Chapter Thirty-Seven - Judgements
A sickening sound echoed through the arena, accompanied by a hot spray of blood splattering across Harry's hand and face as Fudge's eyeball burst like an overripe fruit. His bloodcurdling scream tore through the air, amplified by the speakers above the stands.
Harry's chest heaved as he fought to contain the seething rage that threatened to consume him. It felt as if a glowing ember had settled where his heart should be, its fiery tendrils pulsing with every beat, demanding release.
Fudge collapsed, still screaming, and the sight was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen.
Does this still look like a victory for the Ministry? he laughed to himself. No, it looks like a pathetic piece of shit!
The screams were music to Harry's ears. The melody would only get sweeter if he unleashed the Cruciatus Curse. He had gained a lot of valuable experience with it recently and was sure that he could torture Fudge for hours without him losing consciousness. But... he had to stay in control, hard as it was for him. Otherwise, it would all be for nothing. Fudge would get his true punishment eventually.
All these thoughts had only lasted a split second.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Aurors rushing towards him. Several of them shouted, "Expelliarmus!"
He could have deflected the spells if he had wanted to – and probably killed several of the Aurors at the same time – but he let it happen. The spells hit him and his bloodied wand was torn from his hand. It spun through the air, towards one of the Aurors – but in mid-air it suddenly changed direction and landed safely in Daphne's hand.
But she didn't raise her wands, neither his nor hers. Her gaze remained fixed on him, her eyes, one golden, the other green, glowing with passion like gems on fire. The bond that bound them trembled and vibrated. The trembling grew stronger and stronger, more and more terrible, but Daphne stood still like a statue of stone. Only her raven black hair blew softly in the evening breeze.
Harry saw the fear in her eyes, hidden behind the passion. It was a fear that instantly extinguished the flames within him. It was fear for herself, for him, for the consequences of their move, for the risk of failure.
He wanted nothing more than to go to her, to hold her in his arms, to hold her close and reassure her that everything would be all right; that they would wade in the blood of their enemies until they had achieved all their goals and dreams, and that nothing and no one could ever oppress or humiliate them again, and that he loved her more than anything and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her and lay the whole world at her feet. But ... he had to stay in control, hard as it was for him. Otherwise, it would all be for nothing. Daphne would get her true reward eventually.
Again, all these thoughts had only lasted a fraction of a second, but then everything happened very quickly.
Rough hands grabbed Harry and pinned him to the ground. He let it happen, even though every fibre of his being screamed to fight back and strike down the Minister's wretched servants. His bond with Daphne trembled even more.
"Wand down, girl!" a voice shouted above him as his face was pressed against the wooden floorboards. The lenses of his glasses cut into his flesh.
"The wand is down," Daphne's voice replied. It was cold and calm. "I'm no threat."
Chaos had now broken out around them. Harry couldn't see it, but he could hear it: shouting, screaming, stomping. A gong that sounded like a cannon shot. Fudge's cries of pain, turning to pitiful whimpers.
More voices approached Harry. One sounded like Dumbledore's, but Harry couldn't make out the words, and his headmaster's voice was interrupted by another imperious voice.
"No, Dumbledore! You can see him when we're finished!"
Heavy footsteps approached. The floorboards creaked. Then Harry was grabbed by the shoulders and turned sideways.
He looked into the face of Madam Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry. Her face was as cold and distant as it had been when she had questioned him and Daphne after Sirius' death – his murder – and her monocle was once again so polished that it glinted unpleasantly in the flickering light of the torches. Harry had hated her then, and at this moment he hated her even more now for the disgusted look she gave him, as if he were nothing but a piece of shit under her boots.
"Mr Potter, you are under arrest," Madam Bones said in a barely raised voice. It was the voice of a woman who knew you had no choice but to listen to her. "You have the right to a lawyer as soon as we take you away. So you'd better start thinking about it, because I am going to take you to court for what you have done."
Her voice was still perfectly calm, but Harry thought he heard satisfaction in it. Bitch.
"I look forward to it," he murmured. But his words didn't sound as impressive as he would have liked because his face was still halfway to the floor.
"What about the girl?" a voice asked from outside of Harry's field of vision.
"I haven't broken any laws," Daphne's voice said with the same coldness. Her voice was still much calmer than their trembling bond. "You have no right to do anything to me."
"That is true, Miss Greengrass," Bones said. "But stand by for possible questioning. Let's take him away now. Dawlish, stay with the Minister. I trust Madam Pomfrey, but control is better than trust. And the others will keep people away, including Dumbledore and McGonagall, no matter what they say."
Several arms lifted Harry. He felt restraints being placed around his hands, not iron as in the Third Task, but magically strengthened leather or something, but just as humiliating.
For the first time since his attack on Fudge, Harry was truly aware of his surroundings. The stands were still full of spectators, but the exuberant cheers and laughter had been replaced by a sea of shocked, horrified faces. Murmurs filled the air, words fading into an anxious buzz. Hundreds of fingers pointed at him. Harry quickly looked away.
Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to the stage. They were engaged in a heated exchange with two Aurors standing in their way.
The other Aurors forced Harry to go down a set of stairs on the other side of the stage. From there they walked quickly past the stands. Despite the guard that surrounded Harry like a ring, he caught glimpses of the world beyond – the frightened faces and curious eyes following his every move. Scraps of words drifted over to him.
"Mad..."
"Dangerous..."
"Why..."
The last word was the one he heard the most: Why did Potter do this? Why did he attack the Minister? Why, why, why?
Harry wanted to shout the answer in their faces, but... Control. Everything kept coming back to that bloody control. He forced himself to breathe evenly, to calm his churning insides as best he could. He had to keep a cool head to reap the harvest of their offering, otherwise it would all have been for nothing.
Harry heard shouts coming towards him. They were from Ron and Hermione, trying to make their way through the crowd to him, but the Aurors stopped them. They shouted something at him, but Harry looked away, putting one foot in front of the other.
They were moving towards the edge of the castle grounds, Harry realised, and from there probably towards the Ministry of Magic. They couldn't just take him away to Azkaban like they had Sirius; no, as Madam Bones had said in all her hypocrisy, they were going to sit in judgement on him; a judgement of lies and broken dreams. But in the end the truth would come out, whenever the end would be.
All the time Harry felt Daphne's eyes on him, but he never once looked back. Because he knew that if he turned to look at her now, he wouldn't be able to go on.
One foot in front of the other…
...until there was nowhere left to go.
The thought echoed in Daphne's mind as she watched Harry and the Aurors cross the castle boundary. Seconds later, they Disapparated; it felt like a part of Daphne was being ripped out of her.
She had to fight the overwhelming urge to run after him, to raze the entire Ministry to the ground and bring him back to her. But she knew she had to control herself or she would destroy everything. Once again they would have to swallow ashes, for a while, before they could enjoy the most delicious feast in heaven and hell.
Still, Daphne felt dull, so dull, as she left the stage. Voices surged around her like an ocean, but they were distant, distorted, as if she were submerged underwater.
