Chapter Text
“Kill me now, Dumbledore” the words left Harry’s mouth without his permission, and with the pain in his scar, and the unexpected fullness of his mind, he realized that he wasn’t alone in his thoughts. A small voice in his brain protested this intrusion, but, overcome by grief and guilt, he surrendered to weary resignation. Harry had been beaten-down for so long that nothing seemed worth fighting for anymore. He was aware of a startled exclamation from the foreign presence in his mind at this, but he didn’t care. The events of the night had been too much. Harry had been trying for so long to be what people needed him to be: A Saviour, a Teacher, a Beacon of Light. He was exhausted, and his failures stacked high around him.
So, when his wand arm raised, unbidden by him, Harry tried feebly to resist, but something inside him altered with a satisfying click, and before he knew it, he was watching himself with detachment. Contentment flooded him like a wave of warm water. He briefly registered faint horror when he saw his hand pointing at Dumbledore. He vaguely felt his lips move, and, wrapped in his comforting blanket of detachment, he watched green light spit from his wand, and Dumbledore fall to the ground, still.
A moment later, the comforting presence in his mind departed hastily, and Harry was brought back to awareness with a thump. Realizations were coming hard and fast now. Sirius was dead. His friends were injured, possibly worse. Dumbledore was…still not moving. With a cry of alarm, he got unsteadily to his feet and weaved his way to where Dumbledore lay on the polished marble floor of the Ministry’s Atrium. Hesitantly, Harry brought a hand to the familiar, lined face. Dumbledore’s blue eyes were glassy, staring up at the ceiling. “S-sir?” he asked, fear making his voice wobble.
Whatever answer Dumbledore might have given was interrupted by the whoosh of the Floo. Harry’s addled mind registered that Minister Fudge was wearing pyjamas beneath his robes, and his lime green bowler hat was absent. His hair was ruffled and unkempt. There were several witches and wizards in the Atrium now, he realized, and many of them were speaking. The chaos overwhelmed him, and Harry longed to bury his face into Dumbledore’s robes.
“Potter? What’s going on?” Fudge sputtered. “Dumbledore?”
“I don’t know” Harry said quietly. “Something strange happened”
“What are you doing here?” Fudge asked, his voice sounding a bit high, and greatly fearful.
“Voldemort.” Harry said. “There was a Prophesy.”
“Sir” One of the Aurors, who had knelt down next to Dumbledore spoke sharply. “You need to see this”
Fudge hastened to the Auror, his eyes still on Harry. Harry felt his body, having consumed the adrenaline that had been coursing through his system, start to tire. He wanted to go back to Hogwarts. Even as he thought this, Harry knew that it would be hours yet before he was in his cozy four-poster. Fudge would want explanations. The Aurors would probably question him. Dumbledore would need to go to St. Mungo’s, and it would take ages to get this sorted out.
“Dead?” Fudge’s voice rose in pitch and volume. “What’s happened here?” He reminded Harry of a large, grumpy baby, awoken from a nap too early, disoriented and cross as a result. A few seconds later, as the words he’d said penetrated the fog in Harry’s mind, he stilled. To his horror, the Auror waved his wand, and wrapped Dumbledore up in a dark cloth. It was a shroud, Harry suddenly understood. Dumbledore was dead.
More people had arrived in the Atrium while Harry was processing this. To his relief, one of them was Moody, who stumped up to where Harry was standing awkwardly. “Bad business, laddie,” he said gruffly, reaching into Harry’s back pocket and deftly retrieving his wand.
“Professor Moody, I-”
“Quiet!” He hissed at Harry out of the corner of his mouth. “If you want to have any hope of getting out of this mess, keep your fool mouth shut. Answer only the questions that are asked of you. Volunteer no additional information. I’ll be trying to keep you clear of Verituserum for the time being, since you’re a minor, but just belt up for now”
Harry’s mouth had fallen slightly agape at Moody’s hissed admonitions, but he shut it with a snap and allowed Moody to hold his arm firmly. As he stood there, and watched them float Dumbledore away, he grappled with the realization that Dumbledore was dead, killed by his own hand, if not by his own intention. Whatever trouble Harry feared he’d be in by breaking into the Ministry, it paled in comparison to the situation he now found himself in. Not for the first time, Harry longed for a parent to come and help him. With that, his thoughts strayed to Sirius, how the light had left his laughing eyes, and how he’d slipped through the gauzy curtains of the veil.
Sirius was dead. Dumbledore was dead. Harry had orchestrated both fatalities through his foolhardy, impulsive actions. He swayed, the world turning on its axis for a moment. Moody gripped him harder, steadying him. “Hang on, Potter,” he said quietly. Harry longed for Hogwarts, for the privacy to weep over his own stupidity. Instead, he found himself in the vice-tight grip of two Aurors, their wands tightly wedged into his ribs. They quickly led him to the bank of elevators, pulling him inside the moment the doors opened. Moody stumped along behind, Fudge speaking in low urgent tones into his scarred ear.
