods and darts back to his room to fetch his satchel, packed last night with a book and some snacks and a water bottle, and then returns to Sirius's side. They Floo to the Ministry—separately, as Harry has now been granted permission to Floo directly through the Ministry's wards—and then head for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Sirius has an appointment with an archivist to get his hands on legal precedents for libel, and they both have an appointment with Amelia Bones.
The DMLE offices take up the entirety of Level Two of the Ministry, a sprawling warren of rooms and hallways. Sirius has explained the structure of the Ministry to Harry before, and Harry knows how influential this department is, how important their work can be. This means, of course, that the floor is a hub of activity, with memos flitting about and people striding to and fro, carrying files and papers, chatting with colleagues, and dictating to hovering quills. Many wear the red robes of Aurors, some of whom nod to Sirius as he and Harry pass. They first head back far from the elevator to the archival rooms, and Sirius has his brief meeting—the archivist is organized and has the paperwork ready for Sirius when they arrive. He collects the file, shrinks it, and tucks it carefully away into his pocket for later study. Then they head back out into the halls and toward the office of the Head of the DMLE. Madame Bones has a secretary who greets them, then pokes her head into the main office to announce them. When she re-emerges, she waves them straight through into a tidy office with furniture made of a light wood. A large forest landscape hangs on the back wall, deep and mysterious and consuming, with magical fireflies flitting through the shade and the occasional shadow of a beast or bird passing through.
Amelia Bones, seated in front of the painting, is a formidable-looking older woman with greying blonde hair tied into a severe ponytail; clear, pale blue eyes like those of her niece; and robes tailored to emphasize the breadth of her shoulders rather than minimize it. She welcomes Sirius politely to her office, and then says, in her low, frank voice, "What brings you here today, Lord Black, Heir Black? Not that I'm not happy to see you, but there is a Wizengamot session in only a few hours."
"That's why I'm here," Sirius says. "Just a courtesy call, Amelia. I'm not sure yet if I'll have the support, but I'm considering attempting a libel suit against the Prophet, and you'll see me trying to lay the groundwork for that today."
"Hm," says Madame Bones. She gives Harry a keen look. "Well, I can't say I don't understand why you want to. But I think your chances are poor, Sirius."
"I know," Sirius says. "But Harry's a good talker."
"Hm," she says again. "And you, Heir Black? What do you think of your chances?"
Harry restrains himself from shrugging. He considers being honest, because she's been very forthright, and then decides that that's a bad tactic; while he thinks it over, she waits patiently. He clears his throat and says, "Do you believe me, Madame Bones?"
To his surprise, she laughs. "Oh, very smart. If you look every one of those fools on the Wizengamot in the eye and ask them just like that, you'll have the whole room under your thumb." She turns back to Sirius and says, "I still don't think much of your chances, Sirius, but if it looks like things will go your way, I'll suggest the libel suit."
Unspoken: if the deniers hold sway, she'll remain silent, and Sirius will have to wait for a better opportunity. He can't go after the Daily Prophet by himself, and if Harry fails to sway enough members of the Wizengamot at this session, Sirius will still be lacking the allies he needs to actually win that battle. Harry takes a breath, steels himself, and tunes back into the conversation—Sirius and Madame Bones have turned to discussing some recent changes to Auror protocol. They're both hedging around the fact that Sirius thinks the Auror Corps needs to be readying for war, but Madame Bones can't move in that direction openly, not while the Ministry is still in denial.
The meeting wraps up after another half-hour's discussion and debate—less guarded, less coded than some of the conversations Harry has heard in the Slytherin common room, or even conversations he's heard Sirius have in the past. These two like each other, he thinks. But there's still a lot going unsaid, some that he understands and some that he doesn't. He's confident that he'll learn.
Sirius and Madame Bones make polite goodbyes—Madame Bones includes Harry in hers, as she had in her greeting, and Harry bows in return. Then they head out to grab a bite of lunch in the Ministry's cafeteria. Sirius complains cheerfully about the quality of the tea and sandwiches, but with the air of a person who doesn't mind so much, and Harry laughs at some of the stories he tells about shenanigans conducted in this very cafeteria during his days in Auror training. The Auror Corps has its own lunchroom, but for variety the recruits often came down here to eat, and Sirius tells stories of pranks played and scenes witnessed. It seems to Harry that in his early days working for the DMLE, Sirius had been happy, even if there had been a war on—he'd thrived as a Hit Wizard, and Harry can tell that he misses it.