"...what the hell was he thinking? He..."
"Maybe the rumours are true and he's not quite right in the head. If you ask me..."
"I'm going to the Ministry now. Please, handle the situation here. The students must return to the castle."
"Sure, I don't like Fudge either, but this? Did he insult Potter's mother or what?"
"I always knew! And I said so! Potter's a freak and should have –"
"Don't be like that, Minister. Do you see? The eye is as good as new!"
"Of course. And Albus... please..."
"One more word, Severus, and..."
"I hope you got the shot. This is the story of the century! The Boy Who Stabbed!"
"Completely mad, I tell you. I saw it exactly! He was clearly going to kill him!"
"I will, Minerva. Everything will be sorted out, I am sure of..."
But then Daphne's senses suddenly sharpened. She jerked her arm up and stopped the hand that was about to strike her in the face.
"Careful," she said, looking into Hermione Granger's tear-streaked face.
"This is all your fault!" cried Hermione, struggling to free her hand from Daphne's iron grip. Behind her, Ron was pushing his way through the crowd, his face bright red. "This is your fault, Greengrass! Your, your, your fault!"
Daphne would have thought Hermione's words would make her angry, but they only irritated her. The girl in front of her was so insignificant in the scheme of things, of what had just happened and what was about to happen, that Daphne would have liked to just sweep her away like an annoying fly. But that would be ... inadvisable, she knew that herself.
"Try to hit me again and you'll lose your hand," Daphne said. She let go of Hermione's wrist.
Hermione jerked her hand back as if she'd been burned. Her face was full of anger and hatred and despair and a thousand other emotions that Daphne couldn't even begin to describe.
"It's your fault," Hermione repeated, her voice lower this time, but no less accusatory. "Everything. Everything is your fault."
Daphne clicked her tongue, just as Ron joined them. He was panting heavily.
"What... what..."
"Good evening, Ronald," Daphne said. "Eloquent as ever, I see."
"What the hell was that?" Ron's voice was louder now. Several people turned to look at them. "What the hell did Harry –"
"I can't speak for him, so you'll have to ask him yourself," Daphne said. She tried to move on, but Hermione's hand clawed at her arm.
Daphne was about to raise her wand – or Harry's, which she held in the same hand – but instead she met the other girl's gaze. "What?" she asked.
"It's your fault," Hermione said again. "I've been so blind, but I see it now. Everything, everything is your fault."
"I really don't have the faintest idea what –"
"It's like at the Duelling Club. I've seen it. Seen it clearly. You nodded at him. Before he attacked Fudge. He did it because of you. Only because of you. You pursue your dark plans and –"
Daphne walked past her. "I really don't have the nerve for this anymore," she said, her voice icy even in her own perception. "Stand in my way again and you'll regret it."
Harry sat motionless in the cold metal chair, his shoulders leaning heavily against the backrest. The room around him was a sterile white void in which the harsh light created an almost painful intensity. It seemed to emanate from the walls and ceiling themselves, with no discernible source. The brightness was so pervasive that Harry could feel it penetrating his mind, even through his closed eyelids.
The table in front of him was also made of metal, its surface reflecting the light and making it even brighter. The only other piece of furniture was a second metal chair on the other side of the table, but it was empty now that Madam Bones and her Aurors had finished their interrogation. How long had it been? An hour? Two hours? Harry had lost all sense of time in the light-flooded room.
At some point – Harry couldn't really say when – the door to the room, which blended seamlessly with the white walls, opened again. Harry was not surprised to see who entered.
Professor Dumbledore looked old, even more so today than usual. His face was pale and lined with deep, shadowy wrinkles. His white beard looked dull and colourless in the unyielding light of the room. And his purple robe, decorated with small golden stars and moons, hung like a heavy cloth around his body and seemed almost too big for him. He really did look terribly exhausted, eaten away by the teeth of time and toil.
But despite his obvious exhaustion, Dumbledore still exuded an enormous, almost palpable magical power. Harry could almost feel it – a kind of magnetic presence that bent and guided the world around it. Despite his appearance, the old wizard moved with a naturalness that could only come from a long life of recognition and power.
"Professor..." Harry began, but Dumbledore just raised his hand and sat down in the chair at the other end of the table. His eyes were fixed on Harry.
"I would like to inform you," the Headmaster said, "that Cornelius' eye has been fully restored. It was not a magical injury, after all, and therefore a piece of cake for a healer of the calibre of our Poppy Pomfrey. Does that disappoint you?"
Harry forced his face into a mask. "Why would it disappoint me?" he asked.
"Did you not intend to hurt the Minister? For what he said about you and Daphne?"
Dumbledore's gaze was still on him and Harry knew that the unassuming blue eyes behind the half-moon glasses were an enemy not to be underestimated, perhaps not as terrifying as the Basilisk, the Dementors or the bloodied Voldemort, but no less dangerous. This was the first crucial pivot in their little play, but Harry had been preparing for it ever since he had made his decision.
"I don't know," he lied. "I was angry, so angry. I just wanted to do something..."
"Something," Dumbledore said slowly, as if tasting the word on his tongue. "Something could have been many things. Endure, object, walk away. But you chose violence."
"What will happen to me now, Professor?" asked Harry.
"That depends on many factors. There will be a trial, that is certain, but everything else..." Dumbledore let the words trail off. He just looked at Harry for a moment – one, two, three seconds, maybe longer – and only then did he continue. "I want to talk to you about the reasons for what you did. Not about Cornelius' words, however unwise they may have been, but about the reasons that made you resort to violence."
The old wizard leaned forward slightly, his gaze as intense as if he wanted to absorb every detail. Harry felt a tingle run down his arms: Danger, danger. He was going to have to lie better than he ever had in his life.
"Have you continued to inflict pain on yourselves?" asked Dumbledore suddenly. "You and Daphne? Even after you found your Animagus form?"
Harry flinched, and it wasn't even an act. "What if we did?" he said. "It would only be our business. No-one else's."
A sigh escaped Dumbledore, and he looked even older now. And sadder. Harry felt sick just looking at him.
"I suppose I should have seen it," Dumbledore said, closing his eyes. "The signs were all there, in hindsight." He shook his head. "The Selection Ceremony, I should have seen it then at the latest. If I hadn't been so preoccupied with other things..."
"Professor, what are you talking about?" Harry asked cautiously. He had a puzzled look on his face, as if he had no idea what this was all about.
Dumbledore looked at him again. "There is a fire in you, Harry. I can see it clearly. Your very essence is rebelling against the injustices of this world; the ones you have witnessed in your young life; the ones you have suffered yourself. And now to this fire of discontent is added the Blood Magic that you have continued to use, despite my warnings. A magic that reveals even more of your burning core, all that makes you human, all that makes you who you are. With all your dreams, your fears, your worries. With all your feelings, good and bad. And as if that wasn't explosive enough – may I?"
The Headmaster raised his wand and pointed it at Harry's head. "Don't worry, I'm not attempting to breach your mind. I only wish to check something."
