Monochrome (Harry Potter)

Series: Monochrome

Authors: The BlackStaff and NightMarE

Tags: Action | Adventure | Politics | Drama | Thriller | AU - Cannon Divergence | AU - Original lore

Warnings: Violence | Dark Themes | Strong Language

Summary: Memories are dangerous things. You twist them and you turn them until you know every touch and corner, but you'll find an edge to cut you still. Twisted between his very own mind and a resurrected dark lord, Harry Potter is on the clock. Great men rise from desperate beginnings, and Harry is playing the most desperate game of them all. Set after 4th year.

 

Prologue​

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​

Albus Dumbledore was angry.

Scratch that he was furious.

But more than that, he was worried.

Hogwarts didn't allow anyone to apparate in, or apprate out. The same held true for portkeys. Without the express permission of the Headmaster, there was basically no way to enter or exit the school properties. The excellent wards placed around the school by the founders ensured that.

Albus had done his level best to make sure that everything would work out exactly the way it should.

Every Champion had been given a robe powered with precautionary defensive enchantments. While they had told the children that death was a possibility and that participation was not to be taken lightly… Albus was not about to allow the lives of children to be taken for a competition.

In truth, the robe had a specific runic matrix sewn into it, one that could function as an intra-Hogwarts portkey. It functioned to transport a student to the main stage, should they give up or win.

As such, there had been no reason to worry.

Or so he told himself.

The tournament had ended in what he had begun to refer to as a classically-Harry fashion when he had decided to share his victory with the other child, Cedric.

And that's when it all went wrong.

Both Harry and Cedric had vanished upon touching the Cup. That much was expected— It was how portkeys worked after all.

Unfortunately, the boys hadn't appeared where they were supposed to— In front of the adoring crows to receive their prize.

No, the boys had simply…

Vanished.

"This wasn't supposed to happen." Albus murmured, glaring at the magical screen floating in front of him as if it was somehow its fault.

The signs were all there.

Unusual disappearances. The dark mark becoming more distinct. Harry's strange dreams.

He should have known, should have predicted, that Tom would have tried something.

And now Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, the boy who he had sworn to protect…

Was gone.

The sinking feeling in his stomach only got worse.

"Is everything alright, Dumbledore?"

Albus nodded curtly at the Minister, before excusing himself. Rising up from his seat, he apparated out, only to reappear at the site of the anomaly a couple of seconds later.

This was where it had happened.

He wasn't so naive as to think that the portkeys had suddenly malfunctioned.

No, this was a deliberate attempt to kidnap Harry.

And it had succeeded. They had been taken right under his very nose.

"What are you up to this time, Tom?"

Flicking his wand out, Albus began to apply every single sensing spell he knew— locators, scrying spells, the works.

Unfortunately, nothing seemed to work. And with every passing second, Albus Dumbledore came closer and closer to experiencing an emotion he had thought he left behind him.

Desperation.

Ever since Harry Potter had entered the magical world, Dumbledore had been caught off-guard by Lord Voldemort, and now his student was paying the price for his hubris.

The young Potter was certainly much like Albus had imagined and whatever his limitations might have been in magical talents, the boy more than compensated through sheer courage and valor. No matter what the situation, the boy always chose what was right over what was easy. Far better than he had been at that age.

It only made Albus blame himself more.

With the growing list of constant skirmishes between the child of prophecy and the many shades of Lord Voldemort, a future showdown was all but inevitable.

That it would happen this soon was something that he had completely failed to predict.

No.

That wasn't completely right. Much to his shame, Albus knew that he did see it coming. Right from the altercation back in Harry's first year all the way to Sybil's recent prophecy, the signals of an approaching storm had been imminent.

He had simply chosen to ignore it all.

Ignorance was bliss, he told himself. To know that you must die to kill another— it was a burden he could not bring himself to place upon an eleven-year-old child.

And so, he had chosen to procrastinate.

This is Berlin all over again.

His inability to own up and make a stand had cost over ten thousand lives in the Great War. And now, his desire to force Harry Potter to live the life of an innocent, ignorant child had put the boy's life in lethal danger.

And now, he was gone.

Lost.

Anything he did would be too little and too late.

Or would it?

Almost on cue, his mind supplied him with all the information he had collected about Lord Voldemort. Knowing one's enemy was a vital part of winning a war, and Albus Dumbledore had been fighting this war for years.

He had meticulously delved into Tom's history— more so than any wizard alive —and yet for the love of all that was pure in the world, he couldn't remember a single location that had a graveyard in it. There had to be something in Harry's nightmares that could help.

"Did you find the boy, Dumbledore?" an almost drawl interrupted his musings.

"Severus," Dumbledore turned around to face his old friend, "I had expected Alastor."

The potions master sneered, "Jumping at shadows, no doubt."

Dumbledore sighed, ignoring the man's quips with practiced ease.

"I assume the Potter boy has been taken by the Dark Lord. The only question here is how."

"The Cup was turned into a portkey," Albus answered, "To an untraceable destination. Someone managed to alter its destination before it had been placed here."

"And who was that?"

"I… cannot say. Even if they were indeed portkeyed elsewhere, they should still be within the school boundaries. None of the school's proximity wards have been triggered… yet."

Severus looked like he was about to ask something, but he decided against it.

"Has your mark been acting out?"

Severus grimaced, revealing the fully visible Dark mark on his arm.

Albus sighed.

Severus seemed to take that as an acknowledgment and continued. "I did warn you about this. Allowing Karkaroff into Hogwarts was a mistake."

"I doubt Karkaroff has anything to do with this," Albus answered softly. "The runes for the portkeys were keyed in by me and the robes were personally checked for signs of tampering by all the four judges. Minerva herself placed the cup and—"

And then he stilled. Had something happened to her? Had she done something—

"Albus?" Severus asked warily.

"It's nothing," Albus shook himself wearily. There would be time to investigate later. He had to find the boy and the clock was not on their side. "We need to find Harry. Fast."

"And how are you going to do that? Assuming that the boy is even alive"

"I have faith in Harry," Albus replied resolutely as he muttered one final incantation. "Ah, so it's like that."

Snape stared at the coalescing particles in front of him, "What— what are you doing?"

"I have just finished examining the site. Whoever created the portkey was a genius. The base is runic, powered by the holder's own magic. The destination is… cloaked, and only a specific signature is allowed to enter."

"And you can't trace runic magic." Severus looked clearly frustrated.

Albus would have chuckled if the situation wasn't so serious. For someone that hated Harry with such passion, Severus spent far too much time worrying about the boy. Not that he'd ever say that to the man's face.

"Conjure me something solid, please."

Snape seemed to take it in a stride. Without hesitation, Snape conjured an empty potion bottle and placed it on the pedestal.

"What are you going to do?"

Albus smiled. "This."

And then he began his work. While much more complicated than anything he had ever worked with, the Elder wand's ability to beat the odds could turn even the most bizarre combinations into sensible, well-calculated matrices.

It's just like Nicholas. Helping me from beyond the grave.

His old mentor had taught him this particular skill. Of course, Albus's own level of finesse was nowhere comparable to the ancient alchemist who was a master of the craft.

Ignoring the nostalgic feelings growing in his heart, he focussed on the multiple beads of color around him, dragging them into all sorts of intricate combinations. They were beginning to form a path.

"How— how are you doing that?" Severus asked in awe.

Albus almost suppressed a chuckle. "Nothing is completely untraceable, Severus. Even hidden magic disturbs the world and if you know how, you can trace it back to the source."

Almost akin to a professional artist at work, he effortlessly wove patterns in the air. After several tense moments of gradual reconstruction, he was finally able to weave the ambient magic into a replication of the original portkey.

And then he cast it upon the bottle.

"Severus, I'm going to get Harry. Make sure no one leaves Hogwarts. Also… take a moment to check up on Minerva. "

The Potions Master gave a curt nod.

Severus wasn't one for pleasantries but he was efficient. Pushing aside his current worries, Albus activated the portkey.

A moment later and he was gone.

---

What is this place?

The portkey had displaced him from his location to wherever it was supposed to have taken Harry. Albus had expected, nay, prepared to encounter a group of death eaters firing curses at him.

He had expected some form of Voldemort to face him.

He had expected to be forced into an unfavorable fight to save young Harry.

Instead he had found himself… well, here.

This place... It was still within Hogwarts wards. He could still sense its outermost barriers several hundred feet ahead of... wherever this place was.

It was almost as if this place did not exist.

Like an illusion.

He could sense the wards and yet they had no hold here. As such, all forms of apparition and portkey would work without any problems.

This, Albus reasoned, must be how they got Harry and Cedric out.

It was painfully clear.

Whoever had enchanted the portkey must have been brilliant enough to allow two successive displacements without a single break in between. The first portkey must have gotten the two boys to this place, only for it to trigger a second time and transfer them somewhere else before the first ceased to function.

One wave riding upon another.

"What a brilliant mind." He murmured to himself. "A shame someone so prodigious fell into the darkness."

