Harry couldn't sleep. Again.
He'd been at Grimmauld Place for nearly a week now, and the house seemed determined to keep him awake most nights. Even silencing charms didn't help much.
At least with Nym, things were different, but she'd been away on some Order business for the last couple of days and would return tomorrow.
He'd tossed and turned for what felt like hours before finally giving up and deciding to wander the corridors. At least walking around gave him something to do besides stare at the ceiling and think about everything that had been happening.
The house was dark save for the occasional oil lamp casting shadows along the walls. Harry moved quietly through the upper floor, his bare feet making almost no sound on the worn carpet. He'd learned quickly which floorboards creaked and which stairs groaned under his weight, and he navigated around them with ease.
He made his way downstairs, thinking he might grab a glass of water from the kitchen, when he noticed something odd. There was a faint light coming from one of the unused rooms near the end of the corridor.
Harry frowned. No one should be up at this hour, especially not in that part of the house. Most of the Order members who stayed here were long asleep, and even Sirius usually turned in before midnight these days.
Moving carefully, Harry approached the doorway. The door was slightly ajar, just enough for him to see inside without being immediately visible himself. He pressed himself against the wall and edged closer, straining to hear any sound from within.
What he heard made him pause.
It was muttering. Low, anguished muttering in a voice he recognized immediately as Kreacher's. But this wasn't the venomous, hateful tone the house elf usually spoke with. This was different. There was pain in it, genuine distress that made Harry's chest tighten despite his feelings about the elf.
"Failed... Kreacher has failed... Master Regulus trusted Kreacher, and Kreacher has failed..."
Harry's brows furrowed slightly. He'd never heard Kreacher mention anyone named Regulus before. He knew from Sirius that Regulus had been his younger brother, the one who'd actually tried to leave the Death Eaters before getting himself killed. But why would Kreacher be talking about him now, years after his death?
He leaned in closer, trying to catch more of what the elf was saying.
"Should have done it... should have found a way... Master Regulus's dying wish, and Kreacher cannot... cannot..."
The elf's voice broke, and Harry heard something he never thought he'd hear from Kreacher. The miserable creature was crying. Not the dramatic wailing he'd occasionally use when insulting Sirius, but genuine, heartbroken sobbing.
Curiosity overrode caution, and Harry shifted his position slightly to get a better view through the gap in the door.
Kreacher was kneeling on the floor in the center of the room, surrounded by what looked like bits of old parchment and torn fabric. His bony hands were clutched to his chest, and between his fingers, Harry could see a glint of gold. A chain of some sort, delicate and ornate, catching the candlelight as Kreacher rocked back and forth.
"Kreacher promised... Kreacher swore on his magic... but Kreacher is too weak, too stupid..."
Harry leaned forward just a fraction more, and his foot landed on one of those treacherous floorboards he'd learned to avoid. The sound was small, barely more than a creak of wood against wood, but in the silence of the house it might as well have been a loud wail.
Kreacher's head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes fixing on the doorway. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Kreacher's expression twisted from grief into pure, incandescent rage.
"Spying!" the elf shrieked. "The blood traitor's godson spies on Kreacher! Sneaking about like a thief in the night, just like his filthy father before him! Always prying, always sticking his nose where it doesn't belong!"
Harry stepped into the doorway properly, holding up his hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture. "I wasn't—"
"Lies! Lies from the spawn of a blood traitor and a mudblood!" Kreacher was on his feet now, his tiny frame shaking with fury. "Just like them, always lying, always trying to corrupt the noble house of Black with their filth! Master Regulus would have despised you, despised everything you represent!"
Harry wasn't really listening to the elf's tirade. His eyes were fixed on Kreacher's hands, on the way the gold chain was now partially visible, a heavy locket dangling from it. The metal looked tarnished, almost black in places, but there was something about it that drew Harry's attention. He had no idea why, but he couldn't look away from it.
Kreacher immediately noticed where Harry was looking. His rage transformed into something else, something that looked almost like fear. His eyes went wide, and he clutched the locket tighter, hiding it behind his back.