Everything inside Harry was screaming to refuse Dumbledore's request, but he knew he had to win back the wizard's favour. So he nodded reluctantly. "If you must, Professor. But be warned, my Occlumency is much stronger than it was two years ago."
Harry felt Dumbledore's magic brush over his mind, lightly but uncomfortably, like a drop of water running down his back. He could let the drop burn away – a brief effort of thought was all it would take – but Harry pulled himself together. Still, Dumbledore flinched, as if he had burned himself, before lowering his wand again and studying Harry with an intense gaze.
"Yes, it is as I thought," Dumbledore said. "I never asked, but I was always sure that you and Daphne had not given up on your bond, but continued to nurture it."
"That's our business too," Harry said firmly.
"It is something deeply personal, even intimate, I am aware of that. But you must understand, Harry, you two are very much alike."
"And that's a bad thing?"
"There is no balance between you," Dumbledore continued. "No moderating voice for too deep a feeling of discontent, no cool water to quench the blaze. Only fire and fire, and a constant pouring of oil onto those flames—by you, by your magic, by the world you inhabit. Harry, I fear my lessons with you two years ago were a waste of my time."
"You mean..." Harry began, but hesitated as he searched for the right words.
Dumbledore looked at him over the tops of his half-moon glasses. "What do you think I mean, Harry?"
"You think we're dangerous," Harry said. "That we hurt each other. That we're homicidal maniacs who can't control our emotions and will lash out in all directions if anyone so much as looks at us the wrong way. That we're... evil?" His voice faltered on the last word.
Dumbledore's head tilted slightly, not quite nodding or shaking. "Yes and no. Not only do I think you two are dangerous, I know it. I also know that you are not mad. But I do think that you are not in control of your emotions. And 'good' and 'evil' are not the terms I would use in your case. Confused and frightened, perhaps."
Harry couldn't help himself. He clicked his tongue – and froze the next moment. Since when did he do that? He must have learnt it from Daphne.
Dumbledore, noticing his reaction, asked, "My words make you angry?"
"I... I don't know..." Harry said hesitantly.
"A simple yes or no will do, Harry."
"Yes! Hell yes, yes!" Harry jumped up, his chair falling to the floor with a clatter. His hands were clenched into fists. "Yes, your words make me angry!"
"What makes you angry, Harry?"
"Everything!" Harry shouted, his voice echoing off the bare walls. "Just everything! We're not confused! Or frightened! Your patronising look! That I have to be here! That I didn't hurt Fudge more! His words! That we were and are laughed at! That nobody takes us bloody seriously! The newspapers, Bagman, Bones! It all makes me angry! It all makes me so bloody angry! In here!" He put his hand on his heart, which was indeed beating wildly. "I'm angry that I'm so angry. I'm angry that I lost my temper. I'm angry at the frightened looks the others have given me. I'm angry at Bones for calling me a criminal. I'm angry that Daphne has to worry about me. I'm angry that our victory will now be tainted forever. I'm angry—so angry—and I hate it!"
He had shouted the last words into Dumbledore's face, but the old wizard hadn't even blinked. His blue eyes were still staring at him calmly, but he said nothing, just watched.
Harry took a step back, then another and another, until his back was against the white wall. As if his body had suddenly lost all tension, he slumped to the floor.
"And most of all, I'm angry with myself," he said quietly. "I ... I regret it, Professor..."
"What do you regret, Harry?" asked Dumbledore.
"I regret what I did to Fudge."
I regret that I didn't do more.
"I... I'm not like that."
I'm worse.
"I'm scared."
I'm scared that if I don't fight against you and against this world and against all my weaknesses, I'll drown. I'm scared if I don't come out on top.
"I don't think my parents would be proud of what I've become..."
He truly believed the latter, and so he added nothing more to his thoughts. It was an ugly truth, one he hadn't wanted to admit to himself for a long time, but one he couldn't escape if he wanted to finish this path. He would keep their memory in his heart forever, but it would no longer play a role in his future. An ugly, ugly truth, but ugly was so much of life.
Tears ran down Harry's cheeks, which he wiped away angrily. "I can't do this anymore, Professor. Please… help me."
A look of deep vulnerability had appeared on Dumbledore's wrinkled face. "You and I," he said, "and Daphne, the three of us have a long way to go."
The way seemed longer than usual to Daphne as she walked through the dark corridors of Hogwarts.
Perhaps it was because of her physical exhaustion, for she was worn out after spending hours in the Room of Requirement, lest she reduce the entire castle to rubble, even if the summoned creatures were only a poor substitute for the true, superior experience. Perhaps it was also her mental exhaustion from feeling Harry's emotions all the time – a rollercoaster of rage and triumph that had left her completely woozy.
Finally, though, she reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room. She said the password – Sanguis Oblige – and stepped inside.
The dim, greenish light from the lamps and the flickering logs in the fireplaces bathed the room in soft shadows. It was the middle of the night, closer to dawn than midnight, and so the room was completely empty – except for one person.
Sitting on one of the sofas facing the entrance was a girl with long auburn hair framing a delicate face. Her features were much softer than Daphne's, though there were certain similarities, such as the unbridled disgust on her face; Daphne had spent much of her childhood with a look like that. Hard, sky-blue eyes stared back at her.
"Astoria," Daphne said as she approached her sister. "Surely you weren't waiting for me instead of sleeping?"
Astoria rose from the sofa. "If the rabble can't get an audience with the Tyrant of Slytherin during the day, they'll just have to sacrifice their sleep."
"Don't say things like that. You're not rabble. You're my sister."
A short, mirthless laugh escaped Astoria's delicate throat. "Funny how that only matters to you when it comes to hurting others."
Daphne clicked her tongue. She didn't really have the nerve, especially after this day, but she gave Astoria an intense look. It was the first time in... well, in months that they had spoken like that.
"If you're too weak to defend yourself, I'll have to," Daphne said.
"Like you did with Draco?"
"Yes," Daphne replied without hesitation. "Just like that."
Astoria narrowed her eyes "He doesn't even dare look at me anymore. No one does. The only person who still speaks to me is Tracey, and even she only does so in private. You've made me a lonely person, sister."
The last word was almost a hiss.
"So?" asked Daphne. "Better to be alone than surrounded by scum, right?"
"And then you tell me you only did it to protect me," Astoria continued, not answering Daphne's words. She stepped closer so that she had to look up to meet Daphne's eyes. "That you only want to protect me out of some warped view of sisterly affection. That those are your motives for your actions and not something else, something far more primitive and cruel."
"Of course I wanted to protect you," Daphne said. "I –"
Astoria didn't let her finish. With nothing but contempt in her voice, she hissed, "How can I believe you after what happened today? No, not just today, but all our lives! You always wanted to win, always wanted more. More, more, more. I used to think you were just selfish, but now I know that your greed goes beyond selfishness. You would rather see the world burn than not be on top, the most powerful witch of all. Where others have a heart, you have a black hole."
Daphne's face hardened, but she didn't interrupt her sister.