"Do you think you'll ever work with the DMLE again?" Harry asks, as they're coming to the end of their lunch. "Even just as a consultant?"
"Maybe," Sirius says, and shrugs. "I'm still solidifying my place as Lord Black, and you're not yet secure in your role as Heir—and, with the war, both of us… well. Anyway, there's not much guarantee for the line of succession, so I can't take the risk right now. But in a few years, once we've done away with Moldy-Shorts once and for all, maybe."
Harry smiles. "Okay."
"What about you, huh?" Sirius asks, leaning forward slightly. He scrunches the paper wrapping of his sandwich into a ball. "Would you want to be an Auror?"
"Oh," Harry asks. "Erm."
"Hadn't thought of it?"
Harry shakes his head bashfully. "I don't really know what I want to do," he admits. "I… I'm good in Defence—"
"You certainly are," Sirius says, with a wink. "I happen to know you have your professor's highest praises."
"Thanks," Harry says, his cheeks warming slightly. "I'm not sure that means I want to be an Auror, though."
"No pressure," Sirius says with a wave of his hand. "You've years yet before you have to decide—you could pursue politics for a while after you graduate, even, without really needing to settle."
"Ugh," Harry says, and Sirius, who is well aware of Harry's opinion of magical politics, laughs.
"Maybe not, then," he says cheerfully. "Still, it's an option, and you might warm up to the whole mess once you're in charge of some of it."
Harry shrugs. He doesn't really think so, but who knows—his mind could change, he supposes. And it's not like he has any other idea of what he wants to do. He has been reading up a bit on warding, in one of the Ancient Runes books he picked up, but he's not sure what sort of career he could have in that, if any. And he does like Herbology, but he's not very skilled at it, not like Neville. The same goes for Potions—he likes it well enough when Snape isn't actively breathing down the back of his neck, but he's not sure he's good enough to have any sort of career as a brewer, if those jobs even exist. He really still doesn't know enough about the magical world and all of its possibilities to decide now what he wants to be when he grows up, other than not dead.
They chat idly for a while longer, and then Sirius and Harry take their trash over to the bins and head out of the cafeteria, making their way to the elevators. They're still fairly early for the session, almost an hour, but Sirius wants to watch people arrive and take a tally of who's there and their responses to seeing Harry.
The walk down to the Wizengamot chamber is as daunting as Harry remembers. The high, dark walls of the hallway, the grand doors that let them into the foyer, even the foyer itself with its shadowed alcoves and looming entryway to the chamber itself. Sirius and Harry deposit their cloaks with the welcome wix, and then settle themselves into one of the alcoves to observe as other members of the Wizengamot filter in.
They're some of the first to arrive, which is as they'd planned, and Sirius identifies other wixen as they enter, those that Harry doesn't already know. Allies and enemies come in alone or in groups, often with those like-minded with themselves, but sometimes in unlikely groupings: among other pairings, Lady Greengrass comes through the doorway still mid-argument with Lady MacMillan, which makes Sirius snicker as he identifies them both. The heads of the only two Grey Ancient and Noble Houses, one Dark-leaning, one Light-leaning, they perhaps could have gotten along on the basis of affinity, and have in past generations. Certainly they aren't as opposed as some among the Ancient and Noble Houses, but, Sirius says, their Ladies hate one another quite fiercely over some slight from their shared youth. Being as both are now well into their 90s, the disagreement becomes more ridiculous every year.