The elevators stopped at the second floor, and the Aurors half-dragged him down the corridor and through a set of heavy oak doors. Harry noted the curious glances from the handful of Aurors who were still in their cubicles, despite the late hour. He felt an urge to cover his face from their eyes, but didn’t think that the Aurors who accompanied him would react well to any sudden movements. His stomach, always a bit hair-trigger in times of stress, roiled angrily, as one of the Aurors waved his wand at a door, and pointed towards a chair. “Sit” he said shortly.
Harry did as requested, and a set of heavy chains rose from the floor to secure his arms and legs. Panic welled up in him, and his head, already aching, started to spin. He felt tears spring into his eyes and hastily blinked them back. The Aurors, obviously convinced that Harry was secure, cast him a scornful look, and departed, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.
In the quiet room, surrounded by the memories of what had transpired earlier that night, Harry desperately wanted to let fall the tears that were threatening, but he sniffled and bit the inside of his cheek. Harry knew that if anyone were watching him (and he was certain that someone was), they wouldn’t have a lot of patience for his emotions right now. Fortunately, Harry was very good at not crying. He tried not to remember the look of Dumbledore’s blue eyes as the life left them. It had happened through a haze, certainly, but the dawning understand that crossed the old Wizard’s features just before he fell etched itself in Harry’s mind's eye, and the scene replayed itself over and over.
He wasn’t sure how much time passed before the door opened, and a lanky man entered, balanced heavily on a walking stick. His hair was brownish, with streaks of grey, and Harry felt like he’d seen him before. The man sat on one of the chairs across from Harry, removed his gold-rimmed spectacles, cleaned them on his shirt, and finally replaced them on his nose. “Mister Potter” he greeted, a little formally. “My name is Rufus Scrimgeour. My colleague will be in shortly, and we will begin asking you some questions. Just a formality, you understand?”
Harry nodded, when it became obvious that the man was awaiting an answer. Harry was unsure what to say next, and the silence stretched uncomfortably. Harry was aware that the man, Scrimgeour, was watching him keenly, and so he schooled his features into a neutral expression. He wasn’t sure what the man was looking for, and so Harry resolved to give him nothing.
The door banged open, and another stranger entered, followed closely by a furious-looking Moody. “That will be all, Alistair” the man said.
“He’s a minor” Moody growled. “You can’t interrogate him without a guardian present, or legal representation”
“This isn’t an interrogation, Moody” Scrimgeour said. “We just have a few questions, I’m sure Potter doesn’t want to get his guardians out of bed this late?” At this, he looked inquiringly at Harry, who gulped.
“No, sir. I don’t want my guardians here. But could Professor Moody stay?”
Scrimgeour’s mouth was in a hard line, but Moody quickly said, “It’s me or McGonagall, Rufus.”
Scrimgeour sighed. “Fine” he said. “Mister Potter, we’ll be retaining memories of your testimony, just in case. Questioning of Harry James Potter, June 19th, 1996, 3...” He cast a quick tempus wandlessly and continued smoothly, “17 am. Present are Rufus Scrimgeour, Head Auror, Gawain Robards, Deputy Head, and Alistair Moody, Auror, retired.”
With a glance at Harry, he continued “Mister Potter has declined the use of Verituserum, and this testimony will be considered accordingly.” Well thought Harry. He’s not directly saying that I’ll be lying, but he’s heavily implying it. Harry’s misgivings grew, but he did catch a small, approving nod from Moody.
“Mister Potter, could you please explain how you came to be at the Ministry of Magic this evening?”
Oh fuck, Harry thought. How am I going to get out of this without incriminating everyone, and letting the Ministry know about the visions? “I was unable to reach my god…friend, and I worried that he was in danger…here” he said lamely. Scrimgeour raised one bushy eyebrow at him and gestured for him to continue.
“Some of my friends from school found out that I was coming to try to rescue my friend, and decided to come with me. When we were here, a number of Death Eaters arrived and attacked us in the Department of Mysteries. Bellatrix Lestrange…I chased her to the Atrium. Voldemort came, as well as Dumbledore. They fought. I don’t really remember what happened next, just that I came to, and Dumbledore was lying on the ground.” The tears that had earlier threatened to fall, spilled down his cheek then.
Scrimgeour’s eyes were hard as he watched Harry. He knew that Potter and Dumbledore had been claiming that Voldemort had returned for a year now, but there’d been no hard evidence. Still, though, the child’s story had more holes than substance. “Who was this friend of yours?”
Harry sighed. He supposed there was no harm in answering. Sirius wouldn’t be coming back anyways. “Sirius Black, sir.”