"But to throw Potter to the wolves like that?" Astoria's voice was reproachful and disappointed. "It's cold, even by your standards. I really thought you loved him. Because he loves you, even a blind girl can see that. For whatever reason, he loves you. He's totally devoted to you. And you just stood there and watched him get arrested! You sacrificed him in one of your cruel power plays! Just like the insects and animals you slashed and dismembered! If you do this to the boy who loves you so dearly, how can I believe that you care about me at all? You're a monster, Daphne! A cruel, heartless –"
SMACK!
The sound of Daphne's hand slapping Astoria's face echoed through the empty common room. The slap was hard, leaving a red, angry mark on Astoria's pale skin. Daphne felt no pity. Her sister could be glad that her sisterly affection was not a lie, however difficult it was for her at the moment. Otherwise, Astoria would be writhing on the floor in pain right now, while Daphne savoured her life power. The very thought made Daphne's Impetus growl hungrily, eager to bare its sharp teeth and sink them into delicious, bloody flesh.
"Shut up if you don't know anything!" Daphne hissed. "Or grow strong enough to stand up to me. But until then, keep your bloody mouth shut! And never, never question my feelings for Harry again. Or I'll let Malfoy rape you next time. I'm beginning to think that's exactly what you want, when all you ever do is accuse me and accuse me and accuse me and can't tell me often enough what a horrible person I am. But you know what?"
She grabbed Astoria's chin and forced her to look into her eyes. Some of Daphne's black-painted fingernails dug so deeply into Astoria's skin that blood oozed out, but she didn't care, didn't care at all.
"One day I'll get tired of swallowing ashes. And when I do, you better not stand in my way like you are now. Or you'll burn with the rest of the wizarding world."
She released Astoria with a shove and walked past her without another glance. Behind her, she could hear Astoria's laboured breathing, but not another word was spoken.
The exhaustion in Daphne's body and mind grew heavier with each step, but she defiantly put one foot in front of the other until she finally reached her dormitory.
She didn't even have to look to see that the curtains of one of the beds opened as soon as she entered the room.
"Not a word, Davis," Daphne said. "Not a bloody word."
The curtains closed again.
Daphne collapsed onto her own bed, pulling the curtains tight and activating the Runes of Pain etched into the bed frame. But try as she might, sleep remained a distant enemy that night.
Elsewhere in the vast castle, a boy and a girl were huddled together, the girl's sobs muffled against the boy's chest as he held her close, his hand moving in soothing circles down her back.
"Maybe he just snapped," Ron said quietly. "I mean, Fudge is an idiot anyway, that's what Dad always says, and today he was also a real dick."
Hermione shook her head and hugged him even tighter. "It's her fault, I know it! She's the one who's changed Harry so much. And he... he's completely under her spell and doesn't even notice how she's poisoning him more and more with her poison! Only we, only we see it! Only we... Oh Ron, I can't take it anymore..."
"It's going to be all right, sweetheart," Ron whispered reassuringly, continuing to stroke her back gently. "Everything's going to be all right..."
Albus' limbs felt like lead as he made his way through the silent corridors of Hogwarts at night, his every move accompanied by the now familiar feeling of pain and a deep, deep exhaustion.
When he finally reached his office, he immediately collapsed into the chair behind his desk. The former Headmasters and Headmistresses in the paintings on the wall gave him curious glances – no doubt they must have heard what had happened – but no one said a word. Only Albus's most loyal companion let out a soft coo and landed on his shoulder with a powerful flap of his wings.
The phoenix rubbed his warm head against Albus's cheek, and a wave of comfort washed over him, reminiscent of the sweet warmth of a hot chocolate after a cold winter's day spent with his parents and siblings in a long, distant past. Phoenixes really were incredible creatures, Albus thought.
"Thank you, my friend," he whispered softly.
Fawkes' deep black eyes looked at him, the question in them obvious.
Albus nodded. "I spoke to him. It was..." He sighed, and the pain in his chest intensified, spreading through his tired limbs. Even Fawkes' wondrous powers could only give him temporary relief. "It was disturbing, I cannot say otherwise. There is so much anger in him, so much pain, and I am afraid of losing him if..."
Yes, if what? If he didn't stand up for Harry as he should have from the start, instead of sending him to the Dursleys? If he didn't guide Harry's immense magical power with the care it deserved? If he didn't listen, really listen, to the boy's fears and help him overcome them?
Fawkes let out a low croak and Albus shook his head. "No, I don't think so," he said. "We have found a ... new relationship of trust, I think. And that is necessary, because he has been lying to me all this time..."
Albus let out another heavy sigh, his chest and soul aching, one more than the other.
"He never stopped practising Blood Magic with Daphne. All this time they have been hurting each other and the wounds are bleeding deep inside them. It will be hard to push back the pus and heal the wounds, and even then scars will remain, I fear. But it must be done, or they will never find peace. In fact, I would prefer to separate them permanently so that..." Albus hesitated. "But I cannot do that, I know, for then I would destroy all bridges to them. They'd never forgive me, and I'm not sure I could forgive myself, either..."
All this time Fawkes had been looking at him intently, but Albus knew he was speaking his words as much to himself as to his old friend. And to the dozens of paintings, it seemed, for after a few moments of silence, a clearing of throat came from the wall.
"And what will happen now?" asked the portrait of his predecessor, Armando Dippet. "Will the boy be punished for attacking the Minister?"
The other portraits also looked at him curiously, some with concern, others with clear signs of disapproval. Dozens of former Headmasters and probably dozens of ways they would have dealt with the events if they had happened in their lifetime. This thought did not make it any easier for Albus to find his own way, but after all the years he had spent as Headmaster of Hogwarts, that was nothing new to him. He could ask them for advice, as he sometimes did... but he didn't have the strength now. Maybe later.
But at least he owed them an answer. "There will be a trial," he said. "Before the Great Chamber of the Wizengamot."
Armando Dippet knitted his painted brow. "But Potter is still a minor, is he not? Doesn't he have the right to a trial before a small chamber?"
"Umbridge insisted on it," Albus explained, and the mention of the Minister's First Under-Secretary caused disapproval to spread across the faces of the former headmasters, especially those whose paintings also hung in the Ministry. "A trial in front of the entire Ministry apparatus and the press. We could have fought it, but Harry refused."
Harry's words echoed in Albus' memory, as clear and resolute as when they were first spoken: "I've made mistakes, Professor, but I stand by them. I won't use any tricks to avoid my responsibilities. I will submit to the Wizengamot and their judgement. But that doesn't mean I won't defend myself."
Yes, after their upsetting conversation and Harry's request for help, they had also discussed Harry's defence, in which Harry had also accepted his help. Although Albus was confident that they could contain the worst of the damage, he would have preferred to avoid such a public spectacle.
As the Headmaster's paintings began to argue excitedly with each other – about right and wrong and centuries-old legal texts – and Fawkes lay peacefully asleep on Albus' lap, Albus' eyes wandered to the stairs leading to his private chambers. He absently stroked the warm feathers of the phoenix, lost in thought.
