Harry woke before dawn.
The old Black family house was silent, the air heavy with the pressure of the coming day. He quietly descended the narrow staircase, his footsteps soft on the creaking wood floors.
When he entered the kitchen, he found Mr. and Mrs. Granger already at the table.
Neither had slept well.
Mrs. Granger clutched a mug of tea between shaking hands.
Mr. Granger stared blankly at a newspaper he wasn't actually reading.
Both looked up when Harry entered — eyes tired, haunted.
Harry poured himself a cup of tea and sat with them.
Mrs. Granger tried to speak first. "Harry… is she going to be—"
"She'll be fine," Harry said firmly.
Not softly.
Not gently.
Firmly — with the absolute certainty of someone who would rip the Ministry apart brick by brick if necessary.
Mr. Granger swallowed hard. "They could… they could take her wand, couldn't they? Expel her?"
Harry's fingers tightened around the cup.
"It won't happen," he said again. "Not today. Not ever."
He met their eyes.
"I promise you — Hermione will walk out of that courtroom unharmed."
Mrs. Granger's breath shook. "How can you be sure?"
"Because I'll be there," Harry said. "And the ministry knows exactly who I am."
Silence.
Mrs. Granger finally whispered, "Thank you, Harry."
Harry stood and began preparing toast. The Grangers tried to protest, telling him he didn't have to cook, but Harry only shrugged.
"It's something practical," he said. "Something normal. Something we all need today."
Hermione entered moments later, pale and jumpy, but she tried to smile at the sight of the breakfast table. No one had much of an appetite, but Harry forced her to eat at least a few bites.
"We need your strength," he said, pushing a plate toward her.
After breakfast, Hermione nervously tightened her cloak and adjusted her hair.
Ted Tonks had been clear:
He will take Hermoine to the trial himself.
Seeing Harry beside her would cause a riot.
The Wizengamot would react defensively, blinded by politics and fear.
Harry knew that.
He didn't like it.
But he accepted it.
Hermione glanced at him. "Are you sure you shouldn't come with us…?"
Harry shook his head.
"I'll meet you there."
He pulled a parchment slip from his pocket — beautifully embossed with the Ministry seal.
"Thanks to Ted, I have a legal pass as a courtroom observer."
Hermione looked at it with wide eyes. "You got one? But those are usually—"
"For law students, reporters, or Ministry interns," Harry finished. "Yes. But Hermione, your hearing is classified as low-priority. No reporters cared. No observers booked seats." He tucked the pass into his pocket.
"So I booked one."
Hermione exhaled shakily. "Harry… thank you."
He rested a hand on her shoulder.
"Everything will be fine. Trust me."
Ted would arrive in thirty minutes to escort Hermione.
Harry grabbed his cloak.
Mr. Granger asked, "Where are you going?"
"To get there early," Harry said, fastening the clasp. "There are things I need to see before the hearing begins."
Mrs. Granger worried at her lip. "Will you be all right?"
Harry smiled faintly — sharp, confident, unshakable.
"You forget," he said quietly, "how popular I am."
He stepped out the front door and onto the early-morning street.
The sky was a pale grey, thick with fog.
Harry lifted a hand, and with a crack like a whip, the Knight Bus materialized in front of him. Stan Shunpike blinked at him sleepily.
"'Morning, Harry—er—Mr. Potter. Where to?"
"The old red telephone box in London, one that connect to the ministry."
Stan gave a stiff nod. "Right away!"
Harry boarded, gripping the brass pole as the bus lurched violently forward, teleporting through streets with reckless abandon. He didn't care. His mind was already on the Ministry — on the courtroom — on the political storm waiting for them.
The bus screeched to a halt. Harry stepped out into a quiet London street.
He approached the battered old red telephone booth.
He lifted the receiver.
Dialed the number that Ted told him.
The monotone voice echoed:
WELCOME TO THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC.
PLEASE STATE YOUR NAME AND BUSINESS.
Harry's eyes darkened.
"Harry Potter," he said.
"Courtroom observer for the Wizengamot session."
The booth shuddered.
A soft chime rang as the telephone booth stopped sinking.
The door opened.
And Harry stepped into the atrium of the Ministry of Magic.
For a moment — just a moment — he stopped walking.
The Ministry's main hall was colossal.