There was the entire question about how Tom might have known about this place. The obvious inference was that it was probably part of the illusive Chamber of Secrets. Albus had tried to go in there after Harry's encounter with the shade of Riddle in the Diary, but powerful spells had always kept him from entering the chamber.

He glanced at the place around him. Everything was blurry, almost like looking through a mist-covered window. He could make out a rocky interior and considering the wetness he could feel beneath his feet, he was standing in the middle of a running stream. The thought that such a place had existed within Hogwarts without his knowledge was humbling.

He should probably consider a deeper investigation at a later time. But for now, there were more crucial things at hand. The traces of the portkey's second activation were already fading.

Without further delay, he began to reconstruct the next portkey.

---

I have been here before.

Albus Dumbledore stared at the expansive graveyard in front of him that seemed to stretch out for miles. Rows of tombstones surrounded him in a veritable sea of the dead. The writings on the dilapidated tombstones seemed to have faded, indicating age— or perhaps there was no one to care for them?

What is this place?

That was when he noticed the small signboard a few feet away, on a wooden frame hanging limply on a wrought iron gate.

Little Hangleton Cemetery​

Even as Albus read those words something around him began to change. It was almost like a veil being lifted, leaving everything naked for the observer to witness.

The misty presence faded and writings on the tombstones began to appear.

One could see the black outline of a church due west, while a solitary house with a tapering roof was visible on top of a hill far south.

And suddenly, everything came to focus, and Dumbledore remembered.

He remembered this place, where he was. This was the graveyard of Little Hangleton, the original residence of the Gaunts. The place where it had all started. Merope Gaunt, Marvolo Gaunt, Tom Riddle… all of the information that he had so meticulously collected now threatened to overwhelm his mind.

How and why this information had vanished from his mind, he had no clue, but Tom probably had something to do with it. That or…

Or something far more sinister was at play.

Not taking any chances, Albus lifted his wand above his head and murmured.

"Solus Maxima."

A wave of bright light burst out of the wand tip, shooting into the air above him, forming a miniature sun, ebbing bright white light, inundating the entire place with its presence. The entire place illuminated, Albus held his wand like a sword, ready to combat any possible threats—

And froze, stupefied at the scene in front of him.

The entire area in front of him seemed to have been rendered grey.

Literally.

Almost like the black-and-white filter from an old muggle camera.

The grass, the shrubs, even the very earth itself, had lost their color. The very air seemed to have grown lifeless and stale. Magic itself seemed to have died in the area. Even the powerful sphere of light he had just cast seemed to slowly get drained into the… the area in front of him.

And in the center of it all, lay the body of Harry Potter.

"Harry!" Albus breathed, worry marring his wizened features as he strode ahead, almost uncaring of the strangeness of the situation. His mind was already in turmoil, waging war against the instincts he had honed back during the war with Grindelwald. He rushed to claim the boy, his old legs sprinting towards the boy and—

Pain seared up his spine as Albus opened his mouth to scream.

The Elder Wand acted immediately, shooting a dome of protective magic outwards, pushing its wielder backward, as something surged in like a hungry shark, wanting to swallow the sole lifeform within its grasp—

"FINITE INCANTATEM!"

Albus screamed those words out, blasting out an immensely powerful magical wave through the wand.

The Deathstick hummed, almost like it was loving the feel of it all, before it sent the spell radially outwards—

And then suddenly everything stopped.

This… This is...

Albus panted, severe exhaustion kicking in. It pained him to even formulate thoughts. Whatever this magic had been, it had drained him.

Completely.

He wondered if he had it within him to cast even a single spell before falling unconscious.

Never in his entire life had he felt so weak, so helpless.

Until now.

He glanced at the fallen form of Harry Potter.

I have work left to do. I cannot give up now.

And he pushed himself to walk ahead. Slowly trudging all the way to the fallen body, Albus knelt beside him and held his wrist.

It was faint, but he still had a pulse.

He's alive. Albus thought in elation. He's alive.

That was when he noticed everything around him. Fallen around the boy, several feet away, were bodies.

Twelve of them were clad in Death Eater regalia complete with skull-face masks. All twelve of them on the ground, unmoving.

All twelve of them were rotting.

Their bodies turned to husk. Their robes frayed and tattered, vulnerable to the slightest breeze. Their masks, broken, falling into pieces.

The thirteenth one looked familiar. The severed arm, not so much. At this point, it might as well have been a rotting tree stump.

But despite it all, the face looked remarkably rodent-like.

Pettigrew.

Albus sighed. He knew the man had been responsible for whatever had happened with the Potters, that the people around him had murdered, and yet, he couldn't help but feel sad at the loss of lives around him.

What… What could have caused this?

A fourteenth attracted his attention. Albus walked up to the cadaver, only to step back in horror. The body was decaying, the elegant robes falling apart, but the face was still, somewhat recognizable.

Cedric.

Albus shut his eyes, but a single tear managed to escape.

He had failed them.

He had failed them all.

He glanced at the fallen form of Harry Potter.

Alive yet unmoving.

He'd need to get the boy back. As well as the others.

It's not safe here.

With tumultuous effort, he rose to his fullest height, channeling whatever energy he could muster into creating a second portkey. Sweeping all the fallen forms together in a strong body-bind, Albus held Harry's unconscious form tighter.

The portkey began to glow.

And even as he felt the familiar tug at his navel, Albus took a final look back.

At the cursed place he was leaving.

A scene that he was sure would continue to haunt him for years to come.

It was a circle of gray, within which death reigned supreme.

An area in which nothing, not even color was allowed to violate.

A monochrome.

 

ACT 1 - DISILLUSIONED

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Chapter 1 - The Boy-Who-Lived

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​

"Harry Potter," the voice was soft, longing even. "You have been taught how to duel, have you not?"

Harry gritted his teeth, mentally cycling through the spells he had in his repertoire. None of them looked promising at this moment, not with Voldemort standing before him, and his followers encircling him like hounds.

His fingers instinctively gripped his wand tighter.

In front of him were nineteen people, all of them dressed up in their Death Eater regalia. A little further away stood Peter Pettigrew, almost lovingly caressing his new silver arm.

It was disgusting.

Seeing him reminded Harry of Cedric, whose dead body lay mere feet away from where he lay. And yet, none of it seemed to be of any significance when compared to the man currently looking down upon him.

If the thing that stood before him could in fact be called a man.

He heard Voldemort chuckle in amusement, the man's crimson eyes burning through the darkness. He looked very different from the wraith Harry had encountered back in his first year.

This was a black-haired man with a handsome face, reminding him of the specter, the memory, he had fought back in the Chamber two years ago. Only he was taller, more broad-shouldered, and had paler skin.

He could literally feel the magic rolling out of the man in waves Even the thought of facing such an opponent should have sent him fleeing.

And yet all he felt was rage.

This was the man that had killed his parents.

This was the man that had destroyed his childhood.

This was the man who had kidnapped him, killed Cedric.

The ball of anger began to grow.

"I asked you a question."

Despite all attempts to paint him a monster, Voldemort's voice was surprisingly pleasant.

"Dumbledore's protege, slayer of the basilisk, vanquisher of the greatest dark lord in history… Surely you know how to duel?"

"...Yes." The words left his mouth, sounding strangely serpentine to his ears.

"How wonderful!" Voldemort's lips twisted into a cruel smile. "Why don't you take a moment to get ready. Rest assured, none of them—" here he indicated the rest of the Death Eaters, "will interfere. I will give you your fair chance at… vanquishing me again."

Harry stood up carefully. He knew what Voldemort was doing but he didn't care. If he was going to die anyway… at least he'd fight.

He raised his wand and—

"Now, now," Voldemort flicked his wand lazily, freezing Harry in place. "First, we bow. The formalities must be observed, after all." He paused before mockingly adding, "Such a lack of manners— Dumbledore would be disappointed."

The Death Eaters were laughing now. They were openly jeering and sending out cruel taunts.

They were playing with him.

"Bow Harry… Bow to Death."

He would not.

He wouldn't give them that satisfaction. He was not—

"I said, BOW!" Voldemort flicked his wand, and Harry screamed.

A heavy, invisible hand pushed him down from behind. He resisted but it was futile— his spine bent unwillingly until his knees hit the grassy floor.

In return, Voldemort inclined his head slightly towards him, a pale mockery of a bow.

"That wasn't very difficult now, was it?" Voldemort asked, a soft smile gracing the man's lips.

Harry looked up and tightened his grip.

Voldemort smiled, raising his wand. "And now, we duel!"

Harry barely had time to gather his bearings before Voldemort flicked his wand at him, throwing him across the graveyard.

It was careful, measured even.

Just enough force to rough him up but not enough to actually cause him harm.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort breathed. "Is this all you amount to?"

He flicked his wand as Harry tried to cast a spell, once again throwing him to the other side.

"There is no Dumbledore to save you," He said maliciously, "No mother to die for you, no friend to take your place."

Voldemort was not even trying to kill him. No, this was… this was a show. Proof of the man's dominance.

"You are alone now. And you. Are. Nothing."

