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Chapter Text

“Harry!” the voice in his earpiece called. “Sorry to bother you; there’re two Aurors here. They say it’s urgent.”

Harry’s annoyance at being disturbed in the middle of the spell-working – he thought he’d made it damn clear to his new assistant, Janine, that he wasn’t to be interrupted under any circumstances, short of the return of Voldemort or one of the kids falling off their brooms - gave way to a sudden and awful rush of fear, pumping adrenalin into his heart and making it kick violently in his chest. Voldemort was dead and gone and dear God, had Lily fallen off her new Phoenix 25? Two Aurors surely meant that something terrible had happened.

“Be right out,” he said back into the speaker. He looked at the spell-weave hovering in the air around him, wondering how he could save some of the work he had done in the last three hours, when suddenly the reality of it really hit him. One of the children might be hurt. Why in hell was he wasting a second? With a slash of his wand, he yanked all the tendrils towards him, pulling them tighter and tighter, and finally, with a twist of his wrist, condensed them all into a ball, took the mass of almost-matter into his hand, and crushed it. His whole body spasmed as the magic jolted up his arm, all the power he’d exerted creating the working trying to leap back into his body, even though it was now twisted and tangled. He breathed in, letting it come, letting it settle and even itself, before clapping his hands together. The last of the energy dissipated in a tremendous thunderclap.

Harry brushed his hands off, a sparkle of dust glittering in the air before disappearing, and stuck his fingers in his ears to clear them.

He pointed his wand up at the lid of the box: it opened silently on its hinges. A narrow face loomed over the edge looking down at him; squinting up, Harry wondered if he knew the Auror, though from the strange angle, and with the light behind the man’s head, he couldn’t really tell.

The Auror said not a word and drew back.

Heart pounding, Harry climbed the ladder quickly and swung his leg over the top of the chest, dropping to his feet in his workroom. Automatically, he shut the lid and sealed it with a spell before turning back to the two Aurors.

Harry took in the tension in their posture, the unsmiling faces. The woman was staring at him, although the man’s eyes dropped as Harry looked at him.

“What is it?” The words sounded deafening despite the thumping of his heartbeat.

Janine was hovering uncertainly. Harry wished his old assistant, Toby, hadn’t retired: he was a master of the discreet exit.

“Perhaps you could go and make some tea?” the female Auror suggested.

“Oh! Er, yes, of course! But – the shop?” Janine looked anxiously at Harry.

“Close it,” the male Auror said firmly.

Harry’s legs suddenly felt like jelly. He could barely wait for the girl to leave the room.

“What’s happened?” He couldn’t control the quaver in his voice.

“Mr Potter. I’m Auror Hencliffe and this is Auror Franklin.”

Harry felt as if he’d fallen into an alternative reality as the young man stepped forward to shake his hand, with just a flicker of his eyes heading to Harry’s forehead. Having put out his hand in automatic courtesy, Harry withdrew it quickly. Fortunately, the woman remained where she was. She was considerably older than Hencliffe, and Harry turned to her.

“Please? What’s this all about? Is one of the children hurt?”

“We’ve just sent Aurors to Hogwarts now, Mr Potter, but we’ve no reason to suspect that your children are not perfectly alright -”

“Oh god. Are you expecting some sort of attack? On Hogwarts? Or – or on my children specifically?” Harry gasped. “But – James and Albus aren’t at Hogwarts anymore. James is working for Doherty’s – you know, the wizarding holiday agency? In Croft Lane, off Diagon Alley. Albus should be at Gringotts - he started there this summer. What – who – why are you thinking that they might be attacked?”

“Please sit down, Mr Potter,” Auror Franklin said, pulling Harry’s chair out from behind his drawing desk.

“Why do I need to sit down?” Harry said. “For Merlin’s sake, tell me what’s wrong!”

Franklin came over to stand facing him. Harry stared at her, and then glanced at Hencliffe, who was a few feet away, with his head turned to the window.

Harry didn’t think he was interested in what was going on outside.

He looked back to Auror Franklin.

“I’m afraid it’s very bad news,” she said gently. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, Mr Potter, but Mrs Potter is dead.”

Harry could hear the words but they didn’t seem to make any sense.

“What? No. No, that can’t be right. She wasn’t playing today. You must mean someone else. That new girl was –”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Hencliffe said firmly.

“But she wasn’t playing!” Harry argued. “How can she be dead?”

“It wasn’t a quidditch accident,” Franklin explained, touching his arm. “I know this must be a terrible shock, but … Mrs Potter was murdered. I’m so sorry,” she said again.

Harry felt a weird sensation, and realised that his legs were actually beginning to give under him. Auror Franklin guided him across the floor towards his chair. Harry grasped the wooden arms and lowered himself down. He felt like his spine, his bones, were dissolving. He tried to speak but words wouldn’t seem to form. The room was distorting – the next moment, he felt a hand pushing his head between his knees. He took great gulping breaths of air. Tears were sprouting in his eyes, weird and hot, scalding his skin and utterly uncontrollable.

“Try breathing slowly,” she said, her hand still resting between his shoulder blades, a steady pressure holding him onto reality.

He was bizarrely aware of the shiny shoes Auror Hencliffe was wearing, just catching the edge of his field of vision, and that one of the laces was coming undone. Hadn’t his mother taught him a ‘Knot-Last’ charm?

Mother.

Ginny…mother of his children.

He screwed his eyes up, as if he could squeeze himself away from the world, from what was happening, as if it would go away if he didn’t look at it.

His nose was full of snot. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, blowing hard, and then scrubbed his cheeks with the back of his hand. The pinprick tears were still threatening and he spoke to drive them away. “Why would anyone… not now…it’s years…”. He went over what had been said. “The children: you said you’ve sent Aurors to check the children? There’s a threat against my whole family? Who from?”

“That’s just a precaution, Sir,” Hencliffe said, in a reassuring tone. “We already have the murderer.”

“What?”

“We have him in custody,” he said in a satisfied voice.

“I don’t understand.” Harry stood up shakily. “Was this because of me? It can’t have been to do with Voldemort, surely? Not after all this time? Not Death Eaters.”

“It was a Death Eater,” Hencliffe said, and he was unable to keep the hint of excitement out of his voice.

“Then – then Ron – Ron Weasley must be involved. Why – why are you here, and not Ron? His department deals with Death Eater related business, I know it does. God, he hasn’t been hurt too?”

“Not exactly, Sir –”

“Not exactly? What does that mean?” Harry screeched.

“Mr Weasley is not involved in this case - ” Auror Franklin began.

“He’s at St Mungo’s having his knuckles healed –”.

“That is quite enough, thank you, Auror Hencliffe,” Auror Franklin cut him off, her face furious.

The cogs clicked in Harry’s brain. “He punched Ginny’s…Ginny’s murderer, and they’ve taken him off the case?” he summarized wearily.

Auror Franklin drew herself up. “I’m afraid I can’t go into details, Mr Potter,” she said, in a formal tone. “Obviously, it isn’t appropriate for an Auror to be part of an investigation that involves a member of their family.”

Harry couldn’t think whether it was a good idea or not for someone involved to be part of the case. Ron surely had a right to be involved: what was the point of being an Auror if you couldn’t protect your own family? But…but it was too late for protection.

For Ginny.

Harry needed to know the children were safe. He needed to see them, hear their voices.

God, he’d have to tell them…

“I need to see the children,” Harry voiced the one thing that seemed to make any sense at the moment. He strode to the floo.

Janine wobbled in bearing a tray overloaded with a steaming tea pot, cups and saucers and a plate of biscuits.

Harry halted as he reached for the floo powder.

“Shall I pour?” she asked.

Harry’s hand, shaking, raked through his hair. “No, thanks Janine. You – you can go home. I – I’ll be in touch. Later. We won’t be open tomorrow. I – “

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

It was a ridiculous question. Of course something was wrong. There were two Aurors here telling him that his wife has been murdered. Harry could hear her curiosity barging its way past her concern, but the absurdity of it was eliciting an appalling and inappropriate desire to laugh. Harry had to fight with his face, which seemed to be writhing in weird motions out of his control.

“Mr Potter has had some bad news,” Franklin said quietly.

“Oh dear –” Janine began to wring her hands. “What can I do? I can run the shop for you –”

Harry moved abruptly, cutting her off.

She looked a little affronted.

“I – I’m sorry,” Harry said. “I can’t think about that now. I – I’ll be in touch,” he said again.

“But – shall I come in tomorrow?”

Harry felt like he’d explode.

Hencliffe walked Janine to the door. “I suggest you come and put a note on the door tomorrow to say that the shop is closed due to a family matter. Mr Potter will owl you to let you know when he needs you back.”

They had reached the shop door. Hencliffe opened it politely.

“Oh! Oh, of course! Is someone ill?” she asked.

“Mr Potter will be in touch,” he said firmly, and pushed her out.

“She’s new,” Harry said, irrelevantly. “I need to talk to the children.”

“I’ve sent two Aurors to Hogwarts,” Franklin said. “I’ll send more to find your sons.”

“They won’t tell them, will they? I need to be there,” Harry said. “Can you take them home? There’ll be safe there; it’s best I tell them there.”

Something flickered across Hencliffe’s face.

“What?” Harry’s eyes darted from one to the other.

They both looked grim.

“I’m afraid that’s not a good idea, Mr Potter. The house is – ” Franklin seemed to steel herself. “Mrs Potter was killed there.”

“At home? No, that’s not possible! The wards there – I strengthened them myself –”

“I’ll explain in a moment. But first, where would you like me to have the children taken? Perhaps you have another house, or…?”

“No. Just Grimmauld Place, and the flat above here.”

“I’ll organise a safe house,” Franklin said quietly. “Just until we finish our investigations. I’m sure the Headmaster won’t mind having your boys at Hogwarts for an hour or two to be with their sister while I get something sorted.”

“I want to see the children. I need to be there,” Harry said again. He felt like a broken record, repeating over and over, but all he could think of was Lily and Albus and James. His mind sheared away from thinking of Ginny.

“And we need to talk to you alone first,” Franklin said firmly.

“That sounds...” Harry drew in a shuddering breath, his eyes looking pleadingly at the Auror.

“It’s not good,” Franklin acknowledged quietly. “Give me two minutes.”

Harry sat in a daze whilst she made arrangements.

When Franklin had finished, Harry took the Aurors upstairs to the flat, leading them into the kitchen. He hadn’t touched the tea downstairs, but now poured them a glass of water, and waited with dread for them to begin.

He watched the look that passed between the two, the agreement that Franklin was going to do the talking. He saw her visibly bracing herself.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” she began, and stopped.

“Yes. But for Merlin’s sake get on with it! I’m imagining something probably much worse –”

“It’s bad.” Franklin took a deep breath and Harry almost wilted at the pity in her eyes. “We believe Mrs Potter was…assaulted…first. And – it wasn’t a clean death. I’m so terribly sorry.”

Harry stiffened, as if a Petrificus Totalis had been performed on him.

“She was …assaulted? What does that mean? Someone hurt her?”

“Our first impressions are that she was severely beaten.” Hencliffe joined in. “And we believe she was sexually assaulted. Of course, we won’t know for sure until – ”

“Are you saying she was – she was - raped? By a Death Eater? In our home?”

“We believe so, Sir,” Franklin said quietly.

Harry walked away to look out of the window; below, shoppers scurried along the street or lingered to look at the displays. It seemed inconceivable that people should be going on with their normal lives.

“And you’ve caught him?”

“We have one man in custody. Don’t worry, we’ll get information out of him on whether he had accomplices,” Hencliffe said confidently.

Harry’s hands, resting on the windowsill, clenched into fists, the knuckles white. “You think there might be others involved? That this wasn’t just a Death Eater with a grudge from the past? Do you think the Death Eaters are re-forming?” Harry asked, still with his back to them.

“As I gather you know, Auror Weasley’s team monitors any activity we think might be suspicious, from those who’ve finished their sentences, of course. There was no warning of anything of this nature. Also,” Franklin paused, and rubbed her cheek.

“Also…?”

“It wasn’t – the man we have detained didn’t go to Azkaban.”

Harry’s brows drew together. “But – the papers said – all the Death Eaters were found and –“

“Junior Death Eaters didn’t get sent to Azkaban,” Franklin interrupted. “I believe you yourself suggested that they be put on probation, and instigated the One World education programme, Mr Potter.”

Harry stared at her. “Who was it?” he whispered.

“His guilt is, of course, for the Wizengamot to decide –”

“WHO!” Harry bellowed.

“Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

Chapter Text

“Fuck!” Hencliffe stared at the blank space where a second earlier Harry Potter had stood.

“Did you have to just spit it out?” snapped Franklin. “And watch your language.”

“He’d know soon enough,” Hencliffe shrugged, unchastened.

“You’re unbelievable,” Franklin fumed, checking the doors, locking and warding both front and back entrances. “Were you deliberately inciting him to go and do the same as Ron Weasley?”

“Malfoy’s in custody, he can’t reach him.”

“No? Have you ever read any history books, Hencliffe? Even as a boy that man got everywhere: into the Ministry, the Department of Mysteries – heck, he broke into Gringotts and practically destroyed the place -”

“I think all that is really exaggerated. He’s only a trunk maker –”

Franklin stalked up to him and grabbed the front of his robes. “You idiot! That man’s wife has been savaged and murdered. Whatever you think, he did kill Voldemort. And he killed a teacher at Hogwarts in his first year. Just because he chooses to lead a quiet life, doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of violence. If we don’t want two murders on our hands, you won’t underestimate him. Got it?”

“Got it,” Hencliffe mumbled, shaking himself free. “So where do you think he’s gone? To the Ministry holding cells? After his children? To his house? And what do you mean, he killed a teacher at Hogwarts?”

Harry had apparated right into the sitting room at Grimmauld Place. An Auror came rushing in as he opened the door, almost knocking into him.

“You can’t come in here! This is a crime scene! How did you –?”

“Where is she?”

“Pardon? You shouldn’t have been able to get in here, Sir, there are Auror wards – ”

“Where is my wife?” Harry bit out.

“Mr Potter! I’m sorry, I didn’t –”

“WHERE IS SHE?!”

“Upstairs, Sir, but you can’t –”

The Auror chased after him as Harry took the stairs two at a time; a second Auror came out of their bedroom and made as if to stop him.

Harry apparated, straight into the room.

“What the fu –!”

He’d narrowly avoided occupying the same space as a man standing casually, hands in pockets, watching a wizard in yellow robes who was leaning over the blood-soaked bed, passing his wand slowly over Ginny’s breasts.

Or rather, over the gaping wound across one of them.

The Auror had bitten off the expletive as he’d recognised Harry. “You shouldn’t be here, Mr Potter. We set wards –”

The yellow-robed man, straightened. He had CAW embroidered in large letters on the front as well as the back of his robe. “This is a crime scene, Sir –”

“And that’s my wife,” Harry said
.
In the ensuing silence, he approached the bed.

How could one body bleed so much? The air reeked with the tang of it. The whole scene was like some abstract painting, where tins of paint had been thrown against a canvas. Ginny’s glorious russet hair, spread over the red and white of the blood-splattered pillows, the eerie grey of her skin, the unfocussed blue of her eyes, the shiny steel of the handcuffs that bound her wrists to the black metalwork of the bedstead.

He could not bear to look.

He could not bear to look away.

Footsteps sounded outside and the door crashed open.

Harry didn’t bother to turn. He ignored the whispered conversation, the wash of magic as he felt the Auror wards being tested.

This was his wife.

The mother of his children.

A woman he had known from childhood.

Sister of his oldest friend.

Ginny.

He slipped down, to sit on the side of the bed.

“Mr Potter –”

He ignored it.

His hands reached up. He touched the cuffs, felt the metal and the magic. The locks clicked open. He slid his fingers in, expanding the grip. Ginny’s hands suddenly slithered out. The flurry of movement as her arms dropped and her body shifted, released from the unnatural posture, was horribly disconcerting, as if she had suddenly come back to life. Harry’s heart thumped loudly in his chest.

And then she was still.

Everyone seemed to be holding their breaths.

Harry reached out and picked up one small hand, his fingers smoothing over the damaged wrist.

She was cool, though not yet cold.

Ginny was dead, and yet there was a hint of the life that had been in her.

“You can’t do that! You’re destroying evidence –” the Crime Assessment Wizard began.

Harry looked up, his eyes sliding between the three men now in the room. He recognised Dawlish, from years back, looking older and slack-jowled. His free hand cast a quick spell.

The noise disappeared.

The shield he’d erected kept them out.

He turned to look at Ginny again.

This thing that had once been Ginny.

His fingers stroked the hand between his own. There were callouses on hers, from the years of quidditch. He looked at his own hand, then touched his own callouses against hers. Her nails were painted a deep maroon, shiny and fresh and newly done.

His eyes wandered from her hand across to her stomach, the tiny gentle curve that was the only legacy of the children that she had borne within it, the trimmed topiary of her fiery pubic hair, down across the splayed legs. One leg had a fine stocking on it, a whisper of flesh-coloured silk, a black stiletto-heeled shoe still on her foot. The other was bare.

There was a slash right across the thigh. Another slash across her ribs, yet another deep one had bitten across her breast and nipple.

There seemed something particularly awful about that.

The last cut had peeled open her cheek and the corner of her mouth.

Whoever had done this had known Sectumsempra.

The spell Harry himself had cast on Malfoy all those years ago.

Chapter Text

“Dad! Thank Merlin you’re alright! I thought something must’ve happened to you! They won’t tell us why everyone’s here or anything. What’s going on?”

All three of his children were already assembled in one of the parents’ visiting rooms at Hogwarts, but it was Lily who spoke, leaping up from the squashy sofa where she had been sitting next to Albus. James had been sprawled in a single chair next to them, but both he and Albus got to their feet too.

Lily had come straight over, putting her hand on his arm and looking up at him.

She looked so like her mother.

Harry’s arms went round her, his face instantly entangled in her blazing hair. She was the smallest of his children, and yet was more or less the same height as he was. All of them had inherited long limbs from the Weasley side, tall and lean like Bill and Ron and George. Both boys stood there, towering over him, exuding vigour and strength, and he felt so frail, so reluctant to bring their freedom and happiness crashing down, to change the lives that he had worked so hard to give them: happy, normal, ordinary lives.

That would all dissipate like steam over a cauldron the minute he spoke.

“Is it Grandpa?” Lily asked.

Grandpa Weasley had had several strokes within the last two years; wizards seemed no better at healing such damage than Muggles. It was a reasonable suggestion – one that hadn’t even occurred to Harry – for them being collected together and for Ginny’s absence. Except –

“Why the Aurors?” Albus queried.

Harry looked at the boys over Lily’s head. His whole life since James had been born had been committed to keeping them happy, to being a good father, to trying to give his children the security and love that was missing in his own childhood. He had learnt, of course, that it wasn’t possible to protect them from everything – that there would be illnesses, and bumps and scrapes, and that loving them meant giving them the freedom for those bumps and scrapes to come about, and that they had to make their own friends and sometimes that was painful too. But he had tried. He had – the last three years – all pointless. He swallowed. He had got it wrong. It was his fault that this had happened. He had failed them. He shut his eyes a moment, hugging Lily tighter.

“Dad?” James’ voice quavered.

Harry put Lily away from him.

“Sit down,” he said, taking the single chair.

The children all squeezed together on the sofa, looking like they had done as little children sat before a film on their converted television set. Now though, they were looking at him rather than at a screen, faces concerned rather than excited.

“It’s Mum.”

“What?”

“What’s happened?”

“She’s left?”

The last came from James, and Harry looked at him sharply. James’ eyes flickered.

“Sorry, I –”

Harry shook his head. He could think about that later. It didn’t matter, anyway, did it? Not now.

“I –” It was impossible to get the words out. Harry didn’t want to have to do this. His eyes took in their anxious faces; he had nothing good to offer them, to take that worry away. But at least he could break the news to them.

Before someone else did.

“Mum’s dead. I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“What?”

“How? How can that be? What happened? Dead?”

The phrases were almost the same from a minute ago, but now the meaning was entirely different.

Lily just had her hand over her mouth, absolute disbelief etched onto her features. He reached out to take her hand. His own were shaking.

“Was she hit by a bludger?” James’ brow was drawn down tight as he thought out the possibilities. “Did she fall? God!”

Harry shook his head. “She – she - god, this is hard.” He rubbed his hand over his face. His skin was clammy. “She was murdered."

“Murdered? Mum?”

“Why?”

“Where?”

“At home. Grimmauld Place,” he clarified.

“How did they get through the wards?”

“Who would want to murder Mum? That’s ridiculous!”

“Did she know her murderer?” Albus asked, in shock, following along James’ thought track. “Did she let him in?”

“I – they don’t know all the details yet,” Harry prevaricated.

“Do they have any idea?”

“How do they know she was murdered and not just had an accident?” asked Lily.

Harry closed his eyes. He could see the scene, smell the blood…

“She was murdered,” he said firmly.

“Avada Kedavra?” James asked.

Harry shook his head. He didn’t want to go into details. But his children weren’t really children, were they? They were all adults now, or near enough, he thought, looking at Lily.

“It was - I think it was probably Sectumsempra,” Harry said, not mentioning the other atrocities that Ginny had also suffered. “I – you won’t have heard of it, I don’t think. I – I haven’t seen that spell for – a long time.”

A silence followed whilst his children absorbed this. Although their father never talked about it, they knew that probably meant back in the war.

“A Death Eater spell?” Albus asked.

“No. Yes. That is -” Harry’s thoughts on the spell were too muddled. It was obviously key that it had been used; but he didn’t know if it had been widely known among Death Eaters or not. It only mattered that he had used it.

He did not want to admit that to his children.

“It’s like a slashing hex,” he said instead.

“Oh god.” James walked over to the window, a hand over his face.

“Did – did she bleed to death?” Lily asked tremulously.

“I don’t know,” Harry shook his head. “The Crime Assessment Wizard will let us know the cause of death when he’s finished his investigations, I think. I suppose they’ll let us know, anyway,” he added. “I don’t know how these things work, I’m sorry.”

“No reason you should, Dad, unless Uncle Ron had told you,” Albus said. “Does Uncle Ron know?” he asked, suddenly thinking. “Murder cases aren’t his department, I know, but does he know who’s dealing with Mum? He’ll be able to tell us stuff, won’t he? Do Gran and Grandpa know?”

“I – I don’t know if they know. Ron does, so I’m sure he’ll have told them if he’s been able to get to the Burrow. I suppose I ought to go and see them, but I could only think of you three.”

Suddenly, both boys were touching him too, standing on either side, their arms around him and Lily. Harry fought the tears that sprang to his eyes, and then looked and saw the same on James’ cheeks. Albus stood looking stoic.

“I’ll ask the Aurors if we can go to the Burrow,” Harry got out. “We need to see everyone, and I expect they’ll all be there, because Grimmauld – well. We can’t go there.”

“Is Mum still there?” Lily's voice was thready, Harry's chest damp where her face was pressed against it.

Albus reached across him to stroke her hair.

“No, love, they’ll have taken her away by now, but they’ll still be looking through the house for evidence, and stuff.”

“Everywhere?” Lily squeaked. “In my room?”

“What are you hiding in there that you’re so worried about?” James raised an eyebrow, though it seemed to wobble as much as his voice.

Lily's blotchy cheeks went bright red. “I don’t want them poking around in my underwear drawer or anything.”

“Right, like they’ve not seen knickers before,” James snorted. The tears had made so much snot he almost choked on it.

Harry realised James was trying to distract Lily. It was a weak attempt, and pointless in the long run, but he appreciated the thought. And he also wondered exactly what Lily was concerned about concealing.

He realised too that he couldn’t hide anything from the children: it would be in The Prophet in the morning without doubt, every sordid detail would be gloated over, and he needed to prepare them. He had always kept a low profile, and part of the reason for that had been to protect the children from the speculation and lies and pettiness of the press.

Another thing he had failed at.

It would come as an awful shock to them. In recent years Ginny had been the newsworthy one, but her successes with the Harpies usually received positive reporting. A lot of that, he knew, was due to Draco bloody Malfoy, who had diversified his family interests into the media, and was also a major shareholder in the whole Harpies franchise.

He had no idea what would happen now: Malfoy owned The Prophet: what tack would they take, with him arrested for murder? Would they dig up every bit of dirt they could find about Ginny? Somehow try to foist the blame on her? Say that she had incited him to kill her? Harry dreaded to think of what they might say; he well knew that truths and half-truths would be twisted into ugliness. They would prod and poke into the lives of all of them.

“Let’s go to the Burrow,” he said. “Gran’s going to need us.”

Chapter Text

It was 3am, and Harry, Ron, Albus, Bill and Molly were all roaring drunk.

There were several Aurors stationed outside the Burrow: Harry had come to an agreement with the Ministry for a protection detail there, rather than going to a Ministry safe-house: for now, they all needed each other. The whole family were there; Molly had fussed momentarily about sorting sleeping arrangements, until Hermione had handed her a huge glass of fire-whisky and told her that everyone would be glad to muddle up together and seek comfort from each-other. Molly took one look at her daughter-in-law, nodded, and slugged the whole glass back before holding it out for a refill. Hermione had folded Molly into her arms, both standing there for long silent moments of comfort, and then filled it right back up.

Hannah and Neville had put through a floo call, and then appeared with a crate of fire-whisky, another of beer and a third of butter beer, plus a hamper containing pub-sized hot pies and ever-hot chips. They’d stayed only long enough to hug Harry and Ron and give their condolences to Molly and Arthur, and withdrew quietly, saying if they needed more supplies they had only to floo through to ask. Their kindness touched Harry to the core. Harry gathered that they’d overheard Aurors talking in the pub: Ron had gone almost berserk when he’d heard that.

They’d all been together at first, and Harry knew that not everyone was asleep, but some had moved towards bed and no doubt some of them were talking and supporting each other in the makeshift dormitories they’d turned the bedrooms into. Hugo was being a sterling support to Lily, he knew; they had years of friendship and rivalry under their belts, but seeing them together reminded him of the friendship between Mione and Ron and himself back in their Hogwarts days. James had floo-ed Teddy, and he knew they’d be upstairs talking with Victoire and Dominique. Percy and Charlie had gone up some time back to help put Arthur to bed; his right side was paralysed and his speech, after the fire-whisky, was even more tangled than it usually was, but the boys knew how to help him with tact and swift efficiency. Molly had tried to cope on her own when Arthur had first come home from St. Mungo’s, but when the strain had begun to tell, the boys had brooked no arguments and had got into a routine of helping out on a regular basis.

Harry wasn’t sure where everyone else was – Angelina and Audrey had been in and out of the kitchen with coffees and some cheese, but he thought they might have gone to bed at last. He looked at his son. It was strange to think of Albus as a man, but there he was, holding his drink and holding down a job. Harry had killed Voldemort at his age, and was just beginning to face up to actually having a life of his own. He was glad that the children had had a childhood free of anything but the usual worries, but he was scared for them now. He could not allow himself to believe that Malfoy had killed Ginny because of a Death Eater plot, but he was stunned that the Ministry had enough evidence to seriously believe that a real threat was starting again.

It was weird, but they hadn’t really talked much about Malfoy killing Ginny. Ron had been tight-lipped and hadn’t said anything about the Death Eater business, and Harry knew that in the morning he would need to collar him and find out what the hell was going on, and why Ron hadn’t told him that there was a new threat arising. Harry read the papers and there hadn’t been any concerns screaming out from them in the last months or years.

He was pretty sure he knew why Ginny was dead; the thought that he had misjudged the situation was eating away at his soul. He didn’t know what to do about what had happened.

Only one thing was certain: he would need to go and see Malfoy.

Chapter Text

Ron, Harry and Hermione were in the garden of the Burrow. Whilst the others had been getting rat-arsed the night before, Hermione had not been asleep, but had been in the kitchen with George brewing a first-rate Hangover potion. Consequently, Harry felt almost disappointed that the fog of pain and queasiness had been ripped away, and he had to face reality.

“I know,” Hermione said gently, seeing more than he said, as she usually did. “We hardly talked about it last night, but Ron mentioned a little. What I don’t understand is why Malfoy would kill her now, when he’s worked so hard to win back respect for the Malfoy name. Why would he ruin all that effort? Malfoy’s not stupid. He can’t have thought he’d get away with it?”

“Slytherins harbour grudges,” Ron grunted.

“But why would he have a grudge against Ginny?” Hermione said, then stopped abruptly.

Harry saw Ron’s eyes dart away from his, and his heart fell.

“You think the grudge was against me,” he said flatly to Ron.

Ron squared his shoulders and looked back at him. “I’m not blaming you,” he said quietly. “You’re just a figurehead for what he was against –”

“But it’s over twenty years ago!” Hermione exclaimed. “You can’t think Malfoy was holding a grudge against Harry all this time! He’s being supporting all sorts of charities –”

“So did his father, but that didn’t stop him from being Voldemort’s right hand man,” Ron cut in.

Hermione nodded. “Fair enough. But – well, I’ve worked with Malfoy several times, you know that. He seemed to have turned into a decent human being.”

“Are the Death Eaters really forming again, Ron?” Harry asked, changing the subject.

“Not the old ones,” Ron shook his head. “I’ve made bloody sure of that. But there’s rumours about a new organisation. It looks like it’s pretty much the old wizard supremacy thing again. You’d think –”

“You’ve never mentioned anything,” Harry said, his brows drawn together.

Ron shrugged, and didn’t look at him.

“What?” Harry asked.

“It’s work.”

“You haven’t said anything because you’re supposed to keep it secret?” Harry said incredulously.

“I can keep a secret, you know!” Ron snapped.

Harry sat back against the bench, his hands held deliberately loosely between his knees. “I don’t doubt it, Ron. But something important – something like the old days –”

“Since when have you been interested in any of that?”

Harry was so taken aback by Ron’s curt tone that he literally sat upright and stared at his friend.

Hermione’s eyes were going from one to the other. “Ron, Harry’s done his bit –” she started diplomatically.

“I’m not saying he hasn’t. Merlin knows, Harry,” he sighed, “I know you have. But let’s be honest: you’ve made quite clear that you’ve got no intention of being involved in anything anymore. You didn’t join the Aurors; you went off woodcarving, for fuck’s sake. Muggle woodcarving!”

“Furniture-making, actually,” Harry corrected quietly.

“Harry needed a break after Voldemort,” Hermione said. “I’m just glad you came back from the Muggle world,” she added, looking at her friend warmly.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” His lips quirked.

“A lot of people thought you wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, and even more hoped you wouldn’t,” Ron said. “When you first reappeared everyone – all the criminals – even all the Aurors – sat up waiting for something to happen.”

“Oh, come on, Ron! You did not expect me to become an Auror after all that! I talked to you about how much I enjoyed what I was doing, creating things – remember, that night at Luna’s? Out in the garden?”

“I know, I know, but I don’t think anyone thought that you wouldn’t be involved in some way. Politics, or policy making, or something. A job in the Ministry.”

“Me? Sitting at a desk all day? I could barely manage it in school. You really didn’t expect me to want to do something like that?”

Ron rubbed his neck again, then took a swig of his now cool coffee. He grimaced, then pointed his wand at it to reheat it.

Harry waited. He couldn’t believe they were having this conversation.

“I don’t think people thought about what you might want to do,” Hermione stepped into the lull. “Only that they knew doors would be open and you could do anything you chose.”

“I did do what I chose.”

Hermione grinned. “I know. It’s just that I expect people thought you’d go for something prestigious, something where you had some power.”

“The papers would have been full of me abusing my status if I’d done that.”

“Yes, but then when you didn’t they were a bit taken aback. You know they always find the negatives. People thought then that you just didn’t care.”

“Well, why should I care? Any more than the next wizard on the street, anyway? We’d got rid of Voldemort. I think the whole ‘it was my destiny’ thing was crap, but I did it, we did it. Surely the whole fucking point was to then have the freedom to live normal lives. Unless,” he smirked, “you’re like Ron and enjoy all that gung-ho sort-the-world-out stuff.”

“Hey!” Ron bumped shoulders with him in mock outrage.

“Nothing wrong with you liking it. Just – we’ll, we’ve always known we have a different approach to things.”

The spectre of Ron abandoning them, back when they were hunting horcruxes so many years before, raised its head, a silent, malevolent beast. Harry hadn’t meant to awaken it, awaken those memories. He felt the stiffness in his friend.

“Come in the kitchen and let’s make some fresh coffee,” Hermione said, eyes sharp.

“Tell me about this new group,” Harry asked, ten minutes later as they wandered back down the garden, steaming mugs in hand. The kitchen had been crowded, and Harry had brushed his hand over Lily's and James’ backs, assuring himself that they were ok before leaving them to it. Albus and Rose were standing over the cooker, organising a massive fry up for anyone that wanted it.