"No," the elf said, his voice dropping to a hiss. "No, no, no. Not for you. Not for any of them. This is Kreacher's burden, Master Regulus's last gift to Kreacher, and you will not take it!"
"I'm not trying to take anything," Harry said slowly, keeping his voice level despite the bizarre turn this encounter had taken. "I just heard you talking and wanted to make sure everything was alright."
"Alright?" Kreacher let out a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn't been so bitter. "Nothing is alright, nothing has been alright since Master Regulus... since he..."
The elf's voice broke again, but this time the grief was accompanied by something that looked like genuine terror. He took a step backward, then another, his free hand reaching behind him as if searching for something to steady himself against.
"Stay away," Kreacher warned, his voice barely above a whisper now. "Stay away from Kreacher, stay away from Master Regulus's secrets. The blood traitor's godson has no right, no right to any of it!"
"Kreacher—"
"No!" The elf's voice rose again. "Kreacher will not listen, will not tell, will not betray Master Regulus! Not for you, not for the blood traitor Master, not for anyone! Master Regulus trusted Kreacher, only Kreacher, and Kreacher will not fail him again!"
He was still backing away, his movements increasingly frantic. The candlelight cast wild shadows across his face, making him look even more distressed. His eyes never left Harry's face, watching him warily, like a cornered animal.
"Leave Kreacher alone," the elf said, his voice breaking on the last word. "Leave Kreacher to his failure, to his shame. The blood traitor's godson has no business. This is not for you, will never be for you!"
With that, Kreacher disappeared with a sharp crack that made Harry's ears ring. The candles in the room flickered and went out, leaving Harry standing in darkness save for the faint light from the corridor behind him.
Harry stood there for a long moment, his mind racing. What the hell had that been about? He'd expected Kreacher's usual vitriol, the same hateful spewing of pure-blood supremacist nonsense he'd witnessed before. But this had been different. There had been genuine emotion there, real pain and fear that had nothing to do with Kreacher's usual prejudices.
And that locket. Harry couldn't shake the image of it from his mind. Something about it felt different, though he couldn't put his finger on why. The way Kreacher had clutched it, the way he'd hidden it so desperately when he realized Harry had seen it—that wasn't the behavior of someone protecting a simple family heirloom.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustration building in his chest. Master Regulus's last order. Master Regulus's secrets. What had Sirius's brother been involved in that would leave Kreacher in such a state years after his death?
He thought about waking Sirius, telling him what he'd witnessed. But something held him back. It was late, and Sirius had enough on his plate without Harry dragging him out of bed to discuss his dead brother and their house elf's bizarre behavior. Besides, what would he even say? That Kreacher had been crying over a locket and muttering about failure?
No, this was something he'd need to think about first, maybe do some investigating of his own before bringing it to anyone else's attention.
Harry made his way back toward the stairs, his earlier exhaustion forgotten in the wake of what he'd witnessed. His mind kept returning to Kreacher's words, to the desperate way he'd hidden that locket, and to the genuine fear in his eyes when he thought Harry might try to take it.
Whatever secrets Regulus Black had left behind, Kreacher was guarding them with everything he had. And if Kreacher was this desperate to keep them hidden, Harry had a feeling they were secrets worth knowing.
He just had to figure out how to uncover them without getting hexed by a grief-stricken house elf in the process.
XXXXX
The training room in the basement of Grimmauld Place was larger than Harry had expected—about the size of two classrooms put together, with high ceilings and stone walls that had been reinforced with protective enchantments. Scorch marks and gouges in the stonework showed years of magical practice, and there was something about the air in here. It crackled faintly with residual magic, giving off an eerie feeling.
Harry moved laterally across the room, his wand already in motion as he spotted Sirius emerging from behind a conjured barrier to his left. Without speaking, Harry sent a nonverbal Impedimenta toward his godfather, the red light streaking through the air. Sirius deflected it with a casual shield charm, but the momentary distraction was all Harry needed to roll behind a stone pillar and catch his breath.