Up there, beyond those steps, lay his greatest battle – a battle that overshadowed all the petty squabbles of the British wizarding world, all the vanities, the wounded pride and angry teenagers, even if he felt responsible for them. It was far too late to continue the fight with Tom now, Albus knew that himself, and he was far, far too exhausted to do anything good now, but tomorrow he would have to face his adversary again, trapped in the Mirror of Erised. He felt that he was on the verge of a breakthrough.
If his suspicions were correct, only two of Tom's Horcruxes remained: the cup in Bellatrix Lestrange's vault at Gringotts and a ring belonging to Salazar Slytherin, probably somewhere in England. If he could finally complete his negotiations with the goblins, he could destroy the cup and further weaken Tom. This would bring him closer to locating the ring and deciphering its protection.
Then Tom would finally be mortal again, and the horror that Albus had brought upon the world through his own failure would finally come to an end. Then they could finally begin to build a better world – for Harry, for Daphne, and for all the other children out there that he had failed so badly.
The thought of that possibility made Albus feel warm and fuzzy, but maybe that was just because Fawkes was asleep in his lap, with little flames dancing across his feathers.
A short time later, Albus had fallen asleep in his chair as well. Deceptive dreams awaited him.
It took two days for Harry's trial to begin before the Great Chamber of the Wizengamot.
In the early afternoon of the twenty-sixth of June, accompanied by several Aurors, he entered a huge circular hall with dark stone walls. Dimly lit by torches, the room was sombre and impressive. Empty benches lined the sides of the hall, but at the front, in steeply ascending rows, sat, by his estimation, about four dozen witches and wizards, all dressed in plum-coloured robes with elaborate decorations on the chest and sleeves. Their eyes were fixed on Harry. Some had stern expressions on their faces, others looked at him with open curiosity, a bit as if they thought he was an enigma to be deciphered. Some were whispering to each other.
So these were his judges, Harry thought as he was led to a wide wooden chair in the middle of the room; the armrests of the chair were encircled by heavy chains, but they remained ominously still. A bunch of hypocritical, aloof busybodies who presumed to judge him.
Daphne's words, spoken many years ago at the very beginning of their journey together, echoed in Harry's memory.
"The wizarding world is an oligarchy, Harry," she had told him. "A third of the seats for the rich and old pureblood families. Another third for the top positions in the Ministry, which are also almost exclusively held by members of the rich pureblood families, who in turn promote and advance purebloods. And only the rich families have the gold to buy their way to election as representatives of the people. The power is in the hands of a few wizards, and the rest have no choice but to writhe in the dirt before them. It's a rigged game. A closed system of power and greed."
It was then that she had also explained to him why her own family no longer held a seat in the Wizengamot, even though the Greengrasses could trace their history back to the closest confidants of the legendary sorceress – and Daphne's great role model – Morgana Le Fay. Financial distress had forced them to sell their seat to the Malfoys.
Well, there was no Malfoy sitting here today, Harry thought with grim satisfaction as he scanned the rows.
In addition to the members of the Wizengamot, he noticed several reporters sitting higher up, their quills already scratching away at notebooks. This was only right for Harry. He had expected their presence, even counted on it. At least no one seemed stupid enough to let that bitch Skeeter in; apparently the Wizengamot deserved more honour in the eyes of its illustrious members than the bloody Triwizard Tournament.
Harry took a deep breath, trying to control his rising anger, and continued to look around the room. He didn't think he knew anyone here personally – with one exception. In the centre of the semicircle, on a slightly raised seat behind a stone desk, sat Dumbledore. His hands clasped in front of him, he nodded at Harry. The gold rim of his glasses glinted briefly in the light of the torches.
Then Dumbledore picked up a gavel and struck it against the desk. The sharp sound echoed through the hall, silencing the whispers in an instant. His voice, calm and authoritative, filled the chamber as he began to speak.
"Honoured members of the Great Chamber of the Wizengamot, I hereby open the fifteen thousand and seventy-seventh session of this court. The defendant is Harry James Potter, who sits before us, and the prosecution is the Department of Magical Law Enforcement of the Ministry of Magic, represented by its head, Madam Amelia Bones. But before we begin the charge..."
Dumbledore rose from his seat, drawing all eyes away from Harry to himself.
"...I must declare my resignation as Chief Warlock for the duration of the trial, due to a conflict of interest. The incident in question took place on the grounds of Hogwarts, where I am Headmaster, and I am also the magical guardian of the accused. Furthermore, I will be acting as Mr Potter's defence counsel during this trial."
There were a few murmurs from the benches, but on the whole Dumbledore's words caused no uproar, especially from Madam Bones, who Harry had now spotted on the left side of the semicircle. The head of the Magical Law Enforcement looked as reserved and serious as ever. There was no trace of friendliness in her face, her close-cropped grey hair looked as warm and inviting as reinforced concrete, and the monocle in her right eye completed her usual charisma, which Harry had seen many times by now. Most importantly, she listened to Dumbledore's words without any emotion. Obviously, this had been arranged beforehand.
"As Interim Chief Witch for the duration of the trial," Dumbledore continued, "I propose Representative Longbottom, if the prosecution agrees. As a long-standing member of this Chamber, she has the necessary experience, and she is neither an employee of the Ministry of Magic nor a member of the Board of Governors of Hogwarts, thus ensuring her impartiality."
This statement drew a louder murmur from the crowd, but still no outright protest. Several heads turned to an elderly witch sitting upright on her bench, her posture as rigid as a statue. She was clearly advanced in years, but compared to Dumbledore, she seemed almost youthful.
Longbottom, Dumbledore had said – was this Neville's grandmother? It had to be. This could be interesting, Harry thought. Susan's aunt prosecuting, Neville's grandmother presiding. Hopefully his trial wouldn't cast any dark clouds over his classmates' love paradise. Then again, he knew only too well what Susan thought of her aunt – and the Ministry as a whole – so he wasn't too worried.
"That is acceptable," Madam Bones said. She had spoken normally, but her words echoed off the stone walls of the room.
With no objections, Representative Longbottom rose and moved to take Dumbledore's place behind the high desk. Meanwhile, Dumbledore came down the steps and stood beside Harry's chair. The room once again fell into a hushed silence, all eyes now on the proceedings.
"Let us proceed, honourable members," Longbottom began, her voice slightly raspy but steady, neither warm nor cold. "It is not every day that a minor is brought before this Chamber. Madam Bones, what charges does the Department of Magical Law Enforcement bring against the accused?"
Madam Bones rose from her seat, straightened her robes and cleared her throat before beginning in a resonant voice.
"Honourable members, many of you were present at the final of the Triwizard Tournament two days ago and witnessed the defendant's disgraceful attack on the Minister for Magic. Others will have heard reports of it in the newspapers or in their communities. Without any reason or justification, the accused raised his wand at the Minister while he was delivering his speech. In a cowardly attack, he injured the Minister—piercing his eye!"
Her voice grew sharper, cutting through the silence as she pointed a finger in Harry's direction, though she did not meet his gaze.
