Harry woke early, as the first light of dawn filtered through the grimy windows of Grimmauld Place. He rose from his bed feeling wholly unrested, the weight of the coming trial pressing down on his chest. He dressed in his best clothes, a proper dress shirt and robes.
In the kitchen, Mr. Weasley was already waiting for him, a reassuring smile on his face despite the obvious tension in his eyes. They were to Apparate to the Ministry, the safest way to avoid unnecessary attention. Harry's hearing wasn't until 11, but they'd leave now to avoid the hassle of two trips. Harry nodded silently, trying to force down a spoonful of porridge, but his stomach felt like it was made of stone.
The trip was quick, though Harry didn't find Apparition any less unpleasant. A sharp tug behind his navel and suddenly they were standing in the Atrium of the Ministry, the hustle and bustle of witches and wizards moving briskly in every direction. The towering marble columns, the gleaming floor, and the giant fountain in the center—a fountain where the golden statues of witches and wizards spouted water, standing on top of what looked like various plagued creatures. It stood ominously against the far wall, grotesque and monolithic. The twisted, contorted figures of wizards and witches were frozen in an eternal pose of dominance, the carved faces twisted in expressions of arrogance and power.
They were directed to a lift, and as the doors closed, someone mentioned to Mr. Weasley that Harry's hearing had been moved to 8 o'clock, and chamber 1, the grand chamber. The news struck Harry like a bolt of lightning. His stomach dropped. He looked at his wristwatch, it was ten-to eight.
The elevator jerked to a halt, and the doors opened to reveal a series of long, smooth corridors. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed as they raced down them, the hum of voices growing louder as they approached the chamber. The walls were lined with portraits of former heads of the Wizengamot, their faces stern and unreadable.
Finally, they reached a set of enormous iron doors. Harry's pulse quickened as Mr. Weasley stopped beside him, offering a tight, encouraging smile.
"Good luck, Harry," Mr. Weasley said, his voice quiet but firm.
Harry paused, his hand hovering over the door handle.
"Thanks" he said automatically.
The heavy iron doors groaned open, their hinges shrieking like something long dead being forced to move again. Harry was shoved forward into the cavernous courtroom, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor.
The Wizengamot chamber loomed around him, its towering walls lined with rows of witches and wizards in plum-colored robes, all staring down at him with cold, impassive faces. The high, domed ceiling trapped the air like a tomb, and the flickering torches cast long, warped shadows across the ancient stone.
Harry barely had time to take in the sea of piercing eyes before rough hands grabbed his arms.
"Sit," a voice snarled in his ear.
He was forced down into a chair at the center of the courtroom, its arms bound with thick, rusted chains. The moment his back hit the cold wood, the chains slithered like snakes, coiling around his wrists and ankles with a dreadful finality. The metal was ice against his skin, and though they did not tighten completely, their presence was suffocating.
The murmurs of the Wizengamot members slithered through the air, dry and whispering like dead leaves. Some voices carried disgust, others curiosity, but none held a shred of warmth.
"Harry Potter," a voice rang out—sharp, imperious, and unyielding.
Harry's head snapped up. High above him, perched on a grand stone dais, sat Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic. His broad face was drawn tight, his little eyes glinting with something between suspicion and triumph.
Harry swallowed hard, his throat dry as parchment. The weight of their stares pressed down on him, heavier than the chains wrapped around his limbs.
Harry's insides twisted unpleasantly.
This wasn't a hearing.
This was an execution, wrapped in procedure and dressed in bureaucracy.
"Court is now in session," Fudge declared, his voice bouncing off the stone walls. "The matter before us: a disciplinary hearing concerning underage magic performed by the accused, Harry James Potter."
Harry's pulse quickened.
"Prosecution, are you prepared to proceed?"
"Oh, yes, Minister," came a simpering voice. An unpleasant woman stood, smoothing out her pink cardigan, and turned to face the assembled court.
"The prosecution is most ready."
Her eyes flicked toward Harry, glinting.
Harry's stomach lurched.
Fudge adjusted his robes and peered down at Harry.
"Harry Potter, as the accused, you are entitled to representation before this court. Do you have legal counsel?"
Harry's mouth felt dry. He hadn't expected this—hadn't even known he needed a lawyer. He hesitated, glancing around the chamber, but there was no one beside him. His stomach twisted.
"I—I don't—"
"Very well," Fudge said briskly, cutting him off with an air of impatience. He turned back to the assembled court.
"The defendant has chosen to appear as a litigant in person. Let the record reflect—"
"Oh, I don't believe that will be necessary."
The voice, calm and unmistakable, carried across the courtroom.
All heads turned as Dumbledore stepped into the chamber, his robes sweeping behind him. He strode forward as if he had always intended to be there, his half-moon spectacles glinting in the torchlight. With a polite incline of his head to the Wizengamot, he sat beside Harry.
"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore will appear as counsel for the defence of Harry James Potter."
A long silence followed.
"My apologies for the delay," he said mildly, settling himself in his chair. "I was under the impression this hearing was scheduled for ten o'clock. It appears the time was adjusted."
Fudge hesitated, his fingers tapping faster against the desk.
"Yes, yes," he muttered finally. "Let's get on with it." He shifted in his chair, adjusting his robes, then waved a hand in Umbridge's direction. "The prosecution will now present the charges."
The toadlike woman turned toward Harry, her smile widening.
"With pleasure, Minister."
She reached for the top sheet of parchment and lifted it delicately.
The circus begins
The witch in the pink cardigan adjusted the parchment in her hands, her expression carefully neutral. Her small, dark eyes flicked over the courtroom, assessing the assembled officials before settling on Harry.
She spoke without preamble.
"The charges against the defendant are as follows."
Her voice was steady, clipped, and measured.
"On the second of August of this year, in a residential Muggle area, the accused did willfully and with malice curse two Muggle children. These acts were committed in violation of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, the International Statute of Secrecy, the Protection of Muggles Act, and the Dark Arts Prohibition Act."
She let the words settle before continuing.
"Furthermore, it is the contention of the prosecution that these actions directly resulted in the grievous and permanent bodily injury of a Muggle child, an act which constitutes an indictable offense under the Dark Arts Prohibition Act. Additionally, a second Muggle child suffered severe psychological shock from these same actions."
A murmur moved through the Wizengamot, low and uneasy. The witch did not acknowledge it. She simply turned the parchment to the next page with precise, deliberate care.
"Accordingly, the defendant stands charged with the following offenses,"
She paused, ensuring the weight of the words settled over the chamber.
"One count of grievous bodily harm through the use of a curse, contrary to the Dark Arts Prohibition Act."
"Two counts of reckless endangerment of a Muggle minor, contrary to the Protection of Muggles Act."
"One count of violation of the International Statute of Secrecy, for the unlawful performance of magic in the presence of Muggles."
"One count of contravening the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, for the unauthorized use of advanced magic by an underage wizard."
She allowed a brief pause before concluding.