The anger that had been welling within him began to burn hotter. And somewhere in his mind, a memory began to churn. A completely ordinary memory.

An observation.

A spell.

Something that Alastor Moody had once demonstrated in front of him. A spell buried within his earliest memories, but one he had never once used.

"Crucio!"

And Harry's thoughts were interrupted with pain.

Pain beyond anything he had ever felt before.

Pain beyond what he could even imagine.

And in that moment, twisted between pain and his own fraying sanity, the thought of that single spell engulfed his mind.

Powerful spells had their own unique requirements. The Patronus had taught him that. This particular spell had its own as well. But now, as he kneeled upon the floor, he knew he could cast it.

He would cast it.

Voldemort raised his wand again. "Cruc —"

Harry didn't wait. He leveled his wand, drew in all the hate and fury he could procure, before yelling as loudly as he could—

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

---

Harry shook his head, trying to force the memory back into the shadows of his mind. He glanced towards the dusty shelves as if expecting some comfort from the sight of the inanimate tomes on them.

It did not help.

He was currently sitting in the Headmaster's office after what he was told was a five-day-long magical coma. The good part of this entire affair was that it was a Ministry summon, so Madame Pomfrey couldn't do anything about it.

The bad part?

It was a Ministry summon, and he was going to be interrogated about that night. And from his previous experiences at being interrogated, Harry wasn't looking forward to it.

That was how he had found himself sitting on one of the chairs, recounting the events to the three people in front of him. First was Albus Dumbledore, acting in his official capacity as the Headmaster. Directly next to him sat a grey-haired square-jawed woman that looked to be in her fifties. She had introduced herself as Amelia Bones, Head of the DMLE, which roughly translated to magical police.

The final and most surprising variable in his interrogation was Percy Weasley. He had somehow gotten himself promoted to the freshly-created position of Junior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic himself, and was currently acting as a proxy for the Minister, who had been unable to attend the interrogation in person.

"Let me get this straight," Percy was speaking, "you just admitted to casting an unforgivable against another wizard, knowing fully well that they carry the penalty of a life sentence in Azkaban?"

The fact that Percy had managed to construct his statements snobbishly, while still managing to dot down Harry's statement in beautiful calligraphic script was just fascinating.

Must be magic. He thought sardonically.

Oh, and apparently, he had grown to be an even-greater dick than he had been the year before. Maybe Fred and George were on to something when they charmed his original Head Boy badge to read Bighead Boy. If he turned his nose up any higher, he'd probably turn into Lucius Malfoy.

The random thought almost brought a chuckle to his lips.

"Potter!" Percy barked."Answer the director's question. Did you knowingly and with intention, cast the killing curse?"

Harry took another glance at Dumbledore who nodded back in support. He had been subjected to two drops of Veritaserum, along with a mild calming drought to ensure that the interrogation continued smoothly.

"It doesn't matter." He began.

"That's something the Ministry will decide Potter, not—" Percy interrupted, only to be forced into silence when Dumbledore raised a finger.

"Harry," The Headmaster began, a stern undercurrent seeping into his voice. "Why doesn't it matter?"

"Because nothing happened." Harry looked up, as a mirthless chuckle escaped him. Apparently, whatever was in the calming draught had also made him feel less inhibited. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember feeling this liberated before.

"It was incredibly stupid of me to think I could do it on my first try. In all honesty, though, I did intend to cast it. To kill him."

And it was. Even now, despite everything that had happened, he couldn't help but feel disappointed about it failing.

He shifted his gaze to the lady. "There was no flash of green light. No magic. Nothing at all."

His voice trailed, feeling slight amounts of anger and self-appraisal seeping through the forced calmness. "And then he— Voldemort —laughed at me. At my ignorance and weakness. At my… stupidity."

And then he felt anger, which was surprising. Weren't calming draughts supposed to take care of all negative emotions? Or make him more focused or something? Whoever had prepared this draught must have been a less-than-stellar potioneer.

Snape would probably give it a Dreadful.

Madam Bones began to speak, interrupting his straying thoughts.

"As much as I understand the context, usage of the killing curse is absolutely forbidden by the Ministry," The greyed woman continued in a clear, no-nonsense tone. "Regardless, you could have been in serious trouble had you managed to cast it successfully, including but not limited to immediate expulsion from Hogwarts."

And boy did that stoke his anger.

"He killed my parents. He killed Cedric." Harry ground out. "That… monster destroyed my childhood and has been trying to kill me every single year. But trying to fight back makes me the bad guy?"

He glanced at the Headmaster, expecting some support.

He found none.

"The issue is not with you fighting back, Mr. Potter," Madam Bones answered, "it is about you using the killing curse."

"Any spell can be used to kill." Harry waved it off.

"But the killing curse is different," This time it was Dumbledore who answered. "I suppose we have arrived at a misunderstanding."

That attracted Harry's attention.

"Casting the killing curse is not an example of strength, Harry," Dumbledore explained, "anyone can cast it, provided one has a certain mindset. It is something that even I myself, for all my achievements, cannot cast ." The man's blue eyes stared at him meaningfully.

"Ahem!" Madam Bones cleared her throat loudly. "As much as I enjoy a discussion on the more... esoteric aspects of magic, let us not forget the reason for our presence here."

Even Dumbledore looked a tad sheepish at that.

"…"

The woman pinned Harry with her eyes. "Allow me to verify your testimony once more. Someone managed to hoodwink the judges," she glanced suspiciously at Dumbledore for a moment, "of the Triwizard Tournament, and succeeded in creating a portkey out of that Cup. This portkey took Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory past the Hogwarts wards into a graveyard whose name you cannot remember. Is that correct?"

Harry bobbed his head.

"On arrival, you were taken by surprise by a man you believe to be Peter Pettigrew, a posthumous Order of Merlin recipient. One that has been presumed dead for the past thirteen years."

The woman— Madam Bones, he reminded himself —paused before continuing.

"He then proceeded to incapacitate you and kill Cedric Diggory. After this, the somehow alive Pettigrew performed some sort of ritual to resurrect Voldemort" she continued without the slightest flinch, "a Dark Wizard who was also presumed dead, ironically at your own hand in Halloween 1981."

"I don't exactly know how I survived as a baby, but Voldemort did not die," Harry began furiously, "I've already faced him multiple times. In my first year, he possessed Professor Quirre—"

"Madam Bones," Percy began imperiously, "clearly Potter's delusions have no limits and no offense, but Professor Dumbledore is notorious for being biased towards Potter and his—"

"Mr. Weasley," The woman spat, turning towards him, "last I checked, I was the Head of the DMLE and you were a scribe. Allow me to fulfill my duties and please take care of your own."

"Junior Undersecretary," Harry could literally feel Percy's indignation at being called a scribe. "And Minister Fudge was adamant that I make sure—" Percy began pompously.

"Minister Fudge is not here," Bones challenged, "and if he has anything to contribute to the matter, he can discuss it with me in person. Please limit yourself to your scribe duties or I'll have you removed from my presence."

That shut him up.

"Now then," Madam Bones turned her dry stare to Harry, "let us continue where we left off."

"Voldemort… was laughing," Harry grimaced. " He told me that he'd teach me the right way to perform the curse. He raised his wand to cast it—"

"He used the killing curse?" Dumbledore probed.

For some reason, Harry got this weird feeling that the old man was expecting… no, wishing for an affirmation.

He shook his head. "I didn't hear any words but there was this flash of green light and I— and I felt—well, pain and then— then I woke up in bed."

"Excuse me?" The Head of the DMLE looked wildly mistrustful.

He met her gaze. "I don't know. The next thing I remember is seeing Madam Pomfrey."

Madam Bones gave him a scrutinous stare. Not that he could blame her. He was sure that she'd have called it a lie if it wasn't for the fact that he was under Veritaserum.

"It fits in with the scene I found," Dumbledore put in, "When I reached the grounds, I found him lying on the ground. Unconscious."

"Surrounded by the bodies?" The woman probed.

"What bodies?" Harry asked, now genuinely startled. The last thing he remembered was the Death Eaters laughing. Had something happened after that?

The Headmaster looked doleful. "When I appeared at the site, I found you unconscious on the ground. You were surrounded by several bodies wearing Death Eater robes and masks."

Dumbledore paused.

"All of them were dead."

"And rotting," Madam Bones interjected, her eyes watching Harry's expressions like a hawk. "Do you remember anything like that, Mr. Potter?"

"No, nothing." Harry was flabbergasted. Dead? How was that possible?

Dumbledore took that as a cue to continue. "There were twelve bodies in total, each of which had decayed significantly. My initial impression was that it was from some obscure dark curse." His gaze stayed on Harry fleetingly. "There was a thirteenth person. One of his hands was a stump—"

"Peter Pettigrew," he breathed. Even thinking about the rat filled him with rage.

"Yes," Madam Bones spoke up. "Interestingly, we have records of you and your friends Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger giving the Minister testimony on this very fact." Here she brought up a document. "In your third year, you asserted that Peter Pettigrew was, in fact, alive and Sirius Black, notorious as the Dark Lord's right-hand man, was innocent."

