Chapter Text
Harry watches the dispute unfold with growing apathy as the trial drags on.
He tries to focus, he really does, but after five minutes of fruitless debate and hollow speeches, he simply disconnects and starts counting the glowing flecks of magic in the ceiling alcove. The courtroom’s endless polemic fades into background noise—he stopped following it ten minutes ago.
What was the point?
Dumbledore does his best to defend him with the help of Mrs. Figg, but the staggering stupidity of the audience gathered under Fudge’s influence works alarmingly well against the Headmaster. No one wants to listen. Fudge dragged them into the Ministry’s highest court where real criminals are tried for heinous crimes and condemned to the Kiss. But here they are, because Harry Potter, who, by the way, lives with muggles since the age of one, dared to protect himself against a Dementor attack in the middle of a Muggle street.
Of course, that isn’t the real reason for this farce.
They want to intimidate him. They want to see him fall. They want him to understand that he is nothing to the Ministry. That the Boy-Who-lived stands beneath the law, That neither word nor witness can support his “childish tales” as long as a greater authority stands above him... and above Dumbledore.
Slouched in the large chair set before the audience like a man awaiting execution, the more Harry observes the others protest, bristle, and spit venom each time Dumbledore dismantles their arguments with steady precision, the more sharp and biter his contempt grows for these supposedly rational adults who are losing a war before it has even begun.
How Voldemort has failed to bring down the Ministry while it is governed by such idiots remains a genuine mystery.
The words hurled across the vast courtroom grow sharper with every passing minute. It’s boring now. And increasingly irritating for Harry, who has had enough of being dissected and criticized while he waits for the Ministry’s final verdict.
It’s wasted effort. Fudge and his cronies decided to roast Dumbledore—and Harry—long before this hearing began. The trial is a farce. The Dementors were merely a pretext. Harry may be fifteen, but he is far from stupid, whatever they choose to believe. They only want to see them falter, to watch them crumble beneath their undying contempt. They wanted to deal with Potter swiftly and neatly, out of the public eye.
To be insulted, belittled, accused of putting his bloody name in the Goblet, accused of telling lies even when Harry was still traumatized about the near death experience and Cedric's corpse haunting his dreams and mind still to this day... He was tired.
Tired of the Ministry. Of Fudge. Of Voldemort. Of everyone talking behind his back—cheering him in times of peace, then spitting in his face the moment reality became inconvenient. A hero when he saved their lives. An attention-seeker the second Voldemort set his sights on him—on all of Britain, for that matter.
He can't believe it.
... Or maybe he can.
That's merely the story if his whole life after all, going in an enderless cycle again and again without any rest. Fuck that.
At some point during a heated exchange between a sharp-voiced blonde witch and the Headmaster, Harry reaches his limit. The outcome is predetermined anyway. They will never let him walk free unless the Chosen One agrees to bow his head and accept a patronizing pat like a well-trained pet.
So, he speaks.
“Every proof of what we’re trying to warn you about is right in front of you. Every. Single. Fact. Staring you in the face—and you still choose to deny it. Alastor Moody was a Death Eater in disguise. My name was put into the Goblet when the wards should have made that impossible. And even Cedric Diggory’s death isn’t enough to alarm you, for fuck’s sake.”
Talking about Cedric makes his heart sink a little. He still isn't over the memory of the hufflepuff's cold corpse in the graveyard.
"That’s enough!" Fudge yells. "Barty Crouch Jr has been Kissed by a Dementor and can’t testify your claims!"
"Thanks to you."
Red floods the man’s face as his anger spikes.
"Your name has only been put in the Gobelet because of a regretable negligence from Albus Dumbledore. Who knows who placed your name in it, be it childish pranksters or yourself. And the death of young Diggory is nothing but a terrible accident—"
“Two students abducted across Britain, delivered straight to a Dark Lord and his Death Eaters. One murdered. The other returned scarred and tortured. Oh yes. What an unfortunate accident.”
"You don’t know what you’re talking about!! There are rumours saying you killed him!"
"So now the Ministry solves cases based on baseless rumours."
"Potter! ENOUGH!"
Dumbledore looks as though he wants to intervene, to ask Harry to let him handle this, before things spiral further. But Harry doesn’t care anymore. He’s done swallowing it all. He needs to let it out—everything he’s been forced to carry for years. It is now or never.
"Actually, Minister Fudge, I know exactly what I’m talking about. I remember every second of that night. I was there. I saw what all of you didn’t, safe and comfortable in your little bubble of false peace. Since I am the sole witness, I can show you everything that happened that day. Surely there is a way to extract memories from my brain? I also heard about the draught called Veritaserum. I'd be delighted to drink every vial you give me. Go on. Come on."