"In light of the severity of these offenses and the lasting consequences of the defendant's actions, the prosecution seeks no less than a ten-year custodial sentence in Azkaban."
She lowered the parchment and folded her hands in front of her, her expression unreadable. She looked at Harry for a long moment, and Harry stared back defiantly.
Fudge spoke next.
"And how does the defendant plead?"
His mouth opened, but no words came out. He felt as though he had been dropped into some nightmare version of reality, one where nothing made sense and everything had been twisted against him. Dumbledore placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke for him.
"The defendant pleads not guilty to all counts."
The words rang through the chamber.
A few of the witches and wizards on the benches exchanged glances. A handful of them—those who looked the sternest—remained impassive. Others scribbled something onto their parchments, their quills scratching softly against the paper.
Fudge cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly. His expression was carefully blank, but there was something in his eyes—something cold, something almost satisfied.
"Very well," he said.
He sat back, casting a glance toward the witch in the pink cardigan. She inclined her head almost imperceptibly before turning her attention back to the parchment before her.
"The prosecution will proceed with its case," she announced.
She smoothed out the next sheet of parchment with slow, deliberate care.
"It is the position of the prosecution that the events of August second were not the result of accident or necessity, but of ill intent and deliberate malice on the part of the defendant. The evidence will demonstrate that the defendant willfully cast two curses, no less than one of which resulted in the severe and permanent harm to a Muggle child."
She turned a page, her voice never wavering.
"To establish intent, we shall present testimony and documentary evidence of the defendant's history of disregard for Ministry regulations concerning underage sorcery, as well as expert analysis of the spells cast on the night in question. The prosecution will also submit testimony regarding the effects suffered by the injured party, as well as statements from members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who investigated the incident."
She lifted her head, her gaze locking onto Harry with quiet scrutiny.
"The prosecution calls the defendant to the stand."
A murmur swept through the chamber. Harry felt his pulse quicken as he looked to Dumbledore. The headmaster sat calm and still, hands folded before him, his face unreadable.
"Mr. Potter," the witch said coolly. "Step forward."
Harry stood. He walked stiffly to the raised chair positioned at the center of the chamber, the place where he had seen the accused death eaters questioned in Dumbledore's Pensieve. He sat, and the chains at his wrists coiled loosely around his arms, just as they had done in the pensieve. His pulse quickened.
"State your full name for the record," she said with a simpering voice.
"Harry James Potter," he said, his voice unsteady.
The prosecutor gave a slow nod, making a small note on her parchment.
"Now, Mr. Potter, let us turn to the events of the second of August. You cast two spells in a Muggle residential area, did you not?"
"Yes."
She inclined her head slightly, as though considering this. "Rather advanced magic for a fifteen-year-old, wouldn't you say?"
"I've-" Harry said.
"Wasn't a question, no need to reply." she said, making another note. "Now, these spells were cast in the presence of two Muggle children, correct?"
"Yes."
"One of whom was your cousin, Dudley Dursley?"
"Yes."
"Would you describe your relationship with your cousin as… friendly?"
Harry hesitated.
"Not really," he admitted.
"Not really," she echoed, as though turning the phrase over in her mind. "You dislike him?"
"He's never been very nice to me," Harry said carefully.
"Ah. Not nice," she repeated, making another small note. "So, you would say there is animosity between you? A history of… unkindness?"
Harry frowned. Where was she going with this?
"I suppose."
"And yet you claim that you had no ill intent when you performed magic in his presence?"
"Of course not!" Harry said indignantly.
"Let us consider your history, Mr. Potter," she continued smoothly, not reacting to his outburst. "Would you say this is the first time you have used magic against a Muggle?"
"I've never—"
"Let us take a step back," she interrupted, with a toadlike smile. "The summer before your third year. Do you perhaps recall an… incident involving your aunt, Marjorie Dursley?"
Harry's stomach clenched.
"Yes," he said stiffly.
"For the record," she said, addressing the Wizengamot now, "the defendant attacked a Muggle woman. She might have been seriously injured—or worse—had the Ministry not intervened. This was the second time the boy has used magic on muggles."
Harry's hands curled into fists.
"She was insulting my parents," he said through gritted teeth.
"And you responded by attacking her."
"It wasn't an attack!" Harry snapped.
The witch arched a single eyebrow.
"You say she was humiliating you. You felt her upsetting. And so—" she gestured lightly with her quill, "—you lost control and used magic to silence her, to make her suffer the consequences of her words. Is that not so?"
"No! I didn't mean to do it!"
"But you did," she said simply. "And what of the incident the year before that? Did you not attack a muggle, a friend of the family no less? What had they done to anger you?"
"That wasn't me," Harry said quickly.
"No?" She made a small sound, flipping through her notes. "You used magic to drop a cake on a Muggle. Humiliating them. Frightening them. Or perhaps that was simply for fun?"
"It was a house-elf," Harry said. "Dobby."
"A house-elf," she repeated, as though the words were foreign to her. "And are we to understand that you—at the age of twelve—had a personal servant? In a muggle home no less?"
"No! He belonged to someone else. He was trying to stop me from going to school!"
"Yes, of course," she said, making another note. "A house-elf, in a Muggle home, performing magic in your presence, and yet you bore no responsibility."
Harry's teeth clenched.
"Do you see the pattern, Mr. Potter?" she continued, turning back to the Wizengamot. "Each time, the circumstances change, but the result is the same. A Muggle, frightened. A Muggle, humiliated. A Muggle, harmed."
The murmurs in the chamber grew louder.
"And then, on the second of August, it happened again," she pressed. "Only this time, instead of minor embarrassment, instead of a bit of pudding on the floor or an inflated aunt, a child—" she turned a page in her notes, "—suffered grievous, life-altering injuries. Are you aware St. Mungos report he will not ever recover?"
Harry's breath came faster.
"That wasn't me," he said, his voice tight. "The Dementors—"
"Ah, yes," she interrupted smoothly. "The Dementors." She glanced at the gathered Wizengamot. "Let us review, then. You claim that two Dementors of Azkaban appeared in a suburban Muggle neighborhood and attacked you?"
"Yes."
"And yet," she continued, "the Ministry has no record of rogue Dementor activity in that area."
Harry's chest tightened.
"I don't know how they got there, but they did!"
"Mmm," she murmured. "But even if we were to entertain this unlikely claim… Let us return for a moment to your own words. You have admitted that you resented your cousin. That your relationship with your Muggle guardians was, let us say, fraught. You have demonstrated a pattern of hostility toward Muggles, of using magic when it suits you, of lashing out when upset. And on the night in question, you cast an advanced spell—twice—directly in the presence of Muggle children, one of whom is now permanently incapacitated."
"I was protecting us!" Harry protested.
"Protecting," she repeated, her voice as mild as ever. "Interesting. And tell me, Mr. Potter—when you told the Minister for Magic himself that your relatives were not always kind to you, did you ever fantasize about hurting them?"