"This was the first such attack on a sitting Minister for Magic since Faris Spavin was nearly assassinated by a centaur a century ago. Although the Minister escaped permanent physical harm, thanks to the swift action of the Aurors and the Hogwarts School healer who healed his wound, this deplorable act has left deep scars in the fabric of our society. Scars that will not easily heal. And for this—"
Madam Bones paused, her voice rising as she delivered the charges.
"—we charge Harry James Potter! For Assaulting a Representative of the Ministry of Magic in an Official Capacity under sections sixteen-seven of the Wizarding Penal Code of eighteen hundred and forty-nine, for Using Magical Abilities Against the Common Good under section twenty-three of the General Penal Code of the British Wizarding Society of nineteen hundred and forty-three, for Insulting the Honour of the Office of Minister for Magic under section seven-four, and for Offending Public Decency under section one-fifteen, also of the General Penal Code!"
She paused for a moment, letting her words sink in before continuing.
"We are aware that the accused is still a minor, which some may see as a mitigating factor in sentencing – a consideration often granted but not required by law. However, Magical Law Enforcement is committed to enforcing the full extent of Magical Law, to properly address this disgraceful and egregious act, and to restore public confidence in the rule of law and the strength of our legal system. The prominence of the accused and the influence of his defenders," – she glanced briefly at Dumbledore–, "must not deter us from our duty to ensure that justice is done. Fiat justitia ruat caelum, honourable representatives."
With that, Madam Bones resumed her seat. The room was so quiet you could have heard a wand drop, interrupted only by the eager scratching of feathers on the notebooks of the press. Harry felt the concentrated attention of all eyes on him and fought the impulse to roll his eyes in contempt.
"Thank you, Madam Bones," Longbottom said. "The prosecution has spoken. Now, the defence. How does the defendant plead to these charges?"
Dumbledore leaned forward to speak, but Harry held up his hand to stop him. "Please, Professor," Harry said quietly. "I want to do it myself."
For a moment, Dumbledore just looked at Harry; a slight frown was the only sign of the undoubtedly intense thoughts running through his old mind at that moment. They hadn't discussed this, but Harry had been planning it all along. The trial would be the second important pivot, and even more important than the end of the story was the right beginning.
Finally, Dumbledore gave a curt nod, which Harry returned with a grateful nod of his own.
Then Harry turned back to the judges. He would have liked to have discussed his words with Daphne first, but the few seconds between his decision and the attack on Fudge had not been enough to exchange more than the most basic ideas, more instinct than conscious thought; like a crow spotting tempting prey below and swooping down. He would have to kill his prey himself, just as she would have to kill hers, for them to triumph together.
"I plead guilty," Harry began, his words falling on more than four dozen pairs of attentive ears. Pivot, indeed. "I plead guilty to being angry and giving in to my anger. I plead guilty to attacking Fudge without the use of magic and without the will to do him serious harm. I –"
"Without the use of magic?" barked Bones. "That was a wand, boy!"
"And that's 'accused' or 'Mr Potter' to you, Madam Bones," Longbottom said sharply. "We'll see to the proper etiquette in this chamber."
Dumbledore stepped in front of Harry's chair. "Besides, Mr Potter is right. The wand was indeed being used as nothing more than a piece of wood at that moment."
"Exactly," Harry said, quickly grasping the point. "If I'd had a spoon in my hand, I'd have used a spoon."
A murmur of surprise rippled through the room at his words. Fingers pointed in his direction and whispers grew louder as members of the Wizengamot debated amongst themselves. Longbottom had to call for order several times before silence was restored. Then she turned her attention back to Madam Bones.
"While we're on the subject of the crime weapon," Longbottom said, "where is it? I didn't see it on the official list of evidence."
Bones stood bolt upright, as if she had a stick up her arse, but Harry also noticed how completely unhappy she seemed with the way the trial had gone so far. "The wand was not confiscated under the rules of Magical Law Enforcement," she explained in a cool voice. "Since no spells were cast with it, there was no need. As far as I am aware, the defendant's co-champion, Daphne Greengrass, took possession of the wand."
"Is she his accomplice?" asked Longbottom.
Oh yes, thought Harry, in more ways than you can imagine.
Longbottom continued, "Or to be more precise: Is she considered by the prosecution to be an accomplice?"
"Mr Potter's action was not a conspiratorial act requiring an accomplice," Dumbledore said before Madam Bones could reply.
Madam Bones made only a brief head movement, oscillating between nodding and shaking her head. "We have no such evidence at present," she said dryly.
"Hmm," Longbottom mused, her gaze shifting between Dumbledore and Madam Bones. "That certainly clarifies matters, particularly regarding the weapon used in the alleged crime." She turned her attention back to Harry. "Your admission of guilt should expedite these proceedings, but tell us, Mr Potter, to what exactly are you pleading guilty?"
"I'll leave the details to my defender," Harry replied. "I don't think all the charges are tenable in the light of what actually happened."
He looked at Professor Dumbledore, who nodded gravely.
"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "Honourable members, we dismiss the charge of Assaulting a Representative of the Ministry of Magic in an Official Capacity because – I am sure Madam Bones would have explained this in detail, but let me remind you again, as this Chamber rarely hears such a case – one of the conditions of the offence, as set out in subsection three, section seven of paragraph seventeen-seven of the Wizardry Penal Code of eighteen hundred and forty-nine, requires – as the title of the Code suggests – the use of wizardry. However, as already stated, and as confirmed by the written reports of the Aurors present at the incident, which you have before you, Mr Potter did not use wizardry. In fact, he used, for want of a better term, only a piece of wood, which, if I may be so bold, is also one of the reasons why Madam Pomfrey was able to heal the Minister's wound so quickly and easily in the first place. It was, after all, a purely non-magical injury. For the same reason, we reject the second charge of Using Magical Powers Against the Common Good under the General Penal Code, as no magical powers were used. It should therefore be obvious that the conditions of the offence have not been met."
Dumbledore took a deep breath and Harry could already feel his head buzzing. The Ministry deserved to perish for such complicated rules alone. The question of justice should not be so complicated to answer. Quite the opposite.
"We therefore plead guilty only to the lesser charges of Insulting the Honour of the Office of Minister for Magic and Offending Public Decency," Dumbledore continued. "We will apply mitigating circumstances to both charges, as Mr Potter, as has already been explained, was in a state of extreme anger at the Minister's words, which Mr Potter felt belittled his merits and those of his co-champion during the Triwizard Tournament, and which he felt were an insult to his honour."
Dumbledore paused for a moment, his words echoing around the room. "This is not to excuse the use of violence – something I personally abhor – but rather to contextualize the actions of a fourteen-year-old boy. As Madam Bones rightly pointed out, there are compelling reasons why the crimes of minors are treated differently from those of adults. Mr Potter is deeply remorseful and wishes to take full responsibility for his actions. That is why we have agreed to try him here before the Great Chamber, even though such a trial is unusual for someone of his age. This is a deliberate sign of our remorse and willingness to make amends. In this sense, we submit ourselves to the judgement of the Great Chamber, in whose wisdom we have full confidence. Humanitas in iudicio non est obliviscenda. Thank you, honourable representatives."