Unease ripples through the courtroom. Murmurs raise, coming out with snippets of stubborn accusations and unwelcomed hesitation. Then, after a long pause in which Fudge finds nothing to fire back, a small voice behind the Minister draws everyone’s attention.
"Hem hem. Unfortunately, veritaserum is not allowed to be used on minors to this date, Mr. Potter. And there is no official means to extract your… unreliable thoughts for everyone here to observe what you claim to have witnessed."
Strangely enough, there is something far more sinister about this short, pink-clad toad of a woman than about Cornelius Fudge shouting like a temperamental kid. Is it the barely concealed malice in her eyes? Or that tight, saccharine smile—reminiscent of Filch whenever he fantasizes about subjecting first-years to horrific medieval torture for daring to speak too loudly in the corridors?
"Mrs Umbridge," Albus intervenes calmly, "I think you are forgetting the use of the Pensi–
"That, Mr. Dumbledore, is not an official method for handling cases of this nature. And I repeat that Mister Potter is still a… well-a child."Her smile is everything Harry wants to tear off her face this very second. Even the relief spreading across Fudge’s revolting features does nothing to quell the sudden rage burning inside him.
"Who knows what nonsense his foolish mind might produce if he is convinced of his own version of reality?"
"Have you always been this daft,” Harry snaps, “or do you only spew this much crap on special occasions?"
The way her face constricts like she just bit into a lemon would have been funny, had Harry had a better day.
"You're not allowed to talk to me with such disrespect! I am Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecratary to the—"
"I will speak to you the way I want as lons as you're going to pretend I am delusional."
She’s beginning to turn as red as Fudge, who seems utterly incapable of responding to this unexpected defiance from the boy he clearly thought would remain obedient to the end.
"You are only making things worse for yourself! Do you think you're intouchable on account of your title Mr. Potter?!"
"Unlike you, I don't belive I am untouchable Mrs. Umbridge. And unlike the Ministry, I don't hide in a feeble utopia of peace just because the word war makes me tremble with fear."
"Your war is nonexistant, Mr. Potter," Umbridge claims coldly, supported by a few stiff nods in the audience.
"So will be your hopes, "Harry answers evenly, "when the Dark Lord has you begging for mercy sooner than you think."
The tension shifts slightly in the room. He can feel opinions churning, see doubt and belief wrestling behind narrowed eyes as the silence grows heavier, except for the woman in pink who's trying to pierce Harry's heart with her sharp gaze.
It seems the Ministry is overflowing with infuriating bitches these days.
Harry gave them a chance. He was willing to submit to anything if it meant the truth would be heard. But the last thin thread of hope he had for these people snaps inside him, taking with it the final scrap of pity he might have felt.
Alright.
Harry has made his choice.
"You don’t want to disturb the cosy little peace you’re enjoying right now. You don’t want to face the consequences of your own incompetence, even if it means destroying the very child you claimed as a hero every single day before rumours of Voldemort’s return resurfaced. You, hypocritical bastards."
The forbidden name sends a ripple of horrified outrage through the courtroom. But Harry isn't finished.
"You rely on a so called fucking child, you force a life of unwanted fame and shape him into whatever image suits you. Then you discard your scapegoat overnight as you please because a name makes you all uncomfortable… You’re all the same. You, the Ministry. The press, the parents and even Hogwarts students..."
His gaze sweeps across the courtroom, glacial.
"I’m tired. Of everything. Of everyone. You want to live inside a lie? Fine by me. If you want expel me from Hogwarts, be my guest too. That’s it. You know what? I don’t care anymore."
A beat.
“I’m done. I give up.”
"Harry…!" Albus blurts, baffled.
Suspicion and outrage twist Fudge’s features.
"You’re prepared to throw everything away because no one wants to believe your outraging tales? Sounds to me like you’re desperate for another Daily Prophet headline!"
"Oh, fuck you Fudge."
"Wha–what...?!"
Gasps ripple through the audience; a few look close to fainting. Dumbledore, however, remains outwardly composed—though he studies Harry as though facing a stranger.
"Harry..." the headmaster says quietly. "Surely you don't mean what you said?"
Harry gives him a look, blazing emerauds colliding with steady lapis. The stretching silence between them is louder than the courtroom’s uproar.
For a moment, Harry hesitates.
The fatherly figure he's always looked up to and needed, who has always been there for him is standing in front of him, trying all he could to make things right and deliver the Boy-Who-Lived from discredit. But is that all it is? Here Dumbledore is, defending Harry to the point of destroying his own reputation.
The picture seems awfully convenient.