Harry's stomach dropped.
"No," he said, though his voice felt thin.
"Never?" she pressed. "Not even when they locked you in a cupboard for the first eleven years of your life?"
Harry felt the air rush from his lungs.
"I—"
"No further questions," she said smoothly, the smile on her face was threatening to touch the base of her ears as she turned back to the Wizengamot as the room buzzed with uneasy murmurs.
Fudge cleared his throat, his expression carefully neutral as he glanced at the assembled Wizengamot. The murmuring had not yet died down entirely. Harry's own heartbeat pounded in his ears. His mouth had gone dry. It felt as if the ground had been yanked out from under him.
"Very well," Fudge said briskly. "The defense may now respond."
Harry turned sharply to his left. Dumbledore, who had remained utterly still throughout the questioning, now inclined his head slightly, as though he had merely been waiting for his turn in a polite conversation.
He rose.
"If it please the Wizengamot," Dumbledore said, his voice even and measured, "I should like to address the prosecution's assertions point by point."
Fudge gestured vaguely with one hand. "Proceed."
Dumbledore's gaze shifted to the witch in the pink cardigan, his expression mild.
"Madam Prosecutor," he began,
"Let us examine the events one by one, shall we? First, the incident with Marjorie Dursley. I believe even the Ministry's own records acknowledge that Mr. Potter's outburst was an accidental act of magic, triggered by extreme emotional distress."
"A convenient excuse," the prosecutor muttered. A sharp voice from the council, a severe looking witch burst out,
"You speak out of turn, Umbridge!"
The prosecutor sat down, visibly shaken, and Harry thought he saw hints of pink on her cheeks.
"And yet," Dumbledore said, "surely you are not suggesting that the Ministry's Accidental Magic Reversal Squad is routinely dispatched for acts of deliberate malice? I would find that quite troubling, Madam Prosecutor. It would imply a grievous flaw in our existing legal distinctions between intentional magical misconduct and the ungovernable magical expressions of a child under duress."
Harry saw the toadlike witches fingers tighten slightly on her parchment, but she did not speak again.
"As for the incident involving the levitated pudding," Dumbledore continued, "this was, as Mr. Potter has already stated, not his doing. Surely the prosecution does not mean to suggest that a wizard should be held legally responsible for the independent actions of a third party? If so, I do hope the Wizengamot intends to revisit the entire concept of personal agency in magical law."
There was a slight ripple of unease among the assembled witches and wizards. Harry saw some of them frown.
"And now, at last, we come to the second of August," Dumbledore went on. His voice had not risen, but there was something sharper in it now, something edged in steel. "The night when, according to the prosecution, Mr. Potter decided, without reason or provocation, to attack two Muggle children in broad daylight, using a spell which—under every known legal precedent—has never been classified as an offensive curse."
Harry saw several members of the Wizengamot shift in their seats. A few were already nodding, as if they had been waiting for someone to point this out.
"A fascinating argument, is it not?" Dumbledore continued lightly. "We are gathered here today to deliberate over a crime so brazen, so unprecedented, that in order to sustain its own accusations, the prosecution must first rewrite the very definitions of spell classifications themselves."
Dumbledore paused for a moment, then continued.
"So let us examine this spell, that the prosecution alleges constitutes a curse." Dumbledore said at once. "The spell in question was a Patronus Charm. A defensive spell, developed for the express purpose of warding off Dementors, creatures which, I am sure the court will agree, do not often find themselves mistaken for children. More crucially, the Patronus Charm is non-corporeal in its effect. It cannot strike, burn, or harm in any physical sense whatsoever. Let the record reflect that the prosecution has made no mention of the spell, and let us all consider why that may be."
He let that sit for a moment.
"Given these facts, Madam Prosecutor, I find myself most curious as to how precisely the prosecution intends to establish that an incorporeal, defensive enchantment caused grievous bodily harm."
A ripple of discomfort passed through the court.
"Let us also consider the allegations of the defense in light of this. Why but to ward of Dementors would a Patronus charm be cast? I should like to remind the court that, thus far, intent has been presented only as speculation, and only to prove malice. Speculation, Madam Prosecutor, is not evidence. The chosen spell does however offer insight into the purpose of the spell, far more-so than any speculation based on biased gossip."
Another silence.
"Perhaps," Dumbledore went on mildly, "the Ministry might provide us with more than conjecture? A Priori Incantatem, perhaps, to confirm the spells cast? Or better yet, a Pensieve, to review the scene as it truly unfolded?"
Fudge shifted in his seat. "Unnecessary," he muttered.
Dumbledore seemed to accept this, at least for now, and moved in a different direction.
"Harry," Dumbledore said softly, "Please tell the court, in your own words, what happened that night."
Harry wiped his face with the back of his hand. His throat felt tight, and for a moment, he couldn't find his voice. But then, he nodded, steadying himself, and began.
"We were on our way home," Harry began, his voice shaky, "Me, Dudley, and Pierre Polkiss. It was... it was nice, really. We were… I guess, just talking. For most of the summer, Dudley had been, well... he'd been himself. But that night... he and Pierre were in good form. I'd never had many friends on Privet Drive, but this summer—well, it was... nicer than usual."
Harry swallowed hard, his mind almost not able to piece the events back together. The tears started to come.
"It was a hot night," he continued, his voice cracking. "But then... I felt it. A chill. Like an ice-cold windless.. It made no sense, but I felt it. It was... strange. The air went dark, everything went black, and I just knew, I had felt it before, in our third year they were stationed all around school. I told Dudley and Pierre to stay close, to stay near me. Dudley stayed, but Pierre... Pierre just... he panicked. He ran."
Harry paused, his breath shaky. The memories were overwhelming him again.
"I saw them. Two of them." His voice faltered, tears streaking down his face now. "I don't even know how to explain it. It happened really fast. One of them... grabbed Pierre. It held him up in the air, and then... it—it lowered its hood."
He choked, trying to hold it together, but the words were stuck.
"Harry," Dumbledore said gently, "If you can, please tell us what you saw."
Harry nodded again, shaking. He wiped his face roughly, the tears falling freely now. The memories flooded him all at once, crashing like waves.
"They were horrible," Harry whispered, barely able to speak. "Their faces... their heads were… rotting. Their eyes... well not eyes I suppose, they were black pits, like they'd sucked out everything that had ever been good about a person, and only... only the emptiness was left. The flesh was hanging off their skulls in tatters, and their mouths were gaping, like..."
Harry paused, shuddering. He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt, forcing himself to continue.
"I tried to stop it. I tried to stop the Dementor from doing what it was doing to Pierre. But the sight of it... the sight of that... I couldn't..." Harry's voice broke, and he had to stop himself from crying out loud. "I couldn't... I couldn't even think straight. All I could do was produce mist. I—I didn't even know what was happening at the time... I think it was because... the other one grabbed me."
He gasped for air as if he was still fighting to breathe.