All of the sitting Lords and Ladies of the Ancient and Noble Houses are present today—they usually are. Of them all, only the Ladies Ollivander and Urquart seem to notice Sirius and Harry, the former acknowledging them with a nod, while the latter comes over and greets Sirius politely. Lady Urquart doesn't do much to acknowledge Harry other than a stringently correct bow, and doesn't wait to make conversation, instead going off right after exchanging pleasantries with Sirius. She makes a beeline for a wizard that Sirius identifies as Abelard Hooch, Head of the Hooch Family, who has the same distinctive golden eyes as his sister. Harry recognizes at a glance, now, all of the others, though they don't look his way: Nicodemus Flint, accompanied by his son; Michaela Bulstrode; Theodore Nott Senior—who is not the actual Head of House, as the House of Nott is matriarchal, but who is still insistently in attendance at each session; and Jacob Abbott, the only Light Lord not to acknowledge them. Only eight of the twelve Ancient and Noble seats have sitting Heads, Harry is reminded, watching them filter in. And at any time, an Heir could be lost, and the seat would pass on to a new House, one of those eligible—like the Malfoys.
Harry shakes his head at that thought, and Sirius makes a questioning noise.
"Just…" Harry says, looking out at the small crowd gathered in the foyer now, chatting before the meeting begins. "The balance is really delicate, isn't it?"
Sirius smiles, a bit wry, a bit tired. "It is," he says. "The Dark and the Light… we have to keep the balance, of course we do. But it seems harder, more complicated, all the time. No one really knows what's best."
"But we all think we do," Harry says. He sighs and glances up at Sirius. "Should we go up to the box?"
"That sounds good."
They rise together from their seats in the alcove and head for their box on high, above the heads of all the various Wizengamot members who have already arrived. There will be a few stragglers, of course—Lord Ogden is always precisely on time, as is Madame Bones, and of course Dumbledore and Minister Fudge have yet to take their seats. But the room is mostly full. There are some seats empty, because there always are, but many of the seats that had been left empty this time last year were elected and there have been few retirements this year, leaving the Wizengamot near full complement. All around, heads turn or tilt upward to watch Sirius and Harry pass, and as with last year, a wave of whispering follows them, wixen in their fine robes leaning over to remark to their neighbours on the presence of Lord Black and his Heir. Sirius attends most meetings—he's more or less a full-time politician these days—but his presence commands attention wherever he goes, and the rarity of Harry's appearance draws further comment. Everyone knows, just from Harry's presence, that something is afoot with the House of Black.
They get settled in their box, and then it's a short wait before the last few Wizengamot Peers arrive and then so too do Dumbledore and Fudge. The opening preamble is formulaic, the introductions and attendance, and then Dumbledore's listing of the agenda—several matters, including a "matter of information" that Harry knows is himself and Sirius's item—and call for any further business. No one offers any; clearly they'd all sent their items in early.
There's a pause, and then Dumbledore clears his throat and says, "First, then, to our matter of information, that this body have all the facts for its later decisions."
Harry had known, of course, that he'd be first, but he still has to take a deep breath as Sirius rises to his feet.
"The Wizengamot recognizes Lord Black," Dumbledore says as Sirius places his hand on the House crest carved into the banister; as soon as he finishes speaking, Sirius's image appears in the centre of the room.
"Thank you, Chief Warlock," Sirius says. "I spoke last session on a matter of conflict and found myself dissatisfied; I requested that this body acknowledge the lies being spread about my honourable Heir, and was denied. You voted against recognition of my complaint on the reasoning that you had not heard the story from, as it were, the horse's mouth. I will not deny my frustration; I'm sure it was evident."
A chuckle passes around the room; Harry can imagine the shouting. He'd seen Sirius after the session, when he'd already had some time to cool down, and that had been bad enough.
"Yes, yes," Sirius says, and waves a hand. "I know. Still, you all must be aware of how justified my frustration is—the papers have been impugning the honour and integrity of my Heir, and, through him, the House of Black. That cannot stand. So, to satisfy your demands of the story from its source, I present to you my Heir, Harry James Potter, that he might share his information with the Wizengamot."
Harry rises at his cue and places his hand on the crest over Sirius's. Dumbledore says, "The Wizengamot recognizes Harry Potter, Heir Black."
Harry bows once his image appears, and says, "Thank you, Chief Warlock. And greetings to you all, Peers of the Wizengamot. I come before you today to provide my account of the night of April 11th, 1993, Easter. As I have already declared publicly, on that night I witnessed the return of the Dark Lord known as Voldemort—"
Harry has to stop for a moment to allow the chorus of gasps, squeaks, and shrieks to subside. Some members of the Wizengamot manage to restrain themselves, but even most of them have some sort of reaction—faces going white, hands clenching on chairs' arms.