"Yes, he—"

"Back then your testimony was disregarded and classified as delusions on account of… trauma from seeing a werewolf?"

Harry felt the anger rise in him again.

"…Yes." He ground out.

"Indeed," The women's eyes were furrowed in irritation. "I will have… words with the people in charge of that investigation. Fortunately, the bodies have been examined by our forensics division, and new facts have come to light. The body is indubitably Peter Pettigrew, though the rotting suggests that the body might well be a decade older."

Harry balked at that. "Are you telling me that—"

"I'm not telling you anything, Mr. Potter," The woman countered frostily. "If it was just Pettigrew, one might argue that someone somehow managed to obtain and preserve his body. But the other bodies belong to several… high-profile individuals of our society, all of whom have been confirmed alive at least till the previous week. That alone suggests that the rotting is magical in origin and not natural."

That made him feel elated. Though one question remained.

What the hell killed them?

"There is of course the issue about the fourteen deaths, including one Cedric Diggory, but the rotting has been so extensive that there is no forensic evidence for any sort of spell used on him."

"Peter Pettigrew killed him," Harry spoke, feeling somewhat agitated.

"I thought the Dark Lord was responsible, according to your previous statement." The woman countered.

"He was. He told him to kill the spare." Harry spat. "Like he meant nothing."

The Head of DMLE stared at him measuring before she continued to speak. "Significant as that may be, the crux of the matter is that the bodies show no sign of any magical curse or spell. Even the rotting, despite all evidence, has left no magical residue. Essentially, apart from your testimony, we have no other evidence that he was killed by a curse."

"A testimony given under the influence of veritaserum," Dumbledore reminded her gently before continuing, "And I must say that is not fully correct, Amelia. "When I entered the area I did feel… something. It was incredibly magical and dangerous and it took a powerful Finite simply to stop myself from getting overwhelmed."

Both Harry and the director looked at the man in surprise. Albus Dumbledore's name had always been associated with power.

With victory.

So to hear him say that he was nearly overwhelmed by the remnants of this… magic, was shocking, to say the least.

"Allow me to rephrase myself then," Madame Bones muttered, "There was no magical residue on the bodies themselves, though clearly something happened in the area."

Harry gritted his teeth. "I didn't do anything."

"I didn't say you did," The woman responded with a surprising amount of kindness. "But do you remember anything that could have caused this."

Harry shook his head.

"And Professor Dumbledore here assures me that you have never displayed any unique magical abilities that could have caused this. In fact the only trait you have been confirmed to have…" The woman paused for a moment, "is the ability to speak Parseltongue. From what I understand, Parseltongue is a Gaunt trait." She peered at him, "You are also known to be the only person to have entered the fabled Chamber of Secrets. Was…" here the woman looked almost embarrassed. "Perhaps you learned some sort of ancient and terrible magic in there that could have caused this?"

Harry stared at her as if she had grown two heads.

"Ah…" The woman blushed in embarrassment. "Forgive me. The Daily Prophet ran an article on the Chamber of Secrets and some of the Aurors who were investigating were..."

More staring.

"Nevermind. It was obviously gossip, but I had to bring it up for… investigative purposes, yes." The woman cleared her throat. "Getting back to the point, I'd still prefer an official inquiry with the Wizarding Inheritances Office. Just to preemptively get rid of any rumors of you having some secret ancestry and forbidden rituals at hand that could—"

"I didn't kill anyone." Harry almost yelled, attracting the attention of everyone in the room.

"I'm not saying you did, Mr. Potter," Madame Bones answered sharply, "Rules are rules however, and you will have to bear with me. I was not present at the scene, you were. And even you must admit that your story is… outlandish. Frankly, it makes me want to double-check the veritaserum we used. And, even if the resurrection of the Dark Lord is true, why would he kill his own supporters? Seems like an act of insanity, don't you think? Also, if the Dark Lord did commit such an act, why would he leave you be? A more believable theory is that you managed to perform something—accidentally or not—that caused those deaths."

Harry felt anger stirring inside him at her words. It almost felt like they were avoiding the point. Voldemort was back. Cedric was dead. And these people were nitpicking over the most inane points in the whole narrative."

"One might say," the woman continued obliviously, "that you even have a past history of committing such… feats, from your history as the boy-who-lived."

Harry clenched his fists but said nothing.

"Imagine this," the DMLE Head continued, "A one-year-old gets hit by the killing curse and doesn't die. Not only that, the Dark Wizard who cast the curse, one who was threatening the entirety of Magical Britain, vanished, presumably killed. Now, thirteen years later, you are hit by the killing curse. Once again you do not die. And once again, everyone that meant you harm is… dead. Do you sense a pattern?"

"It seems the mystery of the boy-who-lived is back once again," Dumbledore muttered, rather exuberantly. "It is my belief Lily had something to do with it."

Harry gaped.

Belief?

The old man had waxed almost lyrical about the power of love and how it was his mother's protection that flowed in his veins that had protected him against Voldemort, and it was just that? A theory?

"Well of course she had something to do with it," Madam Bones snapped, "the idea that a one-year-old baby performed something on that level is absurd."

It was at that moment that Harry decided that he liked this woman.

"I believe that whatever Lily did that night clearly had ramifications more than destroying Voldemort," Dumbledore explained, glancing at Harry momentarily. "Perhaps the same protection was triggered and caused the death of all those individuals?"

"And yet Voldemort wasn't in the list of dead bodies, Professor." Amelia refused adamantly.

"With due reason," Dumbledore nodded, "Harry has admitted that Voldemort took his blood to resurrect himself. Any ritual or protection conferred on Harry... would recognize him too. Perhaps that was what allowed him to escape?"

Madam Bones sank into her seat. "Yes, I suppose that spins a wonderfully sound tale. However," she pointed at the folder on the table, "I have with me a document from the Unspeakables who researched the event back in 1981. Apart from those cast by the Dark Lord, the only spells recorded there were cast by James Potter. Also, the nursery room where baby Potter was found had a total of three spells cast— a killing curse on Lily Potter, and another on the baby."

The woman glanced at Harry, or more particularly, at his scar before continuing.

"The other spell was in fact, a healing charm, cast by Sirius Black, also on the baby."

Madam Bones flashed a glance at Harry's scar before she went on,. "As I was saying, there was no evidence of any spell or ritual— wandless or not —that could be held responsible for the explosion back then."

Just like now. She left unsaid, but the implication was clear to everybody in the room.

"One can also argue that it might not have even been Voldemort," The woman continued without a flinch, "Afterall, the mantle of Lord Voldemort is an appealing cloak to… aspiring Dark Lords. And what better way to prove his authenticity than to face Harry Potter. Of course, veritaserum is limited to the subjective truth as you know, which means its effects can be altered by all kinds of memory magic. So there is that to consider as well."

"I wasn't Confunded," Harry interjected angrily.

"I didn't say you were, only that we must be open to all possibilities. But let us assume that what you remember is true. In that case, we only have an obscure, unidentifiable piece of magic and fourteen bodies. And, forgive me, but your life story is splattered with cases of unidentifiable magic."

Madame Bones then lifted the folder that lay on the desk, opening it. "Harry James Potter. Burnt a professor to death in his first year, albeit in self-defense. The professor was turned to ash, on contact with your skin. No evidence of any magic being performed was able to be gathered, despite it being a clearly magical phenomenon."

Harry stared at her carefully. Was he going to be accused of killing Quirell too?

"Year two," she continued, ignorant of his thoughts. "Killed a basilisk with a single stab of the sword of Godric Gryffindor."

Madame Bones paused to look at him carefully.

"Well yeah," Harry answered, taking it as his cue to speak "I stabbed it right through the roof of its mouth."

The director sighed. "A basilisk is upwards of seventy feet long. The sword, for all its grandeur, is tiny. Killing it with a single pinprick— even through its mouth — is as absurd as me slaying you with a needle."

Harry stilled. He never thought of that.

"And yet… And yet you stabbed it but a single time and it died, instantly."

"Year three. At the tender age of thirteen, you were able to conjure a corporeal Patronus."

"Professor Lupin taught me how to do that," Harry smiled. It was one of his prouder memories.

"Did he now?" Madame Bones raised an eyebrow. "Did he also somehow modify the spell he gave you to kill dementors?"

"Huh?" This time it was both Harry and the headmaster who leaned forward in shock.

"A normal Patronus repels dementors. A powerful Patronus can repel several dozen of them. Despite having just learned yours, it was able to terrify an entire colony of dementors away at the end of your third year. A couple of weeks later, more than twenty ministry-controlled dementors died. And you know what's interesting? The common factor that linked these dementors was… they had come into contact with your Patronus."

"Amelia," the headmaster started, a note of warning in his voice.

"I'm not accusing him of anything, Headmaster." Madame Bones went on, her steel-like expression fixed on Harry's face, "But you cannot deny there is a pattern here."

Harry gaped. "I— I didn't."