"It was so strong," Harry murmured. "It grabbed my mouth... I couldn't scream. I couldn't move. It held me down, and I saw... I saw the other one drop Pierre. I heard a scream—a terrible scream—and when it dropped him, Pierre just... he... he fell, limp like."
He stopped speaking for a moment, the image still too much to bear. His chest hurt, his eyes stung with the weight of the memory.
"Pierre..." Harry whispered hoarsely. "Pierre was... well, not dead, but dead y'know. He had to be. The Dementor had finished with him, and just discarded him."
He felt like he was drowning in his own words, but he fought to keep control.
"I... I tried again. I tried to cast the Patronus, but the Dementor... it wouldn't let me. It covered my mouth with its hand, so I couldn't even speak. I couldn't say the words. It was so strong... I couldn't do anything."
Harry wiped his face once more, trying to steady his breath. The courtroom was silent, but he could feel all eyes on him.
"The last thing I remember is... that awful, rotting face. It was right in front of mine, and I couldn't get away. I think—I must've cast the Patronus... because when I woke up, they told me Dudley was unharmed. He... he was alive. They told me he could come back to Privet Drive a day later, and I was told he was fine. At least, he wasn't kissed... but Pierre—" Harry's voice broke again, a strangled sob escaping him.
"Pierre's gone. He's gone because of me. I couldn't stop it. He's just... gone."
He started crying openly, his chest wracked with sobs. The weight of his guilt crushed him, but the memories of that night—Pierre's lifeless body—were the worst of it. He'd failed to save him.
Dumbledore stood quietly beside Harry, giving him a moment to regain himself. When Harry was able to catch his breath again, Dumbledore placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore said softly, looking over at the court. "Thank you for your testimony."
The silence in the room was profound, as though everyone had been held captive by the rawness of Harry's words. No one moved, and for a moment, it felt as if time itself had paused, suspended by the weight of the truth that had been spoken.
—
Dumbledore turned to the Wizengamot, who were all watching closely. He then looked down at Harry's neck and face, where faint but visible marks marred his skin. His expression remained calm, but his eyes were sharp, noticing every detail.
"This testimony is not without physical truths. Your attention, if you please," Dumbledore said, his voice cutting through the stillness. "The marks on Mr. Potter's face and neck, as according to his testimony, though subtle, bear the unmistakable signature of the Dementor's touch."
He raised his hand slightly, his long fingers tracing the air in front of Harry's neck as he pointed to the visible indentations.
"These, are the clear and unmistakable burn-like prints left by a Dementor's grasp, an effect well known." Dumbledore turned back to the court, his gaze steady and resolute.
"Let the record reflect that Mr. Potter bears the unmistakable signs of contact with a Dementor: distinct marks left across his face, neck, and mouth."
Fudge shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Not very conclusive, Albus," he muttered dismissively, his voice carrying an air of reluctance.
Dumbledore did not respond to Fudge's comment, the murmurs of the council rose in the room, however. Many began to lean forward. Some were muttering among themselves, and one elderly wizard in the front row raised his voice.
"Those marks are clear as day, Fudge," the wizened old man said, his voice firm, filled with the authority of long-held knowledge. "If you've ever seen a Dementor's touch, you'd know those burns well enough."
Another member nodded in agreement. "I've no doubt in my mind."
The council's murmur grew louder. Fudge, clearly flustered, tried to wave it off.
"I said, not conclusive," he snapped, but the murmurs only grew louder.
With a frustrated grunt, Fudge reluctantly slouched in his seat, conceding to the growing tide of the Wizengamot. The room was now filled with a quiet but resolute air of consensus.
"Let the record reflect that the defendant bears visible marks on his face and neck, which are consistent with those sustained from the touch of a Dementor."
Both Fudge and the toadlike woman looked more than put out, but neither spoke.
"Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore said gently. "You have been very brave."
He turned to face the Wizengamot. The silence that had fallen after Harry's emotional recounting lingered, broken only by the rustling of parchment.
"Having heard the defendant's testimony, we, the defense, wish to conclude the testimony of Harry James Potter, and move on to call a new witness" Dumbledore continued, his voice steady.
The cold steel that had bound Harry to his seat slackened, and he pulled his arms back, his movements hesitant. Rising slowly, he met Dumbledore's gaze, and at a subtle nod from his headmaster, he returned to his seat.
Dumbledore spoke again.
"Minister. The defendant wish to summon Healer Erythea Brannock as a witness."
Harry vaguely recalled the woman that entered the chamber from St. Mungus, she had treated him. She was a witch with a brisk air of professionalism, reminding Harry of the school healer, madam Pomphrey in many ways. She was tall, with short-cropped silver hair and a serious gaze behind her rectangular glasses. She strode to a podium behind Harry, and he had to turn in his seat to see her.
Fudge, who had been seated, leaned forward with his hands clasped in front of him, watching her intently.
"Please state your name and occupation for the record, Healer," Dumbledore began,
"Erythea Brannock, Senior Healer of Magical Maladies and Curses at St. Mungo's Hospital," she replied evenly.
Dumbledore nodded. "Thank you. Healer Brannock, you've examined the muggle boy who was found in the immediate vicinity of Harry Potter after the attack by the dementor. Can you explain to the court the nature of his condition?"
A short and toadlike woman next to Fudge interrupted hastily.
"That question is prejudicial to the matter at hand. There has been no verdict on the presence of any dementors."
Dumbledore regarded her for a moment, before he continued.
"My apologies. That was not my intent. Let me rephrase. Healer Brannock, you examined the boy that was injured where the defendant alleges the dementors-"
The woman stood to speak, but fudge placed a hand on her shoulder and she sat down again immediately. Dumbledore continued after a pause.
"-attacked them."
Brannock eyed the short witch for a moment, but her voice was nothing but steady and professional.
"Yes. The muggle boy was kissed by a dementor."
Fudge could no longer restrain himself.
"Nonsense!" Fudge interjected loudly, standing abruptly. But before he could say his piece, another wizard stood.
"I beg your pardon, Minister," came the voice of a wizened council member, a thin, pinched wizard in deep green robes with a furrowed brow. His voice was of outrage.
"The party calling the witness is entitled to finish their questioning, without interruption." He gave Fudge a pointed look.
Fudge flinched, but retorted,
"And I must in turn point out, councilman Sullivan, that under Wizengamot Statute 14, subsection 7 of the Magical Code of Judicial Procedure, I am permitted to intercede in matters of admissibility regarding certain testimonious-"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half-moon glasses, but there was no trace of humor in his gaze. But again, the older council member spoke, his voice increasingly high pitched,
"Statute fourteen deals with hearsay, minister, I dare say this is highly irregular-"
Fudge ignored the old wizard, and in a high voice shouted over the protestations of his peer.
"What is to say the boy wasn't attacked by some dark spell, healer?"
Brannock, unfazed by the interruptions in procedure, addressed Fudge calmly.