Once it's quiet again, Harry repeats, somewhat more loudly, "Voldemort." This time, he doesn't pause for the second, quieter round of exclamations. "However, as my Lord mentioned, there has been some disbelief in the claims of myself and Heir Neville Longbottom as to what we witnessed, so I have come before you now to give a first-hand account."
Harry pauses and waits for Dumbledore to gesture before he goes on. Once everything is dead silent, Dumbledore does so, and Harry continues, as he had rehearsed. "Shortly before midnight on April 11th, myself and Neville Longbottom, the Boy-Who-Lived, were abducted from Hogwarts by Bartemius Crouch Junior, who entered the castle through a disruption in the wards created by a runestone planted by Peter Pettigrew on Halloween, 1992. As you all know, both of these men are convicted Death Eaters; the latter was tried in absentia, as he was on the run, and Crouch Junior was condemned to Azkaban. How he escaped, I cannot say, but I am confident in my identification of the man responsible for the torture of my parents."
Around the room, many of the Peers flinch at the mention of the fate of the Lord and Lady Potter—it was well known, after all, what happened to them, and hearing it so bluntly from the lips of their son was clearly disturbing to them. Good, Harry thinks viciously. "Both Heir Longbottom and myself were unconscious for a brief period, before awakening in an unknown location. There were several people in the room, including Crouch Junior, Peter Pettigrew—another man I recognize from records of the manhunt for my parents' torturers—and fraternal twins who referred to one another as Alecto and Amycus. Later, my guardian, Lord Black, identified them from my description as Alecto and Amycus Carrow, also known Death Eaters though never apprehended after the war. As well, there was an unknown pregnant woman in the room, who in hindsight I believe to have been Elyndora Teems, a pureblood kidnapped in the summer of 1992. Lord Black told me about her kidnapping and its suspicious nature in September of 1992, and about his suspicion that she might have been taken for use in a ritual intended to revive the Dark Lord—knowing this, and once I heard her speak with doubled voice and malignant tone, I began to believe that she was possessed by Lord Voldemort."
There are disbelieving murmurs around the room, but some are watching Harry intently, looking not at his projection but at his physical self on high. Among them, he notes, are all of the Ancient and Noble Lords and Ladies, but also Madame Bones, Lord Ogden, Lord Malfoy, and a woman who looks a great deal like Gemma, who he realizes must be Lady Farley. There are others, probably, too, but he can't see all of them from his viewpoint in the Black box. "I know it sounds far fetched," Harry says. "However, the woman was referred to by the Death Eaters as 'my Lord', and she commanded them easily. She was also the centre of the ritual that they conducted, once both Neville and myself had been roused as witnesses.
"I believe, to be clear, that my own kidnapping was incidental; Neville, the Boy-Who-Lived and the chosen enemy of the Dark Lord, was the target. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time—but my having been there enables me to present this account to you today." Harry clears his throat. "I digress. The ritual began. I cannot speak well to its details, as I am unfamiliar with such Dark magic." He and Sirius had discussed it and decided that Harry shouldn't mention the Philosopher's Stone—its theft hadn't been publicized, and to bring it up would discredit Dumbledore, which isn't the goal of this. "However, the pregnant woman was consumed in flame. While the ritual was ongoing, Heir Longbottom got free thanks to some skill in wandless magic. This skill is one he and I have been working on together as an extracurricular in the past year; I'd been unaware that he had achieved such success, but he escaped a full body-bind and fled to the fireplace. The Death Eaters had negligently left Floo powder within easy reach, and Neville—I mean, Heir Longbottom—Flooed out to the hospital. I was left behind."
Harry pauses and swallows. This is the part that's always the hardest to tell. He can't quite do it, even with all his practice, without remembering the desolation he'd felt in those moments after Neville had left, before he'd forced himself into action. He'd been sure that he would die. But desperation had driven him to succeed, to live. And now he's here. Here, surrounded by disbelieving eyes and hostile ones, people who are afraid and bitter and angry and disturbed, who want to see him silenced. Well, he's not going to let them.