The buzzing in Harry's head had grown stronger, and he wondered if Dumbledore's Latin conclusion – a reminder that humanity should not be forgotten in judgment – was just his own brand of humour, as Madam Bones had used one earlier, or if it was some sort of custom in the magical legal system, or even the Wizengamot. Well, now was probably not the time to worry about that, especially with his head buzzing.
"Thank you, defence, for those detailed submissions," said Interim Chief Witch Longbottom, "we will now open the main part of the trial and begin the presentation of evidence. The first witness for the prosecution is Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge..."
Hours and hours of the most tedious events Harry had ever experienced in his young life followed.
Witness after witness was called and the monotonous series of testimonies dragged on like chewing gum. After the Minister came his first Under-Secretary, a woman dressed all in pink, with a face like a toad and an annoyingly high-pitched voice that begged to be put under the Cruciatus Curse. She was followed by a never-ending crowd of Ministry representatives, Aurors and other witches and wizards who had been to the Third Task, had more or less witnessed the Victory Ceremony and, for whatever reason, felt they had to share their insignificant experiences here.
As dull as it was, at least their testimonies – with the exception of Fudge and his Under-Secretary – supported what Harry and Dumbledore had claimed from the start: After Fudge had made a particularly condescending remark about the Hogwarts champions and tried to claim their victory for himself, Harry had become enraged and, in what appeared to be an emotional, rash reaction, had stabbed him with his wand. He had then allowed himself to be arrested without resistance.
It had been mind-numbingly boring. Harry had always imagined a trial like this to be more dramatic, more... exciting. He stifled a yawn, wondering how Dumbledore managed to maintain such a calm and serious demeanour through it all.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it was time for the Wizengamot to deliver its verdict.
"Let us address the first charge," announced Interim Chief Witch Longbottom, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen over the chamber. The members of the Wizengamot, many of whom looked as exhausted as Harry felt, straightened in their seats. "Those of you who find Mr Potter guilty of Assaulting a Representative of the Ministry of Magic in an Official Capacity under the Wizarding Penal Code, please raise your wands."
Not a single wand was raised. That would also have been bordering on perverting the course of justice, Harry thought, and then it would have got very bloody. The minimum sentence of a year in Azkaban would have been way beyond his target. He couldn't have accepted that.
"Mr Potter has been found innocent of the first charge," Longbottom went on. "We now move to the second charge. Those of you who believe the accused is guilty of Using Magical Powers Against the Common Good, please raise your wands."
Again, no wands were raised.
"Innocent. Now, to the third charge: Insulting the Honour of the Office of Minister for Magic. Wands, please."
This time, wands were raised—more than two thirds if Harry had to guess. The sound of quills furiously scribbling in the reporters' section echoed through the hall.
"The defendant is found guilty," Longbottom declared in a neutral tone. "Now, the final charge: Offending Public Decency. Wands again, please."
This time, every wand was raised. Harry wasn't surprised. He had expected this outcome. However, what might offend one person's sense of decency could be another's moment of triumph. One day, he would look back on this moment with pride, even if he could only share that pride with Daphne. Such was the nature of power—true power. It never came without a price, and Harry had long since accepted that.
After the announcement of the verdict, Interim Chief Witch Longbottom, Madam Bones and Professor Dumbledore withdrew to a private chamber to discuss the sentence.
In their absence, the loud murmuring resumed and everyone present stared at Harry without shyness, as if he were an exotic creature on display. Harry wasn't sure if he was allowed to get up from the defendant's chair – and he didn't want to risk anything on the last few steps – so he sat quietly the whole time, going through his Occlumency exercises in his head.
It took a good half hour for the three absentees to return to the courtroom. Interim Chief Witch Longbottom had kept her neutral expression, Madam Bones was her usual stern self, but Professor Dumbledore gave Harry a subtle nod as he stood beside his chair again. This time it only took a few shouts of order for the room to fall silent.
"The sentence has been passed," Longbottom began. "In accordance with precedent, Harry James Potter is sentenced to a fortnight in the minimum-security wing of Azkaban. The sentence may be satisfied by the payment of one hundred galleons per day of imprisonment." Now she was looking directly at Harry. "Since Mr Potter won a considerable amount of prize money with his co-champion two days ago, that should –"
Harry cleared his throat and sat up in his chair.
Longbottom stopped and looked at him, somewhat irritated. "Yes, Mr Potter? Do you have something to tell us?"
"Indeed, Madam Interim Chief Witch," Harry said. "I choose imprisonment."
Dumbledore turned to face Harry, and for the first time since Harry had known him, the Headmaster's face was filled with surprise; surprise and a host of other emotions that Harry couldn't place.
And it wasn't just Dumbledore who was surprised. Every face in the room stared at Harry, full of disbelief and confusion, as if they weren't sure if they had heard correctly or if he had misspoken.
Harry continued; he didn't need to raise his voice for it to echo around the room. "Because I'm not going to take the easy way out, I'm going to take responsibility for what I've done. And I don't want to use the gold of my parents, who sacrificed their lives for me, or the prize money that Daphne and I deservedly won, for something like this. But, my honoured representatives of the Wizengamot, allow me to make one final remark..."
He glanced over the rows, enjoying the rapt attention of the most powerful body in magical Britain. It was as if he was about to strike in slow motion.
"As I said, I regret what I did, and I shouldn't have resorted to violence to vent my frustration. But..."
Stab!
"...I stand by that frustration. For if I had faced a greater man as Minister for Magic, it would never have come to this. But I didn't face a great man, only Cornelius Oswald Fudge. A man who adorns himself with the merits of others like a thief with stolen jewels to mask his own inadequacies."
Harry's voice rose, his hands gripping the armrests. Pivot number three.
"But that only makes this wretched man the perfect reflection of our depraved society! For it must be a society with no decency whatsoever that turns a blind eye to corruption and lies at the highest levels of its government, content to let mediocrity rule as long as it maintains a facade of order."
Harry shook his head.
"I didn't want to admit it for a long time, I thought I was too young to understand these things, but I've learned. I've realised – this is not the society my parents were willing to give their lives for! Maybe one day it will be, but at the moment it's not. We would have to remove all the shades of grey to which we have become so accustomed to in our laziness and comfort to be able to see black and white again. And to know right from wrong again. Because in this society, in our society, a lot of things are going wrong. Yes, I will go to prison to take responsibility for my impulsive actions, but all of you, dear representatives, should also think about your own responsibility. Because from where I stand, it seems that in this matter, you have utterly failed—Dixi."
Harry slumped back in his chair, breathing heavily, which wasn't even an act. The silence that followed was deafening, as if the entire courtroom was holding its breath. But it was only the calm before the storm.