"Minister, first of all let me say, this can only be a matter of contention in such close proximity to the event. A trial involving evidentiary matters pertaining to dementors has never been held within one month of the event. At this stage only first stage symptoms are present, as they are called."
Fudge nodded hurriedly, annoyed.
"Upon referral from the muggle healing establishment, he boy exhibited involuntary spasms, periods of rigidity, and unnatural terrors. This is not to say the perfectly expected fears of a muggle boy suddenly whisked away by a hitherto unknown wizard secret society. Such fears are standard procedure to manage. The terror is one resistant to all mitigative administrations. There is no calming draughts, no spells, charms, elixirs, incantations, or anything else known to calm these patients."
She paused for breath, and Harry realized he had been holding his. She continued,
"His terror remains constant, while ambulating between brief periods of near-lucidity, and delirious episodes. This is all consistent with a-"
Fudge, interrupted rudely,
"Ah, but Healer, what of the possibility of other curses?"
He leaned forward, his voice rising,
"Could this not be the result of some prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus? A curse that induces similar reactions—violent spasms, delirium, the loss of control—are they not overlapping symptoms?"
"Minister," Brannock said, her voice calm despite Fudge's behavior,
"While the Cruciatus Curse induce intense pain there is considerable differences."
"Such as?"
"The Cruciatus Curse ceases, and with it the pain. The victim surely exhibits clear symptoms, but these are in no way consistent with the kiss. For severe cases, there will be symptoms of disassociation, the patient may display exhilaration, euphoria even. Normal symptoms include tremors, lingering pains, night terrors. The victim may be weak, but there is relief. Even in the rare cases of chronic mental lapse, pain always immediately subsides."
She paused, and continued,
"This is not that. Upon admissal to St. Mungus, awaiting diagnosis, the healer staff left the boy for a moment. They came back to him having clawed both of his own eyes from its sockets with his finger nails. We managed to restore them, but due to his condition, we have thus far been unable to verify if the boy has regained his sight."
The healers words hung in the air, even Fudge and that rude woman looked nauseated.
"This sensation of being infested, is quite uncommon among curses, and is never concurrent symptoms among the mental aspects without woundprint."
Fudge's mouth opened and closed. Harry noticed he stammered slightly, clearly caught off guard by the healer's directness. He was left floundering for a response, but before he could gather himself, another voice interrupted the tense silence.
The high-pitched voice of the witch by his side cut through the room, dripping with condescension as she rose from her seat.
"How can you claim this is the result of a dementor's kiss, when there were no dementors present?"
The words hung in the air, her wide, toadlike eyes gleaming. She smiled, as though she had found some unassailable flaw in Brannock's testimony.
Brannock, however, didn't so much as flinch. Her response was measured, unwavering. "Madam, if you are referring to the scene of the attacks-"
"Incident."
"If you are referring to the scene of the attacks, I weren't present, and can not speculate on those matters."
The woman opened her mouth as to speak, but Brannock continued firmly despite the interruptions, and continued,
"I am here to testify to the condition of a patient I am treating. I've treated hundreds of kisses sustained by victims during the war, and i still treat many of them. There are thousands interred in asylums across britain still. You are only to visit one but for a moment, and you'll see my point, their laments would haunt your dreams for a lifetime. You spent one moment in but one of those cursed places, and you'd stop sponsoring the use of those vile abominations in a heartbeat."
The entire chamber seemed to hold its breath. The healers tempers had risen. Harry could feel the air thick, the sound of his own heartbeat ringing in his ears as the room sank into an almost suffocating silence.
Another councilman stood slowly, another wizened warlock with a kind face, his calm voice breaking the stillness.
"Madame healer," he said, his tone soft, " If I may, though I admit this line remains out of order.."
He looked pointedly at Dumbledore, who nodded as to allow the further intrusion, and then at Fudge. Fudge sat broodingly quiet, but the man did not speak. Finally Fudge relented.
"Fine. Fine, go ahead." Fudge muttered.
"Thank you minister."
"You mentioned these are the first stages, would you please elaborate what you meant by this?"
Healer Brannock adjusted her stance, her sharp eyes scanning the assembled council before she began.
"Yes, Chief Warlock," she replied,
"By first stages, I am referring to the initial manifestation of symptoms following the incident. These symptoms present immediately, but they are not the full extent of what is to come."
She clasped her hands in front of her, fidgeting slightly.
"The early stages are, in some ways, deceptive. Victims may appear agitated, disoriented, and afflicted by what we call phantom terrors. These are waking nightmares—visions, sensations, or sounds conjured by the absence of the soul. Without the soul to filter and process reality, you could say the mind is inundated with chaos."
She gestured subtly, as though framing her next thought.
"In the boy's case, this has already begun to manifest physically—violent spasms, self-harm, and periods of unresponsiveness. These are all consistent with what we see in victims. However, these symptoms are only the prelude to a more profound unraveling-"
The warlock leaned forward slightly,
"Unraveling?" he prompted gently.
Brannock nodded,
"The soul is not very well understood in the medical litterature, but the general consensus seems to be that it is what ties magic, mind, and body together. Without it, there is, well, deterioration. Not physically, at least not at first, but… metaphysically."
She paused a moment,
"The mind suffers most profoundly. The victims may cling to fragments of who they were, but these fragments are disjointed, incoherent. Their personality—everything that makes them them—disintegrates."
The warlock listened intently, but others in the chamber were beginning to shift uncomfortably in their seats. Harry noticed Fudge's face pale slightly, his earlier bluster replaced with a strained silence.
"Later stages," Brannock continued, her voice firmer now, "are marked by what we call corporeal decline. This is when the physical body begins to fail. They lose the ability to eat, to even attempt communication. By the final stages, this is where very simple tests will definitively prove the kiss. For instance, there is the mirror test, a patient will not fog a mirror held above their airway. Another is the tell-tale blue fog of the irises, and lastly, the veins spreading from the facial area will always darken over time. I should expect this to manifest within two weeks at most, there are already hints of discoloration surrounding his lips."
Fudge, who had been sitting stiffly throughout Brannock's explanation, suddenly rose to his feet, his face a mixture of frustration and discomfort.
"Yes, well," he said, his voice unsteady, "this is all very compelling, but we mustn't jump to conclusions! There are still many questions to be answered."
Brannock didn't respond, her gaze cool and unyielding. Harry noticed that Dumbledore, who had been silent throughout the exchange, was watching Fudge with a piercing intensity.
"The matter has been sufficiently addressed. I see no further need for questioning."
"Minister, surely that is a matter for the side that called their own witness to determine!"
—
—
The pink-clad witch that Harry by now had come to greatly dislike cleared her throat. He groaned inwards.
"If it pleases the court," she said smoothly, adjusting a small stack of parchment before her, "the prosecution wishes to introduce new evidence."
Dumbledore's head turned slightly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction.
Fudge blinked. "New evidence?"