"I would say there is more than just a pattern here." Harry had almost forgotten that the annoying prat was here when Percy started talking again. "He is most certainly guilt—of— of — "

And then the room went noticeably colder. At first, Harry didn't realize it, but somewhere between Percy's pompous declarations and his sudden starting to sputter did he realize what had happened. Almost instinctively, he glanced at Dumbledore who was staring at Percy.

A heavy aura had descended into the office. Harry was sure that he could almost touch it. Gone was the dotty old Headmaster, and in his place, Harry could almost see someone else. Someone powerful. Someone that even Voldemort would hesitate to challenge to a battle.

The real Albus Dumbledore.

"I think," Dumbledore spoke in a deathly calm tone, "It would be best if Mr. Weasley vacated the room."

Harry wasn't sure why or how, but that stare— if it could be called that — was judging Percy.

Measuring him.

Even though it wasn't directed towards him, he could still feel its pressure looming upon him.

It was monstrous.

The older boy— Percy — was shaking as he got up from his chair, his eyes never leaving the Headmaster's gaze as he slowly inched towards the door.

"The apple, it seems, " Dumbledore went on, and Harry could almost feel the disappointment in his tone. "has indeed fallen far from the tree."

"But— I am—" Percy bumbled, "Minister Fudge— he—"

"I'm sure Cornelius can get his report from Amelia."

"But—" Percy swallowed, making a last-ditch attempt at gaining control. "The Minister will hear about this."

"I'm sure he will."

And the door closed on Percy's face.

"What an unpleasant individual," Dumbledore grimaced, as the temperature began to turn normal again, "I admit I didn't see him growing this repugnant during his school days."

Madam Bones looked like she wanted to comment on his words but had decided better. Finally, she closed the folder with a snap with a slightly relieved expression. "Well, rest, assured, I will keep him from spreading around conjecture and gossip. I imagine Mr. Potter has enough on his plate."

"I think young Percy will find," the headmaster's eyes were twinkling with amusement. "That he will not be able to share the information he found here."

Amelia Bones gave him a long, measured stare before sighing. Clearly, she wasn't going to get into this discussion with him.

She then turned back to Harry.

"Now, where were we? Ah, yes. You said that you saw Peter Pettigrew kill Cedric Diggory. But we found thirteen other bodies. And your own testimony states that you fell unconscious. Ergo, you don't know what happened. It is entirely possible that whatever... magical backlash might have happened that night, killed Peter Pettigrew as well as the other… victims."

"And all of this," Dumbledore interrupted her, "all of this is pure conjecture. It has never been clear how or why Harry survived the Dark Lord in Halloween 1981 and neither is it clear why he survived now. This entire accidental magical backlash hypothesis is essentially an armchair conspiracy theory."

"A theory that most would likely agree on," Amelia Bones shot back, "incidents of unprecedented accidental magic are splattered throughout the pages of magical history, Chief Warlock. Admittedly nothing on this scale, or effect but it is still within the realms of possibility. Besides…" her lips curled, "from what I have here," she patted the folder in front of her., "Mr. Potter has a history of surviving dangerous situations despite the fact that his education file paints him as mostly Acceptable in class."

Harry couldn't help it. He blushed. This was getting surreal. How had a conversation about the resurrection of a Dark Lord who had terrorized Wizarding Britain, turned into one about his not-so-acceptable school grades?

For the second time, Harry found himself lacking words to say.

"So to get back to what I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," a momentary scowl flashed on her face, "a formal statement from the Inheritance Office would help clear any existing rumors about Mr. Potter using some sort of obscure magic or trait to kill… his kidnappers Trust me on this. The Daily Prophet has made up more, with much less information."

"I'll take care of that," Dumbledore promised.

Madam Bones sniffed. "With that in place, there is the next order of business. With Peter Pettigrew's body found, it is clear that the entire Sirius Black case has holes in it. Sirius Black was accused of killing thirteen muggles and Pettigrew with a single blasting curse. That alone would have been preposterous if it had been anyone but Black."

"Sirius is innocent," Harry defended. "He didn't kill anyone."

"That is for the Ministry to decide." The woman shot at him. "Sirius Black was a Hit-Wizard captain whose track record showed him to be both powerful enough and skilled enough to perform a feat like that. Also, regardless of your personal beliefs, the DMLE records show that Sirius Black did, in fact, have a trial." She paused, "though, considering the nature of the situation, I am not averse to the idea that some wrongdoing might have been committed back then."

"What? But Sirius said he didn't get—"

"The Ministry," Amelia Bones stressed, "has issued a public statement, offering Sirius Black a new trial considering the new events that have been brought to light and it has been broadcasted throughout Magical Britain, asking Sirius Black to present himself to DMLE custody for a fair trial. I can only hope the message reaches him in time."

Sirius will be overjoyed. Harry rejoiced mentally before schooling his features at the predatory glint in the woman's eye. Who knew what she could read from his expressions?

Madam Bones stood up. "I believe I've gotten all that I need from this interrogation." She peered at Harry, "Your testimony has been taken into account and witnessed by two members of the governing body excluding myself, and as such, will be presented to the Wizengamot. Do you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Potter?"

Harry swallowed. "I— I do."

"Good," The DMLE Head jerked her head, " Also, two Aurors will be arriving tomorrow to check your wand. Nothing to worry about, just standard procedure after an interrogation. Finally, considering the… delicacy of the situation, not to mention the implications about the resurrection of Dark Lord Voldemort, you can be assured that you will be summoned for a formal Wizengamot session during your summer holidays."

"Harry is an underage student and—" Dumbledore began.

"Age is irrelevant in such cases, Professor Dumbledore. Fourteen people have died, and many of them are main and branch members of Ancient Houses. The Wizengamot will be out for blood, and someone will have to pay." She glanced at Harry, or more specifically, at his fingers. "I suggest Mr. Potter here gets all the help he can acquire. He will need it."

Saying so, she pushed herself off the chair and walked past them to the fireplace before throwing a handful of Floo powder in it, turning it green.

And right before she went, she turned her neck in his direction and addressed him once more."I had the opportunity to serve under your grandfather when he was Head Auror, Mr. Potter. That man would have made Minister of Magic if not for his lack of political ambition. I hope you can live up to his legacy."

---

With the events at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, things had taken a sour end for Hogwarts. There had been a lot of rumor-mongering about what had happened in the maze, along with several atrocious accusations made over the deaths once they had been turned to the Ministry for investigation. The ending ceremony had been odd and abrupt, with the Minister for Magic awarding the Trophy to Harry James Potter and Cedric Diggory. Of course, with Diggory dead and Harry unconscious and away in the Hospital Wing, several questions— some more outrageous than others.

Speculations ranged from Diggory's death being a freak accident to it being a part of Harry Potter's secret ambitions to take over Wizarding Britain.

The Ministry had done its level best to quell the rumors, but with Rita Skeeter spearheading the gossip-front along with the rest of the confusion the end of the tournament brought, Headmaster Dumbledore had called an abrupt end to the scholastic session two weeks ahead of schedule.

This was how the entire student group had departed for their respective homes, just two days post the Third Task.

This was also how Harry found himself wandering the empty Hogwarts corridors by himself, with not a single student in sight.

It felt strangely cathartic.

The meeting with the DMLE Head, or Madam Bones as he had begun to call her in his mind, had gone quite well. Despite the rather morbid issues discussed, Harry had actually gotten a little closer to understanding the events of his own parents' deaths. He had never really discussed the subject of his parents with anyone, fearing that they'd look down at him for not knowing about his own family. And despite being friends with his parents, Remus Lupin had been rather… uninformative.

At least Sirius had the excuse of being locked away in Azkaban all these years. And despite that, the emancipated man had still done his level best to actively stay in touch with Harry, often using questionable and dangerous ways to do so. After being selected as Triwizard Champion, it had taken a lot of persuasions to keep his godfather from returning to Britain for him.

Secretly, it made him feel special.

Made him feel loved.

Everyone else had questioned his motives. From outright accusations to silent acceptance tainted with disbelief, it had been one of the worst years he had ever faced. But Sirius had been different.

Win the damn thing. He had said. No questions, no demands. Just unquestionable support.

It had felt like… like family.

And now Sirius would get the trial he deserved. If all went well, he'd be proven innocent, and Harry would get the chance to live with him.

Just like Sirius had promised.

If he still wanted, a cynical part of his mind pointed out.

Harry scowled. Sure, he was now involved with these… murders, but Sirius would surely support him, right? After all, Harry had believed him despite the entire world saying otherwise.

Still, the more cynical part of his mind said differently—

What if he doesn't? Sirius will be free. He'll have his own family. Will he still want me?

It always came back to the same point.

Family.

And then a random memory flitted through his mind. Something that he'd thought he'd forgotten.

His first meeting with Draco Malfoy.

"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

Was it possible that Malfoy had meant something else, and he in his ignorance, had misunderstood?

Madam Bones had mentioned his grandfather, and how powerful and influential he had been. Perhaps that there was more to the Potter name than he thought.