The ease of old friendships had washed the earlier tension away. It was easier, too, to talk about this than about Ginny’s murder. Harry wondered how much Ron, or any of the rest of the family knew. The previous night there had been lots of reiterations of shock and horror and grief, but there seemed to be an unspoken agreement that the cause of Ginny’s death would not be mentioned. Harry wasn’t sure if this was because it was too awful to contemplate, or a matter of tact because of him and the children, or because of the swelling across Ron’s knuckles, and all that that implied. Harry felt on tenterhooks. He was also profoundly conscious of the distance that he felt between himself and the Weasleys – the older generations, at least, which was weird and unpleasant. His brain was full of possible reasons for it, but he shied away from thinking about them. At least the younger generation were all straightforward, and he felt a huge sense of relief that his own children were getting support and comfort from their cousins.
But things needed to be discussed.

He needed to know what Ron thought, what Ron knew.

“The thing is,” Ron said, “there’s not much I can tell you.”

Harry took a deep breath.

Ron looked startled, and then went on hurriedly, ”Not because of secrecy, Harry, because I – we – don’t know that much yet. You know my team’s job is to keep an eye on Death Eaters from the War. When I was training, back then, it was all about rounding them all up, tracing leads for ones that had gone abroad, and so on. Later, it was all about monitoring the DEs that were released from Azkaban once they’d finished their sentences. Five years of monitoring, and then we leave ‘em alone if they seem to have settled back properly and are behaving themselves. Most have done, to be honest. It was only recently that we picked up on one of them being involved with this new group. That came about almost by accident, too: one of the guys at work said his kid had had a run-in with another one up at Hogwarts, someone using ‘Mudblood’” – he looked across at Hermione, but Harry could tell that they’d already discussed this between them – “and then his kid had been beaten up by three or four others. Phillips went up to the school ‘cos his son ended up in the infirmary, and had a chat with the Headmaster about it. Seems the school had been pretty worried about this new ‘mood’, as they called it, that was taking root with some of the kids.”

“Merlin’s bollocks,” Harry said. “I can’t believe it! What the hell did we fight for? Why hasn’t the school stamped on it? Is it just among the youngsters or are they getting it from their parents?”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to find out,” Ron said. “And it’s been pretty worrying, frankly. I think quite a bit of it is tied up with dissatisfaction with the Ministry – you know, especially since they put the tax rate up, and of course there’s lots of paperwork for everything since Benningdean got into office.”

“What on earth has that got to do with anything?” Harry said, astonished.

“I think it’s an excuse, an opportunity,” Hermione cut in. “They blame the need for extra taxes on the provisions for schooling Muggleborns, on the fact that Muggleborn parents aren’t paying into the economy even though their children are getting the benefits – “

“But they pay taxes in the Muggle world!” Harry said. “Surely they can’t expect them to pay twice? And haven’t we got some funding through the Muggle government because of all the kids that come out of the state system?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t actually cover costs. Education in the Wizarding World is much more expensive. When they’re younger, the teacher/pupil ratio is much better than in the Muggle world. Well, it has to be, doesn’t it? Can you imagine some poor teacher on their own trying to look after a class of seven year olds who’re all coming into their magic and without any proper control?”

Ron snorted. “It was bad enough at my school and there were only eight of us in my class. Madam Winter was always pulling her hair out. Mind you, she said anything was bearable after the twins,” he chuckled.

It always pleased Harry when Ron could talk about the twins without the awful look of sadness that had come over him for at least five years after Fred’s death. Now he was able to remember the good times. Harry gave him a little encouraging smile in response.

“Then there’s Hogwarts,” Hermione said. “Boarding costs loads more than a regular day school, and the British Government isn’t prepared to pay for it.”

“But surely there’s always been Muggleborns?” Harry said.

“Yup, and in fact the number of Muggleborn students has hardly risen at all,” Hermione agreed. She saw Harry about to protest and continued, “What has risen is the number of children from mixed marriages – ones between Purebloods and Muggleborn witches and wizards, or even Muggles. There’s been an absolute explosion.”

“Because Purebloods feel free to marry Muggles now?” Harry asked.

“Because they feel free to marry who they want, regardless of background,” Hermione agreed. “And they seem to produce lots of kids – more than most Pureblood families do, with the exception of your parents, Ron.”

Ron grinned. “Well, what’s happening now is that they’re all growing up and going into work. For the first time, graduating wizards and witches aren’t just walking into jobs. And when Johnny Inbred-Pureblood can’t get a job, his family blame it on the influx of Muggle or mixed heritage kids, rather than on the fact that their kid is just plain too thick.”

“Ron!” Hermione expostulated, but she was holding back a smile and Ron just shook his head.

“You know it’s true,” he said.

“Being a Pureblood hasn’t addled the brains in your family,” Harry pointed out.

“Yeah, but look at families like the Goyles, Crabbes, Buntons. All as daft as daffy-down-dillies.”

“You what? Harry choked.

“It’s an expression,” Ron defended.

“You just made that up,” Hermione teased.

“I’m sure I heard it somewhere,” Ron argued. “Mum says it.”

“She does not,” Hermione chuckled.

Harry was quiet.

“What, mate?”

“Nothing wrong with the Malfoy brains either.”

There was silence.

“What can you tell us, Ron?” Harry prompted.

“About Malfoy?” Ron shifted on his perch on the old log.

“Yes, about Malfoy. About anything you can tell us. To do with Ginny.”

Ron slumped.

“You saw her?” he said at last, voice low.

“Yes. They tried to keep me out, but…”

Ron nodded. “Must have been a shock,” he suggested.

Harry glanced at him and looked away. “You saw her too?” he asked with dread.

Ron nodded again, not looking at Harry.

There was silence.

“Would it help if I went away?” Hermione asked.

Harry and Ron glanced at each other. Ron was obviously looking to Harry to decide.

Harry sighed. “I’m surprised you haven’t talked about it already.”

“We both have work things that we don’t share,” Hermione shrugged.

“Yeah, but – this is family,” Harry said. He looked at Ron. “That’s why you didn’t say anything?”

“I don’t know. Both,” Ron shrugged. “I didn’t want to put any of that into words.”

“It’ll be in the paper soon enough,” Harry said. “Merlin knows how much they’ll have in The Prophet this morning. I’ve told the kids about it,” he added.

At Ron’s startled look, Harry explained, ”I couldn’t have them read that in the papers, could I?”

“You told them she was raped?” Ron said in shock.

“What?” Hermione gasped. “Malfoy raped her?”

“We don’t know for sure,” Harry began.

“Bloody hell, Harry, face facts!” Ron snapped. “He’d handcuffed her to the bed and she…she…well, it looked that way for sure.”

“Oh god!” Hermione moaned. “Oh god, poor Gin. I imagined Avada Kedavra or something. Quick and over with.”

Harry and Ron avoided looking at her.

“Oh my god,” she whispered again, joining the dots of their behaviour. “I can’t believe it. They seemed so chummy. I’d seen Malfoy at Grimmauld Place having tea in the kitchen one day, and they seemed as friendly as anything. They were doing the crossword.”

Another silence followed.

Cogs whirred in Harry’s head, and he glanced across at Ron.

Ron looked at him quickly then glanced away.

“Ron?”

Ron rolled the empty cup around between his large palms. “Look mate,” he said at last, “I really, really hate to tell you this, and if I could avoid it I would, but it’s going to come out and you need to know. They’d been having an affair. I’m so sorry.”

“You knew?” Harry whispered.

“What? You knew?” Ron’s eyes bugged out of his face.

Harry nodded.

“For how long?” Hermione asked. “Why on earth didn’t you tell us. Oh, Harry!”

“Like I could talk about that with her own brother. Come on, Hermione, that wouldn’t have been fair to either of them.” Harry said.

“But…but…if you knew, why didn’t you stop it?” she asked.

Harry hung his head. “She was happy,” he said quietly. “She wanted to marry him.”

“Hold on, you can’t tell me you would have let her,” Ron’s brow creased.

“Ron, you know Gin, how on earth can you stop her doing something she wants?” Harry asked. “Besides, it wasn’t fair. I wanted her to be happy. But I asked her to wait until Lily had finished at Hogwarts. I didn’t want the kids to have to deal with the crap they would have got at school. I felt bloody mean about it. Hell, I thought Malfoy was a good chap for agreeing. He seemed to really love her. To be exactly what she needed. God, I can’t believe I was so deceived! If I’d…”

“We were all deceived,” Hermione touched his arm gently. “You can’t blame yourself for this, Harry.”

“We checked him out at work. He seemed clean as a whistle. A new start, and he appeared to have done so well with it, made something of himself….” Ron mused. “Not that I was happy with the Ginny thing, of course,” he glanced across at Harry.

I’m surprised you didn’t tell me,” Harry said.

“I’m surprised he didn’t tell me,” Hermione added.

“Merlin, it took me forever to decide what to do,” Ron said. “It was privileged information, but on the other hand, I mean, you’re my mate. But she’s my sister. I went to see Gin in the end.”

“You did?” Harry said, startled. “She never mentioned it.”

“Told me to mind my own bloody business. Told me work and home were two separate things. We had a blazing row about that! I told her she was one to talk as she was shagging the boss – oh, sorry, Harry, but you know –“

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Harry agreed. “So she didn’t say anything about me? That I knew?”

“Not a word. She had that stubborn look she has, you know, and it’s not worth arguing with her when she’s got that on: you just make things worse. So I hoped it would just blow over.”

“What would just blow over?” Lily said, appearing from behind the hedge.

“Just your uncle reminiscing about your Mum,” Hermione said smoothly. “Saying that you could never win an argument with her.”

“True! She’s so stubborn sometimes. Oh!” Lily faltered. “Was. Was stubborn.” Her lip wobbled.

Harry reached out and pulled her to sit next to him. Ron and Harry sat protectively either side of her.

“The paper’s come,” James said, coming across the lawn with it in his hand. “And there are reporters in the lane behind the wards, and the floo keeps flaring. Bill’s put a filter spell on it so that only people we know can get through, but it just flares enough to let you know that others are trying. It’s a really cool bit of magic – he could sell that.”

“He and George could look into that. Later,” Hermione agreed. “What does the paper say?” she asked James.

James passed the paper to her. A picture of Ginny in her team kit, smiling and punching the air as she hovered on her broomstick, filled most of the front page.

The headlines leapt out, flashing between GINNY POTTER MURDERED! DRACO MALFOY HELD BY AURORS! POTTER FAMILY TOO DEVASTATED TO SPEAK TO REPORTERS!

“It starts,” Harry said, and gripped Lily’s hand tightly.

Chapter Text

Three days later, Arthur drove his converted Muggle wheelchair into the study, where Harry was alone, sitting staring at the piles of condolence post that was stacked on Molly’s desk.

Harry looked up at his father-in-law. “Arthur,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Have you got a - a - time, Harry?” Arthur asked.

Harry swept a hand towards the towering stacks of mail. “Anything rather than look at these. What is it?” he asked, settling down on the armchair on the other side of the fireplace to where Arthur had manoeuvred his chair. He knew that it was important not to beat about the bush. Arthur still found talking, as well as moving, a strain, struggling more to find the right words as he got tireder.

“I hope you won’t think me inter…inter…” Arthur stumbled.

Harry waited.

“Interfering,” he got out, “but I asked “Bi..Bi…Ron when they would rel..rel…let us have Ginny back. For the funeral,” he said.

“They haven’t told me anything yet,” Harry said. “Has Ron got any idea, then?”

Arthur shook his head. It was a strange movement, with his body not under full control.

“Molly and I were talking.”

“Yes? About the funeral? What do you want, Arthur? She’s your daughter, of course we can do whatever you want.”

Arthur gave Harry a pleased smile. “You- you’re a good boy, H-Harry,” he said. “We wanted to do the F-Full Trad-Trad-Traditional …thingy. N-not so common nowadays. Would that be all - alright?”

“I should think so, but I don’t know what it means. Can you tell me?”

“Get Molly. Lurking in the…the…” he waved his hand towards the door. “Wanted me to do the asking.”

Harry patted his father-in-law’s hand as he got up.

“Am I so fearsome?” he queried.

“Think she f-f- thought you might find it… harder to say no to her. If y-you didn’t want it.”

Harry opened the door. He could see Molly in the kitchen with Angelina, but she looked up straight away and came over to Harry.

“Got a minute, Molly?”

She kissed him on the cheek and bustled in, wiping her hands on her pinny. “Always. You asked him, Arthur?” she moved across and pulled over the desk chair to sit next to her husband, leaning across to straighten his collar.

Harry thought it would annoy him if he was in Arthur’s position, but Arthur just stuck his head up a bit, and smiled when his wife dropped a kiss against his cheek.

“H-Harry doesn’t know it,” he said.

“Hmmm?”

“The Rites you mentioned,” Harry explained, settling back in the other chair. “I’m sure it will be fine, but I don’t actually know what it is.”

“Oh! Well, it isn’t done much, nowadays, gone out of fashion, but what with the way she died,” Molly took a deep breath, “we thought it might be the best thing.”

Harry’s eyebrows twitched together.

“How does the way she died affect things?” he asked. Molly and Arthur still didn’t know the details, neither Ron nor he had felt able to tell them, and anyway, even they hadn’t yet had the CAW report. He felt suddenly on edge.

“Being murdered. It makes things different.”

“Why?” Harry asked, surprised.

“Well, it’s more likely she’ll come back as a ghost,” Molly said, “and although that in itself – well, we might see her – ” Molly sniffed and got out her hankie, blowing her nose loudly, “the thing is, ghosts are usually there because they had a horrid death, because they’re unhappy. If we give her the proper Rites, it should help her to move on.”

Harry sat there stunned. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Ginny could return. He thought of Nearly Headless Nick, and the idea of a half-naked Ginny with those awful wounds all over her trailing through Grimmauld Place was beyond bearing. The children might see her. He couldn’t have that.

“That sounds a very good idea, then,” he nodded at his parents-in-law. “Why have they dropped out of fashion, then?”

“Not so many people dying unnatural deaths these days, I expect,” Molly said. “Thanks to you, Harry. Lots of Full Rites were performed when Voldemort was rampaging, and then in the past there were always battles and the like. It’s been peaceful, so people have got more Arty Farty with their funerals,” she said.

“But Dumbledore didn’t have this Full Rite thing,” Harry queried.

“No,” Arthur said, “Albus p-p- wrote the Rites he w-wanted in his w-willhewon’the.”

“Arthur!” Molly laughed. “He means his Will,” Molly patted Arthur’s leg affectionately. “That’s a good one, Arthur, I like that. Will-he-won’t-he indeed. Maybe it’s time I wrote one of those. Not that we’ve anything to leave,” she said, contentedly.

Arthur nodded. He leant forward awkwardly.

Harry worried that he might tip out of the chair, and tried not to look as if he was tensing ready to catch him.

“Should have known then,” Arthur confided. “Albus giving us a clue.”

Harry looked confused. “A clue?”

“Snape,” Arthur said.

“What?”

“That Severus hadn’t m-m-murdered him. Not really.”

“Blimey,” Harry was dumbfounded. “But that's…”

The door opened and they all looked up.

“Sorry,” James said, looking at everyone. “Shall I come back later?”

No, come in,” Harry invited, glancing across at Arthur and Molly for agreement. “We were just talking about funeral arrangements,” he added.

“Oh,” James said, walking across the room and shuffling some of the post aside so that he could lean his rear against the edge of the desk. “Are they finished with their investigations?”

Harry shook his head. “Not yet, but we’re just preparing for when they do. Gran and Grandpa have suggested a Full Traditional Rite. They were just explaining what it was to me.”

“I don’t know either. How is it different, Gran?”

“Well, I know it sounds a bit odd, if you’ve never been to one,” Molly said carefully, “but it’s really quite…helpful. There’s a good, final feel to it. And everyone involved feels – well, part of it. With her. It’s not easy to explain.”

“Tell us what you actually do, then, Gran,” James suggested.

Harry thought how good he was with dealing with his grandparents.

The door opened and Lily peeped in.

Harry made a quick decision. “Lily, you came at just the right moment. Can you get Albus and come back? We’re just talking about funeral arrangements for Mum, so I think you ought to be here.”

“Talk about something else till I get back then,” she said quickly, “I think he’s down the garden.”

“Are you sure she’s not too young to be involved in this?” Molly said, looking a bit severe.

“Molly, she’ll have to be there. I think she’s old enough to talk about it,” Harry said firmly.

“Oh,” Molly said faintly. “Don’t you think she’d prefer to stay here? It’ll be rather upsetting –“

“I think she’d be a lot more upset to be told she couldn’t come,” James said sharply.

“But a funeral – at her age – “

“Molly, think back,” Harry said gently. “How many funerals did Ron and I attend at her age?”

“She should be there,” Arthur said gruffly, reaching across with his good hand to pat Molly’s arm. “All the f-family.”

The door opened again and Lily and Albus came in. They settled on the floor with their backs against the desk, one on each side of James, looking up inquiringly.

Harry gave a quick explanation of what they’d been talking about. “And Molly was just about to explain the practical details,” he prompted, with a smile at his mother-in-law.

“It will seem a bit odd, compared to other funerals,” she started, then thought. “I don’t suppose you’ve been to any though, have you?”

“I went to Barnabas Tomkins’ one,” Albus said quietly. At the querying looks, he went on, “Boy in my year at Hogwarts. Got Dragonpox. He had a weak heart anyway. Didn’t make it.”

“Oh dear! How awful!” Molly exclaimed.

“He was buried in the wizarding cemetery in York,” Albus said. “They had a family tomb. His brother played some sort of tune on a whistle-type of thing. Really moving, actually.”

“Ah, that’s quite traditional as well,” Molly nodded approvingly. “The whistle’s called a flauter. We could do that too,” she said, thinking.

“It made me want to cry,” Albus said awkwardly.

“Nothing wrong with crying at a funeral,” Molly said sharply. “Very important. All that emotion in the air. Helps the spirit pass.”

Harry and his kids stared at her.

“Didn’t you know that?” Molly said fiercely. “Really! It’s all very well having Muggle Studies in school, but I really think what is needed is Wizarding Studies.”

Everyone continued to stare.

“No, I am not being elitist,” she snapped. “It’s a very good thing that it’s now compulsory for Purebloods to have to take Muggle Studies, but children from mixed backgrounds or Muggle families should have to learn about wizarding tradition too. How else are they going to find out if school doesn’t teach them?”

“You’re right, Gran,” Albus said. “I mean, we’re lucky because we’ve learnt lots of stuff from Mum and you and Grandpa, but this just shows you, there’s still so much we don’t know. I don’t know why it isn’t on the curriculum.”

“Tell us about the Rite, then Gran,” Lily said, after a moment. “I thought Mum would be buried in the cemetery down the road with all the other Weasleys.”

“Well, Lily, for a start, your mother’s a Potter, isn’t she? Godric’s Hollow is where most people would expect her to be buried, but if your Dad allows the Full Rite, the ceremony will be done at Grimmauld Place.”

“Why?” Harry asked.

“With an…an unnatural death,” Molly said, her face tightening, “you need to perform the Rite as near to the place where the death occurred as possible. Ideally, you place the body,” Molly took a deep breath, gulped, and then steeled herself to go on, “in the exact place of death. Would that be possible, Harry?”

Harry felt absolutely collared. He’d told his children the basics of what had happened, but now he really didn’t know whether Ron had told his parents. The papers had been remarkably lacking in information. He didn’t know whether that was because Malfoy was the owner of The Prophet, and so they were being very careful. Luna’s father was still the editor of the Quibbler; their weekly edition had come out the day before and featured a front cover entirely devoted to a story on a sighting of a hogwizzle in Tasmania.

“What does it involve, Gran?” Albus asked.

“Everyone close comes, everyone who cared about the deceased. You need to learn the spells beforehand, and you have to fast for twenty four hours and abstain from love-making.”

James choked.

“Or any sexual activity,” Gran continued firmly. “I know what young men are like,” she said severely.

Harry watched his children trying not to giggle. God, he thought, he really did not need to think about his children wanking. There were some things parents didn’t need to know; he couldn’t believe Molly could come out with these things just like that. Then again, she’d had a houseload of hormonal boys to bring up. It was nice to see the kids having something to chuckle about, even if only for a moment.

“Are there any other preparations?” Albus asked, keeping his face straight.

“Well, you need to decide in advance who is going to conduct the Rite, and you have to provide a place to rest and refreshments for those involved. It can be very exhausting,” she said. “We’ve got a very big family, and Ginny had so many friends, that it will ease the effort, of course.”

“What effort?”

“Well, the Rites – for cleansing, and wishes of love and freedom – take magical energy. Everyone has to focus that. Then, when they’re done and goodbyes are said, everyone focuses for the Banishment Rite.”

“That sounds – sort of horrid,” Lily screwed up her nose. “Banishing Mum? That just sounds all wrong.”

“The name does sound grim, I agree, Lily,” Molly nodded, “but what you’re really doing is freeing the spirit from the body and place.”

“What? Are you suggesting that Mum could be around otherwise – like a ghost?” James asked, sitting forward.

“Exactly,” Molly nodded.

“But – but Gran,” Lily said after a moment, “wouldn’t it be nice if Mum were still around? I mean, I know she won’t have a body, but we could still talk to her, and she’d know what was going on, like the ghosts at school –“

“And she could tell us if Malfoy really killed her. If he was acting alone or what exactly happened,” Albus said.

Harry drew in a sharp breath. He’d never even thought of that. Trust his clever son – but Molly was shaking her head.

“Oh, my darlings, I don’t think time is like that when you’re dead. It could be years and years before the ghost would appear. I think the first recorded appearance of the Grey Lady was about a hundred and fifty years after her death. You wouldn’t want your mother to come back and have only strangers to talk to, would you? And also, think about the school ghosts: despite what they get up to, they all have rather an air of sadness about them, don’t you think?”

“Molly’s right about the time thing,” Harry said without thinking. “It feels like time doesn’t matter at all - ”

He ground to a halt as he realised everyone was staring at him. He’d never really talked about what had happened, how Voldemort was defeated. “Anyway,” he floundered, “Molly’s right. She usually is,” he tried to joke. “Er. So. Well. What, er, happens next? Do we then take Gin’s body away to be buried? I’m more than happy for her to come home to the cemetery here –”

Arthur made a noise. Molly looked at him and nodded. “I haven’t explained very well,” she said. “With the banishment, with enough power, that’s it. There will be no body. It goes.”

“It goes?” said Albus, his brow furrowing. “Where?”

Molly threw a look at Arthur, who wobbled his head.

“Well, I don’t really know, dear. Back into the magic that’s all around us, I suppose.”

“What?” James leant forward, hands on his thighs. “You mean, it just disappears?”

Molly nodded.

“Does the ritual focus on a place?” Harry asked. “Could the body be sent somewhere in particular? What do you mean ‘into the magic’, Molly?”

“I don’t know how it all works, Harry, just that it does,” Molly said, beginning to sound exasperated.

“Sorry, Mum,” Harry said, using the word that he knew would calm her. “It’s just you know what I’m like, I don’t understand so much and I never know what the boundaries are of what everyone knows and what is just sort of taken for granted. A bit like Arthur,” he nodded at his father-in-law, “thinking that I’d know how a computer works, because I grew up with the Dursleys, whereas of course, hardly any Muggles know how they work, only that they do.”

Molly’s eyes had softened and Arthur was looking interested at the comparison.

Harry looked at his children.

“Molly, is there anywhere we can look stuff up on this? Because I think the children and I would feel much more at ease if we could understand it better first.”

“Oh! Of course, Harry. I wasn’t trying to rush you into a decision. We have no idea how long it will be…”

“Book by Cornelius…Brick,” Arthur said.

They all looked at him.

“Cornelius Brick?” Molly frowned. “I’ve never heard – oh Arthur!” she chuckled. “Cornelius Stone, you mean. Is there something in that old thing he wrote?”

Arthur nodded.

“Have we still got a copy?” Molly asked.

“Attic,” Arthur jerked his head upwards.

“I’ll get it for you, Harry dear. But first, lunch. What about shepherd’s pie?”

Chapter Text

Two days later Harry received a visit from Aurors Hencliffe and Franklin. Apprehensive about what they might say in front of the children or Ginny’s family, he invited them to walk in the garden.

It was a bright day, the spring sun warm against Harry’s skin. The apple trees were in blossom, and Harry led them to the bench set amidst the gnarled old trunks.

“Do you have news?” he asked.

“Yes indeed, Mr Potter,” Auror Franklin nodded, seating herself with a neat tidying of her robes.

Auror Hencliffe stayed standing, facing them. “The trial is to be on Friday,” he said. “We don’t expect it to last more than an hour or two, as Malfoy has pleaded guilty. We can release Mrs Potter’s body straight after.”

“What?” Harry’s eyes swivelled from one to the other.

“This will all be over with by the end of the week, Mr Potter,” Auror Franklin said gently.

“What?” Harry said again. “No!”

“”I beg your pardon?” Auror Franklin said, looking affronted. “The Wizengamot moved a number of cases so that this matter could be dealt with swiftly, Mr Potter –“

“Well, exactly!” Harry said. “There shouldn’t be any special treatment! And Malfoy has pleaded guilty? Really? And – and surely Ginny’s body can be released before the trial? I thought that we were just waiting for the CAW results.”

“Mr Potter, the case is very high profile, as I’m sure you’re aware. It is in the best interests of both the family and the Department to clear this matter up swiftly.”

Harry’s head was reeling. “In the best interests of the family?” He lurched to his feet. “Rubbish!” he bit out. “What the hell does the trial matter to us? Will it bring her back? Will it give my children their mother back? You’re just thinking of the Department! How it’ll bloody look in the papers!”

George had come running across the lawn, having heard Harry’s raised voice from where he was smoking his pipe outside the back door. Not that he’d been watching, of course.

“Harry! What’s up?” He came and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother-in-law.

“They’re going to do the trial on Friday. As if I can even think about that. They’ve probably beaten the confession out of Malfoy for all I know –“

“Mr Potter!”

“Well?” George said, hands on hips. “Are you going to tell us that no-one laid a hand on him?”

“Your brother did for starters!” snapped Auror Hencliffe.

George’s chest swelled.

James, Lily and Albus came dashing up, with Ron close behind. Fortunately he didn’t appear to have heard the last comment.

“What’s going on, Dad?” Lily asked, putting a hand on Harry’s arm.

There was a general reining in of tempers.

Harry looked over at the Aurors. “Is there any reason that Ginny’s body cannot be released at once, if you’ve completed your investigations?” he demanded.

The Aurors glanced at each other.

“I don’t see why there should be any reason, if all the tests have been completed,” Ron said challengingly.

Auror Franklin nodded. “We can release Mrs Potter. But the trial – “

“We would much prefer to be able to grieve without having to consider listening to the trial before we can even give our Gin the proper rites,” Harry said firmly. “Is that a problem? Is there overcrowding in the cells, that you’re in such a hurry?”

“We just thought you would – “

“I have no idea why you should think that you would know what I would want,” Harry said coldly.

James and Lily exchanged a glance. Their father was always so mild: they had never heard him take that tone with anyone. He never mentioned his role as Saviour of the Wizarding World, never lived it, and yet there was an authority about him, a poise, that sent a shiver down the spine.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Potter,” Auror Franklin said, looking as if she were sucking the proverbial lemon. “The family may collect Mrs Potter at your convenience.”

“And our house?” James asked. “Have you finished with that? Can we return home?”

He didn’t understand the look that flashed between Harry, Ron and the Aurors. Only that it meant there was something they knew that they hadn’t been sharing.

“We’ll let you know when that is possible,” the woman said firmly.

“But if Malfoy has owned up, there is no other threat,” James pushed. “Surely that means we can go about as normal now? We no longer need to hide out here?”

Everyone looked at the Aurors.

“You are free to go where you like,” Auror Hencliffe agreed. “We’d planned to leave a team on watch here until after the trial as a matter of courtesy, but we do have other cases and as you wish to delay the formalities…” he said disdainfully.

“Watch your tone, Auror,” Ron snapped. “Harry, if you haven’t any other questions for these two, I’ll see them out.”

“I can’t think of anything else at the moment.” A quick look passed between Harry and Ron.

“If we can help in any way,” Auror Franklin said in an ameliorating tone, “please don’t hesitate to get in touch, Mr Potter.”

Harry nodded, and Ron led them across the garden.

“What’s going on?” James’ brows drew together as he asked his father.

Harry opened his mouth and then shut it again. There was no point beating about the bush.

“Look,” he said, his eyes passing over his children, “you remember what I told you on the day that we learnt Mum was dead?”

There was a moment’s silence.

“About what happened?” Lily asked.

Harry nodded. “I – well, I’m surprised that there hasn’t been anything in the papers yet – probably because The Prophet still don’t know how to handle it, and the Lovegoods aren’t going to make anything any worse. The thing is, I haven’t told anyone else – Gran and Grandpa, in particular – exactly how Ginny died.” He gripped his hands together.

“I don’t understand,” Lily said.

Harry put his arm around her and pulled her to his side. “Lils, think about it. Gran wants the Old Rites, which means we must do it at the house. But…look.” He took a breath. “Ron and I need to go there first and – and – tidy up a bit,” he said, his mind full of the blood-washed room. Better to say to make it better for Gran rather than have his children realise that he couldn’t possibly let them see the room in which their mother had died. He had no idea how the Aurors had left it, but there was no way that he wanted them to see all that blood, or the handcuffs snicked onto the metalwork of the bedframe.

“So Ron is asking the Aurors if you can go in and sort it out?” George asked.

Harry gathered that George and Hermione had now been given the details from Ron, judging from the lack of any probing questions.

“Yes, because if we have Gin, we really need the house too to do the Rite in,” Harry nodded.

“Will we move back in? After the funeral?” Lily asked.

“I – it’s up to you,” Harry said, looking at his children. “How do you feel about it?” He was stupid; he hadn’t really thought about that.

“Well, I’ve moved out anyway,” James shrugged, “so it doesn’t really affect me. What do you want to do, Lils?”

“I like my room,” she said. “But if you’d rather live somewhere else, Dad, we can go where you like. I was thinking of sharing a flat with Genna Flaubert after school,” she said tentatively.

“Genna? Isn’t she going back to France?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Lily whispered. She looked up at her father. “I was thinking of doing a course at the wizarding uni in Paris. Where Fleur went. But I’ll look for somewhere here if you need me, Dad.”

Harry hugged her tight. He couldn’t believe his family was falling apart like this. Lils leaving home? But if Gin had been alive….it would have made things easier that the children had lives of their own, plans of their own. And wasn’t the point of parenting to prepare them to go off into the big wide world? He couldn’t hold them back.

"Get Fleur to give you some advice on where to look,” Harry said, his throat closing around the words.

“Dad!” Lily hugged him.

“What course are you thinking of?” he asked, then looked down at her. “Well, maybe we’d better talk about this later.” He looked from Lily to James to Albus. “I’m proud of you all,” he said quietly, “and you know I just want you all to be happy. There’ll always be a room for you wherever I live, and you’re welcome there for a day a year or for every day. Albus, what about you? I know Grimmauld Place is convenient, but you could floo to work from my flat above the shop if you’d rather not live there. I can expand it so there’s enough room for everyone. Find somewhere else….”

“I think you need to see how you feel about the house after you’ve been back with Ron,” Albus said. “It’s easy living there, but I can find my own place – ”

“Only if you want to,” Harry said quickly. “Let’s not make any hasty decisions, okay? Hopefully Ron has bullied his colleagues into letting us back into the house,” he said, raising his voice as Ron strode across the garden to them.

“Yup, no problem,” Ron said. “Merlin knows why they were stalling at all. I can’t believe those two are in the Seriously Horrible Incidents Team. Lives up to its name, with wallies like that.”

The kids were laughing. Harry couldn’t help grinning either.

“Well,” Ron remonstrated. “Dull as ditchwater, the pair of them.”

George patted the side of his nose. “Double act,” he said. “Like in the Muggle movies. She’s all sympathetic and he pretends to be an idiot. Makes you spill all your secrets.”

“I don’t think there’s much pretending going on with that twerp,” Ron grimaced. “Must’ve cheated on the exams, if you ask me.”

“Takes brains to cheat, Bro,” George said, slinging his arm across Ron’s shoulder. “Just ‘cos you sailed in first time round.”

“I’m not brainy,” Ron said, preening and surprised at the compliment from his brother.

“Na, I suppose not,” George nodded equably. “The cleverest witch of her generation married you for the famous Weasley tackle, no doubt.”

A fresh outbreak of sniggers followed this comment.

George grinned at his nephews. “I’ve seen you two in the bath. You might have been toddlers, but glad to see the old Weasley genes passing along –”

“George!” Harry screeched, but everyone was laughing, and as ever, George had lightened the situation and put everyone into a positive spirit. “And on that note, Mum’s got bangers and mash on for lunch.”

The giggles filled the garden as they headed into the house.

Later, Ron and Harry found themselves in the dark hallway of Grimmauld Place. Harry waved his hand and the wall sconces lit, illuminating the passage.

“You up for this, mate?” Ron asked. “I can do it –“

“”Let’s just get it over,” Harry said, and silently they headed up the stairs to the bedroom.