The witch gave a tight, unreadable smile. "Indeed. An authenticated memory, retrieved by Senior Inspector Brambleton from the mind of the second Muggle victim Dudley Dursley, the cousin of the defendant, while he was under medical observation at St. Mungo's Hospital."
Harry sat up straighter, surprised. A memory from Dudley? Relief flooded him—but why would this woman want it shown? Dudley had been there, he had seen the Dementors, had felt them. He had been terrified. If the Wizengamot saw what Dudley had seen, there would be no question that Harry was telling the truth.
From the folds of her robe, the woman retrieved a small glass vial. The liquid within was not quite liquid at all—it shimmered, silvery and weightless, shifting between gas and fluid like something alive. Unlike the memory strands Harry had seen before, this one was sealed with a thick layer of dark wax, stamped with a coin-sized sigil of some sort.
"For the record," the woman continued, her voice steady, "this evidence has been handled in full accordance with the Ministry's Evidentiary Integrity Protocols, per the Charter of Magical Judicial Proceedings, section twelve, subsection four."
She placed the vial on the desk in front of Fudge, along with a stack of parchments.
"Chain of custody, for the record." She added lightly.
Harry barely registered the jargon. His mind was racing. This was it—this would prove it. The thought of reliving that night again made his stomach twist, but this wasn't his memory; it was Dudley's. They would see. They would know.
"A direct recollection from the defendant's own relative," she said, repeating herself unneccesarily. "An unaltered, authenticated memory—presented here in full pursuit of the truth."
Harry turned to Dumbledore, but the headmaster's expression was unreadable.
Then, to Harry's shock;
"The defence objects on the grounds of a failure to disclose evidence in accordance with proper procedure."
Harry stared at him. He didn't fully comprehend the words, but surely they weren't objecting to the first piece of physical evidence this farce had produced? But why?
"This evidence was not disclosed to the defense prior to this hearing," Dumbledore said evenly. "Surely, even the Ministry would not wish to proceed in such blatant violation of due process?"
The chamber shifted collectively. Fudge sat up straighter, adjusting his robes.
"This is a serious matter. "Surely you would not object to the truth being seen, Dumbledore?" he said, though there was something uneasy in his voice.
"What have you to hide?"
Harry frowned, there was an uncomfortable glint in Fudge's eye. He wanted to speak up, to say that he had no problem with the memory being shown—but then he remembered what Mr. Weasley had told him the night before the trial.
This isn't about proving you guilty. Not really. This is something else.
Harry's skin prickled unpleasantly.
Dumbledore did not so much as blink. "The idea that this court, the oldest and most esteemed court in the international magical community, would allow trial by ambush, is bewildering, and unnatural."
A few of the Wizengamot murmured at that, casting glances at one another.
The woman beside Fudge remained unmoved. "The evidence is here now, Chief Warlock," she said the title almost mockingly. "Would you have us ignore it?"
Dumbledore's eyes flicked to the sealed vial, then back to her. "I would have the law upheld."
Umbridge's thin lips curled ever so slightly as she adjusted her parchment. "Might I remind the court," she said smoothly, "that in Halloway v. The Wizengamot, it was established that the court has a duty to consider all evidentiary matters placed before it, irrespective of their origin or any... inconvenient procedural missteps in their acquisition."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. Some members of the Wizengamot shifted in their seats, while others exchanged glances. Dumbledore, however, remained entirely still, his expression unreadable.
Dumbledore inclined his head ever so slightly, his expression as mild as ever. "An interesting citation, Madam Undersecretary," he said, his voice as measured as ever. "However, Halloway v. The Wizengamot concerned a case wherein the defense had improperly obtained evidence, not the prosecution. The precedent, therefore, is inapplicable."
He turned his gaze to the assembled Wizengamot, his blue eyes sharp behind his half-moon spectacles. "The Office of the Prosecutor of the Wizengamot stands as the pinnacle of legal authority in our world. There is no higher station, no greater responsibility, no more sacred trust. It is not merely an enforcer of law but the very keeper of justice itself. Every courtroom, every council, every legal proceeding in our world looks to it as the gold standard by which integrity is measured. And so I must ask—if this body, the very heart of magical jurisprudence, does not uphold its own principles, who will? To allow the introduction of undisclosed evidence at this stage is not merely a violation of procedure. It is a stain upon the very institution that binds our society together. It would send a message to every courtroom that justice is secondary to convenience, that the rights of the accused are fragile things to be set aside when inconvenient. It would be a betrayal of all who have served before, and a warning to all who would serve after, that the standards we hold most sacred may be cast aside in the moment they matter most."
A low murmur spread through the chamber. Fudge's fingers twitched atop his parchment. Fudge straightened in his seat, lifting his chin as he rapped his knuckles sharply against the polished wood of the bench.
"Having heard the arguments from both sides," he declared, his voice carrying over the rising murmur of the Wizengamot, "the court will permit the introduction of new evidence."
The reaction was immediate. A wave of angry voices erupted across the courtroom, a swell of discontent that rippled through the assembled council members. Several witches and wizards surged forward in their seats, their objections ringing out over one another.
"This is a disgrace!"
"Violation of due process!"
"I will not stand for this!"
Fudge's face darkened. "Enough!" he bellowed, slamming his hand against the bench. The noise settled into a tense, simmering hum. "This court will take a five-minute recess," he announced, his tone clipped with irritation. "We will reconvene shortly."
With that, he struck his gavel against the desk. The enchanted torches flickered. The steel snakes that framed the chamber's entrance twisted apart with a soft clang, signaling the brief adjournment.
Harry rose from his seat, the angry buzz of the council rising, from a low, indignant hum, that by the time Harry and his headmaster passed through the great doors of the chamber had risen to a pandemonium of indignant complaint. Dumbledore strode beside him, his expression unreadable. As the doors shut, the noise ceased immediately, and the quiet echo of the corridor stretched around them.
Harry turned to him at once. "Professor—what just happened? Why don't you want them to use the memory? Wouldn't it prove I'm telling the truth?"
Dumbledore did not answer immediately. He glanced down the corridor in both directions, scanning their surroundings. Then, his gaze settled on Harry, and his voice was calm and low.
"Not here, Harry."
Harry hesitated, he took the meaning as that the ministry hears everything in this place, though he hadn't had a single line of correspondence with his headmaster in months. A part of him didn't care who heard, he needed answers. Instead, he exhaled sharply and muttered, "Alright."
They stood in silence for a moment, the torches lining the corridor flickering in their sconces, casting long, twisting shadows against the cold stone walls. Dumbledore clasped his hands behind his back, his usual air of quiet contemplation settling over him.
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "Did you know, Harry, that the Ministry has long debated the matter of house-elf rights? Some would rather pretend such discussions do not need to take place at all."
Harry frowned. "Yeah… Hermione talks about that a lot. She even started a whole thing about it—S.P.E.W., she calls it."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with quiet amusement. "Ah, a most noble effort. But tell me, Harry, what do you think?"