A long, polished corridor of black stone stretched out before him like the spine of some titanic beast. The ceiling soared overhead, enchanted to glimmer with reflections of witchlight, shifting like the surface of dark water. Echoes of footsteps and hurried voices blended into a constant hum.
On either side of the atrium, hundreds of tall, ornate fireplaces lined the walls.
Every few seconds—
WHOOSH—!
Bright green flames erupted from one of them.
A witch stepped out, dusting soot from her robes.
WHOOSH—!
Another flared to life, expelling a flustered wizard carrying a stack of files.
The flow of figures appeared constant, endless — the Ministry breathing people in and out with mechanical precision.
Vendors hawked the latest Daily Prophet editions from their stalls.
Clerks in navy blue robes hurried by with stacks of parchment.
Visitors queued at information desks.
Harry walked straight ahead, confident, unmoved.
But when he reached the center of the hall… he stopped again.
Because towering above him, rising from a circular pool of enchanted water, stood the massive Fountain of Magical Brethren.
A wizard with a calm, benevolent smile.
A centaur staring nobly into the distance.
A house-elf holding its hands upward in service.
A goblin standing dutifully by.
And behind them all…
A golden statue of Merlin himself, robes flowing, wand raised in timeless power.
The water shimmered, enchanted to glow in soft blue light as coins glinted at the bottom.
Harry stared at it.
Mesmerized.
The craftsmanship was incredible — the details so precise that he could see individual strands of hair carved into Merlin's beard. The wizard's robes rippled as if caught in invisible wind. The house-elf's posture radiated devotion. The centaur's muscles were sculpted with reverence.
But—
No one else looked at it.
Witches and wizards rushed by without a glance.
Clerks pushed trolleys of files past it as if it were nothing more than wallpaper.
They had grown used to it.
Numb to its presence.
Harry's jaw tightened.
This is what power becomes, he thought.
Familiar. Ignored. Taken for granted.
He approached the fountain and tossed in a Knut out of habit.
The water glowed softly.
A pair of elderly witches nearby whispered when they recognized him:
"Is that—?"
"It can't be—"
"He shouldn't be here—"
Harry stepped away from the golden fountain, walking toward the long row of desks set up along the left side of the Ministry atrium.
Behind each desk sat a Ministry employee in grey-blue robes, performing the same monotonous task over and over:
Inspecting visitor wands.
Recording details.
Checking spells.
It was regulation — and today, Harry was not exempt.
He approached the nearest desk.
The wizard seated there looked up—middle-aged, balding, with ink smudged on his fingers and a quill hovering above his ledger. His expression was neutral… at first.
"Name?" he asked automatically.
"Harry Potter."
The quill froze.
The man blinked. Slowly. Once. Twice.
His polite Ministry mask cracked into a look of unmistakable distaste—quick, sharp, and unguarded—before he forced himself back into stiff professionalism.
"Very well," he muttered. "Wand, please."
Harry handed over his wand calmly.
The man took it like one might pick up something unpleasant with bare fingers. Then he began writing:
Name: Potter, Harry
Wand Wood: Holly
Wand Core: Phoenix Feather
He performed the Priori Incantato spell, touching Harry's wand tip to parchment.
A faint light glowed as the last five spells Harry cast were recorded automatically into the ledger.
The man's eyes flickered across the page.
He stiffened.
Whatever he saw clearly unsettled him — wandless or nonverbal magic mixed with Force techniques must have created irregular spell signatures, strange to traditional Ministry detection.
But he said nothing.
He quickly pushed the wand back toward Harry.
"Here," he said, curt. "You may go."
Harry took it without comment.
The Ministry worker cleared his throat. "Go straight down the hall and take the first left. The lifts are that way. Courtrooms are on Level Eight."
"Thank you," Harry replied, voice polite but icy.
He walked away.
Behind him, the wizard let out a breath he'd been holding.
Harry followed the directions down a polished corridor, passing through crowds of witches and wizards heading to various offices.
At the left turn, he saw the bank of golden lifts waiting behind ornate metal grilles.
A young witch in crisp Ministry robes served as the lift attendant. She glanced at Harry as he approached, hesitated a fraction of a second, then forced a tight smile.
"Level?"
"Eight," Harry said.
"Courtrooms," she murmured. "Very well. Step inside."
Harry entered.
The grille shut with a metallic clang.
With a sudden jolt, the lift lurched downward, descending into the depths of the Ministry.