Harry could not believe the relief he felt as they walked through the door.

There was no blood anywhere.

The bedframe stood empty, with no mattress or bedding. No handcuffs either, Harry noted.

“I asked for Doherty on the clean-up team,” Ron said quietly. “They don’t gossip and they don’t give tips to the newspaper. I tried to slip him fifty galleons but he wouldn’t have it. As honest as the day is long, that man.”

“God! Thanks, mate,” Harry said. “I thought – “

“Yeah, I know. They came in yesterday. They’re used to it, Harry,” he said gently.

“Horrible job,” Harry said quietly. He went and sat on the chair in front of the dressing table where Ginny did her make-up.

Used to do her make-up.

“It pays well, and they’re not involved with the people,” Ron shrugged. “But yeah, I couldn’t do it.”

“Malfoy was still here when you arrived?” Harry asked.

Surprisingly, he hadn’t had a chance to talk to Ron alone.

“Yeah. He made the call.”

“What?” Harry said. “You never mentioned that!”

“Not really had time to talk,” Ron said.

“Tell me,” Harry demanded.

“Well, I was in my office, and suddenly his head was in the floo –”

“Wait! You’re saying that he called you? Especially?”

“Yeah. That’s why I was so mad. I thought he was gloating.” Ron rubbed his hand round the back of his head.

“But?”

“Well. I mean, I hit him,” Ron said. He ducked his head, then looked up at Harry.

“Yeah, I know that bit,” Harry nodded.

Well, I wasn’t really thinking straight,” Ron pointed out.

“Understandable,” Harry soothed.

“He – she – he –“

“Get it out, Ron.”

“Well, I came through the floo, and he didn’t say anything. Or maybe he said, ‘This way,’ or something, but nothing I expected. No - attitude. His shoulders were down. I think – ” Ron paused. “Well, he was like a robot, or something. Like In the Muggle movies. I wasn’t really getting anything off him. It was sort of creepy.”

Harry nodded, encouraging Ron to continue.

“Then,” Ron stumbled again. He looked at Harry quickly, and looked away. “He brought me straight into the bedroom, and – well, I sort of lost it.”

Harry could imagine. Despite being a brilliant strategist, despite years of training, when his emotions or temper were aroused, Ron still acted first and thought later.

“When I arrived,” Harry said, “the Aurors and their team were here. I don’t know if they’d moved anything or changed anything. Gin was – handcuffed to the bed,” Harry said, glancing a quick look at Ron.

Ron nodded at once. “Yeah. I saw that. Both hands. She – there was blood everywhere,” he said.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, voice low. “Did you see a knife at all?” he asked.

“Wha -?” Ron stopped to think. He paced across the room, his hands on his hips. “No. I assumed a spell,” he said at last.

“Me too. I just wanted to be sure. It’s easy to see what you expect.”

“You expected to see your wife tied up and murdered?”

“I meant that I assumed it was Sectumsempra,” Harry said quietly.

“Sectum – oh! Merlin’s balls, Harry, was that what Malfoy looked like when you did it to him? Bloody hell!”

Harry’s head sunk into his hands. “Yeah. I just couldn’t believe – I mean – ”

“Payback after all these years?”

“Yeah. I – it just seems unreal. I was so sure he cared about her. That he’d really changed, Ron. Damn it, if I hadn’t thought that I wouldn’t have agreed to what they wanted! I mean, when they married he’d have been the kids’ stepfather, for god’s sake. I can’t believe anyone would harbour a grudge for all that time, go to such lengths. It’s my fault she’s dead,” he whispered.

Ron’s silence, his back as he stood staring out of the window, was like a stab wound in Harry’s heart.

After a minute, Harry stood up. “Well, the room’s ok,” he said quietly. “Will the rite need to be performed actually in here? Molly said there’d be quite a few people. I could expand the room – “

“To take a hundred or so?” Ron said disbelievingly.

“Ron, I manipulate space for a living.”

“Point. OK, I didn’t think of it like that. But maybe we could do it in the garden?”

“I’ll talk to your Mum.”

“I don’t really want her to know what happened,” Ron said. “I mean, coming into the bedroom, everyone will get ideas.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “I couldn’t bring myself to say anything to her before now. The garden would be better. I wanted the funeral rites first because I don’t want anyone thinking anything less of Ginny before the rites.”

“Why should anyone think any the less of her?” Ron said sharply. “She didn’t ask to be raped.”

Harry took a breath. He’d wondered how much investigating Ron had done about Malfoy and his sister. This was not going to be easy. “I know that. It’s just, I don’t want them even thinking about that at the funeral. And lawyers always try to come up with anything nasty they can –”

“Yeah, well there’s nothing nasty anyone can say about Ginny! She’s famous and well liked. You might not see that – ”

“Yes, of course I know that,” Harry interrupted. He did not need Ron being a defensive prick at this moment. As if Harry wanted any scandal attached to Ginny’s name. “But I don’t want them even thinking about how she died, the awfulness of it, Ron. It’s bad enough that she’s dead, without any or the horrid details, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, okay. We’ll just say to Mum that she died in the house but would the garden be the best place, then? If she presses for it to be in the house we’ll have to rethink.”

Unfortunately Molly said it was by far the best for it to be in exactly the spot where death happened.

Harry decided to completely clear the bedroom, just have Ginny and the bier in it, and arrange portkeys directly into it. Then it would be the right place, without throwing it in anyone’s face that it was the bedroom. His children would know, from the views from the windows, but Ginny’s team mates, and her other friends wouldn’t know this was usually a bedroom.

He spent the whole of the next day preparing the room. it was tiring and complex magic, to extend space. There was something akin to transfiguration in it, but it was much harder than transfiguration, where one had a physical object to focus on. In creating and extending space, one was essentially creating a void, a nothingness that yet had the capacity to be filled, to allow any number of objects, animate or inanimate, to occupy it, that was flexible enough to allow people to move seamlessly from normal reality into the created space. Most wizards had no idea of the complexity and the power of the magic needed to do it, which had suited Harry just fine when he had set up his trunk-making business.

Rather like Muggles used televisions and computers with no idea of how they worked, wizards took the magical capacity of his trunks for granted. People focussed on the beauty of the craftwork, of the physical skills he used to create the trunks, learnt from Muggle craftsmen in an apprenticeship in the heart of the Hampshire countryside.

He found calm and pleasure in the work, shaping pieces that bought out the best of the wood itself, or bending the timber to his will, under his hand, to suit the purpose he wanted from it. Such physical work was rare in the wizarding world, almost out of fashion. Real wizarding furniture invariably lasted for hundreds, if not thousands of years, and was handed down through the generations. In England, there were very few practitioners making modern pieces, and certainly none who had also had the hands-on craftsman training that Harry had.

Initially, people had come looking at his work because of his name; Harry had expected that. But eventually, commissions began to come in. Harry loved the fact that every piece he made was unique, tailored to its owner. He had made everything from tiny cases for Gringotts, which carried huge quantities of precious jewels, to alchemists’ cases, to trunks and closets for Madam Malkin to store a whole season’s new range. Many of his customers now came from overseas. Europeans and Americans alike seemed to like the clean, unapologetically modern lines of his work. To these customers especially, his work stood on its own merits, not his name. He had a waiting list now, as every piece took months to make.

Before he could extend the space, though, he had to clear it. The bed frame stood staring at Harry, accusing and cold, the twisted iron leaves at head and foot seeming to mock him with their pretence of life, whilst the bare springs of the base looked skeletal and threatening. The mattress – undoubtedly blood-stained – had been removed by the aurors. Harry felt glad that he didn’t have to think about whether he had to keep any remnants of Ginny’s blood in the room for the rites to work. Harry focussed his power on the bed, until the metal branches began to writhe, and the springs began to curl tighter and tighter. The bed bucked and screeched as the metal wrenched at itself, finally pulling in and in until if formed a solid ball of iron. Harry banished it to a corner of the garden. He turned to look at the furniture: the dressing table, chests of drawers and wardrobe. He knew there would be things that Lily would want of her mother’s, but he didn’t want her having any surprises. He opened drawers, whizzed through the wardrobe, and extracted several items from the magical spaces he had created in them. He looked at the small pile on the floor. He tried not to think, to react. Calmly and with focus, he burnt them with a magical fire, then sent the furniture along to one of the attic rooms. He could bring it back after the rites for Lily to sort through when she felt ready.

The room was now bare. Harry could feel alien magic tingling in the space, and looked carefully at the walls. He realised that magic had been used to scrub the wall behind the bed clean. Ginny’s blood must have sprayed there, he realised, though he hadn’t been aware of it at the time. The paper there looked too clean, too pristine. Harry focussed, and slowly all the paper began to sag and peel, bubbling out from the walls and eventually drooping to the floor. Harry summoned a broom and swept it into a pile, glad to have the physical effort. The heap too was burnt.

Harry looked at the bare space, and then tried several effects on the walls, from oak panelling to white paint to what he thought might be an elegant stripe in Ginny’s team colours. Then he remembered that Malfoy was the owner of the club and banished that, and settled at last on a neutral cream.

That done, he went downstairs, where Mitty wordlessly made him a cup of tea and a sandwich in the kitchen. The work to come would take it out of him, he knew, and he needed the fuel. He was glad to be doing the practical stuff, though – he had left everyone at the Burrow making floo calls and sending owls to invite the other participants to the rites tomorrow.

It felt odd, the house.

Too quiet.

Harry was rarely in it without the children or Ginny around. Things had been a bit awkward since Albus had returned home, not that he’d ever tell him that. For the previous few years, during term time Harry usually lived in the flat above the shop. It was an arrangement that had suited them both. When the children were home, he had returned. When James had finished school, he had moved straight in with his girlfriend, much to the Weasley’s disapproval because neither seemed in a hurry to marry. Harry had had to come down firmly on James’ side. The relationship hadn’t lasted, but that wasn’t the point. When Albus had finished at Hogwarts, he and Lily had both come home for the summer, and when Lily had returned to school, Albus had just stayed on. Harry was glad that his son had felt that the house was his home and that there wasn’t any atmosphere that had made him want to find his own place as fast as possible. He’d enjoyed Albus’ friends sitting round the kitchen table and Albus putting his own stock of beers in the fridge. Ginny was away a lot anyway so it was often just the two of them, yet somehow it always felt like home, properly, with one of the kids there, their stuff lying about in the sitting room and books and papers on the kitchen table.

The house felt dead.

It couldn’t be because Ginny was dead.

Molly was the heart of the Burrow, and for years, Harry had thought that Ginny had been the heart of Grimmauld Place, making it warm and welcoming and home.

That was until Kreacher had died unexpectedly. They’d found his body one cold winter morning, clutching the locket, cold and stiff in his little den off the kitchen. Harry had called St Mungo’s at once, despite the fact that he was pretty sure Kreacher was dead, but just in case there was something about elf anatomy that might be giving him false signals. St Mungo’s only sent help because of his name, and the mediwizard stared at him stiffly before pronouncing the elf dead without even touching him. Harry dismissed him and fire-called Hagrid, who came at once with one of the elves from Hogwarts. The elf explained to Harry that although they lived a long time, elves were as mortal as any other living creature, and that Kreacher had been very old indeed. Harry had buried him in the garden. He had long since removed the elf-heads from the walls, but he hoped the gravestone, inscribed by the children as well as Ginny and himself, would honour him in a different way. It was only in the weeks that followed that Harry realised how cold the house felt, how the little touches that he had attributed to Ginny were missing – the kettle whistling in the morning, the fire alight in the hearth when he got in, the scents of cooking, flowers in odd corners. He realised at once how foolish he was – how stupid he was to have expected any of it of Ginny – she was a career woman earning much more than he did, for starters. He felt guilty that he had never thanked Kreacher. To be truthful, when they had first had the children he had been terribly anxious about Kreacher’s influence – that the elf, despite his allegiance to Harry, might try to impart his pureblood beliefs on his children. But, to his utter astonishment, Kreacher adored children. He was willing to accept any restrictions Harry made, in fear that Harry might prevent him from looking after them. The children had grown up adoring the elf. Under their warmth and love, Kreacher had mellowed unbelievably.

Eventually, Mitty had come to replace Kreacher, but it wasn't the same. Maybe it took a long time for an elf to get attached to a house.

Harry sighed heavily. Kreacher was gone, and Ginny was gone, and the children were all near enough to finding their own ways in life.

Maybe he’d sell Grimmauld Place.

But first…Harry poured a second cup, downed it, and headed up the stairs.

The room already looked nothing like a bedroom, Harry was pleased to see. He stood in the middle, pulled his magic to him, and set to work again.

Twenty four hours later, he stood alone in the room again. Now, its silence resonated with the magic and the after-images of the dozens of people who moments before had occupied the room. The Rites had been completed. Harry felt a huge sense of relief, of gratefulness to Molly and Arthur, because the form had felt right. Somehow the horror of it had been ameliorated by the participation of everyone, the need to all work together preventing him and the children from being in the spotlight, the physical focus of everyone else’s grief. With these Rites, everyone was needed, everyone was able to use their emotions to help ensure that Ginny would be freed from the trappings of the place where death had come unwelcomed.

Harry had asked Molly to be in charge of refreshments, and his children had led everyone through the portal Harry had created that took everyone straight out to the garden. Neville had come earlier, working to make sure that the garden looked as good as was possible on a spring day, and the sun had come out to add its warmth to the heating charms that Charlie and George had worked. He knew his children would be out there, mingling and comforting, which seemed to be a bizarre task for those most bereaved, but one they had all grown used to over the last few days. He took a last look at the room, at the scorch marks on the floor where the magical fire had consumed Ginny.

It was hard to believe that she was gone, even though he had watched it with his own eyes.

He felt deathly tired, but couldn’t bear to leave the room as it was. He took a deep breath, closed off the garden access and then allowed the magic to collapse back in. He felt dizzy as the room contorted and the walls wavered, and then suddenly, with a snap, it was done. He fell to his knees.

He was hunched over, his head resting against his knees when he heard the door open quietly. He straightened up, and looked into Albus’ face.

Albus came over and placed a hand on his shoulder awkwardly.

Harry allowed himself to lean into it for a moment.

“I’d better come down,” he said, struggling to his feet.

Albus stepped back and nodded. “We need you. I think Lily’s more disturbed by the Rite than I first thought.”

“Yes. I’m not surprised,” Harry said, striding to the door. He stopped and looked at his son. “What about you, Albus? How’re you holding up?” he asked gently.

“I wish they’d all bugger off home,” Albus said, then grinned sheepishly. “I just want to slump on the sofa, drink too much beer and have an Indian takeaway. I know Gran’s cooking is great, but….”

Harry nodded and rubbed his hand over Albus’ hair, even though he had to reach up to do it. “Sounds good to me. Here, or want to go back to The Burrow?”

“Here. Just us – you and me and James and Lily. Can we do that? Can we come home now?”

“I don’t see why not. Come on then, let’s go and do the mingling crap, and if we look anything like as tired as I feel, hopefully they’ll all bugger off sooner rather than later.”

Albus had been right about Lily, she had been shaken up, even though you wouldn’t know it if you didn’t know her well, She was talking to various of Ginny’s team mates, handing tissues out and fetching glasses of wine. She looked very like her mother, Harry thought, her red hair burnished with golden highlights from the sun. Harry moved up beside her and put his arm round her. Her instant smile of relief made him regret having delayed coming down. He should have left the room till tomorrow. It was just….He gave her a quick sideways hug and Lily butted her head against his shoulder, just for a fraction of a second.

It was alright. Everything was alright. It had to be.

Chapter Text

The funeral had been on Friday, and the children had stayed home over the weekend, just being together. Nothing much said. They watched movies on TV. Their friends dropped by. Harry made tea and got beers and cooked pasta for however many people were in the house. It was not different from any weekend they had ever spent, when Ginny had been away on tour.

But Ginny was not away on tour, and her absence was more keenly felt than her physical presence ever had been.

Harry knew about bereavement. Even the children, after the death of Kreacher, knew what it was like to lose someone they cared about.

It didn’t make it any easier.

Come Sunday evening, Harry was glad to take Lily back to Hogwarts, and he could see that she was glad to go. Next time she came back, things would be different. The rawness of it all would have passed. And in the meantime, she would have her friends around her, routine to help her.

They apparated just outside the gates.

Harry felt a sense of comfort, seeing the ancient building. People had come and gone for over a thousand years, but still the castle stood, welcoming and protective, proclaiming in stone and magic that life went on.

It was a long time since Harry had walked up the path from the gates. The light was dropping from the sky, the chill of a Scottish spring was in the air, and he breathed deeply, letting the peace and tranquillity settle into his bones.

Mrs Banton, who had replaced Filch and offered a completely different approach to her role, stood waiting at the top of the steps and welcomed them.

“Supper’s just about to be served, Miss,” she said in an authoritative tone.

Lily dipped her head. “Yes, Mrs Banton. I’ll just take my bag up to my room –“

“You get along and eat, lass, I’ll see to that,” the redoubtable lady said firmly. She might not threaten torture and punishments, but she always got her way.

“Thank you,” Lily acquiesced.

Harry gave her a huge hug.

Mrs Banton looked them over, then flicked her wand at the bag. “You’ll see yourself out, Mr Potter, no doubt,” she said, moving away. She turned back quickly. “My condolences,” she added, and without waiting for a response, disappeared through the door.

“Formidable,” he said into the top of Lily’s head.

“She’s great.”

Harry chuckled. He couldn’t have envisaged anyone, ever, saying that about Filch.

“Good. Now, if you need me, owl or fire-call. I mean it, Lils. Don’t get upset and not call, okay?”

Lily nodded into her father’s shoulder. “Love you, Dad,” and then she was gone.

No one had said that to Harry in so long. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and turned and headed back down the path.

Chapter Text

It was two days later. Lily had sent a letter to say she was fine, James had returned to work and he hadn’t heard a thing from him. Life was almost normal. Harry had even been into his shop to look over his post. Janine had done a reasonable job of sorting it, and after the initial awkwardness was behaving alright. Despite being almost twenty years his junior, she was obviously trying to be a mother hen, making him enough tea that he needed to constantly go to the loo, and had even made home-made brownies to try and ‘cheer him up’.

Harry was glad to get back to work. On the second day, he descended once again into the trunk that he had been working on when the news came. He put that thought behind him and spent five hours completing the job, climbing out exhausted and shaky and relieved to have done something so ordinary.

He was cooking supper when Albus came in.

Harry turned round and smiled. “Chicken jalfrezi: sound alright?”

“Great. Smells good, Dad.”

“Lay the table then, will you? And get us both a beer. And some water. I think this might turn out a bit hotter than I meant.”

Albus laughed and got a couple of beers out of the fridge, opening them and handing one to his father before having a swig of his own and then rifling through the cutlery drawer.

They were three-quarters of the way through the meal before Harry became aware that there was something odd about Albus’ manner.

“Albus? Something up?”

Albus shifted in the chair. “Not up, but – well. Let’s finish this first.”

Something serious then. Harry ate the remaining mouthfuls with a lot less pleasure. He couldn’t think what might be bothering Albus, unless the papers had printed anything….he hadn’t had time to look at The Prophet today, he realised.

But when Albus had finished, and they’d cleared the table, washed up and got themselves a cup of tea each, Harry was taken aback when Albus spoke.

“Someone’s asked me for a favour, but I don’t know if I can help.”

Harry leant forward in the armchair.

“Is it illegal?”

“”No! Oh, nothing like that, Dad. Just – well…”

“Well?” Harry prompted after a moment.

“I can’t do the favour,” Albus said.

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“I - the thing is, – “

“Come on, Albus. Does it hurt anyone? Is it for a friend? There’s got to be some reason you’re not keen, because I can’t imagine you refusing otherwise.”

“It’s Malfoy. Scorpius, that is.”

God. Harry hadn’t thought about Scorpius Malfoy. How bloody awful must it be to have your father arrested for murder?

“Is he alright?” Harry asked gently.

Albus looked startled. “Not so great. The thing is, Dad, he came to see me at work and asked if you’d see him. He didn’t think you’d answer a letter, and he knows you’ve no reason to – “

“Is he hoping I’ll ask for clemency for his father’s life?” Harry said, his brow furrowing.

“He didn’t say. I suppose so. He was really apologetic, polite. Just asked me to ask you if you would see him for a couple of minutes.”

“Are you friends? I don’t remember you talking about him much.”

Albus shook his head. “No, I knew him, obviously, but what with me being a Slytherin and him a Ravenclaw, we didn’t have much interaction. We were partnered on a Potions project once is all. He was fine, but we both just already had our own friends.”

Harry nodded. “Do you have his floo address?”

“You’re going to see him?”

“You’ve lost your mother, Albus. Think how awful he must feel, knowing that in all likelihood they’ll give his father the Kiss or put him in Azkaban for the rest of his life. He’s got to get through every day knowing what’s coming. If I were him, I’d try to do anything I could too.”

“But his Dad’s admitted it! He’s a murderer!”

Harry looked at his son. “So am I,” he said quietly. “I know the circumstances are different, but I’ve still killed. Do you love me less because of it?”

Albus stared at his father. “It’s not the same – “

“I know. But whether it’s war or savagery, the people you’ve killed still had parents, wives, brothers or sisters or children. Le Strange still seemed to love Bellatrix even though she was vicious and patently as mad as a hatter. Scorpius has done nothing wrong. I’ll see him.”

He reached his hand out for the card that Albus had pulled from the back pocket of his trousers, and headed over to the fire.

“You’re going to see him now?”

“If he’s in,” Harry nodded, and bent towards the fire. He called the address and waited.

A moment later, a blond head appeared in the flames.

“Mr Potter!”

“You wanted to see me, Scorpius? Are you free? I could come through now.”

“Oh! If – “ Albus and Harry could both see how flustered Scorpius looked, as he turned round and was frantically signalling to someone.

“If I’m interrupting your evening – “ Harry began.

“No! Please! A friend was here is all – he’s just leaving. Please – do come through,” he said, regaining a poise that was so Malfoy that Harry almost choked.

He glanced back at Albus, and stepped through.

He found himself in a small sitting room. There was a comfortable sofa at an angle to the fire, and lamps in sconces on the walls. Harry noted that there were a couple of beer bottles on the table. It was odd to think that Scorpius had been spending an evening in probably much the same way as he and Albus had.

Except Scorpius hadn’t been sharing it with his father, and would never do so again.

“Thank you so much!” Scorpius gushed. He glanced around swiftly, then invited Harry to sit in the armchair facing the sofa. “Can I get you anything – a drink, a –“

“Thank you, no,” Harry said firmly. He sat forward on the seat, his arms resting along his thighs. He looked up enquiringly at Scorpius.

Scorpius was practically wringing his hands together.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Harry suggested.

Scorpius obeyed instantly, perching on the edge of the sofa. He opened his mouth and shut it again.

Harry waited. “Mr Malfoy,” he said at last.

The name seemed to galvanise the boy.

“My father would never have killed Mrs Potter!” he burst out, leaping to his feet.

Harry looked at him.

“He loved her!”

Now that did take Harry by surprise.

“Why do you say that?” he asked. “You do know that your father has confessed?” he added gently.

Scorpius nodded. “I know. He won’t discuss it when I visit. He just tells me to leave it, and he keeps apologising to me. But he looks appalling. He’s fading away.”

“He’s still in the holding cells at the Ministry?” Harry asked. “Are they mistreating him?” he frowned.

“Yes, he’s there. I don’t know what they’re doing to him! He has bruises, but he doesn’t seem to care. He just tells me to leave it alone, and he’s made his will and everything!”

Thoughts stirred in Harry’s head. “They might confiscate his money, I’m afraid,” he said. “I don’t think there is anything I could do about that, although I could ask – “

“I don’t want his money!” Scorpius practically screamed. “I can make my own living, for Merlin’s sake! I’m just saying, he’s not doing anything. He had his lawyers in to make his will, but he won’t talk to them about…about what happened. He’s not even going to allow a defence! He says pleading guilty is the least he can do! Please, Mr Potter, can’t you see? Don’t you know? He wanted to marry her! I’m sorry, I know she was your wife, but he loved her.”

“Did he tell you that he did? That he wanted to marry her?” Harry asked carefully.

“Nearly two years ago,” Scorpius nodded. “He told me that he loved her, and that he was going to wait till she was ready to marry him, however long it took. I’m sorry, I know this is awful to say to you – “

“Did you believe he loved her, Scorpius?” Harry asked. Somehow, the answer seemed very important.

“He did. He did! He was different – like he was lit up all the time. Mr Potter, he wouldn’t have killed her. Never!”

Harry wasn’t quite sure how to phrase what he had to say next. The thought had occurred to him before. If it was true, if it was true that Malfoy really had loved her, then it would explain why he was pleading guilty with no defence.

“Scorpius, I know this is hard to hear, to understand, but if he did truly love her as you think, it’s still possible that he killed her accidentally.”

“What?” Scorpius stood up, his hands brushing through the curls that were the colour of his father's and grandfather’s hair, but gave him a very different appearance.

Harry wondered whether he‘d had it done for that reason.

He stared at Harry. “You knew? You knew they were together?”

“I did,” Harry agreed.

“So you know my father loved her!”

Harry shook his head. “I thought so. But your father and I had a long history – “

“You think my father would kill someone because of history?” Scorpius’ voice rose. “Do you have any idea how hard my father has worked to restore some sense of decency to the family name? Do you think he would jeopardise that by – by killing someone? No. No way!”

Harry had thought the same. He said nothing.

Scorpius began pacing.

“An accident,” he said. “An accident would explain it. They wouldn’t - I mean, they can’t give him the Kiss for an accident, can they? I mean – “

“We don’t know it was an accident,” Harry felt he had to point out, “and Ginny is still dead, whether it was or wasn’t.”

“But it’s different! Why wouldn’t he say if it was an accident? It doesn’t make sense!”

It made sense to Harry, but it was nothing that he could say to Scorpius. If it was true, Malfoy was almost doing the noble thing. He was keeping Ginny’s name clean.

Harry got up. He didn’t know what else there was to say.

Scorpius rounded on him. “You’re famous for supporting what’s right and just. You can’t let him die because he stole your wife! Not if it was an accident – “

“Look, I’m sorry – “

“Go and see him! Please! Maybe he’ll talk to you. Please! ”

Harry took a pinch of floo powder. “I intend to,” he said, nodded, and disappeared into the flames.

Chapter Text

Harry had just poured a cup of tea the next morning when Mitty told him that Mr Malfoy was at the floo requesting permission to visit.

“Scorpius?” Surely he’d made it clear that he was going to do what the boy wanted.

“Mr Lucius Malfoy, Master Harry Sir,” Mitty said, wringing her hands in apology for having failed to make it clear.

Harry took a good drink of the hot strong tea before answering.

“I’ll come through,” he said, placing a gentle hand on Mitty’s shoulder as he passed to calm her. He was curious, but as ever, even the thought of Malfoy senior provoked an almost tangible sense of distaste in him.

He walked into the parlour – a room used as their floo receiving point, and never for family relaxation, and awaited Lucius’ entrance, standing quietly with his hands folded.

To say that the change in Lucius Malfoy shocked him was an understatement. He had not seen Malfoy in the flesh since the War Trials after the fall of Voldemort, and although his picture had been in the press following his release after his 15 year sentence was served, nothing could have prepared him for this. He did not know whether Malfoy’s appearance was due to his own incarceration or the prospect of the same for his only child.

The man paused for a moment to brush the soot from his robes; Harry had the distinct feeling that he was using the moment to gather himself. Malfoy’s hair, still long, concealed his face, but Harry realised that the fine hair was no longer blond but pure white.

The man raised his head and stood straight, his eyes going directly to his host.

Harry kept his shoulders relaxed. His wand was in his sleeve, but he did not fear Malfoy. He was obviously here to ask for help for his son.

He felt the older wizard’s eyes passing over him, assessing him quickly. Saw the hand tighten against his cane.

“My Malfoy,” Harry said calmly. “Please take a seat.”

The few words said so much. Polite and formal, but also a concession to an infirmity that Malfoy would probably prefer not to have recognised. Also, it would be quite obvious that Harry was only according him civility, and not taking him into the family areas of the house.

“I am most obliged, Mr Potter, that you have been kind enough to receive me,” Lucius said quietly, as he settled himself in one of the rather firm armchairs.

Harry was surprised that there was no sarcasm in his tone. He was obviously hiding it, or perhaps he truly had learnt respect during the years since the war.

“You wish to speak to me about Draco,” Harry said, getting straight to the point.

Lucius’ eyes flashed briefly, perhaps at the lack of further inanities.

He seemed to steel himself, his hands grasping the cane in front of him.

“I - yes. Mr Potter, I do not know how I might convince you, but I cannot in any conscience not speak. I do not believe that my son would have killed your wife.”

Harry regarded his old adversary coolly.

“You do not believe me,” Lucius stated.

“I understand and appreciate that you want to support your son.”

“You think I am trying to make up for my past failures with Draco?” Lucius said sharply.

Harry settled back in his chair, and said nothing.

Lucius shifted uncomfortably. “This is not about my past failures,” he said quietly. He gripped the cane tighter. “My son loved Ginevra, Mr Potter. I know you do not want to hear that – ”

“What leads you to think that?” Harry asked sharply.

“I am sorry to cause you pain – ”

“I think it is rather too late to worry about the pain your family has inflicted on mine.”

Lucius grimaced, his head bowing as if in defeat.

Harry was again surprised. “Continue. I suspect nothing you can say can worsen the current situation.”

“Very well. Draco told me so almost two years ago; he said that you were aware of their relationship but would not allow a divorce until your youngest child left Hogwarts.” He looked to Harry for confirmation.

“Draco has pleaded guilty,” Harry said, not commenting on Lucius’ statement.

It was an interview unprecedented in Harry’s life. He watched unbelieving as Lucius Malfoy struggled off the edge of the seat – not standing, but falling to his knees. He sat bolt upright in his own chair.

“Mr Potter, I beg that you will accept my life in place of Draco’s,” Malfoy said, and stiffly set his stick to the side and bowed his head to the floor.

Harry had not seen this wizarding custom since the Trials. A wizard had the right to offer his life in exchange for a member of his family. His life and all his goods were forfeit to the person to whom he offered them: the accused would be left with nothing but his (or her) life.

“You do not wait for the trial?” Harry said sharply. “You must believe your son to be guilty.”

Head still on the floor, Lucius answered. “Because of the indignity I have brought upon the family name, I don’t believe my son will get a fair trial.”

He had a point, Harry thought.

“I didn’t think you and Draco were on particularly good terms,” he commented.

“He is my son!” Lucius glanced up, his eyes fierce.

“Do sit up,” Harry said.

“I await your response – “

“You can await my response in the chair,” Harry snapped.

For a man who’d been kneeling, begging, Malfoy still had his pride. He struggled into the seat and tossed his hair back. “Thank you,” he said, his voice tight.

“I’m surprised that Draco told you about his relationship,” Harry said coldly, when Malfoy had settled. “Given that he assured me that you had never been invited inside his house, and that my children would never have to meet you.”

He saw something flicker across Malfoy’s eyes, quickly concealed. He wasn’t sure if it was hurt, humiliation, or a hint of admiration. Harry was rarely ruthless, but Lucius Malfoy brought out the worst in him. Just the sight of him took him back to too many situations when he’d been helpless and Malfoy had taunted him. He owed this man nothing.

"I don’t believe he would have done so. There were – family reasons – for discussing the matter with me,” Malfoy said haughtily.

Harry just looked at him. “If you want my help, Malfoy, you'd better explain.”

“I wish to offer myself in his place!”

“Nice and easy, that,” Harry said. “You look worn out already. You don’t look much like you’ll miss living,” he added conversationally.

Malfoy sat as if frozen.

Harry waited. He’d been rude, but frankly, he found it hard not to feel a spark of pleasure in having got under Malfoy’s skin. But then the man seemed to rally.

“You want the truth: I was merely seeking not to offend you,” he said courteously.

Harry felt his teeth go on edge.

“Really? I’ll be the judge of that.”

“As you wish,” Malfoy bowed his head slightly.

“You want to know why I am offering to exchange my life for Draco’s? Because the family name is important to me –“

Harry snorted.

Malfoy’s face tightened. “Our family tree goes back millennia. I would rather lay down my life than see it die out. Ginevra Weasley was a proven breeder. Her family are – well established.”

“You used to sneer at them,” Harry pointed out.

“I concede that they have done well for themselves,” Malfoy said superciliously. “And the family line is well-documented,” he added, daring Harry to comment.

“I can understand why an alliance with the Weasleys might help the Malfoy name,” Harry said.

Malfoy breathed in sharply. And said nothing.

He was hiding something.

Harry thought back over the conversation.

“Why would you worry about the line dying out? Draco already has an heir. You made no provision for ‘spares’ when you had him.”

“I did not produce a son who refused to further the family line!” Malfoy snapped. “Are you happy now that you have all the family’s dirty little secrets?”