Dumbledore’s goal has always been clear: defeat Voldemort. It is more than obvious that he needs as many people as possible to win them over in order to overturn the beliefs of the ministry of magic. What better way to achieve his goal than to defend the poor, innocent hero ridiculed by everyone? Albushas known for years that Voldemort wasn’t truly gone. Since first year. Since the diary. Since every warning sign. He understands Riddle better than anyone. He must have foreseen this return.
The persistance of the dark lord to beat Death wasn't anything new to anyone, so Albus couldn't have missed it either.
And yet… he did nothing to prevent it.
There is a lot that the Hogwarts' headmaster wasn't telling. Secrets about their sworn enemy. Secrets about Harry. Secrets about everything. In the end Harry remains a mere pawn in the hands of a manipulating old man who would apparently do anything in the name of the bloody Greater Good. Like leaving him in the abusive care of his heinous relatives for years. Like leading him to Voldemort at eleven years old like a well-behaved soldier ready to sacrifice his life thinking he was doing it for everyone's safety.
Like keeping his godfather in Azkaban without a fucking trial because Sirius is a Black — and Blacks are not to be trusted due to their bad, oh so dark blood.
There is so much Harry wants to say right now. So much he wants to ask but can't even do so because he knows he's going to be faced with blank answers.
"I'm perfectly serious, Sir. I'm done with them. Let Voldemort take care of the trash. Maybe the emblem of villainy will do a better job than this one."
He gestures toward Fudge, whose face has gone a violent shade of red.
"You can't mean that."
The gravity Dumbledore once directed at Cornelius Fudge now turns fully on Harry.
Oh.
So this is where his true colours show.
"Do what, Sir?"
"Abandon your role as a symbol. Abandon the rest of your education. Abandon your people to Voldemort’s forces."
"Would you stop saying that cursed name!" the Minister barks, his anger edged with fear.
Harry thought he had burned through all his rage during Umbridge’s speech. He was wrong.
"My people?" Harry sneers. "You mean that pack of self-righteous nitwits? Really, Sir? Do they seem like they want to treat me properly out of kindness? Do they seem like they would be harmless to a fifteen years old teenager, like they wouldn't throw a bloody minor to Azkaban for trying to protect his bloody sanity from their own Dementors?!"
"Harry, you don't—"
"Enough is enough. I never asked to be a symbol. I never asked for all that Boy-Who-Lived rubbish glued to me since the day Hagrid burst into that mouldy shack."
Harry rises from his chair and, without hesitation, strides toward the exit as furious uproar explodes behind him.
“You are not permitted to leave, Mr. Potter!” Fudge shouts across the courtroom. "We have yet to deliver your sentence for violating the law!"
Harry turns, fixing him with the coldest, most indifferent stare he can muster.
"As Headmaster Dumbledore pointed out earlier, you have nothing against me, Minister. You can’t touch me because you won’t dare summon the witnesses required for your accusations. You wouldn’t even have called Mrs. Figg if Dumbledore hadn’t brought her himself. I refuse to sit through this farce any longer."
His voice sharpens.
"I will sincerely be sorry for every person I hold dear. For the friends who believed me without hesitation. But that’s where my regret ends. I’m done being anyone’s savior. I never volunteered to sacrifice myself for a crowd of incompetent, unqualified adults drowning in their own fear, so thick it blinds you."
His eyes blaze.
"You want me expelled from Hogwarts? Do it. You want to snap my wand? Do it. You want to silence me and watch wizarding world burn under the Darl Lord? Be. My. FUCKING. GUEST!"
Magic crackles in the air, heat pulsing around him as the force of his rage vibrates through the chamber.
"I’M DONE. GO TO HELL. I GIVE UP. YOUR BLOODY SAVIOR IS NO MORE! I HATE ALL OF YOU!"
The cry of rage he lets out burns with magic all around his body shaking in fury.
He is the same boy who has been quietly watching them accuse him of the stupidest crimes ever mentioned five minutes ago, the same one they've thought they could break down and manipulate at will with their ridiculous exhibition of legal powers. They suddenly can feel all the hatred within the burning orbs gleaming like the lethal Unforgivable.
Then his gaze shifts to the far side of the chamber, where a stiff redhead stands watching, rigid and unreadable.
"By the way Percy, I've never liked you."
Without a second thought and as quickly as his patience had exploded with resentment towards the whole world, Harry Potter walks out of the courtroom.
Silence slams down over the chamber. Even the Minister seems unsure how to pierce through the heavy atmosphere charged with burning animosity. No one ever thought Harry would be so angry. No one thought they'd ever hear the heroic figure of Britain say such things. There is no way their Chosen One was going to walk away and leave everything in the lurch.
...Right?
What they don’t understand—what none of them can even begin to grasp—
—is that this is the last time they will see Harry Potter for a very, very long time.