He didn't know, but he wanted to. Needed to even.

Asking Dumbledore wasn't an option. Despite his support, the man had always been prone to giving him non-answers in response to his queries. And after the meeting with Madam Bones, he had asked Dumbledore the same question he had asked him every year before the year ended.

Could he stay back?

And more importantly, why was Voldemort so obsessed with him?

And just like the previous years, all he had gotten were non-answers, misdirections, and half-truths. It had been four years since he had entered the magical world, and every year he had brushed against death, only to escape by an inch. Every year it had something to do with Voldemort.

Every year he had confided in Dumbledore, hoping that the headmaster would tell him what was wrong with him, or rather why it all happened to him.

Every year he would hope things would change.

And every year he'd be disappointed.

This had been no different. Only now Voldemort was back, and he'd be hunting him.

This time, things would be much more difficult.

This time, he found himself thinking, this time I'll be prepared.

 

ACT 1 - DISILLUSIONED​

---

Chapter 2 - Dead Wood​

---

"This is a high-profile case, Kingsley. I'm trusting you'll keep it under control."

Kingsley Shacklebolt shook his head. He had been serving as an auror for the last twenty years and was one of the few that had their origins in nobility but still decided to serve the Ministry in ways other than the legislature. Currently, there was only one other of his type, and that was Director Amelia 'the tyrant' Bones.

Despite handling the case by herself, the woman had chosen to delegate him with some of the more private portions of the case which was how Kingsly found himself here.

Performing the Wand-inspection of the Boy-who-lived, while still ensuring that John 'blabbermouth' Dawlish didn't end up making a complete mess out of it as well.

Frankly, he had never figured out how Dawlish had gotten selected as a senior auror. Ignoring the fact that his scores weren't good enough for him to even become an auror. Even the current generation newbie cadets had a better record than he did and that was saying a lot seeing as Dawlish had been on the force for well over 10 years. Hell, if rumors were to be believed, one of the newbies— Tonks or something —was being considered by the Secret Service Wing and the Hit-Wizard forces. Gawain Robards always had an eye for talent and this girl had it in spades.

Compared to that, Dawlish was just… plain. No particular contribution to the auror office. No significant achievements or results in all his years of work. Nothing at all. And yet the man had made a stellar rise from junior to Senior Auror in less than four years. In fact, the only thing special about Dawlish was how easily he made Kingsley want to slap him.

Even after all these years, my old man's words stand true. Merit has no place in wizarding Britain.

And now, he would bear witness to yet another injustice taking place in broad daylight.

The incarceration of Harry Potter.

Even though the Director had personally attended and reported the boy's hearing, the Minister had refused to let it go. Rather, he had become even more convinced that Harry, and more importantly Dumbledore, were responsible for the whole incident.

The deaths of eight Wizengamot members, out of which two had been actual Lords, had sent the entire country into complete disarray. Funnily enough, the deaths of Cedric Diggory, and more importantly, the body of Peter Pettigrew, had been brought down in priority to the point where he wasn't sure the minister would even investigate it should he not be forced too.

Blood was in the water, and the vultures wanted to tear the boy apart.

"Dawlish has been ordered by the Minister to perform a wand inspection on Harry Potter. The evidence is flimsy at best, but the Minister isn't going to drop it. Rather, he's convinced that no matter how unexplainable the magic is, it can still be linked to the boy and prove him guilty."

The nature of spellcraft, no matter how elusive or unexplainable, had a single common factor. It had to be done through the use of a wand. Unlike what most laymen believed, wandless magic wasn't exactly a symbol of strength or skill. If anything, it was a demonstration of flamboyance. If a summoning charm consumed twenty units of magical power with a compatible wand, then its wandless version would require over two hundred units.

There was simply no reason whatsoever to engage in wandless magic. Not when the same could be performed with the aid of any compatible wand much more easily. And any magic performed with a wand left a signature. One that could be traced.

And that was where the Minister hoped to get him.

If the magical signature of the accused's wand matched with the magical signature of the victims, then that was proof enough to bring the victim into custody. Potter's own affirmation with having tried to cast an unforgivable had only welcomed suspicions about the boy's mental and spiritual state.

Between the Ministry itself being against him compounded with his own reputation of being associated with unexplainable magic, Kingsley had no doubt the prosecutors at the Ministry would try to hang it all on him. His own status as the boy-who-lived, plus his notoriety as a Parselmouth— something the Dark Lord was infamous for —would only strengthen the case against him in the eyes of the public.

And I'll be the one leading him there.

Sometimes Kingsley hated his job.

"You think Dumbledore will try to stop us?" Dawlish drawled from his left.

Kingsley sighed.

Of course, Dawlish would put it that way.

The Headmaster had allowed an official interrogation of Harry Potter, despite having multiple ways to halt it. He had literally expedited the process and Amelia Bones herself had carried it out almost as soon as the boy had woken up. And yet still, the Minister was of the opinion that the old man was trying to subvert justice from being upheld. What was worse was that the man somehow believed that Dumbledore had tried to strong-arm Bones into going along with his sinister plans.

Kingsley had chuckled at that.

While it was hard to call the director legitimately kind, she was an incredibly fair person. Boy-who-lived or not, Amelia Bones lived and died by the rule of the law, and he didn't think anyone could change that.

"What's got you giggling like that?" The blabbermouth asked him.

As he said, Dawlish didn't even need to try to piss him off.

"I'm not… giggling, Dawlish. Let's cut the chatter and finish the task we've been asked to carry out."

"There's no real rush," Dawlish waved him off. "Potter's got nowhere to go. This time, justice will be served. Did you know the lad lost me fifty galleons in the Triwizard bet?"

Ah, so that was why Dawlish was so excited to take up this case.

Kingsley deliberately looked away. He wasn't sure what the bet had been about, but knowing Dawlish, it was probably something he wouldn't want to know anyway.

The door in front of them opened with a soft creak, and Harry Potter and Minerva McGonagall stepped in.

The old woman nodded at them curtly before starting "Mr. Potter is here without parental supervision, and therefore, I, being his Head of House, will bear witness to this event."

"I… see," Dawlish muttered.

Kingsley suppressed a chuckle. He was probably disappointed at not being able to deal with the kid alone. That and the minor trepidation of standing in front of his old Head of House.

Something about being transfigured into a fluffy white kitten and given to the firsties to play with or something in his seventh year.

Personally, Kingsley was interested in the boy. With all the rumors of the Dark Lord being back, he assumed that Dumbledore would probably recall the Old Guard. The last time he had been conflicted between maintaining his Auror duties and joining what was pretty much an illegal vigilante group.

This time though…

"— to check Mr. Potter's wand for any wrongdoing and report it to the Ministry likewise."

Right. Back to the issue.

"Most importantly, Professor McGonagall, has Mr. Potter been using the wand since the night of the event?"

The old professor shook her head. "Mr. Potter has been suffering the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse," here her lips curled distastefully. "He has been kept from performing any magic since then— with the intention of allowing him to recover and to ensure that further magic did not come in the way of proving his innocence via Priori Incantatem.

Kingsley had to give it to them. They were well prepared and any form of rebuttal Dwalish could give was answered before he could give voice to it. He could practically see the man deflating like a punctured balloon.

Professor McGonagall then took out a wand box and revealing a light brown wand sitting within.

His wand has been kept in isolation in the Hospital Wing. It may not be taken into custody and you are not permitted to retain it after this investigation."

Fair enough.

He raised his arm to touch the wand, but Dawlish had already made a grab for it. Lifting it up by the handle, the man performed an ostentatious swish-and-flick before giving him a funny look.

"Mind if I do the honors?"

"...sure." Kingsley agreed.

The sanctimonious auror twirled the wand slightly between his fingers before taking his own wand and tapping its tip. He took a deep, resolute breath before intoning—

"Prior Incantato!"

And nothing happened.

Well, that's a first.

Kingsley arched an eyebrow, alternating his glance between Dawlish's face and the wand that was cheerfully disobeying his order.

"Prior Incantato!"

Kingsley was beginning to find it funny.

"It's—" Dawlish looked constipated, as he tapped the wand harder and harder in frustration. "it's — not responding."

"Not what?" The Potter boy spoke up, worry marring his features. It was clear that the boy was just as surprised by this unexpected development as everyone else.

That, or he was a fifth-level Occlumens, in which case Kingsley would require the aid of an official Legilimencer before any further action could be taken.

A few drops of veritaserum wouldn't hurt either.

"Professor McGonagall can I—?" The boy offered.

"It's against the law for the accused to be using the wand during the inspection, lad," Kingsley explained softly.

Naturally, it did nothing to ease the boy's fears, which continued to spread across his countenance.

"But it isn't working at all, Kingsley," the other man interrupted, shaking the wand.

Nothing, not even the flimsiest sparks came out of it.

It was almost as if the wand was—

"Dead," Dawlish finished his thought for him. "It's completely unresponsive."