Harry hesitated. He wasn't sure he had an answer—at least, not one Hermione would approve of. "I dunno," he admitted. "I mean, I like Dobby. And Winky—well, she was a mess when I met her, but she didn't want to be free. Some of them… they don't think like we do, do they?"
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "And yet, the question remains—should justice be dictated by the expectations of those who have never known freedom? Or should it be measured by the principles we hold for ourselves?"
Harry chewed on that, but before he could answer, the great doors behind them groaned as they began to swing open once more. The furious voices within had quieted, but a charged tension still hummed in the air.
Dumbledore straightened. "Come, Harry. It seems our five minutes are up."
Harry took a breath, steadied himself, and followed his headmaster back into the courtroom.
When they returned into the grand chamber, the angry murmurs of the Wizengamot had quieted, but the tension in the room lingered. In the center of the chamber, a large stone pedestal had been placed, and on top it stood what looked like a fist sized carved mineral bowl. Perched next to the pedestal was a robed man. From context Harry assumed this was what the ministry used for a pensieve. He couldn't help but wonder how the entire Wizengamot would manage to see whatever was in the bowl. The space inside it was small—far too small for even one person's face, let alone the entire council of judges. Perhaps they would take turns peering into it, one by one.
The vial was handed over to what Fudge referred to as the Unspeakable, the robed man next to the pensieve.
The man broke the wax seal on the vial with a slow, deliberate motion. There was a loud crackling sound, like the pop of an old parchment tearing open. The Unspeakable held the vial carefully over the stone bowl and began to pour the contents into it.
The silvery substance—like mist or liquid moonlight—swirled in the bowl. The moment the liquid hit the bottom of the bowl, a strange ripple passed through the air. Harry blinked, and for a brief second, the room around him seemed to waver, as if melting around them.
The walls of the courtroom dissolved. The stone floor began to shift beneath Harry's feet, and he instinctively reached for the nearest chair to steady himself. He looked over at the council, but they had vanished. It felt as though the world itself was becoming liquid, as if the space was slipping into a different dimension entirely. The sensation was quite unnerving.
A voice whispered from somewhere in the room, but Harry couldn't tell who it was—everything warped around him.
It seemed as though Harry was no longer in the courtroom at all. He found himself standing in the middle of a familiar street. He blinked, his heart racing as he realized where he was. It was Magnolia Crescent. The houses were just as they had been, the same neat, well-kept rows of homes lining either side of the street. But everything felt wrong, as though the place had been warped by some unseen force.
He saw figures ahead, dimly illuminated by a flickering streetlamp. It was him, walking along with Dudley and Pierre. The three of them moved down the street, laughing together, though Harry couldn't hear any sound. He was struck by the strange feeling of watching himself from outside his body.
He saw Dudley, looking unusually calm, and Pierre walking by his side, chatting animatedly. For a brief moment, the air seemed to still, and Harry's heart lurched. He was there—the very moment he had described, the night before the attack. They were now close enough to hear them talking.
—
The three boys were walking side by side down Magnolia Crescent, the warm from the summer evening. Dudley and Pierre had a swagger in their step, a little extra bounce in their gait, as if the whole world had tilted in their favor. You could tell by looking at them, it had been a good night.
"So, what's that, then?" Pierre asked, nodding at the bulging envelope in Harry's hand. "That's got to be a lot, right?"
"Not bad," Harry replied, the slightest of grins tugging at the corner of his mouth. "A bit more than last time."
"I could really get used to this," Dudley said, adjusting his own jacket, his shoulders squared in that way that suggested he was trying to make himself look even bigger than he was, which Harry couldn't help but smirk at.
"You good though, mate?" He shot a concerned glance at Harry. "That last round looked... rough."
Harry shrugged it off, though watching it back he appreciated the care in Dudley's voice. His memory spoke, "I'm fine. You know I can take it."
Pierre whistled low under his breath. "Mate, it's insane, the way you can just take it. It's like... it's like you don't even feel it. Like... like magic, almost."
Dudley visibly jerked, and quickly said "Not magic, nu-"
Harry shook his head with a small laugh. "Pierre. It's just..." He thought for a moment, then shrugged again. "I don't know. It doesn't get to me, really."
Pierre rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, we can't all be that good at taking a beating." His voice was teasing, but there was genuine admiration in it too. "Some of us actually need to stay in shape."
Pierre smirked, looking up at Harry, there was something like awe in his eyes. "Still, it's bloody impressive."
A warm sensation spread in Harry watching this scene, despite what inevitably would come afterwards.
"You could... you could get a flat with this," Harry said quietly, to Dudley, as if he was weighing the thought out loud. He glanced sideways at Dudley, who nodded, his expression thoughtful.
"Yeah, I could," Dudley agreed a hint of pride. "I can't believe how this summer turned out, this is incredible."
They both stood there for a second, considering the possibilities, before Pierre broke the moment with boisterous energy.
"That girl you were talking to before the match," Pierre said with a grin, nudging Harry in the ribs, "she was pretty fit."
Harry rolled his eyes, trying to fight back a smile. "I barely know her," he muttered.
Dudley snorted, shaking his head. "My boy's shy, that's what it is. All that strength, but no guts when it comes to girls." He chuckled, nudging Harry playfully, clearly enjoying teasing him.
Harry flushed slightly, but he looked happy.
But then, a sudden chill swept over the street. The air grew heavy and thick, and all three stopped mid-step. The scene turned quiet.
"Did you—" Harry started, bot stopped.
"What's going on?" Dudley asked, his voice suddenly unsure.
Pierre's eyes darted around nervously, his head on a swivel.
The streetlamp started flickering, casting long, unnatural shadows across the pavement. Even through the memory, Harry felt his heartbeat quicken. You couldn't feel the biting cold through the pensieve, but just from the shift in atmosphere, harry felt his skin prickle.
—
"This is Dementors," the memory-Harry muttered aloud, his voice low and urgent. He watched himself draw his wand. His heart began to race.
"Stay close to me!" Harry heard himself self bark at Dudley and Pierre, the words strained and sharp from fear and urgency.
The two boys looked uncertain, but didn't move. Dudley, his face pale, looked like he was on the verge of passing out. Pierre, his expression twisted in terror, wasn't even looking at Harry anymore. He was staring into the darkening street, fear overtaking reason rapidly.
Then, Pierre turned and bolted. He ran frantically.
"Pierre!" The memory of Harry screamed. "Come back!"
Harry felt the panic rising in his chest, knowing what was coming.
Pierre ran about twenty paces before he was lifted from the ground. An invisible force had grabbed him and yanked him up into the air. Harry heard his own voice calling after Pierre,
"Cover your mouth! EXPECTO PATRONUM!"
A silvery mist uselessly emerged from the wand of the memory of Harry. Pierres limbs flailed desperately, and imprints of invisible hands tightened around Pierre's throat, the shadows of the indentations drawing the clear print of hands. Pierre gasped and choked, his eyes wide with terror.