“I find that highly unlikely,” Harry answered, almost automatically. What was going on here? “Scorpius refuses to bring any more Malfoys into the world?”

“You really have a taste for humiliation, Mr Potter. I had no idea. Very well, if this is your price. My grandson has unnatural interests. His father refuses to prevail upon him to marry and continue the line. Draco is, therefore, essential. And I am not.”

“Unnatural interests? Scorpius? What do – oh! He likes men?” Harry asked.

“As you say,” Malfoy said with distaste.

“I see.”

Harry got up and walked across the room. He could not believe Malfoy was so cold-blooded. This was not about caring for his own son, just ensuring that the Malfoy name didn’t die out.

He swung round. “You could marry again yourself.”

Malfoy’s face became even more pinched.

“Do not tell me that you’re mourning for Narcissa and can’t face it, when you expect your son to produce a string of heirs despite the fact that the woman he professed to love is dead. A woman who he’s killed, by the way.”

“As I said before, I do not believe Draco killed her. That is beside the point, however.”

Harry felt his breath taken away by the sheer gall of the man.

“The point is that, should he live, he will recover, and another woman will come along. He is young and has, fortunately, made his own wealth: my death and the transfer of the Malfoy holdings to you should not hamper his chances of finding a suitable wife. The holdings are quite considerable. I have had Gringotts prepare a list for you,” he said, putting an envelope on the table beside him.

“You think money will tempt me to spare the murderer of my wife?”

“Come, Mr Potter. We both know that you had already agreed to a divorce. The grieving husband is hardly an appropriate act.”

“I’d be obliged if you’d leave,” Harry said, standing. He could barely contain his outrage.

Malfoy apparently realised he had gone too far. He too stood, gripping his cane tightly.

“You want humiliation? I am unable to father children. Would you like to laugh in my face, oh Saviour of the Wizarding World? My condition was a punishment from the Dark Lord. I have paid for my crimes, Mr Potter. Don’t make my son pay for something he didn’t do.”

Harry was truly shocked that Malfoy had revealed so much about himself and his family. He really must be desperate.

“If your son didn’t kill Ginny, who do you think did? A random passer-by? A Death Eater going for revenge?”

Malfoy regarded Harry. He seemed to be considering the question for the first time. “I think we can discount the first,” he said at last. “The second might be one possibility.”

Harry’s look sharpened. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“There are new movements on the rise. I am not interested in their activities, but that does not mean that they do not exist.”

“You’ve been approached? You – you’re making this up to throw the blame off Draco! He’s admitted it.”

“When his mind has been disturbed by grief,” Malfoy said.

Harry paced.

“I’ll go see him. I’m not promising you anything, Malfoy.”

Lucius Malfoy bent his head in acquiescence. “And I am promising you my life and my fortune if my son lives. You have my oath.”

Chapter Text

Harry sat in the office of the Head Auror, Ramsey Felton, sipping tea from a delicate cup whose handle was so small he could not get his finger through it.

“Please accept my condolences,” Mr Potter, Felton said smoothly. “I’m sorry I’ve not been able to deal with…the case…myself.”

“There’s no reason why you should have done,” Harry said. “In fact, I only called to see Auror Franklin – “

“You’re quite happy with the – the services provided?” Felton asked.

How could you be happy with people telling you your wife had been murdered and then running riot all over your home? Harry thought.

“Of course,” he answered. “In fact,” he continued, “they were so keen that they wanted to have the trial last week. I asked them to postpone so that we could have the funeral – “

“Yes, I heard. That’s all – over – is it?” Felton said delicately.

Harry nodded.

“A quiet affair, then? I didn’t see anything in the press, I don’t think?”

“Family and friends,” Harry agreed quietly. “They’re the only people that matter.”

“Her fans might be rather disappointed,” Felton suggested, leaning forward to help himself to a chocolate digestive.

“It was a funeral, not a damn quidditch match!” Harry snapped.

Felton looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “Quite, quite. Still, your wife was very well known. A very popular player,” he took a sip of his tea. “I expect fans will want to visit her grave. Show their respects, you know.”

“They’d show more respect if they left us alone,” Harry said tightly. He hadn’t thought about a grave. There was no body. He didn’t care about fans, but would the kids mind that there was no grave to go to? He hadn’t even thought of that.

“So,” Felton prompted after a moment.

“Er? Oh,” Harry said. “I wanted to ask if I might see Malfoy, actually. When it was convenient, of course.”

“You want to see the accused? Before or after the trial?”

“What? Well, before, I suppose,” Harry said. “I’m not sure when the trial has been rescheduled for – I was going to ask Auror Franklin.”’

“The Wizengamot is in recess,” Felton said, with the sort of tone that implied Harry ought to know. “They won’t be sitting again for a month, and I don’t know if the schedules have been drawn up yet.”

Harry felt unaccountably relieved. Somehow, although every day had seemed like a week, everything had felt so rushed.

“Then before, if that’s alright.”

“You’ll have to hand in your wand,” Felton said ominously.

Did he think Harry planned to hex Malfoy? If so, why on earth wasn’t he stopping him visiting at all?

“Of course,” Harry said. “I only want to talk to him.”

“He has already confessed,” Felton pointed out.

Harry nodded. “I know. But I assume that means the trial will be quick. I - I need to know why,” he said quietly.

Felton looked at him, and Harry thought he could see compassion in his face. He didn’t think he deserved it, but his tongue felt locked against the roof of his mouth.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Mr Potter: I understand he hasn’t been very communicative.”

Harry nodded.

Felton strode across the room and opened the door.

“Get one of the lads to take Mr Potter down to the holding cells, please, Doris,” Harry heard, followed by a muttered conversation that he couldn’t quite pick up. Felton came back in, leaving the door open.

“One of our Aurors will take you down in a moment, Mr Potter, if you’d like to wait with Mrs Smetherwick, here. I’m sorry to rush you, but I have an appointment with – “

Harry got straight to his feet. “No, no, thank you for your time.”

They shook hands briefly and Harry settled himself in the outer office. Mrs Smetherwick looked very relieved when there was a knock at the outer door and a tall young man in very pristine Auror robes stepped in.

The Auror, who introduced himself as Filius Stubbington, shook hands with Harry. Harry was quite impressed, as they walked down to the cell, that the Auror didn’t seem to need to fill every moment with chatter, or with condolences that he couldn’t possibly mean.

At the cells, the warder seemed very flustered to see Harry.

“I think the prisoner is sleeping,” he said, eyes darting every which way.

“It’s the middle of the morning. I think you can wake him up,” Stubbington said calmly.

“I haven’t had orders – “

“Head Auror Felton approved the visit. I was asked to accompany Mr Potter.”

“That’s as well as may be,” blustered the man, “but the visiting room isn’t available. Daresay Auror Felton didn’t know about that, seeing as no-one bothers to check with us these days –“

“I’m perfectly happy to visit Malfoy in his cell,” Harry said firmly.

“Staff are on tea-break,” the warder said. “If you come back this afternoon –“

“Do your staff have a tea-break from now until after lunch?” Stubbington snapped.

“If I’m seeing Malfoy in his cell then I won’t need to put any of your guards out,” Harry reasoned. “I’m sure your security is excellent.”

The warder suddenly looked Harry over. A gleam of approval came into his eye. “You’d like a few minutes alone with him?” He glanced at his watch. “Edwards isn’t due back on duty for twenty minutes. That suit you?”

Taken aback by the about-face, Harry nodded. He slipped his wand out of its holster and held it across his palm.

“Goodness gracious, you don’t want to go in there without that!” the warder said, shocked.

Something was wrong and Harry wasn’t quite sure what. He kept his wand in his hand; the warder held out a key to Stubbington.

“Tenth door down on the right,” he said, and flipped the page on his copy of The Prophet as he sat down again.

It was only a moment before they reached the room.

Harry felt the wards even before Stubbington opened the door. The silencing spell was so strong that Harry could not even hear the sound of the lock turning.

The door opened. The man sitting curled up with his back to the wall at the far corner of the bed didn’t look up; Harry wondered for a moment if the spell operated inside the cell too, which would be a nuisance. And ridiculous, he thought, as he stepped in and heard the sound of his shoes against the stone floor.

The prisoner still didn’t move.

“Malfoy,” Harry said.

Instantly, the head was thrown back. Malfoy almost fell off the bed as he scrambled forward, then lurched across the floor and fell at Harry’s feet, head bowed.

“Potter, kill me.”

“What?”

Malfoy’s head had slumped against his knee, his whole posture that of a supplicant.

“Please,” the cracking voice whispered.

Harry could feel Malfoy’s body shaking. Stubbington had his wand pointed at Malfoy. Harry fought the urge to drop down beside the man and offer comfort.

“Come and sit down, Malfoy,” he said, voice commanding.

Harry headed to the table, but Malfoy stayed where he was.

Harry looked at him: he could not believe the man could look such a wreck: although his face was hidden, his hair was matted and dull, his clothes rumpled. He smelt.

Stubbington prodded him with his wand. “Get up and do as Mr Potter says,” he ordered.

Malfoy rose to his feet. Harry knew at once that he was hurt. He recognised like a visceral blow that the awkward way Malfoy moved was in protection of injuries
.
“Look at me!” he said sharply.

Malfoy raised his face.

Harry took in the yellowing bruises to Malfoy’s eye and temple, the crusted blood at his lip.

Malfoy didn’t even flinch as Stubbington cast at him.

“He’s got three broken ribs, his right ulna is broken, severe abdominal bruising and damage to his kidneys,” Stubbington said. “It must hurt like hell to piss.”

He looked across at Harry.

“Go and get a mediwizard,” Harry said firmly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Malfoy said, one hand gripping the edge of the table.

“Of course it matters!” Harry bit out. “Did the guards do this?”

“Forget it.”

“The Aurors? Tell me, Malfoy! This is not acceptable!”

“Don’t you understand?” Malfoy snapped. “I deserved it! I killed her! I killed her,” he whispered.

Harry felt cold, frozen. He had known, of course, that Malfoy had said that he was guilty: to hear it from his own mouth was something else.

He grabbed the single chair and thrust it behind Malfoy.

“Sit.”

Malfoy glanced at him and lowered himself shakily.

Stubbington was still hovering.

“Go and get the mediwizard,” Harry said wearily. “I promise I won’t hurt him.” He thought for a moment. “Firecall St Mungo’s and get Susan Bones, if she’s there. She’s honest and trustworthy, and we were both at school with her.”

Stubbington gave Harry an assessing look and then exited.

He went up further in Harry’s estimation.

Harry took a coin from his pocket and transfigured it into a chair, then sat himself on it facing Malfoy.

“I need to know what happened,” he said quietly.

Malfoy looked up. His eyes were haunted. Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone look so wretched.

“I killed her,” he whispered. “I - I swear I didn’t mean to.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “But what the hell does that matter? She’s dead, and I killed her. I loved her,” he choked.

Something in Harry’s chest loosened. He was pretty sure Malfoy was telling the truth. In fact, he had thought it might have been an accident, but he hadn’t been sure. It was a relief to know that he hadn’t misjudged Malfoy.

“Tell me,” Harry prompted.

Malfoy shook his head. “Please. I can’t. I can’t think about it. I – oh God, Harry, she’s dead!” Malfoy wailed.

Harry grabbed him by the shoulders. “She is. Ginny’s dead, and there’s no going back. We held the Funeral Rites for her on Friday.”

A gut-wrenching sob tore through the man in front of him.

“We did the Old Rites. In the house. In the room. Molly and Arthur suggested it. I couldn’t have her ghost coming back like….like I found her.”

Malfoy had his head in his hands, nodding. “Yes. Oh gods, thank you!” He glanced up. “I told them I was guilty. I am guilty. Nothing needs to come out at the trial. They don’t need to go into any detail because of the plea: I checked that. The children don’t need to know. I’m so sorry!”

Harry was silent, taking it in. “Scorpius came to see me,” he said at last.

Malfoy looked bewildered. “Scorpius? Why?”

“He doesn’t believe that you would have killed her. He knows that you loved her.”

Malfoy stood up shakily, holding on to the table and then the back of the chair as he took a step or two, turning his back to Harry.

“I – I need to ask you – I know it isn’t fair – I need…”

“What is it?”

“I know – God, I know I have no right – but – Scorpius. He won’t have anyone. My father….my father isn’t…fond of him. His mother…I don’t know. She’s wrapped up with her new family: one of her children is sickly, she can’t think of anything else. I – he – will you keep an eye out for him? I know there’s no reason why you should – but he’s innocent in all this! Please, Harry, he’s not responsible for any of this! All the work – I tried to make the Malfoy name okay, but now – what with my father, and me, and, and he’s….he’s….people are going to find reasons to treat him badly – ”. He wrung his hands.

Harry’s heart was moved. He was right, Scorpius would suffer. He stood up and put his hand on Malfoy’s shoulder. “I will,” he said. “You needn’t worry about Scorpius, alright?”

Between them, the knowledge that Malfoy would be Kissed was taken as given.

Malfoy’s hand grabbed Harry’s arm. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Sit down, please,” Harry said. “If you fall down they’ll think I hit you.”

Malfoy choked a laugh. “They’d not think the worse of you for that.”

“No,” Harry agreed. “I’m pretty sure that’s what they were expecting me to do.” He tensed up, and then continued, “Draco, I can’t not know. I need to see exactly what happened.”

Malfoy jerked. “You know – you don’t want to see that – “

“I need to,” Harry said. “I need to know exactly, not to have the nightmares and…it’s better to have facts.”

“But – “

“I know the ‘but’.”

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy said.

“That you could give her what I couldn’t? It was a relief,” Harry said quietly. “Will you allow me to look?”

Malfoy gripped his hair, his whole body tight, then raised his head and nodded.

Harry didn’t waste any time. “Legilimens!”

The scenes flashed through Harry’s brain. He felt his heart pounding, but still he pushed on. He didn’t want to look, to witness what he did, but he forced himself to see it all.

He pulled out and staggered away.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy said again, voice tight.

Harry couldn’t say anything. He turned away, shaking.

“I’ve got to go.”

He lurched out of the cell. Several doorways along, he leant against the wall, getting his breath back, trying not to be sick.

He straightened, walking back towards the warder.

“All done?” the man grinned. “Don’t worry, Sir, we’ll make sure he doesn’t complain.”

Harry punched him.

Chapter Text

Harry slept badly that night. The next one, Albus was out with friends. Harry drank far too much fire whisky, which helped him get to sleep, but didn’t help at all with the dreams that had him sweating and turning in his sheets. He awoke the next morning with a foul and furred mouth and a thumping head.

After a long shower and a thorough scrub of his tongue and teeth, topped off with a breath-freshening charm, he drank two large mugs of tea, and said to Albus, who was munching his way through a bowl of cereal, “I’m heading in to work.”

“Good thing,” Albus said. “It helps. You can be normal and not have to think.”

Harry could have hugged him in that moment.

The day passed busily, with Harry going over the back-orders, and correspondence. There were several condolence letters from customers, though all had a hint of, “so when will my order be ready?” about them.

Janine fussed around, till Harry decided enough was enough.

“I’m going to finish Wedgewood’s trunk,” he announced. It was the trunk he’d been working on when the Aurors had called.

“He’s asked twice about it,” Janine nodded, looking somewhat relieved herself.

It was exhausting work. Harry sunk himself into it, thinking of nothing but the magic, the space, the need for permanency, the spells to make it expand and shrink to fit the need.

It was almost seven o’clock when he came out.

Janine was sitting flipping through a magazine.

“You needn’t have waited,” he said, surprised.

“I had time off when you were away,” she shrugged. “You kept paying me.”

“Of course I did,” Harry said. “It was hardly your fault the shop was shut. Thank you,” he added.

“There’s tea,” Janine motioned to a tray with a kneazle-shaped tea cosy, mug and milk jug. She stood up. “If it’s alright, I’ll go now. I’m meeting Stephen in that new bar down Philosopher’s Alley.”

“Have a good time,” Harry said encouragingly, pulling off the cosy and reaching for the pot. “And come in late tomorrow, if you want. I appreciate it: thanks, Janine.”

She smiled for the first time that day. “Thanks, Harry. I might save the offer for another time, though.”

Harry laughed, and she was gone.

Later, he wrote a letter to Lily, sitting at the kitchen table while he ate a sandwich. Albus was out again. Harry was glad that his son didn’t feel that he needed to mollycoddle him.

He gave the whisky a miss, deciding instead to do some weights. The boys had asked for them first, when they’d started hitting puberty and wanted to impress the girls. Over time, they’d set up a room in Grimmauld Place with various items of exercise equipment, a sound system and DVD player to watch muggle films. Harry didn’t feel like a film, but turned on the music, losing himself in the exercise and the beat.

He showered, coming down to find Albus sitting reading a book in the sitting room. They chatted for a while before Harry headed up to bed. It was another strange thing, he thought, going to bed before your kids, but Albus was a man now, and Harry was tired.

He fell asleep almost at once, but the dreams came again. It was in the middle of one that he sat up, shocked and with his heart racing. He got up and went to the loo, then headed downstairs to make tea. He sat at the kitchen table, thinking, going over everything he had seen in Malfoy’s brain.

He was so wound up that he knew he would never get back to sleep. He went down to his workroom at the back of the house, looking through the pieces of wood he had there. Although most of his bigger pieces and his better tools were at the shop, he always kept some at home. He’d hoped, when the children were younger, that they might get involved, that he might teach them some of the woodworking skills he had learnt, but although they had all had a go, the interest had been fleeting.

He spent the next few hours planing the wood, sanding and smoothing. He watched as the darkness of night gave way to the greyness of early dawn, and then the burst of colour as the sun rose over the wall and flooded into the garden at the back of the house. He put the wood away, went and showered again, then came down to breakfast to find Albus reading The Prophet at the table.

“Coffee in the pot,” Albus said, munching through some toast. “We’re almost out of bread. Shall I get some at lunch-time?”

Harry headed into work and left Janine a note, then strolled round to the Leaky Cauldron. It was quiet at that time of the morning; Hannah was carrying out a steaming plate of sausage, eggs and bacon to an elderly wizard tucked in by the fire, and smiled welcomingly at Harry, beckoning him to go behind the bar. Harry dipped under the counter and pushed through the swing door to the kitchen. Polly, one of the Longbottom’s house elves, looked up from stirring a cauldron, and bobbed a bow at him. “Mr Potter, sir, can I gets you a coffee? Or some tea? There’s sausages –“

“No, thank you, Polly,” Harry put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Please don’t let me disturb you. I just want to ask Hannah a favour.”

“Anything, Harry,” Hannah said, coming in and giving him a huge hug. “How are you?” She held him at arm’s length to have a good look at him.

“I’ve gone back to work,” he said. “Well, apart from today.”

“Good. Now, what can I do for you?”

“Can I use your floo? This one? In private?”

“Sure,” Hannah said, her voice surprised.

“It’s nothing illegal,” Harry assured her. “But the house has been under surveillance and I don’t feel comfortable to invade anyone else’s privacy from there.”

“No problem, Harry. Polly,” she called, “is that stew leavable? Pop upstairs, would you, and give Dotty a hand.”

“Yes, mistress,” the elf said, bowing to both the humans and popping out of sight.

“Come and have a bite with me when you’re done,” Hannah said, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and left.

Harry swung the stew to the side and threw some floo powder into the fire.

“Villa Olorosa,” he called.

A couple of moments later a head appeared in the flames, peering through inquisitively into the kitchen.

“Harry?” The voice was startled.

“Hi Kingsley,” Harry said. “I know it’s early there – I wanted to catch you before work. Do you have a few moments?”

Kingsley looked hard at Harry. “Can you give me ten minutes? I think better when I’ve had a shave.”

Harry laughed. “I’m here in The Leaky kitchen. Just let me know when you’re ready. I’m so sorry to put you out –“

“No problem. I’ll put some fresh coffee on. See you in a moment.”

Harry pushed the cauldron over the fire and stirred the stew, then wandered around the kitchen looking at the various notices before realising that the cauldron was in the way. He scribbled a quick note for Hannah and Polly so that they’d know he wasn’t going to return through their floo; he didn’t want to hold up their business.

A couple of minutes later, the fire flared, Kingsley beckoned and Harry stepped through.

The kitchen at the other end was surprisingly cool, but the back door was open, and the windows, and the warm air of Northern Spain washed through. Harry brushed down his robes and took Kingsley’s outstretched hand.

“Good to see you, Harry, though I’m so sorry about Ginny.”

Harry nodded. Kingsley’s straightforward manner was very welcome. He’d been amazed at how many people said nothing, or even crossed the street, to avoid mentioning the enormous elephant in the room.

“Take a seat,” Kingsley said, pointing at the kitchen table. He poured two coffees, the delicious aroma of freshly ground beans filling the air, and tipped some biscotti onto a plate, bringing them over to the table. Harry took his cup, added a spoonful of sugar to the dark brew, and sipped appreciatively.

He hadn’t seen Kingsley for years. It was a surprise that he looked as if he’d hardly aged at all. His head was still bald, his ear still pierced. His robe was lightweight and open, and underneath he was wearing a green shirt and jeans. Harry wondered if he usually bothered with a robe or had put it on because of his visit.

Kingsley didn’t push. He’d always been patient. Harry helped himself to a biscuit and nibbled it.

“Wow, these are delicious!” he said in surprise.

Kingsley laughed, and took one for himself. “The recipe came from an old witch down in the village. Not bad, if I do say so myself.”

“You made them? I’m impressed.”

“Amazing the things you find yourself doing when you aren’t fighting a war,” Kingsley said. “I expect people say the same about what you make.”

“Well, they might be surprised, I don’t know about impressed.”

“You’re being modest. You’ve built up quite a reputation.”

“Thank you,” Harry said. It was true, he had. He was proud of his pieces.

All too soon the coffee cups were empty.

“I’ve come to you under – well, not under false pretences,” Harry began.

“Oh?” Kingsley prompted.

“I’m really sorry to invade your privacy – both of you, that is, but I really need to see Professor Snape.”

Kingsley didn’t move, but it was as if his whole body had suddenly geared for action.

“I know he lives here with you,” Harry said quickly, before Kingsley could deny it. “And I wouldn’t have bothered you – or him – if it wasn’t important. Really important.” He stood up. “I need to talk to him about Draco Malfoy,” he said quietly. “If he’s willing to talk to me, please ask him to contact me.”

Harry made a move towards the fire.

At the same moment, it felt like there was a disturbance in the air. Snape was suddenly visible, sitting quietly on the bench under the window.

He looked hard at Harry. “You knew I was here,” he said.

“I – yes, I’ve known for some time – “

“I mean, Mr Potter,” Snape interrupted in his deep tones, “you knew that I was in the room.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed.

Snape looked at him approvingly.

“I deal with space,” Harry shrugged. “I’m usually aware of things filling it: whether it feels right.”

“How long have you known Severus was here? How did you find out?” Kingsley asked, moving up a bit as Severus came over to the table and pulled out the chair next to him.

“Um, I found out a couple of years after the war?”

Snape and Kingsley exchanged looks.

“Want to expand on that?” Kingsley said.

“Well, I was a bit paranoid after the war. At first, I was too – sort of shocked – I think, to do anything except practical stuff. I threw myself into that – rebuilding of Hogwarts, all those sorts of things that needed doing. I felt terribly guilty about you, Professor, but I tried not to think about it. I’m sorry. I tried not to think about a lot of things that just made me feel guilty, that I’d failed people. I thought I’d go mad if I thought about them too much.”

“Survivors’ guilt,” Kingsley nodded. “There were many of us suffering from that. You feel glad to be alive and guilty that you’re glad, because others are dead. You compare the value of your life with theirs. It’s hard.”

Harry nodded, relieved and surprised to hear Kingsley talk so easily of it. He had never shared his feelings about it with anyone. “It seemed so unfair that Remus and Tonks had died. I couldn’t bear to think of Teddy orphaned.”

“As you were?” Snape said.

Harry nodded again. “I had to make certain that he’d have a happy upbringing. And the Weasleys were so upset about Fred. If I’d died – stayed dead – if I could have done something to prevent their deaths – it wouldn’t really have mattered to anyone. Not for long.”

“You really do have a hero complex, don’t you?” Snape said, his old sneer still in place.

It didn’t anger Harry. There was something so familiar about a cutting Snape.

“And I love you too,” he grinned.

He saw Snape’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and was glad that he had surprised the man by not rising to the bait.

Kingsley chuckled. “What next?” he asked.

“Well, suddenly eighteen months had passed, and then I heard that you’d left. I was absolutely shocked. Really. You were acting Minister for Magic: you were so good at it; I was sure it was just a formality before you’d be confirmed in role.”

“You’re very kind,” Kingsley said.

Harry shook his head. “No. You just got on with the job: no antics like Fudge or Scrimgeour. You were like a calm backdrop – “

“High praise indeed,” murmured Snape.

“It’s exactly what was needed,” Harry said. “Everyone got down to sorting things out, and your calmness, your laid-back style, stopped people panicking. Then suddenly you were gone. It was barely reported in The Prophet. A new Minister was appointed by the Wizengamot without any election process – “

“Nothing new there,” Kingsley said.

“Yes, I understand that now, though I didn’t know at the time, so that made it seem even more dodgy to me. So I asked around for information and got nowhere. Someone let slip that you’d moved abroad and that really got me wondering.”

“What was so odd about that?” Snape asked. “Your Muggle relatives moved to the Costa Brava, didn’t they?”

Harry raised his eyebrows at Snape knowing about that.

“They did, but only because they were terrified out of their wits by the war and the Costa Brava is like Surrey with sun,” Harry retorted.

Kingsley grinned. “Nothing wrong with a bit of sun, eh, Severus?”

Harry looked at Snape, taking in his rolled up shirt sleeves, the surprisingly olive tone of his skin, and the glow of health about him, something that he’d never thought possible for the man.

“It certainly seems to suit you both,” he agreed.

Snape looked at him sharply, perhaps checking to see whether Harry was mocking them. Apparently satisfied, he prompted, “You haven’t explained anything yet.”

“I followed an owl,” Harry said bluntly.

Both of them looked at him.

“I put Kingsley’s name on an envelope, gave it to the owl, and followed it. Nobody would give me your address, so it seemed the logical thing to try.”

Snape and Kingsley once again exchanged a look. Both their faces were dancing with amusement.

“Did you have any idea where it was going?” Snape asked.

“None at all,” Harry grinned. “But as I knew you were abroad I’d got an emergency port-key with me, just in case I found myself mid-ocean and unable to go on.”

“How long did it take you?” Kingsley asked. “You’re arse must’ve been killing you after that long on a broomstick.”

Snape snorted, and Kingsley shushed him, but Harry chuckled. “It bloody was,” he said. “Good thing that owl stopped a couple of times, is all I can say. Bad enough when your arse is agony, but even worse when you’re dying for a piss as well.”

Both men laughed, and Harry suddenly found it surprisingly comfortable sitting here with these two men. His face sobered as he remembered why he had come. Snape spotted the moment his mood changed.

“You’d better tell us why you’re here, Potter. You can explain the rest later.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you.” He took a breath and looked at Snape. “It’s about Draco Malfoy.”

Harry could not tell anything from Snape’s face.

“I don’t know what the situation is now, but I know in the past you made Narcissa Malfoy a Vow with regard to Draco.”

“Are you worried about what will happen to me if Draco is Kissed?” Snape asked, surprised.

“No.”

Snape sat back on his seat. “Of course not.” His acerbic tone was bitter.

“No, it’s not that,” Harry said quickly. “It’s – I don’t think he did it.”

Both men stared at him.

Harry sat there awkwardly. He hated the things that he was going to have to reveal, but then he was going to be asking even more of Snape.

“I visited him in his cell,” Harry said. “He was beside himself. Asked me to kill him. I asked him to let me use Legilimency to see what had happened.”

“You wanted to see?” Kingsley said in astonishment. “A man you hated murdering your wife?”

Harry shook his head. “Two years ago,” he said quietly, “Malfoy came to see me. He wanted to marry Ginny.” He took a deep breath. “I knew a bit about him already – he’d owned the team Ginny plays for for several years, so I saw him now and then, if I went to games, sometimes socially. I knew that he owned The Prophet, had worked hard to make up for the past. I looked into what he was upto a lot more when he put himself in the position where he might become step-father to my children.” He looked up at both men, who were sitting, quiet, attentive, and obviously taken aback. “Everything seemed to be for real. I couldn’t fault all the efforts that he’d made to bring respectability back to his family name. And he genuinely seemed to love Ginny. When they told me he’d been arrested at the scene, I – I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that he had done everything to just get back at me, it seemed ridiculous. Then he pleaded guilty, and I knew he hadn’t killed her on purpose.”

“I feel like we’ve missed half a dozen steps of the argument here,” Kingsley said. “Why would him pleading guilty make you doubt that he’d done it? Was he hoping you’d take pity on him?”

“He asked me to kill him!” Harry flashed. “On his knees, begging me!”

“You’d better tell us the rest, Potter,” Severus said quietly. “Do I take it you have mastered Legilimency? What did you see?”

“I’ve learnt a little bit more. Not enough. That’s why I’ve come to you,” Harry said.

Snape raised his brows. “The Ministry must have any number of Legilimens on staff, I’ve no doubt.”

“None that know how to use it with Veritaserox,” Harry said quietly.

Snape was very still, Shacklebolt silent.

“It sounds to me as if someone has been talking out of turn,” Kingsley said.

Harry shook his head. “I overheard it being discussed at the Monaco Potions Symposium.”

“Mr Potter, it is hard enough for me to believe that you have studied Legilimency. If you tell me you are also a Potions Master, I will begin to worry that you did not vanquish The Dark Lord after all.”

Harry laughed. “No worries there, he’s gone. Why, was he any good at potions? I thought he had you for that.”

“He had a sound knowledge of the essentials; more than that, even,” Snape said calmly. “Enough to make it difficult for me to substitute ingredients to alter the nature or efficacy of the potions I was asked to make.”

Harry nodded. In the years after the war, he had often thought with horror about Snape’s role. He could not imagine how the man had managed to live on the knife edge of always fearing discovery, of withstanding the onslaught of hatred of the side that he secretly worked for, and that was before you even thought of the things he must have done to remain in Voldemort’s favour, of the punishments he must have received, and the skill he must have used to extract the information that he brought back to Dumbledore. And as for what Dumbledore had asked of him at the end….That Snape could look so good was a testament to his resilience. Something that Harry envied deeply at this point.

“Well, I’m afraid my own knowledge has only extended to household and kids’ medical potions, so you can feel perfectly safe. I was there because I was asked to make a potions' box for the annual prize,” he said.

“And you were required to deliver it yourself?” Snape raised a haughty eyebrow.

The old taunts about his fame rose up to confront him, the implication that the box had been bought because of his name only, but Harry quelled the bite of annoyance. “I hope I have built a reputation for my work, rather than because of my name,” he said quietly. “All my more specialised pieces are custom made, and I like to see where they're going and what they're to be used for. In the case of the prize, I asked to go along so that I could make custom adjustments to the winner’s requirements.”

Snape continued to look at him. “You wouldn’t need to attend the conference to do that. Surely the winner could come back to you afterwards?”

“True,” Harry agreed. “Let’s say that I don’t make all the possibilities known unless I approve of where my work is going.”

“You’re very cautious,” Kingsley commented, after a moment.

“I’ll never forget Moody being trapped in that trunk,” Harry said.

There was a moment’s silence.

“So you know about Veritaserox,” Snape said. “Why do you think it would be appropriate to use it on Draco Malfoy? What did you see when you used Legilimency?”

“I think his memories have been tampered with,” Harry said. “I didn’t realise what was off at first. It was only later that I realised that they weren’t real.”

“It takes a very skilled Legilimens to notice that sort of fact, unless it had been done very badly, and the sort of people who can implant false memories aren’t the sort to make a botch of it,” Snape commented.

“I understand that,” Harry said. He rubbed his hand over his chin. “Look, I know this sounds silly, but – she – Ginny – in the memory, her ring was on the wrong finger.”

“Explain,” Kingsley prompted.

“Ginny told me she always transferred her wedding ring to her other hand when she was with Malfoy.”

“I know this is intrusive to ask, Harry, but why would she tell you that? Why would she do it?”

“We were still friends,” Harry sighed. “Ginny and I. We still talked, you know, and got on alright. They wanted to marry but I asked them to wait until Lily had left school. It was probably unfair, I don’t know. It seems it now, now that they don’t have years of future together. At the time, I just didn’t want the children to have to face all the rubbish in the press, all the looks and comments, whilst they were at school. Once you’re out of that environment, it’s easier to deal with things. You’re not forced to be with people you don’t want to be with twenty-four hours a day. Lily finishes this summer. They agreed to wait, but obviously they were continuing to see each other. But they were discreet.”

“You sound remarkably accepting of the situation,” Snape said. “Were you also having an affair?”

“Me?” Harry’s surprise was evident. “No.”