The man looked at McGonagall carefully before moving to Potter and then back to her again. "What are you playing at? If you've done anything to the wa—"

"I think," McGonagall interrupted him icily, "that everything will be settled if Mr. Potter is allowed to demonstrate a spell of your choosing, Mr. Dawlish," Clearly the woman wasn't fond of seeing anyone antagonize one of her students without due reason.

Dawlish paused a long moment before inclining his head and motioned to Kingsley. "Will you stand witness to this?"

Kingsley jerked his head in acknowledgment.

"Very well Potter, you're to use a basic illumination spell with the wand. Think you can cast something non-lethal?"

The boy rolled his eyes at Dawlish's overly accusatory tone and accepted the wand. Kingsley noted how the boy held it in front of him. Loose grip, angled tip, and balanced at chest height.

Interesting. A natural duelist's stance. Not something I see every day.

Aiming at Dawlish, Harry Potter flicked his wand forward and muttered. "Lumos."

And once again, nothing happened.

"What's wrong, Potter?" McGonagall asked.

The boy's face was all scrunched up. "I dunno, professor. I can push my magic into the wand but nothing— nothing's happening." He waved the wand a few more times, performing a full list of second-year charms but not a single spell or even spark came out of the wand tip.

"So it's dead," Dawlish muttered.

McGonagall gave him a don't-be-stupid look. "Mr. Dawlish, it is a wand. An outer layer of wood covering a piece of tissue from a magical beast or plant. It's neither alive nor is it dead. It's a tool. Tools either work, or they don't."

"Then— then why aren't the spells working?" Dawlish looked like he was going to snap. "Perhaps some kind of dark magic was used to temporarily keep the wand from casting true?"

Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes. "I'm not a wandmaker, Mr. Dawlish. My sole purpose here was to stand in ceremony while Mr. Potter underwent a wand inspection. Clearly, the two of you have been… unprepared for it. I'm sure Mr. Potter here would be happy to submit his wand in Ministry custody until the reason for the wand's behavior comes to light. I assume that would be all?"

Kingsley suppressed a chuckle. This was old McGonagall alright. In one clean stroke, she had effectively silenced Dawlish, while at the same time, ensuring that Potter wouldn't be taken into custody. At least not until the wand could be made to work again.

I can see how this will end. The Minister wanted Potter in. He'll have to settle for his unresponsive wand.

"Mr. Dawlish? Mr. Shacklebolt?" The professor asked again.

"Of course, professor," Kingsley actually smiled this time. "It'll do perfectly."

---

Harry watched with a growing sense of dread as the two aurors took the box— with his beloved wand inside it— and walked out of the room. He could feel the constant beats of his heart as the sounds of the two men marching out grew dimmer and dimmer. Really, why had he expected anything different? Every single bit of happiness had been systematically snatched away from him.

It was his wand this time. Would it be Hedwig next? And then what? Perhaps—

"Potter?"

McGonagall's voice brought his racing thoughts to a screeching halt. Inwardly shaking and trying to ignore his hastened heartbeat, he slowly turned to his right. "Ye— yes, Professor McGonagall?"

"Are you alright?" She asked, surprisingly concerned.

"I'm fine." He answered tersely.

"Okay, it's that bad then."

Harry felt his patience grow thin. Why would this woman not understand? What part of I'm fine suggested that it was a bad situation? Besides, what business did McGonagall have in this anyway? She had been perfectly alright while her precious Gryffindors had made life a living hell for him earlier during the year. All that big talk about the House being family during the sorting had been nothing but empty words.

Then again, knowing Vernon and Petunia, Gryffindor House might just be what family is about. And McGonagall, like Mrs. Stevenson back in primary school, had simply chosen to look the other way.

"Potter, I understand you must be feeling bad about this situation but—"

"I said I'm fine!" Harry ground out, his frustration starting to leak into his voice. "Why do you keep harping about the same thing?"

The old transfiguration mistress narrowed her eyes. "It's bad because I can see the gears move in your mind, Potter. I have been in this profession for over four decades now, and I know a transition when I see one."

"What do you mean?" He gritted his teeth.

McGonagall raised her right hand and began counting fingers. "You had a near-death experience a week ago. You saw a close acquaintance die in front of your own eyes. You were in the hospital wing for most of the week suffering from an acute case of magical inundation. And moments after waking up, the Ministry in its infinite wisdom decided to put you through a rigid interrogation session that might have opened old wounds. And now, you found your wand is unresponsive and possibly… for lack of a better word, dead. Am I missing anything here?"

Harry gaped at the woman.

"As I said, this kind of emotional baggage can affect your psyche, which is a dangerous thing considering one's natural instinct is to block out all unpleasant emotions and feelings. That you haven't started attacking me yet, or at least not shown open hostility is frankly, surprising."

"I'm sorry to have disappointed you then, professor." Harry sneered, not willing to admit the truth behind her cold, calculated reasoning. "If that'd be all, then could I leave?"

"Pot—" The woman paused, "Harry," she began with a soft smile, "I'm really sorry you're going through all of this. I sincerely wish to help you if you allow me."

"Help?" Harry ground out. "Help me? Like you've done so far? Ignoring my plight as the entire school called a killer and vilified me as the heir of Slytherin two years ago? Or how my own housemates threw me out and treated me like a leper? Please, tell me how you'd want to help me."

The woman took a step back, saddened. "I readily admit it was wrong on my part, Potter. For all that I admonish Severus over seeing your father in you, I'm afraid I committed the same mistake. I forgot that you are closer to your mother in mind."

That put him to a pause.

"You— you knew my mother?" Harry asked, before realizing how useless that question was. After all, McGonagall had taught his parent's generation as well.

"I did, both as a student and a friend. In hindsight, it might have been a good idea to tell you about your parents, but with the way you, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have been stuck at the hip since your first year, it was easy to substitute you with James and his merry little gang. I made the mistake of thinking you'd be fine by yourself. James wasn't the type to confide in adults after all."

Harry really didn't know what to say to that.

"I can understand what it means to lose one's wand," the professor went on sympathetically, softly gripping his left shoulder. "Have faith that we'll get you a new wand tomorrow. I missed my chance at seeing you choose your first wand, but I'll not miss your second."

"But— but will my wand never work again?"

McGonagall looked away. "I'm— I'm not sure about that, Potter. As I admitted earlier, I'm no expert in wandlore. Most witches and wizards do end up losing or breaking their wands at least once during their life. This one," she held up her own wand, placing it on the palm of her hand, "is my third."

"Third?" Harry balked, wondering what on earth had made the transfiguration mistress lose a single wand, never mind two of them.

"My first time was an accident." The woman answered as if reading his mind. "I was experimenting with an unstable piece of transfiguration in my seventh year and it blew up in my face. I think I cried for a week before your grandmother— the prefect at the time —took pity on me and explained why it wasn't a big deal."

"It— isn't?"

McGonagall shook her head.

Well, that was a surprise. From his own weird experience with Ollivander, Harry had come to think of his connection with his wand as something that went beyond what one would define as special. The wand chooses the wizard, the old wandmaker had told him, and how the phoenix that had given him a feather for his wand had given another feather for a wand given to Lord Voldemort.

Just another eerie similarity between myself and him.

Strange likenesses, as Riddle had put it back in the Chamber.

"Professor," Harry tried, his mind trying to tie his thoughts together, "Ollivander told me that the phoenix that gave me a feather for my wand gave another feather. Just one other."

"Is that so?" The transfiguration professor asked genially. "Who had the other?"

"Lord Voldemort."

Minerva McGonagall held her breath. "That's… interesting to know, I suppose. Then again, the entire school had a variety of rumors about how you could speak Parseltongue."

"Professor Dumbledore said that I could do so because Voldemort could speak Parseltongue," Harry spoke up, before quickly realizing that he had probably spoken out a little too much.

"That is a load of hippogriff dung," The woman muttered, surprising him. "I'm not the expert here, but Parseltongue is infamous as a Gaunt family trait. Family traits are passed on through blood. Not through some... " her eyes flickered to his forehead, "curse-scar."

"I don't have Gaunt lineage," Harry fought back, "that Bones woman said so."

"I wouldn't bet on it. Sometimes traits do show up in muggle-born descendants of older lines. There is always the chance that your mother might have been a descendant of the Gaunt line. I would recommend you perform a lineage test this summer. It might just answer your questions, Potter."

Lineage tests. Sure. And how would that be? Ask Vernon to take me to Gringotts to check if I have more family than I know?

"...sure, professor."

The transfiguration professor nodded her head. "The fact that you and Lord Voldemort shared brother wands is definitely interesting, but now that your wand has… malfunctioned, I'm not sure how it will affect the status quo. Either way, you are no longer the amazed kid you were back in your first year. You have changed, in ways more than one. As such, there is no doubt the changes in you might reflect on your new wand."

"But will it work as good as my holly wand?"

The woman shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know. Every core has its own attributes, its own strengths and weaknesses. phoenix feathers tend to have a greater fire alignment in general, and holly is the duelist's choice for defensive casting. We will simply have to see what your new wand is made up of, and things can proceed from then on."

"So it can have an impact on my magic?"