"Getting better at the silent casting," Sirius called out, his voice echoing off the walls. "But you're telegraphing your movements too much. I can see where you're aiming before you even cast."
Harry didn't respond, instead focusing on the blonde-haired witch he could sense moving somewhere to his right. Tonks had chosen a wavy blonde style today, the color catching the light as she darted between cover points. She was being quieter than Sirius, more methodical in her approach.
A flash of purple light seared past Harry's shoulder, missing him by inches. He spun and sent a nonverbal Aqua Eructo toward the source, a powerful jet of water that would have knocked Tonks flat if she hadn't managed to slip through a gap in the defensive barriers. The water splashed harmlessly against stone instead.
"Bloody hell, that would've hurt," Tonks's voice came from an entirely different direction now. "Nice power behind it though."
Harry was already moving again, not wanting to stay in one place too long. He transfigured a chunk of loose stone into a small bird, sending it fluttering toward where he thought Sirius was positioned. The distraction worked—Sirius's shield charm flared to life, revealing his position behind a conjured wall.
Harry seized the opportunity, casting a nonverbal Ventus. The powerful gust of wind wasn't quite as strong as it would have been with verbal casting, but it was enough to destabilize Sirius's conjured barrier. The wall crumbled, and Harry followed up immediately with a Stupefy—one of the few simple spells they were allowing in this exercise.
Sirius managed to dodge, but only barely. "Getting cheeky now, are we?"
"Just using what I've learned," Harry shot back, already anticipating Tonks's next move. He was right—she came at him from the left with a Petrificus Totalus that he managed to deflect, though his nonverbal shield wavered under the impact.
The three-way duel continued, each of them trying to gain the upper hand while avoiding the others' attacks. Harry found himself constantly adapting, using the environment to his advantage and mixing up his spell selection to keep them guessing. He transfigured another section of floor into a slippery ice patch that nearly caught Tonks off guard, then used a nonverbal Diffindo to slice through one of Sirius's conjured shields.
His godfather retaliated with a Knockback Jinx that sent Harry stumbling backward. Harry recovered quickly, using the momentum to roll behind cover and catch his breath. Sweat was already beading on his forehead. Constant nonverbal casting while keeping track of two opponents was exhausting work.
"You're doing well," Tonks called out, her voice closer than he'd expected. "But you're not thinking three dimensionally yet."
Harry frowned, trying to work out what she meant, when suddenly a Stunner came from above. He barely managed to dodge, realizing too late that Tonks had transfigured part of the ceiling to give herself a higher vantage point. Clever witch.
He retaliated by transfiguring a section of wall into a swarm of metal butterflies that flew toward both his opponents. The distraction gave him time to reposition, and he caught Sirius with a nonverbal Incarcerous that wrapped ropes around his godfather's legs.
Sirius went down with a curse, but he wasn't out yet. He vanished the ropes with a quick counterspell and fired back with a Locomotor Mortis that Harry only barely managed to shield against.
The pace of the duel was relentless now. Harry found himself falling into the rhythm of it, his mind clear and focused despite the physical exertion. He could feel himself improving with each exchange, his nonverbal casting becoming smoother even as his muscles began to protest the constant movement.
Tonks sent a Reductor Curse toward the pillar Harry was using for cover, and he had to abandon his position quickly as stone fragments exploded outward. He rolled, came up casting, and managed to catch Sirius with a nonverbal Expelliarmus that sent his godfather's wand spinning through the air.
But before Harry could capitalize on his advantage, Tonks caught him with the same spell. His wand flew from his grasp, and he found himself suddenly defenseless as both Sirius and Tonks converged on his position.
"Yield?" Tonks asked, her wand pointed steadily at his chest.
Harry raised his hands in surrender, breathing hard. "Yeah, alright. Yield."
Sirius retrieved his wand with a laugh. "Not bad, Harry. You actually managed to disarm me, which is more than most people can say."
Tonks lowered her wand and walked over to help Harry up, her grin cheeky. "That was brilliant work with the transfiguration. The metal butterflies were a nice touch. Didn't think you were that far ahead already."