He takes a deep breath, and sets about finishing it. "I had only a few moments to think up a strategy. The ritual finished. All of the Death Eaters were disabled by it, knocked out, which… which left me alone with Voldemort. He… retrieved a wand, his own I suppose, and used first Legilimency and then the Cruciatus curse against me. I… it… it hurt." Harry clears his throat. "But I managed to convince him, somehow, that he should let me live. He… saw something in me. I can't speak to his mind, only my own. He told me to go, to tell Dumbledore of his return, that he was coming, and I went—of course I left, and was relieved not to get a Killing Curse to the back."
Harry takes one final deep breath. "The rest, you all know. I emerged in the lobby of Saint Mungo's Hospital, where Neville had come through not much earlier, and declared to everyone who would listen that Voldemort had returned. That seemed sensible to me: he is, after all, coming. And he will kill us all if we are not prepared."
There's a pause, where everyone seems to wait to ensure Harry is finished, and he bows again. Then, at once, there's the sound of several hands slapping onto House emblems, and Dumbledore blinks and looks around, then says, "The Wizengamot recognizes Lady Greengrass."
Lady Greengrass thanks the Chief Warlock once her image appears, and then turns her sharp attention on Harry. "Heir Black," she says. "You expect us to believe that a twelve-year-old boy escaped the clutches of the Dark Lord entirely by himself?"
"I do," Harry says plainly, which causes another murmur to go around the room. "As I said: I can't know Voldemort's mind, but I have spoken the truth. He let me go."
"All accounts of his behaviour in the last war suggest that he was much more likely simply to kill you."
"I know," Harry says. "I agree. I don't understand either, Lady Greengrass—I'm simply grateful for my life."
"Hmph," she says, but subsides. Madame Bones appears in her place as she's recognized.
"Heir Black," she says cordially. "I would like to verify several details with you." At Harry's nod, she says, "You named four known Death Eaters. Peter Pettigrew is at large and narrowly escaped capture at Hogwarts last fall; this is known to the DMLE. As is the fact that Amycus and Alecto Carrow were never apprehended. However, Bartemius Crouch Junior was condemned to Azkaban and was transported there under the authority of my predecessor, Bartemius Crouch Senior, and as far as we know died there."
"I know," Harry repeats. "I can't explain it, Madame Bones. I can only tell you what I saw, and I know who it was—I've seen his photo many times."
She nods, accepting that. "And the other woman? I will admit, I am less than pleased to hear that Lord Black is giving children information about ongoing DMLE investigations."
"He knew I'd keep mum," Harry says. "He's done his best to keep me up to date with efforts to hunt down active Death Eaters. He knows I have a… personal interest, both because of my parents and because of my friendship with Heir Longbottom—and my friendships and rivalries within Slytherin House at Hogwarts. Inevitably, some of the school's social politics are tangled up with the politics of the last war, and he wanted me to have information that might be important. Not only to protect myself, but also so that I might… listen out for any hints as to current Death Eater activity."
From somewhere among the Peers, a man shouts, "You insolent brat!" His voice is loud enough that Harry can hear him clearly even without the amplification magic.
Dumbledore says, "Lord Nott, order. You will have your turn to speak."
There's no further outburst, and Harry looks over toward the Nott box to see that though Theo's dad is red-faced and furious, he's subsided slightly.
Madame Bones clears her throat loudly. "I see, Heir Potter. Well. I shall certainly investigate that avenue myself—Mrs. Teems was never found."
"Her body was destroyed," Harry says quietly. "I'm not sure there'll be anything to find. But I wish you luck, Madame Bones—for her family's sake."
Madame Bones inclines her head, and then her image vanishes. With a sigh hiding in his voice, Dumbledore says, "The Wizengamot recognizes Lord Nott."
Theodore Nott Senior's enraged visage appears in the middle of the room, very much in the personal space of Harry's image; Harry is glad that it's only a simulation. "You have been spying on our children!" he shouts, not waiting to make a polite acknowledgement of Dumbledore or of Harry. "And in doing so you impugn the honour of all of our Houses and Families! You imply that we are criminals!"