“Your wife had been having a relationship with another man for more than two years and you hadn’t sought…comfort…elsewhere?” Snape raised an eyebrow.

“Look,” Harry said heatedly, then halted. “No,” he said at last.

Snape continued to stare at him.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Harry snapped. “Maybe my sex-drive is almost non-existent. Maybe that’s none of your business!”

“You’re likely to be asked this sort of question if this comes to a full trial,” Kingsley said gently. “Which it will if Malfoy changes his guilty plea.”

“Yes,” Harry said, leaning forward, “but don’t you see? I know he had implanted memories, but even if they were real, he could still plead manslaughter. He hasn’t. He’s trying to be honourable, I think, to stop Ginny’s name being harmed. Maybe to protect the children.”

“I think there’s a lot you need to tell us,” Kingsley said. “I need fortification.” He got up to make some more coffee. “Harry? Severus?”

“Thanks,” Harry said.

He sat there wondering if he wanted to involve Kingsley in all this. He had come for Snape’s help, and hadn’t really thought about Kingsley being involved. Which had been really stupid of him. Kingsley was an ex-Auror and ex-Minister for Magic. More than that, he hadn’t really thought about the fact that he was Snape’s partner. Had been for years and years. There was that moving-as-a-unit thing about them that Hermione and Ron shared.

It was as if the two men at exactly the same moment became aware of his concerns, without him saying a word. Kingsley turned round suddenly, back to the counter, and even as he opened his mouth, Snape said, ”I’d prefer Kingsley to be involved in this: an extra opinion, and one as skilled as his is, is worth having. Would you be willing to put your memories into a pensieve, rather than letting me use Legilimency on you? We have one here.”

Harry supposed it made sense. And he trusted Kingsley. It was just – it was bad enough opening himself up to the embarrassment to Snape. Though he would have to get used to that if he went ahead and tried to save Malfoy’s life. He nodded assent, and after another cup of the strong coffee, he found himself, wand pointed at his own head, retrieving the memories and wafting them down into the bowl of the pensieve.

“Ready?” Kingsley said, moments later.

“You two go in,” Harry said. “I’ll wait in your garden, if I may.”

“You’re not coming with us?” Kingsley asked, surprised.

“I can’t watch that with you,” Harry said. He took a deep breath. “You’ll have questions. I’ll do my best to answer them as best I can.” And he turned and headed out to the garden.

His brain felt too light, too heavy. He knew that the adrenaline was jacking up his system, and he forced himself to walk a little way. There were the expected herbs in the garden, but surprisingly, flowers bursting riotiously everywhere, pouring in cascades down crumbling walls and bursting up from the dry soil in a vigorous clamber for the sun. In the distance, vines or olive trees, he didn’t know which was which really, followed the curves of the hills, their neatly planted lines forming patterns that jazzed his eyes.

He sniffed a purple flower dangling in front of him, concentrating on the heady scent.

The sun burned hot against his skin, the breeze warm but soothing. He wondered how the men had found such a wonderful spot.

It was a good while before he felt, rather than saw, Kingsley at the back door. He knew they must have taken a few minutes to discuss what they had seen between them.

He turned and went inside. They all sat down at the table. The atmosphere was heavy, serious.

“I'm surprised that you even noticed where your wife’s ring was, given the rest of the memory,” Snape said.

“I didn’t, until I woke up in bed and it hit me like a sledgehammer.”

“Am I to assume that you believe that the memories up until the ring changes position are real, and the ones after are false?” Snape asked.

“Uh…” Harry’s mouth opened and shut like a fish. He tried to think about the memory, but with it gone from his head….

“He needs the memory back,” Kingsley said, pulling the heavy bowl across the table.

“Well, surely you’ve thought about it independent to the memory,” Snape said. “You have looked at it in a pensieve?” he added sharply.

“N-no,” Harry admitted.

Snape drew himself up in a manner that was very familiar.

“”You expect us – me – to help you when you haven’t even looked over the memory yourself?”

“I thought you might be interested in helping Draco Malfoy,” Harry flashed. “In what way do you imagine it is helping me, to expose my every dark and dirty secret to you?”

“Your every dark and dirty secret?” Kingsley said curiously.

Harry flushed.

“You will explain. Then you will enter the pensieve with us. Then we will discuss it,” Snape said curtly.

“All right,” Harry said shakily. And then said nothing.

“Tell us about your relationship with your wife,” Kingsley prompted. “You said you were friends.”

“You also suggested that your sex-drive was non-existent,” Snape said. “Is that why she turned to Malfoy?”

“I said it might have been,” Harry said, “not that it was!”

“Same thing,” Snape said. “No man would suggest such a thing unless it was an issue. You couldn’t get it up and she fell into Malfoy’s waiting arms?”

Harry gripped his hands tightly together. His jaw hurt with how hard his teeth were clenched.

“Severus,” Kingsley chided. “A lot of men have problems in that department from time to time,” he said soothingly to Harry. “Was that the reason she wanted a divorce?”

“Did you seek any help?” Severus asked.

“Look,” Harry said fiercely. He took a breath. “I could have sex. Just – just not the sort she wanted.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Explain.”

“God! It was alright at first, okay? We made three kids, for Merlin’s sake! But Ginny liked – she liked – and then – “

“Potter, just spill it,” Snape said wearily.

“She liked it rough. Especially, she liked bondage. I – I couldn’t be tied up. I couldn’t tie her up.” He breathed heavily.

“You could not submit yourself to another,” Snape commented.

“Look, I was Voldemort’s prisoner more than once. Restrained whilst my blood was taken to bring him back to life. Locked in the bloody Malfoy dungeon! I’m sorry, maybe years with a therapist might have sorted it out, but I don’t want to ever be that helpless again. I wasn’t willing to have ‘help’ to cure something that seems perfectly reasonable to me. And I’m not willing to put someone else in that position. I’m not interested in power games. I’ve had enough of that.”

Snape leant back in his chair.

“Not even to save your marriage,” he said.

“Not even for that,” Harry got out, the words choking him. His eyes flashed. “It didn’t seem unreasonable to me to expect her to understand.”

“You were angry.”

Harry felt like he might explode. “I was disappointed.”

“And angry,” Snape said again.

“God, you’re a bastard,” Harry bit out. “Yes, I expect I was. But we’re not talking about something that happened last week. We were dealing with this years and years ago.”

“And then she met Malfoy.”

“She met all sorts of fans willing to meet her needs,” Harry said, his voice emotionless. “Malfoy was the first one who meant anything to her. And I thought he cared for her too.”

Kingsley’s deep voice broke the moment’s silence. “So, Mrs Potter being handcuffed to the bed – that wouldn’t have been - unusual, shall we say?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” Harry said. “Not that I can say for certain, but – from what she wanted with me – I would have thought it - “

“Yes,” said Snape, cutting across his floundering. “Let’s get down to the point. She liked to be restrained, or to restrain. Did she like physical punishment? Could this have been a session that had gone wrong?”

“She was killed with Sectumsempra,” Harry said, looking straight at the creator of the spell. “I wouldn’t have called that a bit of light slap and tickle.”

Snape shifted. “That is…interesting. My spell. That you used on Malfoy. It would be logical to think he might have got his own back on you by using it. How many people knew that you had used it on him, though?”

“It’s hardly something I’m proud of,” Harry said. “If it hadn’t been for you, he would have died.”

Snape nodded his head in acknowledgement. “So, Granger and Weasley, I take it. We can discount the Headmaster, I think. Minerva. Have you mentioned it since?”

Harry shook his head. “That and looking in your pensieve are the two things I’m most ashamed of in my life,” he said.

“Would that all our mistakes were so minor,” Snape responded, shocking Harry to the core.

“Minor! You were – rightly – furious about the pensieve, and I almost killed a fellow student!”

“You’d be surprised at how many near deaths happen at Hogwarts,” Snape said. He jerked upright. “It would of course, have been recorded in the school log.”

“What’s that?” Kingsley and Harry asked together.

“There’s a magical record of all spells made at the school. It’s enormous, of course, there are thousands of spells cast every day in lessons, but if someone had come across it…”

“It sounds unlikely,” Kingsley said.

“It sounds unlikely that Draco Malfoy would kill the woman he loves, take the blame and beg Potter to kill him, but that’s what we’re looking at,” Snape said.

“Point,” Kingsley acknowledged. “Alright, I know this is difficult for you, Harry, but I think we all need to look at the memory together. I want you to look and think at what point the memory might be false, rather than real – that is, whether it’s all false, or all real, or when it changes. Look carefully for things you haven’t noticed before. If you can point anything urgent out to us, that would be good. Okay?”

“Not really,” Harry said, “but I understand needing to do it.”

“If you try and concentrate on looking for a particular clue, sometimes it can help it to seem more bearable to be there,” he said quietly. “I’ve had to look at an awful lot of unpleasant pensieve memories, and I’ve found that helps.”

Harry took a breath and nodded.

As one, they all tilted forward and tumbled into the memory.

Harry was surprised by how filmy it was, until it dropped that he was looking at his memory of Draco’s memory.

It was impossible not to look at Ginny, sleek and sumptuous and writhing on the bed, tugging on the cuffs and moaning encouragement.

His image of her kept shimmering, and suddenly the reason dawned on Harry: he was seeing her as Malfoy saw her, and then that was superimposed with his own feelings, and somehow the image seemed to shift between the two, the same image but subtly different. Harry realised with shame that the image flickered between the lust-and emotion-laden one of Malfoy, and his own less comfortable feelings.

It was hard, too, to ignore the fact that Malfoy was naked. He was fit, sweat glistening and highlighting the bunching muscles as he moved; Harry supposed he must have taken advantage of the training facilities at the Harpies’ base. Harry couldn’t remember ever seeing another man with an erection, and it was difficult not to stare, to watch as Malfoy touched himself and Ginny moaned again. He felt childishly relieved that Malfoy didn’t seem any bigger than he was, and he found the pale white pubic hair weirdly off-putting. Ginny shifted her leg and slid her foot up his thigh, until the heel of her stiletto pressed up under Malfoy’s balls. He could see the tension in Malfoy’s body, the jerk in his cock, the dribble of precome that leaked from the tip as she pressed forward just a fraction.

He could have had that.

There must be something wrong with him, because he thought it probably looked more erotic watching it being done to somebody else than being in Draco Malfoy’s place in the scene. Maybe it was that he knew he was clumsy – he’d be more likely to slip forward and have that spike impale him in the goolies. He wasn’t suave like Malfoy, who was definitely enjoying himself, but negated the threat by carefully spreading his legs, sliding the shoe forward off of Ginny’s foot. He twisted it round carefully, his balls falling into the cup of the heel, rubbing the leather over them before he threw the shoe on the floor and lifted Ginny’s foot up, taking a bite at her arch. She writhed, and Malfoy’s lips traced slowly up the inside of her leg till they reached the stocking top.

“You look so fucking amazing,” he said, voice growling with emotion. “So wanton, just waiting for me to do whatever I want with you.”

“Yes,” Ginny hissed, thrusting her hips up, spreading her legs wider in invitation.

It was horrible, thought Harry, that these should be the last sounds that he should hear coming out of his wife’s mouth. In that moment, he hated magic, hated Legilimency and pensieves and everything that made it possible for him to witness these things that he should never see. And Snape and Shacklebolt, they were there too, and that was dreadful, and Harry turned to look at them.

“Check the room,” Kingsley said. “Does everything look as it should? Do you think this is a proper memory?”

Harry felt a little calmed by Shacklebolt’s matter-of-fact approach. “It has his emotion,” he whispered. “I’m sure it’s real.”

Snape looked across at him sharply, but said nothing.

Shacklebolt began to move around the room. Harry walked about too, looking at the room and the scene on the bed. Malfoy was sitting on his haunches, and they could feel through his memory the burn in his arms as he lifted Ginny’s lower body, his face buried in her groin, feel the ache of his own desire.

Ginny’s body was strung bow-tight, then shuddered as her orgasm ripped through her. Afterwards, Malfoy lowered her gently to the bed, leaning over her to reach the bottle of champagne on the bedside table.

“That wasn’t there!” Harry stared round wildly at the other two men, trying to ignore the fact that Ginny was trying to lip Malfoy’s cock as he leaned over her. He was obviously deliberately teasing them both.

Ginny pouted as he moved away, bottle and glass in hand. Harry felt unreasonably hurt. She had never seemed that enthusiastic about sucking his prick.

“The champagne?” Snape said.

Harry nodded.

Malfoy poured a glass and reached over once again to put the bottle back on the side. This time he allowed Ginny to swallow him, sipping some of the champagne as his cock disappeared between her lips. He pulled out, and bent over her, tipping the glass up to her mouth.

“Hold it in your mouth and suck me,” he ordered.

Ginny nodded enthusiastically, her mouth already filled with the liquid.

Snape stepped up to the table and smelled the top of the bottle.

“Hmmm,” he said. “Definitely not just champagne. Myrtle, Sphinx elixir, nutmeg – a suggestibility potion has been added to this.”

“Surely they’d taste it,” Kingsley said. “Nutmeg is a pretty strong flavour.”

“The amount is infinitesimal. Just enough for the potion, and the bubbles would work well to camouflage any tingle on the tongue.”

Kingsley continued to prowl around the room. “What are you looking for?” Harry whispered. He couldn’t bring himself to speak loudly, though the room was filled with grunts and moans. Malfoy was certainly enjoying things. Harry thought he was being far too rough, ramming himself hard into Ginny, but Ginny was writhing again and them Malfoy pulled out.

“Back!” she demanded.

“Don’t you tell me what to do!” Malfoy said, sliding his hands around her throat. Even though Harry had seen this before, he still couldn’t stop himself from tensing up.

“Yes!” Ginny hissed. “Tighter!”

“I’ll give you tighter!” Malfoy said, grabbing her legs and straightening them, yanking them apart hard. “I’m going to fuck you so hard, that you’re going to feel me all through the game with the Falcons, you won’t be able to stop thinking about the next time I’m going to be inside you, you won’t –“

“Well, there we have it,” Kingsley said, folding his arms.

Harry looked across the writhing bodies at him.

“Talking of the future,” Kingsley clarified. “No intent,” he said.

“Harder!” Ginny gurgled, thrusting her hips up into the man pumping furiously into her.

Harry could not believe they were talking across this.

Malfoy pounded harder, gripped harder around her neck.

“Asphyxiation is a classic technique for enhancing orgasm,” Snape commented.

“Hurt me!” Ginny got out.

Harry could not believe that she could talk. Her eyes were practically bugging out of her head.

Malfoy reached for his wand. Harry tensed, knowing what came next.

“Sectumsempra!” he yelled, and both of them orgasmed even as the blood spurted across Ginny’s face, across her body.

Harry sank to his knees, but as he fell – “The ring! It’s changed!”

Shacklebolt was looking around. “The shadows are fractionally different. So this is the point at which the memories have been altered. It seems so clumsy.”

“It is a point at which his hold on reality would have been suspended, and with the ingestion of the potion, it is not surprising that he succumbed to the false memory,” Snape said, even as the blood continued to spurt and spread over the convulsing body of Ginny Potter.

“Watch Malfoy,” Snape said. “His behaviour here is likely to be manufactured. See if he's been injured in any way – or is there a trace of spell here? He must have been subdued at this point.”

Harry though, had crept forward, and was hunched down beside his wife. The life blood leached from her, and her eyes shifted erratically. Harry thought he caught something, and stood up quickly, bending over her.

“Potter, there is nothing you can do for her,” Snape said harshly.

“There’s something – a reflection in her eyes, or something. Is that possible? Is this all Malfoy’s memory?”

“Yes and no,” said Kingsley. “A pensieve memory will hold all sorts of things you didn’t notice at the time the event occurred. That’s what makes them so useful. Inevitably, though, they will be influenced by the person who remembered them. But when the memory is false, as this one is, you might be able to find something that the person who put it in left – if they’re clever, and they would be, to be able to do it at all, there won’t be much. No feelings wisping through. But a reflection,” Kingsley said, coming with Severus to stare into Ginny’s eye – "that’s a gift.”

It was hideous that they were looking into Ginny’s eyes as she died. Harry was glad that she couldn’t see them. In the background, Malfoy was panicking. Harry had no idea who the person in the reflection was, so he made room for the other two men to watch Malfoy. Looking closely now, it was easy to see that the memory was strange. Whoever had implanted it had taken advantage of the panic that Malfoy must have felt, but somehow the edges of things were off, slightly jerky, as if it had been patched together: which it must have been, overlaying what had really happened with this awful death.

He wondered how Malfoy had not gone mad with this inside his head. Maybe he had, he thought. After all, Malfoy had begged him to kill him. But then, in the circumstances, that was probably quite logical.

They waited as the scene played out. Malfoy ran out of the room, and it ended.

They all withdrew from the pensieve.

“I need a drink after that,” Kingsley said, “and I expect you do too. Are you alright?” he asked Harry, as he pulled a bottle from the cupboard and poured them all a fire-whisky. “Stupid question,” he said, as Harry, hands shaking, swallowed down his drink.

Kingsley poured them all another.

“So,” he said. “There’s definitely an implanted memory. And I didn’t recognise that face. You, Severus?”

Snape shook his head.

“Would you be willing to see Malfoy now?” Harry asked the Potions Master. “I mean, he didn’t do it!”

“You cannot necessarily assume that,” Snape said slowly, “though, frankly, it would be a risky set-up to make if it was some sort of double trick.”

“Ridiculous, I would have thought,” said Shacklebolt. He took a swig. “So, the question, then, Harry, is who would want to kill your wife and implicate Draco Malfoy?”

“Apart from you, that is,” said Snape.

Chapter Text

“Severus!” Shacklebolt thumped his friend on the arm.

Cogs were clicking in Harry’s brain.

“Ron says that there’s a new group – not the original Death Eaters – forming. I discounted it, really: I assumed that the Aurors didn’t know about Ginny’s relationship with Malfoy – the nature of it, anyway – and that her death had been an accident. That things had gone too far. That is, until I saw his memory, and then it was all wrong, and I really – when I saw him do Sectumsempra – and then it was only last night that I realised that something was wrong with the memory – I mean, I hadn’t really thought about anyone else. Why? Why would – do you think someone killed Ginny just to get at Malfoy?” Harry’s voice had risen to a screech.

“Well, that was comprehensible,” said Snape.

“Look, I – ”

“All we know,” Kingsley interrupted gently, “is that it’s more complicated than it seems.”

He turned to look at Snape.

“Will you go and see Malfoy?” he asked.

"Yes.”

Harry took a deep breath. His head was spinning with thoughts and too much alcohol drunk too quickly.

“Will you use Polyjuice?” he asked. “People think you’re dead.”

“You can’t use Polyjuice in the Ministry,” Shacklebolt told Harry.

“We did.”

Snape snorted. “Of course you did.”

“When? Why?” Kingsley demanded. “Someone going to visit a prisoner should most definitely be vetted.”

“I wasn’t,” Harry argued.

“Of course not,” murmured Snape. “But undoubtedly different standards apply for the rest of us mortals.”

“Then – ”

“There are ways to get around that, Mr Potter,” Snape said. He turned to look at Kingsley. “It might be an appropriate time for resurrection, though.”

“Really, Severus?”

Both men were silent for a moment.

“”It would work against him,” Kingsley said at last. “Assuming that he is innocent, that is. At a later date – “

“Why would it work against him?” Harry asked. “You’re a respected war hero – ”

The men exchanged a look.

“Perhaps we misunderstood your comprehension of the situation,” Snape said carefully. “We didn’t finish our earlier conversation. Perhaps you will be less inclined to seek my help, Mr Potter.”

“What? God, what now?” Harry groaned. “I thought I’d grown out of being thought an idiot all the time. I’m not fifteen, for Merlin’s sake!”

Kingsley was grinning. “Severus has that effect on a lot of people, don’t worry about it. Why do you think I left the Ministry?”

Harry looked between the two of them. “You do realise I’ve drunk far too much for an inquisition, don’t you?” he narked.

“Potter – ”

“You want me to say it? Because you had Snape shacked up here?”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘shacked up?’“ Snape asked.

Harry sighed. “Okay, okay. You were harbouring an ex-Death Eater, who hadn’t gone to trial, and who was apparently dead, despite being the Minister for Magic.”

The men exchanged another glance.

“And,” Harry interrupted as Snape was about to speak, “I assume, from the way you interact, that you’re a couple rather than two old codgers sharing house space because no one else will have you.”

Kingsley laughed. “Old codgers? Thanks a lot!”

“Well, you look in pretty good shape to me, but maybe that’s because I don’t think you fit the old codger possibility.”

“And it doesn’t – concern – you, two men in a relationship?”

“Why should it?” Harry said. “Hell, if people can find a bit of happiness with someone else in this world, good luck to them.”

“That is not a view generally shared in England.”

“I know. Lucius Malfoy offered me his life in exchange for Draco’s, because Draco’s son is gay.”

“He - what?”

Harry nodded. “So Draco can just forget all about Ginny and marry someone else, and beget a new Malfoy heir. I’m not sure whether he expects Draco to ditch Scorpius the minute he’s got another kid, or what.”

Snape picked up the wine bottle and shared the contents between the three glasses.

“I’m intrigued. The family name has always meant a lot to Lucius, of course. But then so has his own life.”

“He looks rather frail,” Harry said. “I don’t think he’s finding the life he’s made for himself much to his liking.”

“Good," Snape said.

Harry chuckled.

“That could be useful,” Kingsley mused.

Harry sat up.

“What?”

“Hmmm?” Kingsley said, suddenly bland. “Just thinking.”

“Just thinking what?” Harry demanded. “No way am I going to accept Lucius’ life! I know he was a bastard but I’m not vindictive! If Draco really didn’t do it, accidentally or otherwise, then he ought to be free.”

“Still looking at the world through rose-tinted spectacles?” Snape murmured.

“I’m not suggesting otherwise,” Kingsley quickly intervened.

“Then – ”

“Then first we need to see whether the false memory is false, and if it is false, whether Draco had any role in it being put there,” Snape said. “In short, I will see him and use Veritaserox as you suggested.”

“But –” Harry said, looking from Snape to Shacklebolt.

“Do not worry yourself about Kingsley,” Snape said. “He’s got a love for hatching plans and manoeuvring.”

“True,” Kingsley said, smirking. “The thing is - and I’m only just toying with ideas, here, Harry, so don’t go getting worried, like Severus says. But if he didn’t do it, we might be able to use Lucius to smoke out the ones who did.”

“Oh. Really? What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know yet, let’s move one step at a time. You can let Lucius know that you’re taking the matter seriously and have called in an expert.”

“Scorpius came to see me too,” Harry commented. “He knew all about Ginny – said his Dad loved her and would never have done it.” He shifted on his seat. “I – we – never told our children. That was my fault. When I think how Scorpius was about it – how mature – maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was wrong to make Ginny and Malfoy wait. Maybe none of this would’ve happened – ”

“’What if’s’ are a waste of time,” Snape said harshly. “Do you always get like this when you’re drunk? You’d better have some lunch.” And he got up, putting a saucepan of water to boil and fishing pasta from the cupboard.

“I don’t want to put you out,” Harry said, standing up. He realised instantly that his head was buzzing far too much.

“It’s far too late for that, don’t you think?” Snape hurled over his shoulder.

“Severus!” Kingsley said in exasperation. “Sit down, Harry. Those potions’ skills come in handy for more than horrid concoctions: Severus is a king in the kitchen.”

“You’re hungry, I take it,” Snape raised an eyebrow at Kingsley, as he put courgettes and tomatoes and mushrooms onto a board, slid a pan onto the stove, splashed in some olive oil, and got to chopping.

“May I get some water?” Harry said, heading over to the sink with his glass.

“Fill a jug,” Snape said, indicating a series of them hanging along the front of the dresser.

Somehow, they were all suddenly working together, getting water, laying the table outside, peeling onions, and then they were eating the first meal Harry could remember really tasting in – well, since Ginny had died, since when food had been a fuel and something that he was knocking up to keep the kids going.

“This is delicious,” he said. “Thanks.” It didn’t seem in any way adequate for how grateful Harry felt.

Dappled sunlight filtered through the vines overhead, a warm breeze tickled his skin, and Harry felt more – calm – than he could remember. Also, sleepy. He stifled a yawn.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, seeing Kingsley looking at him.

“I have a potion that I must get started,” Snape said. “But there are things we need to discuss.”

“Right,” Harry said, standing. “Shall I clear this away and then head off? You can get me at –”

“We have a house elf,” Snape said. “I was going to suggest that you put your feet up in the hammock for an hour. You look like you could do with it.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not used to drinking in the day – ”

“Harry,” Kingsley said, “Severus didn’t mean that offensively. An hour with your feet up in the shade, undisturbed, will do you good. I need to check in with work – ”

“Oh, Merlin, I’m sorry, I didn’t think – ”

“Hush,” Kingsley said, putting a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder, and turning him towards the hammock, which was swaying invitingly under the shade of two trees.

When Harry awoke, the light had changed, the shadows slipping across the landscape. He lay a moment, enjoying the sway of the hammock, the way it enclosed him. A light rug had been laid across him, and he felt snug and warm and ridiculously cared for. He didn’t want to move. It was ridiculous, to be so at ease in the house of two men whom he hadn’t seen for quarter of a century. He knew, the minute he stirred, everything would change: he would have to face the world – his life - again. He shut his eyes, breathing in the unfamiliar scents, but all his responsibilities began to nudge at him, and with a sigh, he tried to struggle up. Legs slung over both sides of the hammock for balance, he noticed a small table with a jug of fruit juice on it, condensation on the side of the jug as a cooling charm worked its magic. Gratefully, he poured himself a glass and downed it: it was freshly squeezed orange juice, tart and delicious. He poured himself a second, extricated himself from the hammock, and then sipped it as he carried everything back into the house.

There was no-one in sight. He put the jug back into the cooling cupboard, finished the glass, washed it out at the sink, headed to the downstairs loo that he’d discovered before lunch, then went into the hallway, wondering where his hosts were.

“Hullo?” he called tentatively.

“In here.” Snape’s voice.

Harry stepped across the hallway and into what was obviously Snape’s laboratory. It was as different from the dungeons as could possibly be imagined. Sunlight flooded the room. The walls were all painted with whitewash, the worktops were steel, the floor warm umber tiles.

“Doesn’t the light damage stuff?” Harry blurted.

“A common misconception,” Snape said, stirring two cauldrons at once.

“But why were your potions' classrooms in the dungeons?”

“History,” Snape answered. He glanced up at Harry. “They had always been there, that is all. In the past, it was thought the best way to keep ingredients. Whilst some ingredients are susceptible to light damage, appropriate storage cupboards are the simple solution. Although some damage can occur due to heat, far more are damaged by the damp air of the dungeons. All of these problems can be eradicated by correct storage. Working in good natural light, does, in fact, make potions’ making far easier, as the true colour of the potion, which can vary minutely from stage to stage, can be seen and acted upon. Do stop hovering, Potter. There is a seat to your left.”

Harry looked around and noted the stool at the work bench. He wondered if Kingsley often came in here and watched Snape at work. He pulled it out and sat down.

“Thanks for the juice. I’m sorry I fell asleep.”

“How is your head? Do you need a hangover cure?” Snape said brusquely.

“No, I’m okay, thanks,” Harry said.

Snape gave him a quick look, and seemed to accept his statement.

“Doesn’t it bother you? To be dead?” Harry asked, after a minute or two.

Snape paused a moment from chopping some unidentifiable herb.

“Are you under the impression that I’m a vampire, Mr Potter?”

“Are you under the impression that I’m still a schoolboy?” Harry returned. “Any chance you could call me Harry? Kingsley does.”

“There’s less sneer value in Harry. The syllables are too soft,” Snape answered.

Harry laughed. “Sneer away, I’m sure I’ll still get the message.”

Snape’s lips quirked.

“So, not a vampire then?” Harry said.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Snape intoned.

“People used to wonder at school.”

“You think I was unaware of that?”

“Fair enough,” Harry said. “No one could think you were now, though. Though I suppose you don’t look any older than you did then.” He quirked his head, looking at the man.

“Wrinkles,” Snape said.

“Round your eyes? Laugh lines? Definitely not the Snape anyone knew.”

“That is perhaps why I found it so easy to leave my old self behind,” Snape said, as he added the herbs with one hand and stirred with the other. “I am not the man people knew then. Thank bloody Merlin.”

Harry said nothing, comprehending.

“I don’t know how you did it,” he said at last.

Snape snorted. “Neither do I.”

“Albus was an utter bastard,” Harry said, and Snape stiffened.

“You are talking of a man I killed. Have a little respect for him.”

“I lost it,” Harry said. “Anyway, I killed him every bit as much as you did.”

Snape put down the stirring rod and turned, leaning his back against the counter.

“You named your son after him.”

“Ah, you knew that, did you? And after you too?”

“No one uses a second name.”

Harry laughed. “True. It was the only way I could get away with it with Ginny. I don’t know what madness comes over parents: two kids named after my own parents, for God’s sake! What was I thinking?”

Snape let out a bark of laughter, and turned back to the cauldron.

“So, what has Albus done to destroy your affectionate memories of him?”

“My children went to school,” Harry said.

“A normal event,” Snape prompted.

“I realised how young they were, how ridiculous it was of him to expect what he did of me. It got worse as they got older. When James was in his sixth year, full of getting into trouble and trying not to get girls into trouble and all the rest of it, and I looked at him and thought, this is the age when Albus made me promise to force-feed him a potion that would kill him. And in his last year, I thought, this is the age I was when Albus expected me to kill myself.”

Snape said nothing.

Harry sat there, uptight and filled once again with fury as he thought about it.

“You were shocked too; I remember from your memories,” Harry suggested, wanting some response, some comment.

“I was.”

“You don’t think he was right?” Harry snapped.

“He was a very clever man. The outcome was right in the end.”

“Bloody hell!” Harry stood up. “He was happy to let me die, to take the chance. You ended up bleeding to death in the dust. With everybody hating you, despite everything you’d done.”

“But I didn’t die, and neither did you,” Snape said.

“You think he was omniscient enough to know we’d survive?” Harry argued. “I think not. And I think it was absolute rubbish to expect any child to be the hope of the whole wizarding world. For Merlin’s sake, as if there weren’t enough adult wizards who could’ve got the job done if a bit of proper planning had gone into it, instead of waiting for a kid to grow up to do it.”

“There was a prophecy – ”

“And since when have you had half a second’s belief in Trelawney’s craft? And I saw her make a prophecy once, and frankly, weird as it was, I still don’t believe a prophecy means no one has any control over anything, that there is only one possible way of doing things.”

Snape put down the stirring rod and came over. He took Harry’s face in one hand, gripping under his chin and turning it side to side.

Harry was suddenly very conscious of the strength of those fingers, of Snape’s beaky nose looming down at him, of the tanned skin of Snape’s forearms, of the clean scent of the man. It was unnerving.

“What?” he said, through a mouth pouched by Snape’s hold on it. He felt like a talking fish.

“Somehow, you appear to have grown a brain, Harry.”

“Fuck off,” Harry said amicably, pulling away and rubbing a hand over his jaw.

Snape moved back to the cauldron, smirking.

“And I may be an idiot but I do know when someone is avoiding a question,” Harry said. “Having kids gives you a radar for that.”

“Hmmm,” said Snape, adding another ingredient.

“Fine,” Harry said. “I ought to go, anyway. I’m sorry to have been a nuisance – ”

“Shut up, I’m counting,” Snape interrupted.

Harry stood, hands in his pockets. There was a noise in the background, and he turned, wand out automatically.

Snape stayed where he was.

“It’s Kingsley,” he said.

Harry stepped forward towards the door, quiet and careful. “Sure?”

“Sure,” Snape confirmed, as footsteps sounded on the tiled floor and then Kingsley appeared across the hall.

Harry pocketed his wand.

“Expecting trouble?” Kingsley asked.

“Old reactions, I guess,” Harry said. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s always good,” Kingsley clapped him on the back. “How’s it going, Severus?”

Snape was counting again, and raised one hand to indicate he couldn’t answer.

“We’ll leave you to it,” Kingsley said.

“I –” Harry didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to interrupt Snape but didn’t want to leave without thanking him. “Thanks for being willing to help,” he said awkwardly.

“Severus will enjoy the challenge,” Kingsley said, grinning across the room as he steered Harry out. “That potion is hell to make.”

“Oh! Is he working on the Veritaserox?” Harry hadn’t realised.

“He is. And he hasn’t let anyone else see anything of it, ever, so count yourself honoured,” Kingsley said.

“I just walked in,” Harry said in embarrassment, as they arrived in the kitchen.

“The door wouldn’t have been open if Severus wanted to keep you out. Want a coffee? Tea? Or need to get back?”

“I ought to get out of your hair,” Harry said. Talk about overstaying his welcome. “What’s the next step? What do I need to do?”

“You need to ask the Ministry to allow you to bring in a specialist to use Legilimens enhanced by Veritaserox on Malfoy. As the injured party – the family of the injured party – you have the right. Invoke Law 4312 of 1927.”