“Sirius Black?” The voice came from the doorway, where Fudge had appeared.
Harry looked up from where he’d been examining his knees. “He’s my…was my Godfather.”
“Was?” Moody asked sharply.
“He…Bellatrix Lestrange cursed him, and he fell into an archway. In the Department of Mysteries. He didn't come back out.”
“What were you doing there?” Fudge’s voice was rising in pitch again. It made Harry’s head, already sore, pound harder.
“L-looking for Sirius. I believed that Voldemort had taken him”. Harry’s entire body was tense. He knew that he needed to tread carefully here, especially now that Fudge was in the room.
“Why did you believe that?” Scrimgeour’s voice was even, and his face betrayed nothing.
“Sometimes I have dreams. This time, I had one while sitting my OWL. It was very vivid, and I was frightened that Voldemort was going to hurt Sirius.”
“There is no evidence that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back!” Fudge was huffy.
“I’d say that a dead Headmaster in your Atrium is fairly good evidence,” Moody growled.
“Potter was the only one in the Atrium with Dumbledore,” Fudge argued.
“Honestly, Minister,” Scrimgeour said. “Do you really expect me to believe that a 15 year old boy could kill one of the greatest Wizards we’ve ever seen? Not to mention the fact that he and Mister Potter were quite close, weren’t they Moody?”
“Yes,” Moody answered shortly. “Albus thought the world of Potter. I’d no sooner accuse the boy of murdering Albus than I would Minerva McGonagall.”
Harry remained quiet during this exchange, focusing on keeping his face expressionless. He warmed slightly at Moody’s defence of him, but the fact remained. He had killed Dumbledore, even if it hadn’t been his own idea.
“Well, I don’t know,” Fudge sputtered. “We still never conclusively determined what happened to the Diggory boy. Very convenient Mister Potter, that people around you seem to conveniently turn up dead.”
Harry had been trying to remain stoic and quiet during this exchange, but at Fudge’s words, a damn in him broke, and a single sob escaped him before he bit his lip. His hands were still chained, so he was unable to wipe the tears that flowed down his cheeks. It hurt, that the Minister was only speaking the truth. He brought disaster to everyone he knew.
“Cornelius! That’s enough!” Scrimgeour snapped. He turned back towards Harry. “You’ll have a chance to explain more at your trial. We’ll end the interview here.”
Fudge looked as though he were about to say something, but Scrimgeour repeated “Enough,” before waving his wand and removing the chains from Harry’s arms and legs.
“S-sir?” Harry asked, in a wavering voice.
“What is it?” Scrimgeour’s voice was almost kind.
“Will I have to go to Azkaban tonight?”
“Not tonight, son. You’ll be in the Ministry holding cells for a few days while we process you.”
The walk to the holding cells passed in a blur. It was just Scrimgeour now, Robards and Moody having detained Fudge. Harry was grateful. He knew that the Minister had it out for him, and he dreaded how Fudge would use him as a pawn to drive his propaganda machine. Harry was pretty sure he didn’t have it in him to think about that tonight.
It took almost no time. They gave him prison robes to change into, and took his glasses away. Why…was it just to be cruel? Finally, Harry was shown to a cell, and Scrimgeour left, and Harry was left alone. He lay on the uncomfortable pallet on the ground, turned his back on the bars, and, finally, let the tears that had been choking him fall.
***
“Potter”. The voice was familiar, but was hissing in a loud whisper. Harry started awake, hastily removing the thumb that had migrated into his mouth while he slept.
“Who’s there?” He asked, squinting at the bars.
“It’s Moody. I need to know what happened if we’re going to get you out of here”
“You want to help me?”
“Yes, Potter, Albus was very clear what we were to do if you ever got into trouble.”
“Oh, okay. Well, thanks, truly. Listen, I think that Volde-”
“Shut UP!” Moody hissed urgently. “Have you any sense at all, you fool boy? You can’t talk in here, unless you want the Minister’s staff and the papers to know everything you say.”
“Oh. Yeah, of course, I didn’t think.”
“You didn’t. Let me take your memory.”
This gave Harry pause. He’d been fooled by a fake-Moody before, trusted him with all sorts of information that ended with Cedric’s death and Voldemort’s rebirth. Plus, he didn’t really know Moody that well. This could be a setup, he knew. But, there was nobody else who seems to want to help him, and he felt it might be difficult to end up more fucked than he already was. “I don’t have my wand”
“Here. Use mine”. That was even more surprising, frankly. Moody was the most paranoid person Harry knew, and Harry was technically an accused murderer. With an internal shrug, Harry reached out, grabbed the wand, and extracted the shimmering white thread of the memory. As Moody snatched back his wand and deposited the memory in a phial, Harry wasn’t sure if he’d done the smartest or most foolish thing yet.