Harry—watching the memory—felt his stomach twist. He could hear Pierre's ragged, struggling breaths, see the way his body contorted under the invisible grip.
"Expecto Patronum! Close your mouth!"
Again, the spell didn't take. The choking became a desperate, wheezing rattle. Pierre's mouth hung open, and his eyes bulged, rolling back in his skull. He dropped, lifeless, to the ground, his body limp. A long, slow wheezing rattle emerged from the lifeless form of Pierre Polkiss.
Harry, still holding his wand, stood frozen, disbelief flashing across his face. Then something seemed to catch his attention from his left. Harry knew watching this, that this would be the second dementor.
Harry saw the same invisible force grip himself, and he instinctively brushed his fingers along his throat watching the scenes unfold in front of him. Dudley's memory of Harry was lifted off the ground. This was as far as he himself could remember, and he now watched desperately. Harry saw his mouth being pried open slowly, the shadowed prints in his face revealing hands gripping his upper and lower jaw, pulling them apart. His arms hung increasingly limp, but he held the wand firm. Harry watched his own eyes roll into his skull, and the same rattling wheeze emerged from his own lips. He too dropped unceremoniously to the ground with a heavy thud. An empty feeling of hollowness consumed Harry watching himself in the memory. But as Dudleys memory of him fell to the ground, his wand started glowing faintly in the dimming air, and a Patronus was conjured, though no words left the falling boys, his own, lips.
Before Harry hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, the stag emerged in a bright shower of silver light, that sent long shadows across the deserted street. Running in a graceful lap around the scene before coming to stand sentry next to Harry's unconscious body. The silvery creature stood tall, its elegant presence like a shield against the crushing darkness.
Dudley, trembling on the ground, was crying, his hands desperately trying to rouse Harry. Now the street was completely dead save for the sobs of his cousin that filled the space.
Harry could feel the sting in his eyes, the hot, wet tears that had started to gather as he watched the scene unfold, the awful helplessness of it.
The scene, moments before sharp and clear, began to blur around him. The colors of the memory melted, dissolving like watercolors in the rain. The walls of the chamber around him began to reconfigure, reforming.
The next moment, he was back in the Wizengamot, his breath catching as he found himself standing in the chamber once more. The echo of his own sobs reverberated in his ears.
Pierre had been Kissed. That much was obvious. But then… so had he. Hadn't he?
His breath came a little too fast, his hands curling into fists where they rested against his robes. The Dementor had lifted him, wrenched his mouth open—he had felt it, seen the hollow rattle of breath leave his own lips. And yet… he was here. Whole.
That wasn't possible.
The Patronus.
It had appeared the moment the Dementor let go—before he'd spoken a word, before he'd even thought to cast it. Had he done that? Could he do that? His Patronus had always felt powerful, but not… not like that. Not like something acting on its own.
A cold prickle ran down his spine as he looked around the room.
Fudge's face was rigid, his usual bluster noticeably absent. He looked—Harry couldn't quite believe it—uncertain. Not angry. Not triumphant. Just… unsettled.
Umbridge, for once, wasn't wearing her usual smug expression. Her eyes darted between him and the now-sealed memory vessel, her lips pursed so tightly they nearly disappeared into her face.
Dumbledore sat still, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, expression unreadable. He wasn't looking at Fudge, or Umbridge, or even the Wizengamot. He was looking at Harry.
The council had erupted into whispers, some urgent, some furious. A few members looked horrified. Others looked like they had swallowed something sour. A handful were glaring openly at Fudge, as if daring him to explain.
Harry swallowed. His heartbeat was loud in his ears.
The silence stretched, thick and waiting.
An uncertain voice spoke next.
"Can we summon the Healer again for further questioning?"
Harry turned his head. A stern-looking witch with dark robes and an elaborate silver brooch had spoken, her gaze fixed on Fudge. Several other council members murmured in agreement.
"No," Fudge snapped, his tone final.
The angry buzz of the Wizengamot swelled again, voices rising, robes rustling as witches and wizards exchanged heated glances.
Dumbledore did not wait for the noise to settle. He rose, and when he spoke, his voice carried over the chaos with effortless authority.
"Enough of this sham."
The chamber fell silent.
"The defense moves to request an immediate verdict," Dumbledore continued, his blue eyes glinting. "As is our right under the Wizengamot Judicial Procedures Act, Section Thirty-One, Subsection Four."
Fudge's face reddened. "That is premature, Dumbledore. The evidence—"
"Fine," he cut himself off abruptly, his eyes darting around the room as if he could see the shifting tide of opinion turning against him. "If the court wishes to hear from the Healer again, then let it be so."
But Dumbledore pressed on.
"There is no need. The defense moves for immediate verdict."
Fudge sputtered. "But- how can we-"
"This is nothing more than a desperate fishing expedition. It is beneath this court," His gaze swept the assembled council, unreadable yet weighty.
Fudge's mouth twisted. He hesitated, but a look at the increasingly restless council seemed to wilt the last of his resistance.
A man seated near the center of the highest tier stood. He was older, with a sharp, foxlike face and a long, neatly groomed beard. His deep green robes bore an ornate golden clasp, and when he spoke, his voice was calm but commanding.
"The Wizengamot will now cast its vote."
A hush fell over the chamber, the weight of the moment pressing down like a held breath. Harry's fingers curled around the edge of his chair. His heart hammered against his ribs.
"All those in favor of conviction?" the man called out.
Silence. A handful of hands—perhaps a dozen—rose hesitantly into the air.
"And those in favor of acquittal?"
A rustle of movement swept through the chamber like a breeze before a storm. Hands shot up across the courtroom—dozens upon dozens. Entire rows of witches and wizards lifted their arms in unison.
Harry stared. The vote wasn't close. It wasn't even close to close.
A rush of something light and dizzying flooded his chest. He had won.
Fudge's face had gone an ugly shade of blotchy red. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, lips moving around words too low to hear. Something about needing to vote on each count separately, procedural matters, formalities—his voice trailed into an incoherent mutter.
Harry wasn't sure what that meant. Did it matter? The vote had already happened.
He turned to Dumbledore, but the chair beside him was empty.
Harry blinked. The Wizengamot was still rustling with movement, voices murmuring, robes shifting—but Dumbledore was gone. He had left without a word.
Harry rose from his seat, his legs feeling strangely unsteady beneath him. The chamber was still thick with murmurs, but he barely heard them over the pounding in his ears. Without looking back, he made his way toward the heavy wooden doors.
Behind him, voices were rising again—this time, not at him.
"Minister, you will remain," came a sharp voice, cutting through the din.
"Yes, we have questions," another chimed in, firm and insistent.
More voices joined, some cool, others edged with something close to anger. The shift in the room was palpable. They weren't letting Fudge leave.
Harry didn't stop to listen. He pushed open the doors and stepped out, the heavy thud of them closing behind him shutting out the rest.