“But that was long before Veritaserox was invented!”

“Yes, but the law is a non-specific law about the rights of families of victims. It applies.”

Harry nodded. “When shall I arrange it for?”

“The day after tomorrow: the Veritaserox needs to be fresh for optimum effect. Also, send Lucius Malfoy a message, as discussed. Say only that you're taking action, not what. Alright?”

Harry nodded.

“And get a good night’s sleep. Floo-call to let us know the time.”

“Who should I say is coming? Won’t they want their own people to administer it?”

“They’ll want that, but they can’t have it: there are only three specialists certified to do it. Severus will let you know.”

Harry nodded and turned to the floo.

“Harry,” Kingsley said, grabbing his arm, “how did you know it was Severus that had made Veritaserox?”

“I didn’t.”

“What?” Kingsley’s brows drew together. “You said you overheard – ”

“I overheard people talking about the potion. I didn’t know that S-Severus had made it. I just knew that he’d definitely know about it, that he cared about Malfoy, and that if I needed help from a Potions’ Master, he was the only one I’d trust.”

“We’re idiots,” Kinglsey said, shaking his head.

Harry grinned.

Without thinking, Harry gave him a quick pat on the shoulder. “Thanks for everything, Kingsley. Ridiculous as this sounds, I’ve felt more – relaxed isn’t probably the right word, but more – I don’t know – real – than I have in a long time. I’m sorry to come and unsettle your life, though.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Kingsley rested his arm along Harry’s back as he turned him towards the floo. “We’re not quite at the pipe and slippers stage yet.”

Harry laughed, stepped into the floo, and was whirled back to reality.

Chapter Text

 I have visited Draco. I await a witnessed statement of your offer.

H. Potter.

Lucius Malfoy turned the letter over in his hand, as if seeking further words on the reverse. Was Potter going to take him up on his offer? Something shivered in Malfoy’s stomach.

He had offered his life.

He found himself astonished that Potter was willing to take it. He knew Potter and his son had never been friends at school. It must have infuriated him to have his wife fall into Draco’s arms. Not that he thought much of Lucius himself, of course, but still? Why free Draco?

Maybe he had been swayed by the money after all. The Potter family had a history of giving to charitable works, and he knew old James Potter, Potter’s grandfather, had been throwing it away to good causes, back in the day. Perhaps the Potters had lived on his wife’s income: certainly, she must have earned plenty, whilst Potter had opted for that menial tradesman’s job. Perhaps he had reconsidered what it would be like, trying to maintain that large house on his own, and his business premises. And he probably footed the bill for his son’s place too.

Death.

After all this time, it was strange to think of dying.

Surprisingly untroubling. His life was boring, and his body full of aches and pains. He felt thin, not just his body and his skin but his life force.

He wondered how Potter would kill him. He didn’t doubt the boy could do it: he’d read the histories, knew now what Potter had done even as a youngster, the pain he’d used against Quirrell, and the determination and skill and courage he had employed to bring about the end of the Dark Lord was really quite extraordinary. It showed a ruthlessness that so few people seemed to attribute to Potter, and yet was surely blatantly obvious. He had no doubt at all that Potter would do it: the question was, how would he do it? There would be a lot of public interest: would Potter want to despatch him quietly, or publicly make an exhibition of him?

What would he himself prefer? To go out with a bang? To be quietly done away with in some dark cell hidden away in the Ministry?

Would Draco think any better of him for doing this? Or despise him? Draco knew what he thought about Scorpius’ interests. Such a shame that he had missed his developing years: the boy would never have been allowed to indulge in such ideas had he been around. At the least, Draco should have taught the boy discretion and duty: there were wizards that had dubious interests that Lucius had known, but all of them had had the courtesy to settle into proper marriages and provide heirs. What they did behind closed doors was naturally not a subject that anyone with refinement would consider a topic worthy of discussion.

As for Draco, despite his failure as a father to set his son on the right path, he could not but help feel rather proud that Draco had turned around the rather dire situation the family had found themselves in after the demise of the Dark Lord. When he had heard that Draco planned to marry the Weasley/Potter chit, he was really rather impressed.

”Hetty!” he called, and a house-elf winked in, bowing low.

“Master is needing something?” she asked.

“A sherry. No, I think I will have a brandy,” he said. “The best we have in the cellars.”

Moments later the elf returned, and soon Malfoy was sipping the fine old liquid. He savoured it. Likely this would be one of his last to enjoy.

At Carnegie Place, an owl tapped on the window of Scorpius Malfoy’s apartment. He had barely got in from work, and unfastened the latch, giving the large tawny owl a treat in return for the post.

“Who’s sending you letters at this time of day?” a voice called out as the front door slammed.

Scorpius looked round, smiling, dropped the letter and filled the kettle.

Andy Boniface slipped his arms round him from behind and kissed his neck, looking over his shoulder at the writing on the envelope.

Scorpius leant back into the embrace, sighing in pleasure. “I don’t know the writing,” he said.

“Secret lover you haven’t told me about?” Andy guessed, his hands slipping lower and sliding along the front of Scorpius’ thighs, pulling him back against him in a sensuous move.

“Bound to be,” Scorpius agreed, rocking back against him. “I’m so unfulfilled in this relationship – ”

“Better sort that out, then,” Andy said, turning him round firmly, and fastening his mouth over Scorpius’.

Several minutes passed, full of sounds of clothes rustling, shoes hitting something as they were kicked off, wet sounds of kisses, scrabbled sounds on the worktop.

“Feeling more fulfilled yet?” Andy bit out, as he eased himself into Scorpius, pushing him into the worktop. “You look fucking amazing,” he grunted. “Light’s sparkling in your hair. You look like a fairy.”

Scorpius snorted. “Am a bloody fairy,” he said, then moaned as Andy thrust hard into him. “You feel bloody enormous.”

“Am I hurting you?” Andy bit his shoulder as he slowed his movements. “Thought that oil might be a bit thin – “

Scorpius reached back and slapped what he could reach of Andy’s arse. “’S fantastic. Don’t stop.”

It was several more minutes, the air laden with heavy panting, before Scorpius breathed out, “Gonna…gonna…”

“Yeah…god…come on, Scorp, wanna see you come everywhere, wanna feel you tight around me…”

“Oh fuck, oh fu-uck, oh yesss! Oh god…..”

Moments later, Andy lay draped over Scorpius’ back, gasping, licking the sweat along the ridges of his spine. He slipped out. Scorpius felt the dribble of come down his leg.

“Uugh, you must have shot buckets,” he said, grabbing a tea towel and wiping the inside of his thigh on it.

“Look who’s talking,” Andy retorted, reaching over him to pick up the letter.

Streaks of semen were spattered across the front.

“That’ll show your mystery lover,” Andy smirked.

“Twat,” Scorpius knocked his shoulder against Andy, then pulled open the drawer, took out a knife, and slit open the letter.

Andy turned away and cast a charm over the kettle, which started steaming instantly. He scooped some coffee into the cafetiere and poured the water on, then turned to the silent Scorpius.

“Problem?”

“What? No,” Scorpius handed him the letter.

Dear Scorpius,

I have been to visit your father. I have arranged for the Healer Susan Bones to visit him: if you have any further cause to think that he is not being well-treated let me know at once.

Should you wish to contact me for this or any other reason, you know where to find me. I also use a Muggle mobile – the number is O1234 56X8K0.

Harry Potter.

“What the hell does that mean?” Scorpius said furiously.

“He could see your Dad was being mistreated and he’s done something about it?”

“But what about – what about his innocence? That’s what matters! He’s not even mentioned it!”

“No,” Andy said thoughtfully. “It’s a bit of an odd letter. I’m pleased my Mum’s gone to see your Dad, though. She would have gone if you’d asked her, Scorp,” he said tentatively.

“Dad wouldn’t let me get any help.”

Andy could hear the remorse in Scorpius’ voice, and regretted having put it there. “He probably needed Potter to go in like an avenging angel and just take charge,” he suggested.

He poured them both coffee, handing the mug to Scorpius, who was standing, utterly naked, leaning back against the counter, rereading the parchment.

“You look incredible,” Andy said.

“Hmm?” Scorpius looked up. His brain seemed to realise what’d been said, and he grinned slightly. “Of course.” He took a sip of the coffee without seeming to be thinking about what he was doing. “Why would he write just to say this?” He waved the letter.

Andy came and leant beside him against the counter, looking at it again as he too drank the bitter coffee.

“Well, he’s done something for you. And he’s done something for your Dad. And he’s given you his number, which means he might be willing to do more for you.”

“But none of that’s what I wanted!”

“Maybe he can’t give you what you wanted,” Andy said gently, “and he’s just trying to be nice.”

Scorpius hung his head. “You’re always right.”

“Well, I might not be, but seriously, Scorp, your Dad’s admitted it.”

“He didn’t do it! I’m sure he didn’t!”

Andy put his arm around him.

Harry was back in his workshop, having had a busy morning. He headed out the back, where he had a small yard. There was a table and some chairs, where he and his assistant could take turns eating lunch if the weather was nice, and a couple of pot plants that Neville had given him, which were now looking awfully bedraggled, despite the fact that Neville had chosen plants that needed little water. Harry got the jug that acted as a watering can, filled it from the old pump, and gave both of them a big drink, before heading over to the woodpile.

Underneath a covered roof, but open at the sides, Harry had various woods stacked, seasoning in the open air. He could never see the pile without being taken back to the first time he had seen wood stacked like this, years ago down a country lane. He’d been meandering around the southern counties on a motorbike, enjoying the sun on his back despite the bite of the wind. It was a day in early May, and everywhere the lanes were lined with bluebells, and every copse of trees along the way sat on a carpet of blue underneath, the fresh green growth of the trees above thrusting up to a sky painted with scudding cotton wool clouds. It was absolutely magical.

He’d parked his bike and wandered through some woodland, the leggy bluebells almost up to his knees, and came out into the open to see the most astonishing view across hills and down into a valley, farms and houses dotted here and there, and he’d sat and eaten his sandwiches and felt alive and freer than he’d ever felt. Reluctantly, he’d eventually stood up, brushed off his jeans and climbed back up the hill along another track, aiming for a circular route. Reaching a road at the top, he’d walked along in what he hoped was the right direction to find his bike – not that a ‘Point-me’ spell couldn’t sort that out. There were country cottages along the lane, and grander houses behind high hedges, and a field with horses. A couple of dogs barked at him. On the right, where behind trees the land dropped away to the valley he had been enjoying, was a low building, and beside it, a couple of ramshackle-looking open sheds, with huge pieces of timber stacked in them. Harry walked across the nettles and stroked his hand over the thick plank that was lying on the top of one of the stacks. Around him was a mix of woods, some dark and rich, others with creamy centres, some with tight swirling patterns on them.

“You like wood?” a voice said, and Harry jumped, not believing that he’d dropped his guard so low that he hadn’t heard the other person. It was a young man, wearing jeans like himself, and sipping from a mug.

“I guess,” said Harry. “You don’t normally see such big pieces.” He thought of all the different woods that wands were made from, of Ollivander’s shop. He’d never seen wood like this, though.

“Want to see what we do with it?”

And that simple invitation had led to Harry seeking an apprenticeship with the company, learning everything from the basics of how to select the appropriate timber for a job, to his first ever piece (a breadboard), to making a beautiful chest of drawers. When his apprenticeship ended, Harry had stayed on, starting to create his own pieces. Initially, he had revelled in the act of making things without magic, teasing beauty from the wood with careful handling and laborious attention to detail, but as time progressed the need to escape from the impact of magic on his life had lessened, and he began to think of how to use his talents in the magical world. Most wizarding furniture was made of wood: plastic and chipboard and other ‘new-fangled’ materials had not been adopted into wizarding lifestyles. Initially, Mrs Weasley had helped him research wizarding furniture, the sort used in ordinary homes, and his newfound appreciation of the construction of elegant pieces had given him the confidence to go into wizarding shops to look at what was offered at the top end of the market, and finally, to find out more about specialist items.

Even now, he continued to make both wizarding and Muggle pieces, having built up a reputation in both worlds. He loved what he did, loved being entirely absorbed in making something, feeling what the wood would let him do and where he could coax more from it, feeling the pieces that were amenable to magic and those that were more suitable to Muggle use. He knew that most of the wizarding world thought that he must have suffered some sort of breakdown, or diminishment of his magic following his defeat of Voldemort. He quickly saw how power was status: people treated him with respect, but there wasn’t that awe that had been there after the War.

Harry was glad to let them think so. He had quietly studied charms and magical manipulation of space with Cressy Canticle, an elderly witch recommended to him by Professor Flitwick. It was a little-used branch of magic, because it actually took immense power: to make an item that would retain its adaptability over centuries, long after the spell creator was dead and gone. It was far more difficult than most people would have supposed, had they been interested to find out, which, pretty much, they weren’t.

Harry selected the timber he wanted, levitated it into his workroom, and set it on his workbench, then began to plane it.

His thoughts roamed as he worked, going over his visit to the Ministry that morning. He was ashamed, really, that he hadn’t been before to take the Head of the Aurors to task for the treatment of Malfoy. He’d taken a risk with facing down the jailor, and not taking it higher. Frankly, if they treated Malfoy so badly, despite the position he had crafted for himself in society, he dreaded to think how poorly other sods were treated, a view he’d made very clear. It had briefly looked as if his concerns were going to be brushed off. For the first time in many years, Harry felt himself pulling on his title as Vanquisher of Voldemort, slipping it on like a suit of armour. He was normally happy to potter around in the background, his fame almost second-hand as husband of a famous Quidditch player. But when Ramsey Felton had treated him merely as overwrought because of his grief, and was obviously discounting his concerns, Harry had felt anger welling within him. He had sat up ramrod straight, carefully crossed one knee over the other, straightened his cuffs, and raised an eyebrow. There was something about his quiet stillness that shut Felton up in an instant. His eyes narrowed. Harry knew he was reassessing him – he had allowed just a little of his power to cloak him, and if Felton had any sensitivity at all, he ought to be feeling it. Felton had hummed and hawed, and said he would look into it, and Harry had said good, and that he looked forward to Felton’s owl to tell him what actions he had taken.

He had followed this up with a request for his specialist to see Malfoy, to confirm the exact details of what had happened, and when Felton started to say that it was unnecessary as Malfoy had pleaded guilty, Harry had quoted Law 4312, and Felton began to realise that Potter was not a spent force after all. He nodded assent, and shook Harry’s hand with a tight smile plastered on his face as he saw Harry out of his office.

“Hi Dad,” James said, interrupting his thoughts.

Harry looked up, the smile already on his face, at seeing his son.

“James! Hi! What brings you here?” Harry looked at his watch – had he forgotten the time? But it was only just after 5.30pm. “Something up?” he asked worriedly.

“Nah, we finished a little early. I wondered if you wanted to get some supper out. Or a take-away.”

“Sure,” Harry said, surprised. “Albus is out tonight - you weren’t hoping to see him?”

“No, I knew he was going out,” James said.

Harry wondered if James wanted to talk to him in private.

“I just need to put my tools away,” he said. “Go tell Janine she should have gone by now, will you?”

Later, sitting in an Indian in Muggle London, Harry took a swig of his beer and asked, “So, what’s up, James? Anything I can help with?”

“What?” James said, around a mouthful of very hot vindaloo, “No! Nothing!”

“Okay,” Harry shrugged. “Thought you might have wanted to get me alone for a natter. Do you need to borrow any money, or anything?”

“No!” James looked at his father and said, “We just wanted to check you were alright.”

“We?”

“Albus and Lily and I. Didn’t want you to be alone too much. I mean, I know Mum was away a lot, but it’s sort of different, isn’t it?”

Harry felt tears welling in his eyes, so shocked and proud and loved did he feel. It was so unexpected, this sudden reversal of roles, of the children feeling that they needed to look after him.

“You kids are wonderful,” he said, sniffing loudly and pretending it was the heat of the food, “but I’m fine. Really. You don’t have to look after me.”

“We want to,” James said. “You’re our Dad.”

Harry smiled his thanks. His voice felt a bit too quavery to attempt to speak.

They ate a little more.

Harry remembered James’ comment from when he’d been trying to tell them about what had happened to Ginny. He wondered whether to bring it up or not. He found himself taking the plunge.

“James, I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but when I was trying to tell you about what had happened to your Mum, you asked if she’d left. Why did you say that?”

He saw James looking shifty and unsettled.

“She’s dead,” he said gently. “Nothing you can say can hurt her now.”

His son looked at him, his eyes troubled. “Doesn’t mean it can’t hurt you.”

Harry took a big breath.

“Your Mum and I were planning to divorce.”

“Oh, thank Merlin!”

It was not the answer that Harry had expected.

“Really? Why?”

“Because you were so obviously unhappy, Dad. Because…because…Mum saw other men, I think.”

Harry felt like he’d been hit with a bludger.

“Oh god, I shouldn’t have said anything !”

“No, no, it's alright.” Harry put out a hand. “Unhappy, though? How could I have seemed unhappy? I – I had all of you, and although Gin and I planned to divorce, we got on okay – “

James swept the remains of his meal to the side of his plate.

Normally, he would have finished it, and Harry felt guilty for depriving him of the pleasure.

“Lily was looking through some old photos for a school project – the holidays before last, I think. And there was a picture of us when we were really small. You looked so different, Dad. So – so full of life. It hit both Lily and me: you look a bit like a shadow of how you were. And...and…when I was fifteen, remember, I stayed with Teddy and Andromeda? Well, Ted took me out drinking – yeah, yeah, he was like a mother hen, no worries – but – well, we saw Mum. With another man.”

Harry opened his mouth, wondering where to start. “Lots of people have friends of the opposite sex,” he said. “I meet up sometimes with Hermione for a bite, when Ron’s not there.”

“Yeah, but if you held her hand and then kissed it, I expect she’d lay a curse on you quicker than a snake could strike,” James said.

Harry’s brain was in turmoil. “I’m so sorry you had to see that,” he said at last.

James’ eyes narrowed.

“You knew?”

Harry shook his head. “I – not specifically. There are things – it’s – I don’t know how appropriate it is to talk to you about this,” he said at last. “But most importantly,” he said quickly, “I was never unhappy. Honestly, James.”

“Well, maybe you’d just changed then,” James said. He looked at his father. “You knew Mum saw other men? We were so scared you’d find out.”

Harry wanted to bang his head on the table.

“We?” he croaked. “Is that you and Albus and Lily, or you and Teddy?”

“I didn’t tell Lily! What do you think I am? Even after we’d looked at those photos, and she’d asked me about whether I thought you were unhappy! I never said that I thought that might be why.”

“But you spoke to Albus?” Harry deduced.

“Later. Mum was making some arrangements that Albus was getting all stressed about, because he thought it should all be straightforward, but it wasn’t, and I thought Mum was probably trying to fit in seeing someone else, and I ended up telling him.”

Harry leant back against the banquette and sighed. “What did he say?”

“He wondered if you had someone too.”

“God!” Harry said. “I’ve made such a mess of things.”

“You are seeing someone? None of us has ever – “

“No!” Harry burst out. He took a long pull of his drink.

And proceeded to tell his son all about their mother’s plans to marry Malfoy.

“I need to talk to Albus and Lily too,” he said, after he’d finished and they’d drunk two more bottles of beer. “Want coffee here or at home?”

“I’ll come home with you,” James said. "Let's get Albus now."

.

Back at home, sitting around the kitchen table with both James and Albus, all holding steaming mugs, Harry once again explained that Ginny and Malfoy had planned to marry.

“Then Scorpius was right,” Albus said. “His father would never have killed her. Would he?”

“Or did they have an argument?” James said. “Was it – sorry Dad – but maybe Mum wasn’t raped after all. If they’d had consensual sex, then had an argument, the evidence might have been misconstrued.”

Did Harry tell his kids absolutely everything? How could you discuss a mother’s sexual predilections with her own sons?

He suddenly felt hot under the collar. Malfoy had pleaded guilty, to save him from having this conversation. To save his children from hearing it.

If Malfoy had killed Ginny, even in the heat of the moment, perhaps he could have gone along with it. Could he? But having seen into Malfoy’s mind…the doubts were so great…did he talk to the children at this point? Wait until Snape had seen Malfoy? And at the back of his mind, a strumming beat getting slowly louder and louder, was: if Malfoy didn’t do it, who did? And why? And were they a threat to the rest of his family?

It was this last that made him decide: he had been kept in the dark enough as a child: his sons needed to know the facts, needed to know what he could tell them so that they could be on their guard. The thought of anyone harming them…and then there was Lily. She was at school, so hopefully she was safe for the moment, but there were conversations that they would have to have.

Albus spoke before he could open his mouth.

“We’re not kids anymore, Dad. I know this isn’t easy.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, rubbing a hand around the back of his neck. “It’s just – I was thrust into such a lot of danger as a kid. I always wanted everything to be safe, normal, for you.”

“You did that, Dad,” Albus said warmly. “But we are grown up now. We’ve both had sex and – “

“You have?” Harry exclaimed. “Who – when – don’t tell me! It’s none of my business!”

Both boys burst out laughing.

“Oh god,” Harry said. “I’m such a useless parent. I’m supposed to be all blasé and stuff, aren’t I? You used precautions, didn’t you? We did have that conversation, didn’t we?”

“No worries, Dad, you told us,” Albus said, and as Harry sat back, looking relieved, added, “anyway, female werewolves can’t get pregnant at full moon.”

A million thoughts crashed into each other in Harry’s head. His body stiffened in shock, and then, into the silence, James burst out laughing.

“Sorry, sorry, couldn’t hold it! Your face, Dad!”

“You bastards!” Harry grinned, and then, just like that, he’d spoken to his sons just as if they were any other men, and they were men, and there was no going back.

“I can’t believe you thought I was serious even for a minute,” Albus said, wiping tears of laughter away with his sleeve. “What sort of people do you know? Bestiality, Dad? Gross.”

“Does doing it with a werewolf count as bestiality?” James asked. “I mean, it is a person really.”

“Not in werewolf form it isn’t,” Harry said, thinking back all those years when he’d seen Lupin transform.

“Not even with Wolfsbane?”

“Well, lets put it this way,” Harry said, about to speak of the dangers and then just ending up saying, “Yuk!”

The boys snorted with laughter again.

“We used to wonder about animagi, though, at school,” James grinned. “I mean, if you and someone else were of the same species, is there any reason you shouldn’t….?”

“Thinking of trying it?” Harry asked, eyebrow raised.

He’d never mastered the animagus transformation himself. He’d wondered, at school, why it wasn’t something on the curriculum, like transfigurations, or taking one’s apparition licence. Later, he was glad that he hadn’t tried. He wondered what it would have done to him, when he’d been a horcrux, whether already being split, in a way, would have been disastrous, or whether the loss of his humanity would have allowed Voldemort more power over him, or what. Once he’d finally been himself, and no one else, he’d never wanted to lose control, to feel any less than fully himself, fully human. James and Albus, though, had been fascinated when they’d learnt that their grandfather and his friends had all been animagi, and had prevailed upon Professor McGonagall to give them lessons. They were both now registered with the Ministry: James could turn into a crow, whilst Albus was a rather beautiful cat.

“Have you found someone of the same species?” Harry asked. “That you wouldn’t mind facing when you were human?”

“Ah, no,” James grinned. “Hypothetically, though, it’s an interesting idea.”

“Perv,” Albus snorted.

“Well, for you it might not be much different,” James said condescendingly. “As a bird though, doing it in the air – “

“Well, if crows are anything like pigeons, they seem to find a nice roof or tree or power cable,” Harry said. “Maybe you’d better watch some nature programmes to see if the flying thing is possible.”

“And I don’t know about you, but it takes me some concentration to keep in form,” Albus said. “Imagine if one of you changed mid-fuck.”

“Embarrassing to be found injured on the pavement in the nude if you’d crash-landed,” James agreed.

“I was thinking more of the damage you might do to your partner – or they might do to you,” Albus said.

“Ow. Point,” James nodded.

“Anyway,” Albus said, “talking of point, we’ve got right off it. What about Malfoy, Dad?”

Harry took a deep breath. “Well, there are various possibilities. One, he did it. On purpose. The question then is, why? Two, he did it, but it was an accident. Three, he didn’t do it. The big question then is, who did?”

“So, you think he might not have done it?” Albus queried.

“I hate to think that whoever killed Mum is out there walking free and laughing.” James' face was pinched.

“I do think he might not have done it,” Harry said quietly. “I’ve arranged for an expert to see him tomorrow. After that – “

“Expert? What sort of expert? Who? When did you do this?” James asked.

“I saw Malfoy a few days ago. I visited an old friend yesterday. The expert is going in tomorrow: I’m not sure who it will be,” Harry said, which was in fact true, if not the whole truth.

“Blimey, when did all this come on?” James said. “You never mentioned anything.”

“It was a bit shocking, seeing Malfoy. There was something off but I didn’t realise what straight away. When I did, I knew we had to follow it up. We’ll see what comes up with the expert and take it from there.”

“The aurors aren’t looking for anyone else, though, are they?”

“Not with a confession, but at the start they’d put in all that security. If it was someone else, we don’t know if it was just Mum they wanted to hurt. It could be someone with a thing against quidditch players, but it could be someone wanting to hurt this family. So be alert, boys, please. Be careful. And keep your ears flapping.”

“What about Lily?” James asked.

“She should be safe at Hogwarts,” Harry said. “And after the expert has been in, we’ll know if there is really any cause for concern.”

“What are you going to tell her, Dad?”

“She deserves to know everything we do,” Albus pressed.

Harry nodded. “I know.” He shifted, and stood up. “Time for bed, I think.”

The boys too got up. Albus collected the cups and put them over by the sink.

“The old friend,” James said, hand on the door jamb. “Someone – someone from the war?”

Albus turned round sharply, waiting for Harry’s answer.

“Yes.”

James nodded.

Harry turned off the kitchen light as they left the room.

Chapter Text

“I have an appointment to see Prisoner Draco Malfoy,” Snape said, at the Ministry reception.

“Wand,” said the girl, barely interrupting the conversation she was having with the other receptionist, a young wizard with a severe case of acne. Had the boy never heard of Splat-that-Spot! Potion? The girl was chewing gum.

Snape handed it over. The witch placed it on some scales, and then looked at the reading.

“Olive and Veela hair, twelve and a half inches. Made by Alessandro Vecchio,” she said. “Never ‘eard of ‘im.”

“He is one of the finest wand-makers in the world,” Snape said with derision. “I do not doubt that his name has passed you by.”

The girl looked at him, bemused. Snape was amused to see her eyes flick up and down, assessing and dismissing him in one fell swoop. She was pretty, he supposed, and he suspected that most men probably flirted with her. She flicked her blond hair and chewed harder on her gum.

“Name?”

“Severus Snape.”

No hint of recognition showed on her face. Snape, who had been girding his loins for his return to the wizarding world, suppressed a snort at the sense of anticlimax that engulfed him.

“Purpose of visit?” the girl asked, pulling out a sheet and flicking the feather end of a quill across her face.

“I am the specialist employed under Law 4312 of 1927 to –“

“Okay,” the girl interrupted him. “You’re down on my list. Didn’t have the name.” She swallowed a mouthful of saliva generated by her constant chewing.

At least she didn’t have her mouth open, Snape thought with a shudder.

“Third lift on the left. Ask for the ‘olding cells.” She handed him back his wand.

“Thank you,” Snape said courteously.

The girl didn’t acknowledge him: she’d already turned to resume her chatter with the pustulous wizard.

It felt odd to Snape, to be striding, free, through the Ministry. He wondered how long it would be before he was recognised.

As it happened, it was a quiet time of day, after the morning rush. It was when he strolled up to the warders’ desk in the holding cells that things changed.

“I’ve come to see Prisoner Draco Malfoy,” Snape began, but the head of the wizard behind the desk swung up even as he started to speak.

“Professor Snape? Professor Snape! I’d recognise your voice anywhere!”

“Still haunting your dreams, is it, Walsingham?” Snape said, recalling the boy who had become the man in front of him.

He must have been two years below Malfoy's and Potter’s year: that meant he should know that –

“Haunting? Are you a ghost?” The man’s voice was frightened, but he stretched out a hand as if to see if Snape was real, before one glance at the forbidding face made him withdraw it sharply.

“Very wise,” Snape said. “In which cell might I find Mr Malfoy?”

“But…but – you’re dead!”

“Really?” Snape sneered, enjoying himself for a moment. “It must have escaped my notice.”

Snape could see the man trying to recall the past – Snape’s past.

“I need to get Head Auror Felton,” the man said at last, somewhat apologetically.

“I am surprised he is not here already,” Snape sounded aggrieved. “He is needed to witness the procedure.”

Looking somewhat relieved, and apologetic at the same time, the man sent an internal memo winging its way to Felton’s office.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Walsingham said, not taking his eyes from Snape. “Would –would you like to sit down?”

“I am not yet so infirm,” Snape commented.

“Oh no! Of course not!”

Snape had forgotten the delights of reducing someone to babbling.

He strolled along the corridor, back and forth, apparently totally at ease.

Walsingham fidgeted at his desk, fiddling with several sheets of parchment and a large ledger. He knocked a pot of quills onto the floor, and mumbled entirely unnecessary apologies to Snape.

Snape thought about the next step. He’d seen reports about Felton in the press, so he was not surprised to see him arriving with two other Aurors in tow, leather boots stamping out a rhythm on the flagstones, capes flapping behind them.

“Head Auror Felton,” he stretched out his hand. “Thank you for agreeing to act as witness.”

He could feel Felton’s jerk response, before the man automatically took his hand and shook it.

“I wasn’t aware that you would be doing the procedure, Master Snape,” Felton said, obviously doing his best to appear unperturbed.

The two Aurors tried to strike poses of vague threat and yet disappear into the background at the same time.

“I was surprised we hadn’t had a request from England before,” Snape lied. They had deliberately omitted to pass the information on to the British Ministry that the IFAA had started approving use of Veritaserox. “You must be doing an excellent job of keeping the peace, Auror Felton.”

“Trying to keep things running smoothly, of course,” Felton said, then grasped the bull by the horns. “I’m sorry, Snape, but I’m rather surprised to see you. Your Order of Merlin was awarded posthumously, wasn’t it? ”

His tone implied that Snape was at fault for not having corrected that little fact.

“I’m afraid I have very little recollection of that period,” Snape said. “It took me many months to recover from my injuries.”

“You didn’t think to inform the authorities at a later date?” Felton said, somewhat aggressively.

“For what purpose?” Snape inquired, eyebrows raised. “I had no intention of living in England. When I was well enough to practice in Potions again, of course, I registered with the appropriate authorities.”

The fact that he had first crafted an ink that made the reader forget what he had just read was neither here nor there.

“So you’ve used Veritaserox in – France?” Felton fished.

“In various European countries, and of course, Asia and the Americas,” Snape said, making Felton grind his teeth.

“I would be delighted if you would give me your card, Master Snape, for future reference,” he asked smoothly.

“I’m afraid all applications have to go through the IFAA,” Snape sidestepped. He’d backfitted Harry’s himself.

“Of course. But there may be other matters – ”

“I’m afraid authorities at the IFAA have ensured that the three of us able to use Veritaserox are under something rather like Fidelius,” Snape said coolly. Kingsley had seen to that. “Obviously, we would otherwise be open to kidnapping by – unscrupulous elements.”

“Indeed, indeed. I’m intrigued, however,” said Felton, as he started at last to walk down the corridor to Malfoy’s cell, “that Mr Potter was able to call on you. How did he know that you were authorised to administer Veritaserox?”

“He didn’t,” Snape said, with complete honesty. “Until two days ago, I had not seen Potter since the hours before Voldemort was crushed.”

And with that powerful statement, they arrived at Malfoy’s door.

“You are unaware of the procedure, I take it, Auror Felton? Mr Malfoy is also unaware that I am alive. It may take a moment or two to settle him. I would be grateful if you would remain – in the background, as it were.”

“As you wish, Master Snape. Beecham and Downing here,” he indicated the Aurors, “are here to ensure your safety.”

“Of course they are,” Snape said.

Felton’s cheeks flushed, but he said nothing.

The warder, who had trotted along behind them, stepped forward and opened the cell door.

Snape stepped back as it swung outwards.

Inside, Malfoy was standing. He had obviously heard the thumping footsteps of the Aurors. Snape noticed the look of resignation on his face, before he stepped into the light.

Draco stumbled, his hand grasping for his chair, the other going up uncertainly to his face.

“You are not seeing your past flying before your eyes, Draco,” Snape said, sweeping in. British robes did have such a lovely movement to them.

“Professor Snape?”

“Indeed. Sit down before you fall down, Draco.”

Draco went to do so, and then stopped. Shakily, he gestured to the seat. “Please,” he offered it to Snape, long held good manners rising to the surface.

Snape turned to Felton. “We will all need chairs,” he said. “Not magical ones,” he snapped, as one of the Aurors went to transfigure something from his pocket. “As little magical interference from other signatures as possible, if you please.”