"Thanks," Harry said, accepting her hand and pulling himself to his feet. His legs felt like jelly, and he was fairly certain he'd have bruises tomorrow from all the rolling and diving. "Still ended up disarmed."
"Against two opponents, that's bound to happen," Sirius said, joining them and clapping Harry on the shoulder. "The important thing is you lasted as long as you did. A few weeks ago, this fight would've been over in minutes."
"Sirius is right," Tonks added, vanishing the various transfigured objects scattered around the training room with a wave of her wand. "Your progress has been impressive. The nonverbal casting especially—most wizards don't even attempt that until they're well into their NEWT years."
Harry felt a flush of pride at the praise, though he tried not to let it show too much. "I can tell the spells are weaker when I cast them silently. That Ventus should've knocked down Sirius's barrier completely, but it only destabilized it."
"That's normal for anyone learning nonverbal magic," Sirius explained, conjuring three bottles of water and passing them around. "The power difference will decrease as you practice more. Eventually, your silent spells will be just as strong as your verbal ones."
Harry drank deeply from his bottle, the cold water soothing his parched throat. "How long did it take you to master it?"
Sirius exchanged a glance with Tonks. "About a year of dedicated practice. But I didn't have anyone pushing me the way we're pushing you. You're progressing faster than I did at your age."
"Much faster," Tonks agreed, settling down on a conjured bench and stretching out her legs. "The fact that you're managing sustained silent casting while tracking multiple opponents is genuinely impressive. Most students practice nonverbal magic in controlled environments with a single target."
"I had good teachers," Harry said, looking between them with genuine appreciation. The training sessions over the past few days had been intense, but they'd also been exactly what he needed. Every session pushed him further, teaching him not just new spells but new ways of thinking about magic.
Sirius's expression softened, though there was a shadow of something in his eyes. "I'm just glad I can contribute at all. Azkaban..." He paused, his jaw tightening slightly. "Let's just say it takes its toll. I'm still not at a hundred percent, and I don't know if I ever will be."
Harry felt a pang of sympathy. He'd noticed that Sirius sometimes seemed to tire more easily than he should, that his reactions were occasionally a fraction slower than they ought to be. The signs were subtle, but they were there if you knew to look for them.
"You're still one of the best duelists I've ever seen," Harry said firmly. "Even at eighty percent, you're better than most people at their peak."
"That's kind of you to say," Sirius said, but Harry could see the appreciation in his eyes. "Those years in that hellhole did more damage than I'd like to admit. Some days are better than others."
Tonks reached over to squeeze Sirius's hand briefly. "You're here, you're fighting, and you're helping as much as you can. That's what matters."
Sirius nodded, his usual grin returning. "Right then. Shall we talk about what Harry did well and what needs improvement? I think we've got time for a quick debrief before—"
He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. All three of them turned toward the entrance to the training room, and Harry felt his stomach tighten slightly when Hermione appeared in the doorway.
She stood there for a moment, her expression unreadable as she took in the scene—the three of them sweaty and disheveled from training, the scorch marks and evidence of spell work scattered around the room. The tension from their earlier interactions hadn't fully dissipated, and Harry could see it in the way she looked at them. Things were still not alright between them.
"Sorry to interrupt," Hermione said, her voice polite but distant. "Mr. Weasley is waiting for Harry. He said to tell you that you'd be leaving in half an hour."
Harry's stomach did an unpleasant flip. The hearing. He'd almost managed to forget about it during the intensity of the training session, but now it came rushing back. In less than an hour, he'd be standing before the Ministry, defending himself against charges that should never have been brought in the first place.
"Right," Harry said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Thanks for letting me know. Tell Mr. Weasley I'll be there in time."
Hermione nodded, her eyes briefly meeting his before she looked away. "I'll tell him."
She turned and headed back up the stairs without another word, leaving an awkward silence in her wake. Harry sighed, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.
Tonks moved closer, her hand finding his shoulder and squeezing gently. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Harry said, though he wasn't entirely sure that was true. "Just... everything at once, you know?"