"Not at all," Harry says, as mildly as he can. "I have never heard from any of my classmates anything that confirmed that their parents might be Death Eaters or loyal to Lord Voldemort, Lord Nott." That's a lie, but it's not like anyone needs to know that. Harry knows, because he'd read up very carefully, that there is no requirement of truth-telling in the Wizengamot, no magic to enforce it. Indeed, such magics are completely disabled within the chamber itself, considered an infraction against the free will and rights of the Peers. Harry thinks that's stupid—why give them the ability to lie to one another? But that's politics. "Lord Black was only concerned for me. While of course none of my classmates are Death Eaters, and I heard nothing about their parents, some do have relations who were known to be active among the Dark Lord's forces during the last war. He only wanted me as protected as possible."
Lord Nott sneers, but he says nothing more, his image vanishing from the circle. He's replaced by Lady Farley, somewhat to Harry's surprise. She sketches a curtsey to Dumbledore, and then to Harry, and thanks the Chief Warlock as is proper once she's recognized.
"Heir Black," she says, "I am aware that you are an ally of my daughter. She has urged me to disbelieve the papers in your favour, insisting that you are honest. Tell me: what do you hold over her, that she defends you so fiercely?"
Harry's eyebrows shoot up, and he blinks at Lady Farley. "Ma'am," he says as politely as he can, "I hold nothing over Heir Farley. We're friends."
She purses her lips, makes a dissatisfied noise, and vanishes. Strange, Harry thinks, and then he watches as the image of another Peer materializes—and on it goes. Peer after Peer rises to question him, demanding details of his account or questioning his motivations, his abilities, his sanity. Harry does his best. Many of the questions are ones Sirius and Remus had predicted and prepared him for, and he knows most of his answers are calm and confident. There are a few moments when he stumbles, tripping in the rising tide of memory, but he manages. Beside him physically, Sirius is still and stalwart, supporting him, though he doesn't speak. It goes on for what feels like forever, until Harry is rehashing things he's already said, repeating himself as carefully as he can—it helps, of course, that he's telling the truth (mostly), so there's little effort required to keep his story straight; his Occlumency, too, helps him in keeping the memories sharp and organized, not muddled by emotion or repeated recollection.
Then, finally, Dumbledore says, "We have come to the end of the Speakers List. Are there any final comments?"
A pause, and Harry begins to hope it's over—and then he sees movement directly across the room from the Black box, and Lucius Malfoy rises to his feet, his hand settling on his House crest. Right, Harry thinks tiredly.
"The Wizengamot recognizes Lord Malfoy," Dumbledore says, and Malfoy's image appears, the last drop in a flood—the last straw, Harry fears, that might yet break his story.
"Thank you, Chief Warlock," Malfoy says smoothly. "Heir Black, thank you for sharing your… interesting story. However, I must ask: do you have any proof?"
This, Harry had been expecting. He's surprised no one had raised it sooner. "Only my own word," Harry says. "But that word is honest, Lord Malfoy. I would never dare embarrass my House or disturb the magical world in such a way for a lark—I might still be young, but I'm not a fool."
"Hm," Malfoy says, and with that single doubtful hum casts a shadow on Harry's character and his integrity. Harry grits his teeth and waits for the next volley. "The difficulty, of course, is that none of the details you have provided are verifiable. Peter Pettigrew and the Carrows have been at large for a decade. Crouch Junior died in Azkaban. And by your own admission, the body of this woman is unrecoverable. I acknowledge that you and Heir Longbottom did suffer some sort of kidnapping and assault, as you are on record as having been treated for Cruciatus damage at Saint Mungo's, but… I fear I must doubt that it was by the Dark Lord, and that he has returned—after all, he fell quite decisively when you were a baby, and there are no images of him. Your kidnapper could easily have claimed to be Voldemort, and the others disguised or your mind confused."
Harry scowls. "I am confident in my account, Lord Malfoy."
"You are, yes," Malfoy says. "Unfortunately, I simply cannot be. I will not insult you by calling you a liar, Mr. Potter—that is, Heir Black. But I also cannot believe you fully." He turns then toward the Minister, seated next to Dumbledore, and to the Wizengamot at large. "Peers, Minister, it is a troubling account of the activities of Dark and dangerous wizards that we have heard today, to be sure. But I fear that mobilizing the Ministry and informing the public at this stage would be hasty. We have no proof of the Heir's claims, and if he does turn out to have been in any way mistaken, we will have caused a panic for nothing."