"Not your magic, merely your casting efficiency. Some easier spells might get difficult, while spells you had trouble with earlier on, might come easier to you now."

"I… see."

"Well, if there's nothing else?"

"Nothing. Have a good day, professor." Harry muttered, giving her a soft nod as he deserted the room.

---

The Office of the Minister for Magic

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Cornelius Fudge was having a bad week.

It had started all the way back from the night of the Third Task. Seriously, Ludo Bagman actually winning a bet should have been portent enough to tell him that something was utterly, utterly wrong. That man had the worst luck when it came to betting. In fact, if a magical trait called Sucker could exist, Ludo would be the one wizard to inherit it.

Seeing Ludo win not just one bet, but take home a veritable jackpot of six hundred galleons, along with a rare bottle of Odgen's 1863 Grand Cru Firewhiskey should have been enough of a signal that the world was nearing its end. Seriously, where were those divination nerds when you needed them?

And now, his entire world had been thrown into upheaval.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Twelve purebloods were dead. Out of the lot, six held Wizengamot seats, while two of them were actual Lords of Ancient and Noble Houses. The other four held bureaucratic positions in the ministry.

All of them dead and rotting.

All of them wearing death-eater regalia.

And all of them killed via an unexplained magical phenomenon associated with a certain Harry James Potter.

Between the loss of supporters to his vote bank and the recent wedge between himself and Albus Dumbledore, Cornelius could feel the ground crumbling beneath him.

His fingers began to drum faster against the tabletop— a sign of his growing anxiety. Even with all these years of practice, this one habit always seemed to escape his control.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

At least I still have Lucius. If he ended up…

Cornelius shook his head vehemently, trying to shove the perilous thought out of his mind.

He glanced at his watch.

Why isn't she back yet?

He had gotten a missive from Amelia Bones the previous afternoon after she had returned to the DMLE offices after an official interrogation of the boy-who-lived.

And the Weasley boy had done a good job of informing him about how Dumbledore had practically strong-armed him into letting the interrogation go the way he demanded. Apparently, whenever the Weasley had tried to direct their investigation to whatever Potter boy had done in the graveyard, Dumbledore had taken control of the conversation and forcefully changed the topic to something else.

Something strange was going on and Dumbledore was trying to keep it from the Ministry.

Keep it from him.

That alone said a lot about the man's non-existent ambition. Come to think of it, hadn't Dumbledore always ensured that he followed his commands?

Cornelius shuddered lightly.

Was that it? Had he been unable to grasp the reality all this time? Perhaps, Albus Dumbledore had no intention of being the Minister of Magic.

No, his goal was far more sinister.

With he himself being the supreme ruler from within Hogwarts and the famed boy-who-lived under his thumb, Dumbledore enjoyed power over the future of the society.

And adding this entire myth of the Dark Lord's return on top of that... Dumbledore would be the first the people of Magical Britain looked towards in a time of such strife. At that point, it wouldn't even matter if he officially took the seat of the minister. The Ministry…. His beloved Ministry would become the old man's puppet.

If he was right then this was just the opening salvo.

Killing off Cornelius's supporters through unexplained, unknown magics would merely be the first of many steps. It probably wouldn't have even been difficult for the old man. Cornelius readily admitted that the old Headmaster had forgotten more spells than most people managed to learn in their entire lives.

And now in less than three days, before Cornelius could even react to his previous move, the wily Headmaster had already begun to place his next pawn upon the stage.

The trial of Sirius Black.

Cornelius was many things, but a fool he was not.

He had suspected some wrongdoing back then when the boy and his friends had yelled at him about Black being innocent. Of course, their incoherent babbling about how the man never had a trial would only serve to make things difficult for them, considering that going through the Black case had been one of the first things Cornelius had gone through before releasing the dementor population to hunt the fugitive down.

He had checked— and double-checked —the man's trial records, and the entire thing was well documented. Sirius Black had received a court trial, and had, under the effect of Veritaserum, confessed to the murderer of Peter Pettigrew.

So there should have been no room for doubt.

Even Dumbledore wouldn't be able to save someone who was so clearly guilty.

And yet…

He somehow had.

Dumbledore had managed to pull the body from the grave and shown that Peter Pettigrew was alive. Well, before whatever act of magic struck him dead along with the others in the graveyard.

There was still an issue of the thirteen muggles that Black had apparently killed, but since the bulk of the case, they had used to imprison him had been overturned it would call the rest of the evidence into questions as well. As such, he had been forced to agree to grant the man a fresh chance at proving himself innocent.

Frankly, Cornelius had no problems with that.

After all, Black was a pureblood. A scion from a Noble and Most Ancient House.

No, his problem was entirely different. Cornelius might not have gotten enough NEWTs back during his time in Hogwarts to become a solicitor, but one did not become Minister of Magic and not pick up any legal knowledge along the way.

Maintaining his position as Minister had required him to maintain a delicate balance amongst the Wizengamot members. This was made considerably easier by the fact that Cornelius had a terrifying amount of information about their skeletons and hidden closets.

It was a hobby.

Some people collected stamps. Others collected chocolate frog cards. Cornelius Fudge collected secrets.

And one of those dirty little secrets involved the House of Black.

Sirius Black had bred true.

He held family magic.

This meant that it didn't matter that he had renounced his house. It didn't matter that Narcissa Malfoy nee Black was set to inherit before him.

In fact, absolutely none of Lucius's political maneuvering over the past decade, slowly taking control of the Black fortune mattered at all.

With the one true and remaining heir now about to be released, Sirius would become the next Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Malfoy's hold over the Black name and fortune would go up in flames.

And with it, Cornelius's powerbase at the Ministry of Magic.

And all of it would all begin in three hours.

Tap! Tap! Ta—

The door slid open, and Percy Weasley stepped in.

"Ah, Weatherby."

Even in such a grave situation, Cornelius brightened up a little at seeing the tiny twitch on the young man's forehead. For a strapping lad from a family of sociable people, Percy had a rather large stick stuck up in his stoic arse if he did say so himself. Sure, Arthur Weasley and his pro-muggle-born stance was a minor annoyance to him, but even so, Cornelius couldn't bring himself to actively feel disdain for the agreeable fellow.

Compared to that, Percy stuck out like a sore thumb. He had walked out of Hogwarts as a House Prefect and then Head Boy, with excellent NEWTS in the passing, and had joined up under ole' Barty in the Department of International Cooperation.

Bah! Cornelius sighed. As if Barty Crouch's constipated face could ever contribute to anything remotely related to cooperation. That Percy had been overzealous to carry out ole' Barty's every whim had not scored him points anywhere.

Cornelius had then offered him the post of a Junior Undersecretary for a hidden purpose— to serve as spy on the Weasleys, a family with strong connections to Dumbledore. So it was natural for him to be surprised and incredibly annoyed when Percy waltzed in through the front door, snobbishly declaring that he had denounced his family completely.

Cornelius's eyes hadn't stopped twitching that day.

And that was how he had landed him with an extra attendant— Percy Weatherby. After all, in Cornelius's mind, if the boy had renounced his name, then he should be ready to suffer the effects as well.

"The woman you called for, has arrived, sir."

"Has she now. Well, bring her in, Weatherby."

And there was that funny little twitch all over again.

"Is it true that Madam Higgins is retiring? And this… the woman is going to hold her position?"

"Ah, you heard about that, did you, Weatherby?"

"It's Weasley, sir."

"Oh, my apologies. How embarrassing!" Cornelius tapped his fingers on the table, casually waiting for the boy to get the signal and leave the room.

And yet for all his intelligence, his new assistant didn't seem to get the cue.

"Did you have something else to say?"

"Sir," Percy intoned, probably with as much snobbishness as he could muster, "I must question the idea of appointing a random woman for such an important position."

"Random?" Cornelius arched an eyebrow. "Why would you say that?"

"Well sir, she's a librarian."

"And?"

"While she has indeed occupied a position in the ICW Archives, which is also, forgive me, the post of another glorified librarian."

Cornelius couldn't help but give the boy a snide look. Sure, he was appointing a librarian to what was eminently a top-post in the Ministry. Even so, the woman in question had certain… attributes that made her a rather interesting candidate for what he had in mind. Naturally, in his tunnel vision, everything else was superficial and disregardable.

"But that's too big a jump. I suggest you start her out as an apprentice to me and then, once I'm promoted, you can place her as Junior Undersecretary. But starting her out directly as the Undersecretary—" Percy began.

"Senior." Cornelius corrected him. "Senior Undersecretary. She's a smart woman and you'll do well under her."

Cornelius paused to throw him a bright smile.

"But… But sir."

"I've made up my mind. It'll be good for you. Now please fetch her. And free up my schedule for the day. I have some work to do."

The boy's miserable face truly made him feel better.

"...Yes, sir," he said as he made his way to the door.

Cornelius nodded as the kid began to leave and couldn't resist throwing out a parting shot. "You did well today. Close the door on your way out, Perky."

The way Percy's fingers twitched as he closed the door behind him really made his day.