"We know," Sirius said quietly. "But you've got this, Harry. The hearing's just a formality—they can't actually prove you did anything wrong."
"Because I didn't do anything wrong," Harry said firmly. "I saved Dudley's life. I saved my own life. I saved Nym's life. If that's a crime, then the law is bollocks."
"Exactly right," Tonks said with approval. "And that's the attitude you need to take with you into that courtroom. You didn't break any laws, and you're not going to let them intimidate you into thinking you did."
Harry nodded, feeling some of his anxiety settle. They were right. He had the truth on his side, and he had a witness who could corroborate his story. Whatever political games Fudge wanted to play, the facts were the facts.
"Come on," Sirius said, gesturing toward the stairs. "Let's get you upstairs so you can change into something presentable. Can't have you showing up to the Ministry looking like you've just been through a war."
They made their way up the narrow stairs, leaving the training room behind. Harry's muscles were already starting to stiffen, and he knew he'd be feeling this workout for the next few days. But there was also a sense of satisfaction in the physical exhaustion, a feeling that he'd pushed himself and come out stronger for it.
The hallway at the top of the stairs was empty, and Tonks took the opportunity to give Harry a soft kiss, her lips warm and reassuring against his. "You're going to be brilliant," she said quietly. "Just tell the truth and don't let them rattle you."
"I won't," Harry promised. He hugged her back, drawing strength from the embrace, before reluctantly releasing her.
His room was exactly as he'd left it that morning, and Harry wasted no time in gathering his formal robes. They weren't anything fancy—just the standard dark robes that wizards wore for official occasions—but they were clean and pressed, courtesy of Mrs. Weasley's tireless efforts.
As he changed, Sirius leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed casually. "How are you feeling? Really feeling, not the brave face you're putting on for everyone else."
Harry paused in the middle of fastening his robes. "Honestly? I'm angry more than anything else. The whole thing is such obvious rubbish. They know I didn't do anything wrong, but they're putting me through this circus anyway because Fudge is too scared to admit Voldemort's back."
"That's a healthy attitude," Sirius said approvingly. "Anger can be useful, as long as you don't let it control you. Channel it into determination instead."
"I plan to," Harry said, finishing with his robes and checking his reflection in the small mirror. He looked older than he had just a few months ago, he realized. The summer had changed him in more ways than one. "They want to intimidate me? Fine. Let them try. I'm done being pushed around by people who think they know what's best for me."
Tonks appeared in the doorway beside Sirius, having changed out of her training clothes into her Auror robes. "That's the spirit. And remember, I'll be there. Knowing someone's in your corner can make a difference."
"It does," Harry said quietly, meeting her eyes. "More than you know."
Sirius glanced between them with a knowing smile but didn't comment. Instead, he straightened up and gestured toward the door. "Right then. Let's get you downstairs before Molly sends out a search party."
They made their way down to the kitchen, where a small crowd had gathered. Arthur Weasley stood near the fireplace, checking his watch anxiously. Kingsley was there too, his expression serious but supportive as he glanced at Harry and nodded. Molly was fussing over the breakfast dishes, though she looked up when Harry entered and gave him a tight smile.
"There you are, dear," she said, her tone carefully neutral. Things had been strained between them since Harry's outburst, and neither of them seemed quite sure how to navigate the new dynamic. Still, she tried to act the same as usual. "Are you ready?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," Harry replied.
Ron and Hermione were seated at the table, both looking up as Harry approached. Ron gave him a thumbs up, his expression encouraging despite the lingering awkwardness between them. Hermione's smile was more hesitant, but it was there.
"Good luck, Harry," Ron said. "Not that you'll need it. This whole thing is a joke anyway."
"Thanks, mate," Harry said.
Arthur came over, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder. "We should get going. Don't want to be late, even if this entire proceeding is highly irregular."
"Wait," Molly said, hurrying over with a small package. "I packed you some biscuits. Just in case you need something to settle your nerves."
Harry accepted the package with a nod of thanks. "I appreciate it, Mrs. Weasley."