Chaos broke out. As if the courtroom were a beehive that someone – Harry – had poked, it exploded with noise as witches and wizards leapt to their feet, shouting, gesticulating wildly, trying to make themselves heard over the din. Longbottom banged her gavel to call for order, but her voice was drowned out by the cacophony. Reporters in the press gallery scribbled furiously, their quills flying across the parchment. Harry caught sight of their frantic activity and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile in his thoughts. His words would soon be known throughout the wizarding world.
Only two people had remained silent: Dumbledore, who continued to look at Harry with a puzzled expression, and Madam Bones, whose expression was much easier to decipher, for it was clearly full of suspicion and displeasure. That was to be expected, Harry thought, since he'd addressed his accusations to her as well, or at least everyone would see it that way.
Finally, when it became clear that order could not be restored by conventional means, Longbottom drew her wand and fired a deafening blast into the air. Harry's ears screamed, but the noise didn't seem to have missed its mark. Slowly, something like silence returned. Heads turned towards Longbottom, though Harry could still feel many eyes on him.
"Enough!" the Interim Chief Witch said firmly. "Mr Potter's decision must be accepted. If he feels he has something to prove, that's his business. And if he feels he has something to gain by his provocative words, there are better places and times to discuss them. I close the hearing. Mr Potter, you will begin your sentence on the first of July. Until then, you are released."
A final crack of the gavel echoed through the hall and the play was over.
The days before July flew by, and soon Harry found himself standing on the desolate quay of Azkaban Island on what should have been a warm summer's day.
In London, where they had left from, first for the coast and then by boat to the island, the temperature had been close to thirty degrees Celsius, but as they approached their destination it had grown colder; a cold that was not of natural origin. In the distance, Harry could still see the remnants of the summer sky, as blue as a forget-me-not, but above the island, dark clouds swirled incessantly, casting a shadow over the land, also not of natural origin. Even here, on the edge of the island, the presence of the Dementors stationed high in the prison tower was unmistakable.
Several Aurors stood with Harry on the quay of the grey, barren island, along with Professor Dumbledore, who had accompanied them. But at that moment, Harry had no eyes, no sense for any of them.
His arms were wrapped around Daphne, who was snuggled against him. Her face was buried in his chest, and he buried his face in her jet-black hair in return, taking in her scent – pine needles with a hint of lemongrass – like a life-saving elixir, and the sweet taste of her blood on his tongue.
They had only been able to see each other for one day and one night after Daphne had returned to Grimmauld Place from Hogwarts. Far too short for either of them, and soon they wouldn't see each other at all for half a month. It was at times like this that Harry cursed the world as it was, where nothing was free, where every step forward came at a price.
"Harry, Daphne," Dumbledore's voice finally sounded beside them. "It's time."
In a flash, Daphne raised her head. She looked directly at Harry, his reflection cast in her emerald-gold irises. From within them peeked a sense of love and heartbreak and powerful anxiety and concern, like that of a woman leaving her husband alone on the battlefield. But Harry also saw in them her determination, burning stronger than any earthly fire.
She said nothing as she stepped back, for all had been said between them. Now it was time for action.
Harry turned to Dumbledore and the guards. "I am ready. You will take Daphne back to the mainland, Professor?"
"I will," Dumbledore said. "And you too, in fourteen days."
"Thank you," Harry lied, "for all your help and..." He trailed off.
"You don't have to thank me, Harry. Just remember what we talked about. To create a better future, you always have to start with yourself."
Harry nodded. Then he took a deep breath, turned and started walking towards the looming fortress of Azkaban. He didn't look back, and he didn't need to to know that Daphne had left the island soon after. Their bond stretched like a chain, growing longer as they moved apart, but it would never break. It was the one thing he could always be sure of, even if gods, devils and all the armies in the world conspired against him.
Two Aurors flanked him as he walked, one on each side. The first was a tall, imposing man with dark skin and a gold earring that shone faintly in the dim light. The second was a young woman, not quite as tall, with bright red hair interspersed with strands of blue and green.
Halfway to the prison, Harry felt powerful wards glide over him. They let him pass without a problem, probably due to his escorts. Azkaban's security was legendary, and he was about to experience it first-hand.
They reached the building and entered a dark, grey corridor that stretched far in front of them. The inside of the prison seemed larger than it appeared from the outside, as they walked straight ahead for a long distance before several other corridors branched off. In the distance Harry could see some stairs and ladders leading up, but that was not their destination. There were the worst of the prisoners, the most dangerous murderers, Voldemort's captured Death Eaters like Bellatrix Lestrange. No doubt Sirius had been imprisoned there too, during his twelve years of torture.
Just thinking about it made Harry feel sick.
Eventually, they reached a long wing of cells. They were still on the ground floor, Harry could see through some barred windows, and the Dementors didn't seem to be keeping watch here. The oppressive feeling of their presence was still there, but comparatively faint, more like the lingering memory of a nightmare than the overwhelming sense of despair and hopelessness, coupled with the feeling of having your throat closed and all the warmth sucked from your bones that he knew from his last encounter with these creatures.
Some of the prisoners watched them pass, their eyes following Harry with curiosity or malice. One, a middle-aged man with thin brown hair and a pale, sickly complexion, laughed as they approached.
"Harry Potter!" the man cackled. There was no joy in his laugh, it was filled with ugly mockery. "The hero has fallen and now joins the ranks of us criminals! Or maybe we're not criminals after all, with the great Harry Potter among us! What do you think, Shacklebolt, Tonks? Shouldn't you be letting me out now?"
"Quiet, Davis!" barked the dyed-haired Auror. "You're just a wretched piece of scum, that's what you are."
Davis' laughter accompanied them until they reached a cell at the far end of the wing.
The cell was small and bare, barely two by three metres, with a wooden bunk and a small rusty toilet in the corner. A single window, high on the wall and barred with thick iron, let in a glimmer of daylight. The bars were so close together that not even Hedwig, wherever she was, would have fit through them – if anything, only a much smaller bird, Harry thought.
The red-haired Auror shook her head as she opened the cell door. "Oh, boy," she sighed, her tone almost regretful. "If only you'd paid the gold, then you wouldn't be locked up with this scum. But, well, half a month's only half a month, right? So, er, good luck."
"Thanks," Harry said as he stepped into the cell.
And as the cell door closed behind him, he added silently, But you're wrong. I'm not locked up with them. They're locked up with me.
The dark walls of the castle rose up against the majestic mountains, like a grim reminder of times long past. Even the bright summer sun could not illuminate the black stones; they seemed to greedily devour all the light. Not a sound was to be heard, no life for miles around. Not a soul was to be seen, no inhabitants, no curious visitors. Even the animals avoided this place, as if an invisible boundary warned them not to approach.
But if you looked closely, you could see a movement in the sky. A lone black crow circled high above, seemingly the only living observer of this silent scene, before suddenly swooping down and disappearing behind a nearby hill.
Then a sharp noise rang out.
Click, clack.
A teenage girl, dressed all in black, stood at the top of the hill, her heels clicking like the notes of a song. The girl's face was pretty, but also serious and unyielding.
Her silky black hair fluttered in the wind as she cast her golden gaze over the castle.
Let's see if the stories about you are true, Gellert Grindelwald.