Looking like a naughty schoolboy, the Auror ducked his head. “Sorry, Sir. Shall I - ?” he turned to Felton.

“Yes, yes, and be quick about it.”

In the meantime, Snape had dropped into Draco’s chair.

“Sit,” he said to his old pupil, indicating the bed.

“You’re alive,” Draco said, wonderingly.

“As you see,” Snape intoned.

Draco glanced wildly round, seeking out Felton. “How do you know this isn’t Polyjuice?”

“Draco,” Snape said, shaking his head. “Polyjuice from a dead man would produce a corpse.”

Draco passed a shaking hand over his face. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry.” He looked up. “You’re alive,” he said again.

Snape’s lips curled in a small smile.

Draco’s brain was obviously on go slow. “Why – why are you here? I’m delighted to see you – to see that you’re alive, and here, and – but…”

“Mr Potter has invoked Law 4312 of 1927,” Felton said. “Do you know what that is?”

Draco shook his head.

“I am going to use Legilimency on you,” Snape said. “Combined with Veritaserox. Do you know what that is?”

Draco nodded.

“Am I allowed to refuse?” he asked Felton.

“You are not,” the man said, smirking.

Draco hung his head. “I don’t want this,” he whispered. “Please, Professor.”

The Auror returned with two chairs dangling from his hands. There was a lot of clattering as they were placed in the cell.

Snape would have liked to reassure Draco, but it wasn’t possible with the Aurors looking on.

“It is uncomfortable,” he nodded, as if understanding Draco’s reluctance.

He lifted his bag to the table and opened it. He gestured to Draco to sit at the chair now placed at a right angle to him at the table, and Felton to sit on the other angle, from where he could observe the proceedings. The Aurors stood either side of the door, which had been automatically closed, locking them all in.

Snape took out two containers, which he enlarged.

“Sick buckets,” he said. “It is more than likely that one or both of us will vomit. The experience is intense and unlike anything you will have experienced before.”

Snape could feel the slight sense of amusement, of superiority, in the other three men in the room, as if it was a poor show to vomit on such weak grounds. He would wipe the smirks from their faces. He removed a wooden case, which he opened carefully.

“Veritaserox,” he said, holding up a vial, and handing it to Felton before showing it to the two Aurors as well for verification. “Please check that the IFAA seal is intact.”

“Seal intact and duly noted,” the men said, as they looked at it.

“The Antidote,” Snape said, taking a second vial around for inspection.

“Seal intact and duly noted.”

“Dreamless Sleep,” Snape said, producing a third vial.

“What’s that for?” Felton asked.

“The Veritaserox stirs up unwelcome and unpleasant memories,” Snape said.

“Surely the bastard deserves to suffer any dreams that result from his own actions?” Beecham snapped.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “The potion is not to ease the prisoner’s suffering,” Snape said. “In the case of The State of Argentina versus Hector Ramirez, the case had to be dropped after Ramirez lost his mind following the procedure. He is still in a mental facility, I believe. After his case, the IFAA ruled that Veritaserox could only be administered by the three specialists who I mentioned to you.”

“Bugger probably deserved it, and avoided the Kiss, or whatever they do over there,” the Auror said scathingly.

“On the contrary,” Snape said mildly, digging in his bag. “Ramirez was found to be totally innocent. He had implanted memories. Nevertheless, the horror of witnessing the truth was too much for him to cope with. The State have had to pay out damages to his family in excess of a million galleons, I believe.”

Without another word, Snape withdrew a rectangular box and opened the lid. He withdrew a syringe, lifting it so that the needle caught the light.

“What the fuck?” Dowling breathed.

Snape could feel the tension rise by a dozen notches.

“The potion has to be administered intravenously,” he said, inserting the needle in through the lid of the vial, and withdrawing the plunger, drawing the purple liquid into the syringe. The reaction was not unexpected. Unlike Muggles, wizards were not accustomed to needles. Almost every potion could be absorbed through the stomach, skin, or by inhaling. Wizards had an almost pathological fear of needles.

“Why?” Felton said, sitting up straight with a hand over his mouth.

Hoho, Snape thought, he wasn’t even going to like watching the needle going into someone else!

“Because of the likelihood of the subject vomiting, intravenous administration is the only way that we can guarantee that the potion is effective and active, sufficient for our legal purposes,” Snape said.

“But how do you know that it is working?” Felton asked.

“The standard test agreed by the IFAA,” Snape said.

He saw Felton fidget, and held back a smirk. “You are authorised to use Imperius?” he asked.

Felton sat upright. “I am, in approved cases, of course,” Felton said.

Snape could feel the men behind bristling. They probably didn’t know that.

“The standard test is to put the subject under Imperius, tell him a secret – obviously something innocuous, but the subject is to think that it is a secret, then Obliviate him.”

“Then what?”

“Do it, and you will see.”

Severus walked, syringe held aloft in his hand, to the other side of the cell, and turned his back.

“Put up a ward so that I do not hear you,” he added.

He could feel Felton gearing up to do the spell. Despite being Unforgivables, Aurors had authority to use both Imperius and Avada Kedavra in certain situations. Crucio, however, was banned. Snape was interested that Felton had agreed to do it without consulting references to check that the situation allowed the use.

He felt the whisper of magic of the warding, and the power that was generated by the Imperius being cast. There was a moment or two, then the soft sibilance of the wash of the Obliviate. At last, he felt the wards lifting and turned round.

Draco was still at the table, looking a little befuddled.

It didn’t surprise him that Felton was a poor caster: mind magic of any form was a subtle art, although as Head Auror he should have been better at it.

“Auror,” Snape said , looking at Beecham, “make Mr Malfoy reveal his secret.”

“What secret?” Draco said nervously, as the Auror stepped towards him, a glint of pleasure in his eye.

Snape wished he had chosen the other man.

“The secret, Malfoy,” the Auror said threateningly. “The one you’re keeping from us. Tell me it.”

“What secret? That I’m to be given Dreamless Sleep? That’s not a secret and I don’t want it anyway!” Draco said, turning from one person to another, his face apprehensive.

“Malfoy, you will tell me the secret, or I will bring in your son. He’s a perverted little tosser, isn’t he? I’d enjoy the chance - ”

Draco leapt up, and the Auror leant into his face. “Now that’s more like it. Worried about what I’ll do to your sweet little boy? I bet he might even enjoy what I do to him. Don’t tell me it, Malfoy, I’m feeling rather… enthusiastic… about what I might do to the little shit.”

Sweat leapt out on Draco’s brow. His fists were clenched, his hands shaking. “Scorpius has nothing to do with this! Don’t you dare touch my son!”

“I will do what I need to get the information I need. You will tell me, Malfoy.”

“Fuck off!” Draco was shaking.

“Perhaps you’ll enjoy watching me…interrogating…your son. Perhaps he learnt his perversion from you.”

“I’m in here for murdering a woman!” Draco shouted.

“Ah. Perhaps you’re disgusted by your son as well. Maybe you’d like to see him scream. Is that why you’re refusing to tell me?” Beecham turned to the other Auror. “Dowling, go and fetch the boy.”

“No!” Malfoy bellowed. “I’ll tell you.” He was shaking. “Felton said that, that – that I would be released if I paid 100,000 galleons into his account,” he shouted.

The Auror turned to his boss.

Felton shook his head. “Wishful thinking, Malfoy. He hasn’t a clue, has he?”

Dowling moved. Draco whipped round, coming to fall at Snape’s feet. “Professor! Please! Please don’t let them hurt Scorpius! He hasn’t done anything =- ”

“Scorpius is safe,” Snape said, bending over the man.

“Promise me! Promise me to keep him safe,” Draco begged.

Snape looked down at him. “Stand up, Draco.”

“Please, I beg you,” Draco said, grabbing his robe.

Beecham stepped forward.

“I promise,” Snape said. “Now stand up.”

The breath whooshed out of Malfoy.

Shakily, he stood.

“Sit, and bare your arm.”

Still shaking, Malfoy did so.

Wasting no time, Snape injected the potion into his vein. He heard one of the Aurors muttering in horror.

He sat down, held up a hand when Felton would have spoken, and looked pointedly at his pocket watch.

When two minutes had passed, he said, “Draco, what was the secret that Auror Felton told you?”

“His favourite dinner is cottage pie,” Draco said, his eyes glassy.

“Merlin’s teeth!” Felton gasped.

“It worked, Sir?”

Felton nodded. “Yes. Through Imperius and Obliviate. Incredible!”

“And now,” Snape said, “I will see what his memories can tell us. Do not disturb either of us for any purpose at all,” Snape said. “If he retches, hold the bucket. Do not speak.”

All three nodded, staring in awe.

“Draco, look at me,” Snape said. “I am going to enter your mind. Do not fight it, it will only be more painful, and you cannot keep me out.”

Draco nodded slowly.

And Snape went in.

He withdrew an indeterminate time later. Draco wavered, one hand gripping the desk, looked around wildly, and threw up.

The vomit splashed all over Beecham’s shoes. Snape did not think it was entirely coincidental.

As the man’s rage and disgust rose, Snape sneered, “Slow reaction time, Auror? I told you to expect vomiting.”

The Auror growled, but cast a spell to clean up the mess, rather than a hex. Draco staggered over to the lavatory in the corner of the cell, and retched again. Severus stood up shakily himself, walked over to the basin and poured water into the mug there. He sipped some himself, and then refilled it and handed it to Draco. Draco rinsed and spat, and then drank a little down.

“Professor,” he began urgently.

“Do not speak of it yet, Draco,” Snape said. “You need to rest, and to dwell on what you saw. I will visit you tomorrow for the follow-up appointment,” he added.

Draco nodded. He moved to the bed, and lowered himself onto the edge, hiding his face in his hands.

“What happens now?” Felton asked.

Snape took two vials from his case. “This,” he said.

He extracted a long skein of memory from his head, and as it floated lightly in the air from the tip of his wand, cast a spell at it with a simple flick. The skein duplicated itself, each section sliding into the vials Snape held ready. He then took another vial from the case, and poured a tiny blob on the end of each stopper, before casting a further spell.

“This is the Ministry copy,” he said, handing one to Felton, and putting the other into the case. “To be kept in safe storage, unopened, until the trial.”

“Ah yes,” Felton said. “That was another matter I meant to mention to you, Malfoy. The trial is set for the day after tomorrow.”

Snape and Malfoy both looked at him.

“How is Mr Malfoy expected to have time to discuss matters with his lawyer?” Snape asked.

“Mr Malfoy has declined to see a lawyer,” Felton said superciliously.

“And if he should wish to change his mind?”

“I won’t,” Draco said, quietly, from the bed.

As the men turned to look at him, he added, “I won’t change my plea either.”

Snape stared hard at Malfoy. “As I said, you should not speak of anything until the effects have worn off. To set the trial for two days time is entirely inappropriate, Felton.”

“It’s alright,” Malfoy said.

“Draco – ”

“Professor,” Malfoy said, suddenly standing up. He seemed to wrap himself in the haughtiness that had often characterized his father. “I said, it’s alright.”

Snape looked at him.

Malfoy seemed to be pulling himself together in a big way. “Head Auror Felton,” he said firmly, “may I ask for writing materials? I would like to write to my son. For after the trial,” he said deliberately.

No man would refuse a father the chance to write a last letter to his child, surely?

“I’ll have them sent along,” Felton agreed.

Snape’s brain was whirling as he repacked his case. Which, given that he was already suffering from a splitting headache, only served to make him feel extremely grouchy.

“If you have any letters you wish me to deliver for you, I will collect them when I call tomorrow,” Snape said. When Draco looked blank, he sneered, “Some people feel a desire to apologise for their actions, for instance. Particularly those who have admitted their guilt.”

Beecham snorted behind him. “You’ve turned soft, Professor, if you expect apologies from the likes of Malfoy. He just wants a clean end, rather than lurking in Azkaban for the rest of his days.”

Snape turned a sharp eye on him, but held on to his temper. “You may be right, of course. Personally, I don’t see anything clean about the Dementor’s Kiss. The family are left knowing that there is a gibbering wreck left mouldering in Azkaban.” He saw Draco flinch. “Of course, you’re correct, the guilty person doesn’t have to worry. Not that we know of, anyway. It has always seemed more a punishment of the family than the culprit, to me.”

He could see Dowling shiver, thinking about it. Draco was as white as a sheet.

“I thought execution was the sentence for murder nowadays?” he whispered.

“I am not so familiar with the system in England any more,” Snape said. “The Wizengamot will decide, no doubt,” he added, his voice unconcerned. He picked up his case. “Well, gentlemen, shall we go? I have documentation to complete and a head fit to split.”

The men laughed, and they left the cell. At the warder’s desk, Snape handed over the Dreamless Sleep potion, with strict instructions on the necessity of administering it if the subject was to be fit to stand trial.

As they headed for the lifts, he turned to Beecham. “You were extremely effective at getting under Malfoy’s skin,” he commented.

“Thanks,” Beecham preened.

“How did you come to know so much about his son?”

“Oh, my boy was at school with him. Said he made no effort to hide his perversion.”

“Really? Boys kissing in the corridors? Times have changed.”

“Merlin’s balls, don’t make me vomit!” Beecham mimed doing just that.

“I’m not sure I understand you, then. What happened?”

“Kept taking this boy back to his room. When his year-mates objected, he went to the Headmaster. Said all sixth-formers had the right to privacy in their own chambers, and demanded to know what had changed to alter that. “

“He is perfectly correct,” Snape commented. “But I fail to understand why this was an issue. As you may know, I was a Head of House for many years. The older students have gone and locked themselves into each other’s chambers since Hogwarts began, I expect. Those canoodling with the fairer sex were far less of a worry than boys, who were usually hatching plans for stupid pranks.”

“Ah, well, there you have it!” Beecham said.

They had reached the bank of lifts. Felton and Dowling, ahead of them, had already pressed the button to summon it.

Beecham leant in towards Snape in a confidential manner. Snape inclined his head towards him. “They weren’t hatching pranks! ‘Canoodling’ as you call it: that’s what they were up to!”

Snape stood upright. “It sounds like a tale a pupil has made up,” he said derisively. “If they had locked their door, how would anyone know what they were up to?”

“Set up a monitoring spell, they did,” Beecham said proudly.

Snape looked at him, and bent forward, as if sharing an amusing confidence. “You wouldn’t have had anything to do with teaching them how to do that, of course,” he said knowingly.

Beecham chuckled. “Me? No,” he said, in a tone which implied exactly the opposite.

“I don’t know the new headmaster. What did he do?”

Beecham’s face turned sour. “Can you believe it? He upheld Malfoy’s point. Said the sixth formers, especially in the final year, were all of legal age, and the school made the assumption that it was appropriate to treat them as reasonable, law-abiding adults. That spells were in place to stop students harming others within the castle, and that no further action was needed. Disgusted, I was. Nearly took my boy out.”

“You don’t agree that the pupils ought to have the same legal rights as they would have in the wider world?”

“I don’t want my boy anywhere near fags!”

Snape stepped into the lift, which had now arrived.

Interestingly, Felton was busy looking anywhere but at them, ignoring the conversation as publicly as he could, whilst Dowling was hanging his head, hands in his robe pockets.

Intriguing, Snape thought.

“What time is the trial, Auror Felton?” Snape asked, changing the subject.

“Hmmm? Oh, yes, you’ll need to be there, I expect? 11.30am.”

“I will rearrange my commitments,” Snape said, pointing out the inconvenience of the lack of notice.

The lift clanged to a stop, and they exited. Felton extended his hand. “Glad to see Veritaserox in use. I’m sure we’ll be calling on you a great deal in future, Master Snape.”

Snape shook it, saying nothing. Dowling extended his rather warily. Snape shook it too, looking sharply at the man. Beecham stretched his out, smiling widely at Snape. Snape pulled the man towards him and whispered in his ear, keeping hold of his hand. “Watch yourself. You never know where they are.”

Beecham nodded vigorously, looking pleased at being singled out.

Snape looked forward to enlightening him at some future point.

Chapter Text

Harry’s floo flared, and Severus Snape stepped through.

He shook his robe, the soot disappearing with a spell.

“Tea, Potter.” he demanded.

“Come through,” Harry said, leading the way to the kitchen. “How did it go?” He put the kettle on. He was pretty sure that Severus would be a man to prefer the water boiled properly, rather than by magic.

“Get Kingsley here and I will tell you all. Do you have a pensieve, or should he bring one? And I presume your floo is sealed to strangers?”

“Yes, no and yes,” Harry said. “Why?”

“I suspect you will be bombarded with calls otherwise. And owls.”

“I’ll get Kingsley. And the pensieve. Do you need a pain potion? Or – of course, you probably have some -”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I know I’m not much good at it, but Legilimency always gives me a really shitty headache. You look a bit – pinched. Careful how you move. I wondered if you had one.”

Snape was surprised that Potter had noticed. And it was a brave man who offered a standard potion to a Potions Master.

“You are correct, but I have a potion with me. It works best with tea.”

“Coming up in a moment,” Harry said.

Harry strode back into the other room; shortly after, he returned with Shacklebolt, and the pensieve that used to belong to Dumbledore. The kettle was just beginning to boil. Harry went and fiddled with the teapot and cups. He turned round to see Shacklebolt standing behind Snape, his hand lightly on his shoulder. Snape’s hand reached up and their fingers slipped together for a moment, before Kingsley pulled out the chair next to his lover and sat down.

He reached across and poured out the tea that Harry had set on the table. “Severus is always parched afterwards,” he said, as he handed the man the mug. He pulled some chocolate from his pocket and set it down in front of Snape.

“I’ve got some,” Snape said.

“Ah well. Thought I’d bring it in case you forgot,” Kingsley said easily.

Harry had taken over the teapot and poured two more cups, then sat back, drinking it. Snape took the potion, sipped the tea and nibbled at the chocolate.

Harry found himself impatient, now that they were here, to know what Snape had found out. Manners won out, however.

“Do you need to eat? Can I make you a meal?” he asked.

“Severus is likely to feel sick for a while,” Kingsley said, as Snape shook his head with the stiff, limited movement of someone holding back pain.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry.

Snape looked sharply at him.

“I didn’t think about the adverse affects on you.”

“Apart from the effects of a lengthy Legilimency session, you didn’t think I would have any response to witnessing a murder?” Snape said.

Harry’s mouth opened and shut. “I’m sorry,” he said again, “I really didn’t think about that side of it. I know that’s appalling of me.” He hesitated. “May I ask what you saw?”

“I made two copies,” Snape said. “One has gone into evidence at the Ministry.” He pulled a vial out of his pocket and put it on the table next to the pensieve. “This is the other. I’d like Kingsley to look at it as well. I’d like to finish my tea first.”

“Is – was I right?” Harry asked. “Was it a false memory?”

“You were right,” Snape acknowledged.

A few minutes later, they all took the plunge.

It was horrid going back into the bedroom again, witnessing it all again, and yet at first, it felt unreal to Harry, like a film that didn’t involve him. He was horrified to find that he could watch dispassionately, seeing Malfoy kissing up Ginny’s leg. He felt the outsider, looking in on the intimacy of two lovers.

Then, suddenly, there was a moment when what Harry had seen previously shifted.

Fifteen minutes later, they exited.

There was silence.

“More tea, I think,” Harry said, moving to the kettle. His hands were shaking.

Kingsley walked over and put his hands over Harry’s, removing the kettle from his grasp. “Go find the firewhisky,” he said gently.

Harry nodded dumbly, and strode out of the room. His shoulder hit the door-frame.

“Shock,” Kingsley said, filling the kettle himself and setting it to boil.

“Yes,” Snape agreed.

Kingsley came and sat at the table. “You okay?” He reached a hand across, just touching Snape’s fingers for a moment, withdrawing it as Harry came back in with the bottle.

Harry’s eyebrows drew together. “Don’t do that because of me,” he said sharply.

“What?” Snape looked up.

“Stop holding hands. Ron and Hermione keep pulling apart when I walk into the room, as if I can’t want anyone else to be happy because I’m alone. They still do it even though they know Ginny and I were planning to divorce. It’s ridiculous.”

“I’m not really the hand-holding type,” Snape said drily.

“Doesn’t it bother you that we’re men?” Kingsley asked.

“What, because two men don’t deserve happiness? I don’t understand people,” Harry said. “I’ve been lonely for a long time. I’ve got the children, of course, so not lonely-lonely. But I look at people who’re happy together and it’s nice. Frankly, at this point, I could feel squishy just seeing Mrs Figg and her cats.”

“Squishy?” Kingsley was laughing.

“Well,” Harry gave a little grin. He’d picked up some glasses for the whisky and slid them onto the table, reaching for the bottle to pour them all some. “Mushy and jealous at the same time, I guess.”

“Potter, if you feel jealous of Mrs Figg and her cats, you need to get laid,” Snape said.

“Severus!” Kingsley’s look of shock turned to a glare in moments.

“What?” Snape said. “I’m sorry, but it is a fact that Potter is not likely to have been having sexual relations since his wife died. Even I would think that it would appear to be inappropriate behaviour to seek someone out at this time. Nevertheless, the plain fact of the matter is that he is likely to be feeling sexually frustrated, which being the heterosexual that he is, he probably terms in romantic feelings of needing to be touched and cuddled.”

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” Kingsley said. He turned to Harry. “I can’t apologise for him, he’d hex me, but I’m sorry.” He turned to Snape again. “And as you well know, I don’t mind a cuddle myself, and neither did you, when I last looked, which was this morning, so cut the condescending heterosexual crap.”

“God, I didn’t mean to turn a touching moment into an argument,” Harry said, looking from one to the other.

“Living with Snape is a constant argument,” Kingsley said, pouring the tea.

“You like me telling the truth,” Snape shrugged. “You just don’t like the embarrassment it causes.”

It was impossible not to grin. Harry chuckled. It tried to turn into a laugh. It was surprising how much it relieved the tension.

“Well,” said Snape, as Harry was wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, “they say laughter is the next best stress relief, after sex.”

Harry giggled again. Kingsley was chuckling too, and Snape smirking. Harry wondered if he had deliberately done it to break the tension.

“Right,” Kingsley said at last, when they had finished both their tea and firewhisky. “Comments?”

“He’s innocent,” Harry said at once.

Kingsley nodded. “Did you recognise any of the attackers? I know they had masks on, but anything about their posture, or gait? Did anything seem familiar?”

Harry bit back his automatic negative response and reviewed the scene in his mind. Three attackers, who had burst into the room, stunning and petrifying Malfoy before throwing him to the side. And then proceeded to beat Ginny viciously, before all three of them stood over her and threw Sectumsempra at her. They all stood there, calmly waiting whilst she screamed, till she had bled to death. Then one of them memory-charmed Malfoy. The look on Ginny’s face when she realised that she was bound and helpless and unable to reach her wand was unbearable. And as for the look on Malfoy’s face when he snapped back to consciousness seconds after the attackers left the room….poor bastard.

He forced himself to think of the attackers: there had been a lot of movement: none of it, though, pressed any memory buttons. “Nothing familiar,” he shook his head. “They all knew Sectumsempra, though: how is that? I thought you’d kept that one to yourself, Snape? And the one who memory-charmed Malfoy – I didn’t know that spell he used. He must have been good, though. Does Malfoy know what really happened now that you’ve rifled through his brain?”

“He does,” Snape said. “As for Sectumsempra, the use of my spell has puzzled me considerably since you first mentioned it. It was obviously a deliberate, premeditated choice. What were they trying to say? To whom? And as for the memory-charm, it would need a wizard who had studied the art to know and wield it so effectively. This combination must narrow down the field of possible suspects.”

Kinglsey nodded. “Let’s state the obvious too: do we agree that all the attackers were men?”

Harry had assumed they were. Now he thought again of those three robed forms. Could any of them have been a woman? “I think they were all men. One was a little shorter, but then, I’m short.”

“I tend to agree, but we need to keep an open mind on that one. Severus, what do you think?”

“I agree, probably wizards, but we need to be cautious about that assumption.”

“But,” Harry said, his hands raking his hair, “I mean, who? Who would want to kill Ginny? Why?”

“That is the question,” Snape said. “And want to set Draco Malfoy up at the same time. Otherwise, they could have killed her in the street.”

“They obviously knew enough about her life to know that she and Malfoy were involved,” Kingsley said. “How many people knew, do you think, Harry?”

“They were discreet,” Harry said. “There was never anything in the papers.”

“Malfoy owns The Prophet, of course,” Snape noted, “so that’s one major scandal-rag dealt with.”

“Yeah, and the Quibbler wouldn’t, I don’t think, not without coming to us first, anyway, and Luna never came to me. But there’s still Witch Weekly, and all the quidditch magazines – it would have been big news for them, a club owner with a player.”

“So, it wasn’t public knowledge. And whoever found out, wasn’t interested in the money they could have made selling the story.”

“Let’s see if we can narrow this down,” Snape said. “Did you tell anyone, Potter? Anyone at all?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Kingsley asked. “Not in all this time? It’s a long time to keep a secret.”

“Not when you were drunk?” Snape said. “You didn’t even confide in Granger?”

Harry shook his head.

“Why not?” Snape asked.

Harry looked up, eyes snapping. “She’s married to Ron!”

“You don’t think she can keep a secret?” Shacklebolt suggested.

“I’m sure she can,” Harry said aggressively, “but it wouldn’t have been fair to ask her to keep something like that from Ron, would it?”

“And you didn’t discuss it with the children?”

“No!”

“Stop getting flustered,” Snape said coolly.

“This is my life!” Harry snapped.

“I know,” Kingsley said, reaching out a hand to touch Harry’s in a brief gesture.

He was a very touchy-feely person, Harry thought. He wondered wistfully what it would be like to live with someone like that.

“Sorry,” he said. “I know you’re only trying to help.”

Shacklebolt breathed in deeply. “We are.”

There was a pause.

“Is there a big ‘but’ hanging in the air?” Harry asked, looking from one to the other.

“It’s not so much a but, as that I think there’s a bigger picture,” Kingsley said. “Look, it’s about time I told you I’m not exactly a layman sitting here giving you my five sickles worth.”

Harry looked at him. “What does that mean? I’ve been laying my life out here, Kingsley. Tell me you’re not still an Auror or a…a ..reporter or someone who’s going to use this against me.”

“Do you want to find out the truth, Harry? About what happened to Ginny?”

“Yes, but I’d also like some truth from you. I assumed I was talking to a friend.”

“You are. And when you came to us, I was just Severus’ sidekick, because you were really after him. But now I can see that something is going on, that one, I need to be involved with, and two, I hope I can help you with.”

“Okay,” Harry said slowly. “You’d better tell me, then.”

“When I left the Ministry, and went to live out in Spain, I really turned my back on what was happening in Britain. I’d come to love Severus,” he said, looking across at the still man sitting opposite him, “and there was no way I could acknowledge that and remain as Minister for Magic. The post-war clean-up was more or less set up, so I was happy to leave it.”

“Really?” Harry said. He glanced at Snape. “But you gave everything up – “

Kingsley shook his head. “I’d learnt what was important. Severus has been the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’d been a closeted queer for years – there’s no way I could have kept my post as an Auror if it had become known, which meant my liaisons were few and far between and mostly in the Muggle world. Which meant even when I was able to be open about being gay, I had to hide the fact that I was a wizard. As Minister, there was just no way I could be out, and of course, there was hardly any time to be with Severus either. I have no regrets at all. “

Harry looked at Snape, at the contentment on his face.

“You don’t have any trouble in Spain? Being together?” Harry clarified, his finger waving between the two of them.

“Nope, it’s not an issue there at all. The wizarding community is very laid back. I think it’s all the sun and sangria,” Kingsley gave a wry smile.

“So something has changed?” Harry prompted. “Recently?”

“Well, not really recently. I was perfectly happy with the olive grove and the vineyard, and doing a bit of charms teaching at the university in Madrid, but then I was approached by the European Wizarding Alliance and asked to set up a task force. It was intriguing, and maybe necessary, and we all like to feel we have expertise that people need. I agreed to a two-year contract. That was three years ago.”

“What does the task force do?” Harry asked.

“Essentially, trying to keep the peace between the member nations, and prevent the rise of wacky factions. Lets just say that some of the other members of the Alliance regard Voldemort and the Death Eater movement as a wacky faction. That’s the sort of thing we’re trying to nip in the bud.”

“That sounds a little worrying, actually,” Harry said.

“Yeah, it is, of course, to think of all these nutters and then the less nutty and a hell of a lot more worrying types – “

“No, I mean the ‘nip it in the bud’ idea. It sounds like you might be trying to take away free speech.”

Snape and Shacklebolt stared at him. A gleam came into Snape’s eye. “Well. You have grown up,” he commented.

He sounded almost approving.

“Come on! I’m heading for a half century here! I might not be the brightest button in the box but I am occasionally capable of stringing two thoughts together.”

The two men grinned, and then Kingsley turned serious. “It’s a good point. We’re not trying to take away free speech, or even free thought. Merlin knows, I know what oppression is. But violence is another matter, and groups wanting to take away the rights of others too. We watch and monitor before we jump in. Believe me, most of the cases we look at come to nothing at all.”

Harry looked steadily at Kingsley. Over the past decade, when his children being at school had made him reassess his own time at Hogwarts, and the fight against Voldemort, he could not believe how naïve he had been, how he had just done what was expected of him – and most of it because Dumbledore expected it, and he had liked and respected the man.

Well, he liked and respected Kingsley, but he was not going to be a walkover again. On the other hand, Kingsley hadn’t asked for anything yet.

“Okay. So you think you need to be involved. You think Ginny was killed by one of your nutter groups?”

“One of the more worrying ones,” Kingsley said. “I’ve seen those masks before, but we’ve never had a report of them being used in Britain. This is important.”

“Who are they? What do you know about them? What other things have they been doing? And why would they murder Ginny?”

“And frame Draco, rather than taking responsibility,” Snape added. “It’s hardly promoting their cause if no-one knows their involvement. The Death Eaters always flaunted their crimes.”

“They’d appeared just before I’d been called in. Their trademark, unlike the Death Eaters, as you say, Severus, is to do what they do quietly and without any pomp. It’s been incredibly hard to find out their motives – it’s more a matter of building a picture based on what they’ve done. This is another piece in the puzzle – ”.

Harry’s brows drew together: Ginny’s death was not some minor link –

“I don’t mean that in any disrespectful way, Harry. But what they’ve done here is really important. It’s the first time they’ve struck in England, as far as we know. It’s the first time that we’ve come across memory-charming, but the skill with which that was used suggests that it certainly isn’t the first time they’ve done it, and that means that what we know about them is an even smaller picture than we thought before. They could be responsible for lots of crimes that we thought we had the culprit for. We don’t know who the primary target was here – ”

“Ginny is dead!” Harry snapped.

“Yes, but Draco Malfoy is as good as, and with his reputation and empire ruined to boot. If it was an attack against him, it’s far more effective than merely killing him.”

Harry took a shuddering breath.

“Before you lay any blame on Malfoy, despite knowing he is innocent –” Snape began.

“If Ginny was killed just as a pawn to get at him – ” Harry bit out.

“She could just as easily have been killed as a pawn to get at you,” Snape said uncompromisingly.

“I’m not anyone anymore,” Harry shook his head. “I’ve worked hard not to be anyone.”

“Well, you’re a fool,” Snape said. “You will always be the Vanquisher of Voldemort, however much you try to hide away.”

Harry passed his hand shakily across his face.

Kingsley again reached out and touched his arm. “If that is the case, you did all you could to tie down the risks. Ginny knew when she married you who you were. But let’s not forget, that she was a major figure in her own right. She may well have been the prime target. We can be pretty sure, though, from the fact that the killers wore those masks, that it wasn’t motivated by team rivalry.”

“Team rivalry! God!” Harry exclaimed.

“It’s been known to happen. Ginny Potter was a world famous player. There have been incidents in the past where players have been injured by other teams, or even by players in the second team, hoping to get promoted. Not to mention The Kingston Kites – you’ve heard of them, of course.”

Harry shook his head, looking bewildered.

“The whole team were killed off by a fan of the team they defeated in the World Cup.”

“My god, you’re kidding? When did that happen?”

“1742, so not exactly recent. But motivation doesn’t change much. It’s one of the examples you cover in Auror training: sometimes there’s a simple explanation, rather than a complex one.”

“But not for Ginny, from the look of it. Malfoy’s confession shut down any chance of a decent investigation at the time, didn’t it? I suppose they would have looked into all these possibilities? It’ll be hard for them to get it going after the time delay,” Harry said. “Not that that’s Malfoy’s fault. Poor bastard, thinking all this time that he’d done it. He must feel like a weight’s been taken off his shoulders. What?” Harry said, looking at Snape who was shifting in his chair.

“He was obviously still in shock, of course, but Malfoy said that he wasn’t going to change his plea.”

“What?”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Kingsley said.

Harry stood up shakily. He strode across the kitchen, over to the window, and then back. “I think the pillock is trying to be noble.”