At Level Two, two Aurors stepped out.
At Level Four, two witches from the Department of Magical Games and Sports stepped in — then stepped out again moments later.
At Level Five, a goblin inspector climbed aboard, glancing at Harry with something between suspicion and curiosity.
Harry ignored all of them.
The lift rattled, clanked, and echoed as it dropped deeper underground.
Finally—
"Level Eight," the attendant announced.
The gate slid open.
Harry stepped out into a dimly lit stone corridor, lined with torch brackets and echoing with distant echoes.
Ahead lay the courtroom floor.
Harry found the narrow stone passage Ted Tonks had told him about — corridor behind a tapestry that only Ministry employees and a few legal scholars ever used.
It curved sharply downward, cold air brushing against his cloak as torches flickered weakly along the walls. At the end of the corridor stood a heavy wooden door with iron hinges.
Harry pushed it open silently.
And slipped into the visitors' gallery.
A narrow balcony circled the upper rim of Courtroom, overlooking the massive bowl-shaped chamber below. Only a handful of seats were allowed for observers.
Four were already occupied.
Young witches and wizards sat hunched over their parchment, quills scratching furiously. Their robes bore the sigil of the Magical Law Institute — law apprentices studying Wizengamot procedures.
One of them glanced up when Harry entered, saw only a hooded figure, and immediately looked away.
A hood in the wizarding world wasn't suspicious.
Dangerous artifacts existed, dangerous curses existed, and dangerous enemies existed.
People often hid their faces.
No one questioned Harry.
He slid silently into a shadowed seat at the far corner, the hood obscuring his features, the Force masking his presence.
Below, the enormous chamber of Courtroom glowed with wandlight. The stone benches of the Wizengamot spiraled around a central chair — the accused's seat.
Hermione would soon sit there.
Harry's jaw tightened beneath the hood.
For now, the chamber was filled with a low roar — a chorus of murmurs, complaints, and sharp whispers.
The Wizengamot was already in session.
But not for Hermione.
They were arguing about cauldron thickness.
"—if potion accidents have increased, perhaps your cauldron manufacturers should be held accountable," snapped a sharp-robed witch in the second row.
A stout pure-blood lord huffed indignantly. "My family has produced cauldrons since the thirteenth century! The blame lies with incompetent students!"
Another voice rose from across the chamber. "The standard thickness must be reviewed—"
A thunderous gavel slammed.
"Order! We will discuss cauldron specifications in due course!"
Harry's fingers twitched with irritation.
They're going through various death eater attacks, and they're arguing about cauldron thickness?
He forced himself to breathe.
He had to observe.
Not attack.
Not yet.
Suddenly, Amelia Bones — stern, square-shouldered, monocle flashing — stood.
Her voice cut through the chamber like a curse.
"The Auror Office requests immediate allocation of additional budget," she said. "Increased Dark activity has been confirmed. We need manpower, equipment, and imported potion ingredients."
A ripple went through the benches.
Several pure-bloods stiffened.
One, a silver-haired wizard with a sneer carved into his face, stood.
"The Ministry cannot conjure Galleons out of thin air, Madam Bones. The budget is strained already."
Another lord nodded vigorously. "We cannot allow wasteful spending on paranoid fantasies of Death Eaters!"
Amelia glared.
"Two attacks occurred — in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. Property damage, fires, curses on civilians—"
"And yet," the pure-blood lord interrupted smoothly, "no proof connects these incidents to the Death Eaters."
Harry's eyes narrowed.
There it is. They're already setting the stage. Weakening the Auror Office. Undermining defense. Clearing a path for Voldemort.
From the balcony, Harry watched as the arguments grew harsher, more political, more absurd. Amelia Bones pushed desperately for more funding.
The pure-blood bloc fought her on every point.
She demanded better gear.
They claimed "budget shortages."
She asked for imported medical supplies.
They countered with "unnecessary spending."
Harry saw it clearly.
They were crippling the Ministry from within.
Not out of incompetence — but deliberate sabotage.
If the Auror Office stayed weak…
If the Ministry stayed divided…
Then when Voldemort returned with full strength—
they would be completely unprepared.
Harry clenched the armrest.
"These people," he muttered under his breath, "are laying out a red carpet for the Dark Lord."
A law student near him looked up nervously — Harry's voice was low but cold, dangerous.
But he didn't say more.
Author's Note:
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