"Lord Malfoy," Harry says, his voice firm. "You are speaking to me. I was under the impression that until my account is declared closed, I have the floor, and you may only question me, not interject your own opinions."
Malfoy turns slowly to fix Harry—the real Harry—with a cold glare from across the room. "I concede the point of order," he says stiffly. "My… apologies, Heir Black."
Harry smiles. "If you have no further questions, Lord Malfoy, I would like to wrap this up."
"I believe I have said my piece," Malfoy says, and his image vanishes.
"Well then," Dumbledore says, sounding entertained. "In that case. Heir Black, you may at your pleasure declare your account closed. You may also speak to what you wish to see come of your information, that it may spur the Wizengamot to action or inaction, and then I shall open the floor once more."
Harry nods, bows to Dumbledore, and says, "Thank you, Chief Warlock. Having spoken true to the best of my ability, I hereby close my account. I would now urge the Wizengamot to action: cease the libel of me and Heir Longbottom in the Daily Prophet and declare the return of the Dark Lord Voldemort; begin preparing the magical world for a rejoining of war; brace yourselves, one and all, for what comes—whether you believe me or not, Dark things are stirring in the corners of this world, and they will not sleep much longer. Change is coming. The waters are rising. Learn to swim, or be drowned."
Then he bows once more, deeper, and cedes the floor. His image vanishes, leaving a hollow space at the centre of the Wizengamot and the silent echo of his words.
There is a long and profound silence.
Then there's a soft sound, and Dumbledore glances up and says, "The Wizengamot recognizes Lady Urquart."
"Thank you, Chief Warlock," Lady Urquart says. "It seems clear to me what our first order of business must be: the immediate ceasing of all slander of Heir Black and Heir Longbottom in the papers. Whether or not Heir Black is telling the truth, that the Daily Prophet has been allowed to go on for this long calling two Heirs to Ancient and Noble Houses liars and mentally unstable is an insult to us all, and I will not see it go on any longer; this body has no excuse to delay delivering such a cease and desist to the papers."
There's a round of nods around the room, and Lady Urquart says, "Thus I so motion: that the Wizengamot hereby issue a notice to the Daily Prophet to cease in printing any negative articles about Harry Potter, Heir Black and Neville Longbottom, Heir Longbottom, on the topic of their claims that the Dark Lord Voldemort has returned."
"So motioned," Dumbledore says. "Discussion?" None raise their wands. "All in favour?"
Not every wand in the room goes up, not by any means. But almost all of the Ancient and Noble Peers vote in favour, excluding Lord Flint, and a small majority of the rest do as well; the motion passes.
Lady Urquart nods, satisfied. "Thank you, Peers. Next, then, we must decide if we are to act on Heir Black's information."
A wand goes up, and Dumbledore glances at Lady Urquart; she bows her head and cedes the floor to Lord Ogden, who Dumbledore recognizes once the image of the round-faced Lord has appeared.
In his warm voice, Lord Ogden says, "Much as I hate to admit it, Lord Malfoy has a point about proof, lad."
Harry, up in the box, grits his teeth. Sirius clearly notices, because he pats Harry's shoulder.
Down on the floor, Lord Ogden isn't done. "I'm all in favour of being prepared—I believe that each of us should certainly warn our allies, prepare ourselves. You're right, Heir Black, about Dark things stirring; someone's certainly looking to make some trouble. But we can't go about panicking the whole populace by declaring to all and sundry that You-Know-Who has returned."
Another requested recognition, the floor easily ceded by Lord Ogden and Malfoy returns. "Not to mention that such a rapid reversal would make the Ministry look weak," he says. "If what you want is for the… established magical world to be prepared for assault, we cannot go about undermining our institutions in such a way now."
Harry trades a glance with Sirius, questioning, and Sirius nods and rises himself to place a hand on their House emblem; his image appears, but Malfoy doesn't cede the floor entirely, clearly expecting a rebuttal—which is what he gets.