Kingsley stepped forward, his deep voice carrying easily across the room. "Harry, I want you to know that not everyone at the Ministry agrees with what's happening. There are good people there who see through Fudge's nonsense. Remember that."
"I will," Harry said.
Tonks caught his eye from across the room, giving him a subtle wink. She couldn't be too obvious about her intentions—not with so many people watching—but Harry understood anyway. She had his back, no matter what.
"The hearing's in Amelia Bones's office," she said. "She's the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Fair woman, no-nonsense. If you stick to the truth, you'll be fine."
"Nymphadora's right," Kingsley added, making Tonks glare at him. "Madam Bones doesn't suffer fools, and she won't let politics interfere with justice if she can help it."
Harry nodded, filing away that information. It was reassuring to know that the person overseeing his hearing was known for her integrity.
"Right then," Arthur said, gesturing toward the fireplace. "We should go. The hearing's at nine, and we want to arrive with at least an hour to spare."
Harry took a pinch of Floo powder from the pot on the mantle, stepping into the fireplace. "Ministry of Magic," he said clearly, and the green flames engulfed him.
The sensation of traveling by Floo was as unpleasant as ever—that spinning, tumbling feeling that made his stomach lurch. But when he stumbled out into the Ministry Atrium moments later, he managed to stay on his feet, which was a massive improvement over his previous experiences with this particular mode of transport.
Arthur arrived right behind him, steadier on his feet but looking slightly green around the edges himself. "That never gets any easier," he muttered, brushing soot off his robes.
The Ministry Atrium was bustling with activity even at this early hour. Witches and wizards hurried past in all directions, their robes swirling as they went about their business. The massive golden fountain dominated the center of the space, its figures frozen in their ridiculous poses—the wizard, witch, centaur, goblin, and house-elf all gazing adoringly at each other in a display that Harry found increasingly distasteful the more he thought about it.
"This way," Arthur said, leading Harry toward the security desk. "We need to get your wand registered."
The wizard manning the security desk was middle-aged and balding, with kind eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He looked up as they approached, his expression professional but not unkind.
"Name and business?" he asked, pulling out a long golden rod similar to the one Harry remembered from his first visit to the Ministry.
"Harry Potter," Harry said clearly. "I'm here for a hearing."
The wizard's eyebrows rose slightly, and he leaned forward, lowering his voice. "I heard about that. Load of rubbish, if you ask me. Give me your wand."
Harry handed over his wand, and the wizard placed it on the golden instrument. It vibrated for a moment before releasing a narrow strip of parchment from its other end.
"Eleven inches, phoenix feather core, been in use four years," the wizard read, then handed both the wand and parchment back to Harry. He leaned in again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not all of us are stupid enough to fall for what the Ministry's trying to pull. Good luck in there, Mr. Potter."
Harry felt a surge of unexpected warmth at the words. "Thank you," he said quietly, accepting his wand back.
As they walked away from the security desk, Arthur spoke softly. "See? Not everyone out there thinks you're lying. A lot of people know something's not right about this whole situation."
They made their way toward the lifts, Harry's formal robes swishing around his legs. The Ministry corridors were just as impressive as the atrium—polished floors, gleaming walls, and the constant movement of memo planes fluttering overhead like strange paper birds.
The lift arrived with a clatter, and they stepped inside along with several other Ministry workers. Harry didn't recognize anyone, and none of them acknowledged him directly either. The atmosphere in the lift was awkward, with everyone carefully avoiding eye contact.
"Morning, Arthur," said a witch in green robes, breaking the silence. "Bit early for you, isn't it?"
"Official business, Mabel," Arthur replied pleasantly. "How's your daughter doing?"
"Oh, brilliantly. I'm sure she'd make prefect this year too," the witch beamed with obvious pride. "Says the ghosts are terrible gossips, you know? Apparently, there's been all sorts of rumors flying about..."
She trailed off, her eyes flicking toward Harry before quickly looking away. The implication was clear—the rumors were about him. About Voldemort. About everything Fudge was so desperate to deny.
The lift descended several levels, and gradually the other occupants filed out until only Harry and Arthur remained.
"Level Two," the cool female voice announced. "Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services."
They stepped out into a corridor that was both familiar and foreign to Harry. He'd never been to this level, but somehow it felt exactly like what he'd expected—all polished wood panels and serious-looking portraits of stern witches and wizards staring down from the walls.
"Auror Headquarters is just down this way," Arthur said, guiding Harry through a series of turns. "Tonks and Kingsley should be—ah, there they are."
Indeed, just ahead Harry could see Tonks and Kingsley standing in the corridor, deep in conversation with a middle-aged witch whose expression was urgent and troubled. Tonks looked especially stricken, her normally cheerful demeanor replaced by something that looked almost like panic.
The moment she spotted Harry and Arthur, Tonks gestured sharply toward a nearby alcove, her eyes wide with urgency. Harry felt his stomach drop. Something was wrong.
They hurried over, and Tonks practically pulled them into the secluded space, checking to make sure they were out of earshot of any passersby before speaking.
"They've pulled a fast one," she said, her voice tight with anger. "Complete bloody manipulation. The hearing's been moved."
"Moved?" Arthur repeated, his face paling. "Moved where?"
"Courtroom Ten," Tonks said, and even Harry, with his limited knowledge of Ministry procedure, could hear the concern in her voice.
Arthur's face went from pale to ashen. "Courtroom Ten? But that's— that's where they try the serious cases. Death Eaters. Dark wizards. Not for a simple Statute of Secrecy violation."
"Don't I know it," Tonks hissed, her hair flashing from pink to an angry red. "They're trying to intimidate him, to make him feel like he's already guilty before the hearing even starts. And that's not all. They've rescheduled it for eight o'clock. Said they dispatched a missive via owl some time ago."
Arthur pulled out his pocket watch, his hands shaking slightly. "It's already eight," he said, his voice strained. "We're late. They've— they deliberately didn't inform us of the change until it was too late."
Harry felt anger surge through him. This was exactly the kind of political manipulation he'd been railing against, the kind of underhanded tactic that made his blood boil. They were trying to stack the deck, to catch him off-guard and unprepared.
"Bastards," he said quietly, his voice hard. "They're trying to make me look bad from the start. Show up late, flustered, unprepared..."
"Which is exactly why you need to stay calm," Kingsley said as he arrived. His deep voice was steady and his face calm. "They want you rattled. Don't give them the satisfaction."
Arthur was already moving, gesturing urgently for Harry to follow. "We don't have a moment to waste. Courtroom Ten is in the Department of Mysteries level, we need to—"
They practically ran through the corridors, Arthur leading the way with Harry right behind. Ministry workers jumped out of their path, and Harry caught more than a few curious or concerned looks as they passed. The lifts seemed to take forever, and Harry spent the entire descent trying to control his breathing, to channel his anger into something useful.
"The full Wizengamot will be there," Arthur said as they descended, his voice tight. "Using Courtroom Ten means they've assembled everyone—all fifty members. This isn't just a hearing anymore, Harry. They've turned it into a full trial."
"For casting a Patronus," Harry said flatly. "A full trial for saving lives."
"I know," Arthur said, and he looked genuinely anguished. "I'm sorry, Harry. If I'd known they were going to pull something like this—"
"It's not your fault," Harry said firmly. "This is Fudge's doing. His and whoever else is pulling the strings."
The lift finally arrived at the correct level, and they rushed out into a corridor that was markedly different from the levels above. Here, the walls were plain black stone, unadorned and somehow foreboding. The torches burned with an eerie blue light, casting strange shadows that seemed to move of their own accord.
"Down here," Arthur said, leading Harry along the corridor at a near-run. "I'm not allowed inside, Harry. This is as far as I can go."
Harry nodded, steeling himself. "Right. Thank you for getting me here."
"Good luck," Arthur said, his hand briefly squeezing Harry's shoulder. "Just tell the truth. That's all you can do."
Harry took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and pushed open the heavy doors to Courtroom Ten.
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