"That isn't what my Heir was suggesting," Sirius says. "You're correct, much as I dislike admitting it; we can't change course so rapidly. But people are going to need to know to be prepared, and while this body and the direct allies of those present represent the vast majority of purebloods and a significant percentage of halfbloods, the Wizengamot continues to fail to represent muggleborn wixen, or those otherwise relatively new to the magical world, including immigrants to Britain. Not to mention Squibs and the muggle relations of the aforementioned—and it is these latter groups who will be the targets of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. I'm sure you remember, Malfoy; you were one of those doing the targeting, weren't you?" Sirius pauses just long enough for Malfoy's face to darken, but not long enough for him to reply. "Under Imperius, of course."
"Indeed," Malfoy grits out. "However, it is those very people that I fear would panic and disrupt the function of our world. Those with less familiarity with the competent protection of the DMLE will be much more likely to act irrationally, perhaps even attempting to flee to the 'shelter'—" it's clear from the way he says it that he thinks it would be anything but— "of muggle authorities. That would be a disaster, Lord Black, even you must see that."
"And fighting a war that the populace doesn't know is happening until people are dying in the streets would be as much of one, or worse," Sirius says. "I am confident in my Heir's account. Voldemort has returned, and he will come, and he'll bring as much fire and blood as he did last time. We all recall what those days were like. The death, and the fear, and half of that was because it took far too long for anyone to really know anything, to know where to go or what to do. That's information that we could put out to the public now, before it gets as bad as it was before. People would be much more able to protect themselves."
"I am not convinced that the threat is as dire as you say," Malfoy says. "And if it is not, it will undermine the reputation of the Ministry and the Wizengamot all the more, that we stirred up such fear over nothing. We should be more cautious about telling the populace anything—we should gather proof. That is all I ask."
With that, his image vanishes. He sounds very reasonable, Harry thinks, if you ignore the fact that he's basically advocating that they do nothing. Next to him, Sirius sighs, quietly and with little enough intention that it's not broadcasted by the charms, and his image vanishes too.
"The Wizengamot recognizes Madame Bones," Dumbledore says, and then her image, shoulders set straight and strong, appears in Sirius's place.
"Thank you, Chief Warlock," she says, and then, "I cannot speak for the entire Wizengamot, but I will make this pledge: I will undertake to find whatever proof may exist of Heir Black's claims. If he is entirely truthful, then he is also entirely correct that we must take swift and decisive action to protect our world from the renewed threat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I advocate that each of us act privately to begin safeguarding our own Families and Houses, and the allies thereof, and anyone else within the reach of our individual and collective protections. It is clear to me that this body will not agree to make a public declaration at this time; so be it. However, if proof is uncovered, we must agree to make a declaration immediately, without delay."
She pauses for a moment, and then says, "Thus I so motion: that in the event of proof of the return of the Dark Lord Voldemort, the Wizengamot shall immediately release news of said return to the public and begin making all efforts to prepare the populace for war."
"So motioned," Dumbledore says. "Discussion?"
A wand goes up, and the image of Lord Flint appears. Dumbledore recognizes him, he bows his head, and then he speaks. "I would request that the motion be amended, Madame Bones: that in the event of the aforementioned, the Wizengamot shall immediately release news of said event—and end there. I feel that such a vague promise of 'making all efforts' would be fruitless and lead either to lacklustre effort or to… overzealousness."
Madame Bones looks displeased, but she nods.
Dumbledore calls, "All in favour of the amendment?"
Wands go up easily all around the circle; Madame Bones might have been able to argue, but probably not to great effect, Harry thinks. Damn.
No further Peers seem inclined to discussion, and so Dumbledore calls for a vote on the amended motion. It passes—by less of a margin than Harry had hoped for, but perhaps by more than, by now, he's expecting.
There's a little more waffling after that, various Wizengamot members tossing in their two cents—two Knuts?—but Harry tunes most of it out. No further votes are called for; the Wizengamot is resolved. They'll do nothing. Well, some of them will do something, Harry thinks, and at least the Prophet will stop calling him and Neville liars. But the world isn't going to be ready when Voldemort comes, and Voldemort is coming. That, Harry knows with a certainty that is wrapped like thorny vines around his heart, strangling.