“By dying for something he didn’t do?” Kingsley asked.

Harry sat down heavily. “If the case is investigated, what he and Ginny were doing in the bedroom will come to light. If he pleads guilty, it won’t.”

“He’s more worried about his reputation than his life?” Shacklebolt queried.

“No. Ginny’s.”

“I think you may be right, Potter,” Snape agreed.

It was at that moment that an owl rapped sharply on the window with its beak.

Chapter Text

Harry liked having a decent kitchen table. Sitting round the table always, somehow, meant family to him. It had always been a place of lively discussions, the children arguing, jokes being told, and comfort.

So it was a bit odd seeing Lily sitting there, staring, at Severus Snape. Harry was cooking some dinner. He’d sent a quick owl order out to the butchers and greengrocers, and was knocking up a spaghetti Bolognese. He could have ordered take-away, but he’d needed something to do. So there was Snape, standing at the worktop chopping onions, and Kingsley opening a bottle of red wine, and Lily, just sitting, watching.

He heard the clatter of floo, and then the quick step that he recognised as Al’s. Lily leapt out of her chair and shot out of the door. He heard the floo flare again, the retreat of the footsteps, and then the whispered mumblings of the kids talking together.

Snape glanced across at Harry. “Sure you don’t want us to go?”

“No, I think it will be easier if they see you,” Harry said, “and Kingsley, and realise how serious this is.”

“She’ll be telling them we’re here, then,” Kingsley said, sniffing the wine.

“Probably best,” Harry agreed.

The next moment the three of them were framed in the doorway. Harry turned to look at them, proud and anxious at the same time.

“The old friends you mentioned,” James said, his eyes meeting his father’s.

“Exactly,” Harry agreed. “Let me introduce you.” Kingsley had stepped forward, and Harry said, “Kingsley, these are my sons, James and Albus. Boys, Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

Shacklebolt shook hands with each in turn.

“And this,” Harry said, turning to the man who remained at the worktop with a wicked knife in his hand, “may come as a surprise. Professor Snape, may I introduce James and Albus.”

The boys headed across the room, but were stopped in their tracks when Snape said, “I’ll not shake your hands.”

James looked startled.

Snape indicated the chopping board. “I stink of onions.”

“Could be worse,” Harry said. “It could have been bubotuber pus.”

“In your Bolognese? Maybe we’ll eat at home, Kingsley,” Snape said.

Harry laughed. “I just always associated you with potions' ingredients.”

“How flattering,” Snape murmured.

Harry laughed again.

His children glanced at each other, curious at the interaction.

Albus stepped forward. “I’m pleased to meet you, Professor. I’m named after you.”

“Your father always was prone to bouts of stupidity,” Snape said, which made Albus grin.

“Only bouts? I’ll take that as a compliment, then,” Harry threw back.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Albus asked, looking at the progress of the meal. “Are we having garlic bread with it?”

“We are if you want to make some,” Harry said equably. “There’s a French stick in the bread bin you can use.”

Albus strolled across the kitchen and got the loaf. James looked round and fetched the glasses for the wine Shacklebolt had opened, then sat down at the table opposite the man. “Can I pour you a glass, Mr Shacklebolt?” he asked politely.

“Please,” he smiled at the young man.

“Good lord, Potter, either your children are the best behaved youngsters that I’ve ever encountered, or the least curious people on the planet.” Snape handed Harry the board with the onions on.

“Oh, we’re curious enough,” Albus answered. “But no doubt you’ll tell us in your own time. Otherwise Dad wouldn’t have asked us to come.”

“And if you don’t say now, we’ll get it out of Dad later,” Lily said, getting up and getting a jug of pumkin juice to add to the table.

“Really?” Snape looked at Potter. “Can’t keep a secret from the kids?”

“I think he’s proved that’s not the case,” James said, taking a sip of the wine.

“What do you mean? I can always get Dad to spill stuff.” Lily was indignant.

“I suspect, only stuff he doesn’t mind spilling,” James argued.

“Speak for yourself,” Lily snorted, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms.

“He didn’t tell any of us about Mum and Malfoy,” James said, “so get off your high horse, Lils.”

“Good point,” Albus chipped in. He was busy squeezing garlic through a press into a bowl of butter.

“Humff.” Lily was silent for a moment.

Harry stirred in the mushrooms Snape passed him, and the tomatoes he’d been chopping himself. James had poured wine for his father and Snape and took the glasses over.

“Thank you,” Snape nodded. “Anything else, Potter?”

“No, sit down and make yourself comfortable,” Harry shook his head. “I’m nearly there with this.” He poured in half a bottle of red wine that stood beside him, and added some stock that was steaming in a jug. “I’ll give it ten minutes and then put the pasta on. Lils, grate some cheese and put it in a bowl, would you?”

Lily got up and fetched the cheese and grater. Harry handed her a bowl from the dresser.

“So,” she said.

“Here it comes,” James groaned.

What?”

“It’s like watching your brain work,” he grinned.

Albus was smiling too as he popped the garlic bread into the oven. “Alright if we have this as a starter, Dad? I’m starving.”

“Nothing new there, then,” Lily teased.

“Yeah, yeah. What outstanding statement were you about to come out with?”

“Hey! I bet you were thinking the same thing.”

“Well, we’ll never know till you actually tell us,” Albus prompted.

“I just wanted to know,” Lily said, putting her elbow into grating the cheese, “what other secrets you’ve been keeping from us, Dad.”

“Grown ups don’t have to tell you everything, you know,” Harry replied, coming to sit down himself.

“We’re grown up,” Lily protested.

“So are Ron and Hermione, but I don’t tell them everything either,” Harry said.

“Really?” James and Snape spoke in unison.

“Really, you cheeky sods! And by the way, they’ll be here in a minute.” Harry went over to the drawer in the dresser, counting out knives and forks and spoons, then passing them to James to pass along. He looked up. “There are….secrets…that I want to talk to you all about, and I wouldn’t if you weren’t adults too. And I’ll need you to behave like adults,” Harry said seriously.

“About Mum?”

“Yes. Draco Malfoy’s trial is in two days. But we’ll eat first, and then talk.”

The floo sounded in the other room.

“If you’re looking for reactions, Snape, this should be interesting,” Harry said.

Snape sat down and picked up his wine glass.

“Just look like we’re having a normal family mealtime,” Lily leant forward, looking round the table, whispering conspiratorially.

The boys’ eyes were twinkling and Harry too couldn’t help but be amused. He noted that James and Al both shifted their chairs to get a good look at the door.

“So, are you still working in Potions, Professor?” Lily asked, turning to engage Snape, at the same moment that Kingsley too opened up a conversational gambit with James: “Harry says you work for a travel agency. There was no such thing when we were young, was there, Severus? Tell me what you do. What age are most of your clients?”

“Well fuck me, it’s true!” Ron said from the doorway. “Merlin’s bollocks! And – Minister Shacklebolt? Bloody hell!”

“Wonderful language, Ron, thanks for that,” Harry said.

“Oops?” Ron shrugged. “Sorry, all.”

Hermione slid into the room. “I think Ron means it’s lovely to see you,” she said, giving her husband a look and heading over to Snape. “This is an unexpected pleasure, Sir,” she added, extending her hand.

Snape rose elegantly from his seat and shook it. “Miss Granger. Or I presume it’s Mrs Weasley?”

“Oh yes, who else would have put up with me?” she chuckled.

Snape raised an eyebrow in surprise.

Ron was already shaking hands with Kingsley, who was insisting Ron use his first name. Kingsley turned to Hermione and gave her a hug.

Ron shook hands with Snape. “You certainly caused chaos today! The Ministry’s being humming with rumours! Some people saying that you’d been seen, and others telling them they were idiots. I was so looking forward to telling Harry all about it!”

“I’m sorry to spoil your fun,” Snape responded.

Ron grinned. “It’ll be even better tomorrow. There’ll be rumours that you’re a vampire, or something. You’re not, are you?”

“Sorry to disappoint you yet again.”

“Not lost the snark, anyway,” Ron grinned. “No need to worry that you’re poyjuiced: no one snarks like you do.”

“I’m not sure whether to be offended or complimented,” Snape said.

“No bloomin’ idea myself,” Ron agreed. “James, what does a man have to do to get a drink around here? Are you in charge of that bottle, or what? Do Hermione first, though, before she throttles me.”

And within moments, they were all sat around the table, drinking and chatting. Snape exchanged a glance with Shacklebolt. Maybe resurrection wasn’t so hard after all.

They had had some cake made by their house elf, Mitty, and a box of chocolates that a well-wisher had obscurely sent after Ginny’s death, for dessert. James got up to make coffee.

Albus and Lily cleared the plates and put them in the sink, setting the washing spells to work. Albus flicked another spell over it as he sat down. Harry smiled at him in thanks as he realised that he’d cast a silencing spell over the cleaning operation so that the clatter would not disrupt them.

“Right,” he said. “Now for the difficult bit.” He took a breath.

All eyes were on him.

As I think you all know, I went to see Malfoy.”

“Because Scorpius asked you to?” Albus asked.

Harry shook his head. “Because I needed to see him. I wanted to find out what exactly had happened to Mum.”

“And?” Ron prompted.

“Well, I came away a bit shocked, to be honest. Malfoy let me use Legilimency on him – “

“Really?” Hermione said.

Harry nodded. “To cut a long story short, he didn’t do it.”

“He could have made a fake memory to make you think that,” Ron said, after a moment.

“He wouldn’t have pleaded guilty if that was the case,” Hermione argued.

“He wouldn’t have pleaded guilty if he knew he was innocent,” Ron countered.

“Actually,” Harry said, “he’s intending to. He thought he was guilty. Now he knows he’s innocent, but he’s not changing his plea.”

“I feel like you’re missing out a whole lot of steps, here, Dad,” James said. “Can you back up a bit?”

“A very good suggestion,” Snape agreed. “I know what happened and I still feel confused. Don’t ever think of going into teaching, Potter.”

“Well, there’s the pot calling the kettle,” Harry said indignantly.

“No-one was ever confused – ”

“Yes, yes,” Kingsley interrupted, “lets not start a slanging match on suitability for teaching, shall we?”

Harry grinned. “Okay,” he said, getting serious again. “I thought there was something dodgy about Malfoy’s memory, but I couldn’t pin it down at first. When I realised that it was really off, I went to Professor Snape for help.”

“And you knew just where to find him?” Ron questioned.

“Ah,” Harry said, knowing Ron was going to give him hell later, “more or less. Anyway, Snape – sorry Prof – I mean, Master Snape – went to see Draco –“

“Because of your past ties?” Hermione asked, delicately.

“Because Snape legilimized him with Veritaserox,” Harry cut across Snape, who was about to answer.

“Really?” Hermione was almost bouncing in her seat.

“That’s the first time it’s been used in Britain,” Ron said. “Wow.” He turned to Harry. “You knew the Professor would know how to use it?”

“Actually, I thought he could point me to someone who could,” Harry admitted. He wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to say that Snape had invented it.

“But I thought there was hardly anyone in the world allowed to use it,” Hermione’s brow was furrowed. “They’re registered. Pardon me, Sir, but won’t it negate the validity of the results that you aren’t one of the authorised users?”

Snape and Shacklebolt were smiling.

“What are we missing?” Lily said. “Hold on – we did a project on patenting last term. Unusually, the inventor’s name has been witheld – ”

“Did you invent it, Sir?” Albus interrupted.

“I was about to ask that!” Lily gave Albus a mock glare.

“I did,” Snape answered simply.

“I’ve been wondering who the inventor was!” Hermione exclaimed. “No wonder I couldn’t fix on anyone.”

“Being considered dead does tend to rule one out,” Snape agreed, with a twisted smile.

“So, what did you find?” James asked, getting straight to the point.

“Malfoy had been implanted with a false memory. In fact, three masked attackers killed your mother,” Snape said calmly.

“Death Eaters?” Ron asked, face grim.

“No. Not in their old incarnation, anyway,” Snape said.

“Thank Merlin,” Ron breathed.

They all looked at him.

“If it was a Death Eater, it would have been my fault,” Ron explained. “It’s my job to keep my eye on them.”

“It’s no-one’s fault but the perpetrators,” Kingsley said firmly.

“Do you have any idea who they were?” Hermione asked.

“Personally? No,” Snape shook his head.

“There’s a big ‘but’ there,” Hermione deduced.

“I’ve seen the memory,” Shacklebolt said, and when they all turned to look at him, went on, “Harry and I both did earlier when Severus got back. I’ve seen the type of mask they were wearing before, in Europe.”

“Are you working on that international team?” Ron asked.

“You’ve heard of it?”

“Yes, but we haven’t had anything to do with it,” Ron said.

“You will now,” Kingsley said heavily.

Ron nodded. “God, it’ll be good to work with someone who knows what he’s doing,” he said, his hand brushing back his hair.

“That’s a comment to talk about later,” Kingsley raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “Oh shit!” he said, suddenly. “I owe Malfoy an apology!”

“You do,” Harry agreed, realising what Ron meant. “Even if he was guilty.”

“Come on,” Ron remonstrated, “you can’t blame me for punching him when he’d admitted killing my sister!”

“You think it’s right that he had broken ribs and could barely stand upright, do you?” Harry demanded.

“What?” Hermione stared.

“I never did any such thing!” Ron glared.

“No, maybe not, but the guards felt just as entitled to work him over,” Harry said.

“Shit!” Ron exclaimed. He spread his hands. “I had no idea, I swear – ”

“So is he still pleading guilty because he’s scared of what will happen if he’s freed?” James wondered. “There’s obviously these masked gits who’ve got it in for him, he must be wondering whether any odd Auror will hex him in a dark alley…”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Harry said. He sat back for a moment, then pulled a parchment from his pockets and spread it out on the table. “I don’t think he’d leave Scorpius for that. He’s doing it to protect Ginny’s name. To protect us,” he said quietly. “He sent me this this afternoon.” Harry read out the letter.

Potter,

Firsty, I wanted to thank you from the bottom of my heart for sending Professor Snape. I don’t know if you knew that my memory was not right, but I cannot think of another reason why you might have requested the use of Veritaserox.

To know that I did not kill Gin is the greatest relief. The horror that has burdened the days since she died – my self-loathing – I can lay aside. I can only feel guilty that I did not prevent those men from doing what they did.

I can go to my death with my conscience much eased, and I thank you.

I will, of course, keep my promise to keep the relationship I had with Ginevra a secret. I will not be changing my plea, so rest assured that the world will not know anything that could be harmful to Gin’s memory, or could in any way distress your children.

My only reservations about this course of action are that my son will be left alone in the world, and will continue to think his father a murderer. Scorpius is an astonishing man, and I know is capable of looking after himself and making his own way in the world. Nevertheless, Potter, I need to ask you to keep the promise you made to me in the cell to keep an eye on him, and to help him if he needs it.

I know that my guilty plea will mean that the Ministry will shut the case, and the killers will be free. I have faith, however, in your tenacity, and I am sure that you will do all in your power to seek out the perpetrators and bring them to whatever form of justice you feel to be appropriate.

I made you a promise to take care of Ginny, and I failed her and I failed you, and I failed your children.

I cannot forgive myself.

Draco Malfoy

“I don’t understand,” Lily said. “You’ve already told me – told us – that Mum and Malfoy were planning on marrying. Doesn’t he know that we know? I mean, I know there will be comments when it gets out , but he can’t just let himself be killed, or Kissed, or whatever, for that!”

Harry gritted his teeth. Again, he wished he hadn’t been so inadequate: if he had been able to meet Ginny’s needs, maybe none of this would have happened.

“What is it, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“Look,” he said. His hand rubbed over his chin. He felt hot and flushed. “Look, kids, you know, when we first heard, when I was trying to prepare you…”

“When you said they thought Mum had been raped?” Albus picked up the line of thought.

Harry nodded.

“But she wasn’t, I presume – oh sweet Merlin, those men didn’t - ?”

“No!” Harry said explosively. “No, not that,” he added more calmly. “Look, I have to be blunt here, alright? The whole memory isn’t wrong – “

“So Mum and Malfoy are having sex in it?” Albus asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said.

“And that would have to be shown to the Wizengamot for Malfoy to be freed,” James deduced.

“It would,” Shacklebolt said, “though you could ask for a closed session. Then the press would not be able to view it, and comment.”

“So, all the Wizengamot watching Mum shagging,” James said.

“Yeah,” Harry rubbed his neck. The words were tight in his throat. “Look,” he ground out, “this is hard to say.”

“What Potter is trying to get out,” Snape said, “is that adults often play bedroom games. To cut your father’s squirming short, your mother was handcuffed to the bed. Wearing stockings and stilettos. To free Malfoy, this would have to be shown. And although the Wizengamot might show the memory in closed session, you can bet that the story will be all over the papers the next day. And you will have to face the fallout.”

“You’re a bastard, Snape,” Ron said. “Still.”

“He’s said exactly what I was trying to say,” Harry defended Snape. “How was I supposed to find words to say that to the kids?”

“Do we have to see it, Dad?” James asked.

“You will if you attend the case,” Shacklebolt said. “You don’t have to attend, of course.”

“And watch Mum being murdered?” James said.

Harry, glancing at Shacklebolt, nodded.

“So Malfoy is willing to die, for something he didn’t do, to protect us?” Lily asked slowly.

Harry nodded.

“No wonder Mum liked him,” she said.

They all turned to stare at her.

“What? Mum must have found him special to want to have a relationship with him when she already had Dad,” she argued. “When she had so much to lose. There had to be something extraordinary about him.”

“That’s a very good point, Lily,” Hermione agreed. “But I can’t balance that with leaving Scorpius. Not for something he didn’t do.”

“Without meaning any offence, Mrs Weasley,” Shacklebolt said, “it may be that you don’t fully understand the power of a wizarding promise.”

Hermione’s head whipped round to look at Harry. “Did he make an Unbreakable Vow to you, then?”

“No, of course not!” Harry said.

“It doesn’t need to be fixed with a spell,” Kingsley said. “In old families, to break a promise would be regarded as showing the most appalling lack of moral fibre. Many of the families that served Voldemort could not renege, not only because of the Dark Mark, but because of the promise that they had made to serve him. Severus’ upbringing as a half-blood probably made it easier to withdraw from his clutches,” he glanced at Severus for confirmation, “ but I don’t doubt there were others who had long since stopped believing in his ideology. Malfoy is between a rock and a hard place: he may want to stay alive because of Scorpius, but to go back on his promise would be seen as giving a very poor example to his son.”

“We have to do it for him, then,” Lily said. “Don’t we?”

Harry felt huge relief. “We do. We have to ask for the memory to be seen. I needed to know I had your backup on this,” he looked around the table, “because you’re all going to suffer because of it.”

“Mum and Dad will be devastated,” Ron said, his face grim.

“I know,” Harry said gently. “I don’t think they should come to court. I’ll need you to explain to them, Ron.”

“Bloody hell.”

Hermione put a hand on her husband’s arm. “Your parents are surprisingly blasé about sex, sometimes, Ron. And I think if you make clear that it means that Scorpius won’t be left alone and that the real killers will be found – ”

“Well, my brothers will go for the latter bit,” Ron said, then added, “I’m glad Dad doesn’t go into the Ministry any more.”

“Are we all agreed, then?” Harry looked around the table.

“What would you do if we said no?” James asked.

“I’d be terribly distressed that your pride meant more than a man’s life,” Harry answered.

“You’d do it anyway, wouldn’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” Harry said. “I’d try to persuade you to my view – ”

“Good,” James said.

“Good that I’d try to persuade you?” Harry queried.

“Good that you'd choose to do the right thing, regardless of the cost,” James said. “I think I’ve just met the Vanquisher of Voldemort at last.”

He stood up and held out his hand: “Pleased to meet you.”

Chapter Text

When Lucius Malfoy received the letter from Potter asking him to call on him at his earliest convenience, he was not surprised.

He still had contacts at the Ministry, and others that he paid to keep him informed. He had to admit, however, to a slight sense of shock at hearing that Severus Snape was not only alive, but had visited his son and administered Veritaserox.

And he also knew that his son had not changed his plea, but had seen his lawyer to settle his affairs.

That Draco was guilty was also rather shocking.

Now he would find out if Potter would accept his offer, or if he wanted to punish his son. If he allowed Draco to die, he would have the satisfaction of seeing his wife’s killer finished, and also know that the whole Malfoy line would die out, and that Lucius himself would have to live to see it so.

He did not think Potter would be swayed by money, although he had made his agitated solicitor go over everything and draw up a second list including every last knut of his estate. He could throw himself on Potter’s mercy, and perhaps tempt him with the thought of all the charitable uses to which he could put such a considerable sum.

He stepped through the floo at the appointed time, dressed in his best robes, to find Potter waiting for him, which was a courtesy that he was well aware that Potter could have withheld.

“Mr Malfoy, please take a seat.”

There was something about Potter that was different from the last time he saw him, Malfoy thought. More resolve? More determination? He seemed to stand taller, straighter, though he was still a small man. Perhaps it was that the cloak of power that enveloped him was more obvious. He did as he was told, and waited.

“You are aware, no doubt, that your son’s trial is tomorrow.”

“Indeed,” Lucius inclined his head. “I have also heard that you have resurrected the dead and sent Severus Snape to visit my son.”

Harry snorted. “Hardly a resurrection.”

“Maybe not in fact, and yet you brought back a man who has chosen to remain hidden all these years. It is not an inconsiderable achievement.”

“Maybe Master Snape felt a kindness for your son.”

Lucius shook his head. “He came at your request, and yours alone, I believe.”

Harry sat down opposite the older Malfoy. “You know the results of his investigations? You know that he used Veritaserox, and that the memories he has extracted will be accepted in every court in the wizarding world as the true nature of events?”

Lucius inclined his head. “I know that my son has not changed his plea,” he said heavily.

“Are you still of the same mind?” Harry asked, after a moment.

“To offer my life and wealth in exchange for his? I am.”

Malfoy found the way Potter just sat looking at him rather disturbing. He withdrew an envelope from his robe.

“I realise that my life has little meaning to you. The letter I gave you previously, with the list of my holdings, was a draft, and I have had a firmer document drawn up, which gives, I assure you, a full and complete picture of what I can offer you in exchange for Draco’s life. Also enclosed is the document you requested confirming my offer of my life and wealth.”

Potter once again surprised him, by not only accepting the documents, but by opening them and perusing them. Was he interested in the money after all? Eventually, Potter sat back and laid the paperwork on a side table, and resumed looking at Malfoy. Lucius found himself feeling like a five year old trying not to fidget at dinner with his parents. At last, Potter sat forward.

“Malfoy, I’m going to be honest with you.”

“Yes?” It was years since Lucius had felt butterflies in his stomach. He was not prepared for Potter’s next words.

“Your son did not kill my wife.”

Lucius wondered if he was going to faint. The last time he had felt his head buzzing like this was from hunger in Azkaban.

“I don’t think I understand you, Mr Potter.”

“Your son has not changed his guilty plea. He has written to me to confirm that he will not change it. If I allow the case to proceed, he will be put to death. No-one but I and Master Snape will know that Draco did not kill Ginny. I thought you deserved to know that your son did not kill her.”

Lucius had regained control of himself, though his mind was still whirling.

“Are you able to tell me why my son would admit guilt to a crime he knows he didn’t commit?” He tried hard to keep the demand out of his voice, but judging from Potter’s slightly raised eyebrow, he hadn’t succeeded. “Forgive me,” he said shakily, “it seems quite incomprehensible that he should do so.”

“When he first admitted the crime, he thought that he had done it: a false memory had been implanted.”

Lucius’ brows drew together. “That is extremely difficult magic – ”

“I am aware of that. When I visited your son after your initial request, he allowed me to use Legilimency on him. I didn’t notice anything was other than it seemed, at first, but on going over the memory later, I realised that something wasn’t right. That is why I asked Master Snape for his expertise.”

“And you found that my son did not kill Mrs Potter.”

“Yes,” Harry said, and sat back.

Lucius sat forward, knees apart, both hands resting atop his cane. “Mr Potter, please tell me why my son is not changing his plea. Have you refused to allow the evidence to be shown?”

“I haven’t discussed that with Draco.” Harry took a small breath. “Your son made me a promise. He’s keeping it.”

Lucius sat very still. He licked his lips, which felt dry.

“Mitty!” Potter called, and an elf appeared instantly.

“Yes, Master Harry, what can Mitty be doing for you?” she bobbed.

“A jug of water and two glasses, please.”

Once again, Lucius was conscious that Potter was acting with something approaching kindness: he was not offering hospitality, as such, but he was aware of Lucius’ need, and yet asked for two glasses so as not to rub it in his face.

“Thank you,” he got out, and drank the water that appeared moments later. He felt devastated and proud at the same time. Honour and pride were matters of key import to him, in view of which, how could he think ill of his son for upholding a promise? And yet, that promise would lead to either his son’s death or his own.

“Might I ask the nature of the promise?” he inquired, after a moment.

“I don’t wish to discuss it, no,” Harry said, with finality.

Lucius inclined his head.

“Our fate rests entirely in your hands, it seems,” he said.

“Yes,” Harry agreed bluntly.

“I am a little surprised,” Lucius ventured to suggest, hoping this wasn’t going to make things worse – but how much worse could they get? – “that your innate sense of fair play is willing to allow a man to die for something he hasn’t done.”

“It will cost my family dearly to show that memory,” Harry said uncompromisingly, “and your son does not wish it shown either.”

“But the real killer will go unpunished.”

“You think so? You forget what I am capable of,” Harry said.

Potter looked utterly implacable. Lucius realised that in front of him was the man who had hunted down Voldemort’s Horcruxes whilst still a teenager, slowly and methodically doing everything he needed to seek out and destroy those cursed items to enable him to kill the monster that the Dark Lord had become. He had no doubt, looking at him, that whoever had killed his wife would be found and subjected to whatever justice Potter wished to dispense.

“Then I fall upon your mercy. Please accept me in place of my son,” Malfoy again went to his knees, his head on the ground.

“I accept your offer.”

Lucius felt his heart skip a beat, a momentary hollow nothingness in his chest.

He was to die.

Slowly, he raised himself. He was still kneeling. Potter laid a hand on his head. It felt strangely intimate.

“These are my terms,” Potter said. “I accept your offer by private arrangement: if I can ensure that your son is freed, do you accept that your life and wealth are forfeit to me?”

“I do,” Malfoy said, and felt the oath take hold.

Potter slipped a hand under his elbow and helped him to his feet.

“I can’t promise that I will succeed,” he said, “in which case, the contract between us is null and void. You will take no further action, and wait to hear from me, Mr Malfoy.”

“Of course.”

“You will not take your own life, is that understood? I will be in contact with you as soon as possible. May I have your word on that?”

Lucius found himself acquiescing.

The next moment, Potter had seen him to the floo, and he was whirling back home to face the last hours of his life.

Chapter Text

“No! No!” Draco was shouting from the chair on the floor of the Wizengamot.

“My client is entitled to ask for the memories to be shown,” Hermione said, avoiding looking at Malfoy.

“Potter! Don’t do this!” Draco begged.

“Mr Malfoy, if you cannot be silent, I will have to spell you so,” Argus Anglehurst, the officiating Judge, said. He turned to Harry.

“Mr Potter, in deference to your contribution to the wizarding world, this court has, firstly, delayed this trial, and then been convened during the Spring recess. The accused has pleaded guilty to the crime. Do you think justice will best be served by delaying the matter any further?”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a confused glance.

“Sir,” Harry addressed the judge, “I did ask for the initial trial to be delayed, although I had no idea that I’d been given special treatment in being allowed to bury my wife.” He turned to look around at the members of the Wizengamot. He knew many of the faces; every witch and wizard over forty with a clean record was automatically a member, and there was a rotating commitment of service. Harry had sat on those benches for several trials himself. “Thank you all for your consideration,” he said, and saw several members nod sympathetically in acknowledgement. “However,” he went on, “I didn’t ask for the recess to be interrupted. Last week, I was told that it would be at least a month until the trial; two days ago, I was told – and not directly by the Ministry – that it was taking place today.”

There were interested mumblings around the galleries.

Harry wondered who was so keen to dispose of Malfoy that they had pulled the members away from their holidays?

“There has obviously been some miscommunication going on,” Anglehurst harrumphed. He turned to the court scribe: “Whetstone, make a note to look into it.”

“Yes, Sir,” the scribe nodded, scribbling on a separate parchment to the court record.

Hermione stood up again. “If it please the court, Mr Potter would like to ask the Wizengamot to consider the evidence obtained using Veritaserox and Legilimency 'in camera'."

Harry felt the pressure of all the faces turned towards him.

“That is a very serious request,” Anglehurst said, peering severely at Hermione over his spectacles. “On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that the contents would be upsetting to his children, one of whom is still in school.”

“Is the child not yet of legal age?”

“She is only seventeen, Sir– “

“Then she cannot be granted the privileges of a minor,” Anglehurst said. “A fact of which I am sure you are aware, Mrs Weasley,” he rebuked her. “Do you have any other grounds?”

“The content of the memories, whilst providing important evidence on the murder of Ginny Weasley, does, by its nature, show material that might be damaging to the reputation of the innocent.”

“Indeed? And you are making a judgement on who is innocent or guilty before this trial has even begun? That, Madam, is for this court to decide.”

Harry could see Hermione kicking herself in the tightening of her lips. He glanced around the court again. The Prosecutor, Orton Harcourt, who had already introduced the case against Malfoy, was now sporting an amused smile at the rebuke to Hermione. Aurors Franklin and Hencliffe sat, stony faced, waiting to give evidence if required. Up in the public gallery, he could see Albus and James, Ron, Bill, Charlie and Percy.
The last twenty four hours had been a whirlwind of trying to arrange things. It had been an immense relief when Lily had volunteered to spend the day with her grandparents.

“I know it will make it easier for you to ask for the memories to be shown in private,” she said. Harry was thankful for her swift intelligence. “And Gran likes talking to me. And to be honest,” she admitted, reluctantly, “if they show Mum being murdered, I don’t think I want to see them, if they do end up being shown to the court. I’m sorry to be such a wimp.”

Harry had hugged her tight. “Not a wimp at all, love, how can you think that? No-one should have to see what’s in those memories. No one should have to see another person being killed, and no-one should have the right to intrude on the private part between your Mum and Malfoy; but if it’s the only way to get him justice, we have to do it. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re going to stay with Gran and Grandpa, either.”

To his surprise, George too had said he’d stay with his parents. “Dad’ll need me,” he said, hands in his robe pockets. “I know you’ll do what’s right, and try to make the fallout as limited at possible. I’m going to do one or two things at the Burrow to stop any Howlers or unpleasant stuff reaching Mum and Dad. It will blow over, in the end.”

Harry was perhaps, equally surprised to find Bill in court. He wondered how Bill had felt when he’d heard that his sister had intending marrying the man who’d let Fenrir Greyback into the school all those years ago. Although Bill looked incredibly strong and fit, he had undeniably aged faster than his brothers and sisters, with grey already in his hair, and lines on his face. With the scarring, it gave him a very distinguished, masculine appearance, but it was well known that werewolves did not live as long as humans, and although he hadn’t developed the full-blown condition, Bill had obviously suffered consequences from the attack. Bill knew, since the family meeting the previous night, that Harry had evidence that exonerated Malfoy, and was planning on using it. That Harry was concerned that it would negatively affect Ginny’s reputation, and was still determined to go ahead.

Harry’d really like to see into that man’s brain.

Further along the gallery, Harry could see Scorpius, and sitting next to him, upright and stiff, was his grandfather.

The rest of the seats were taken up with the press, and with as many as could fit of the horde who had been queuing overnight outside the Ministry to witness the trial.

Harry cursed the fact that the teleconverter had been invented. It was one of the results of the increasing influence of Muggle-born wizards, a projection system that allowed the contents of a pensieve to be viewed outside of the bowl, so that any number of people could witness the memories. It was prohibitively expensive, but Harry knew (because the Prophet had run several scandalous articles on it) that some users shared memories of sexual encounters, not only with their partners but with others as well. In fact, there was a club that was supposed to specialise in it. Harry had never seen a teleconverter in action though. At the trials after the War, the Wizengamot had selected three wizards from among themselves to view any memories that had been brought to the court as evidence, but it had been ten years since the new technology had allowed the whole courtroom to see everything. The Prophet loved it, and according to Hermione, who spent a lot of time in court, given that she had become a lawyer working in both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds, the gallery was always full of gawpers hoping to see something appalling.

Harry hoped that the boys wouldn’t be too horrified – they’d agreed in principle, but witnessing one’s mother’s death, and what went before, wasn’t something that one could imagine, really.

Harry was drawn back from his musings by Hermione pinching his thigh. Anglehurst was addressing him.

“…any comments that you would like to make before the memories are shown? I understand that these memories were obtained with the use of Veritaserox? As I believe that this is the first time that Veritaserox has been used in England, please could you explain, for the record, what it is and why it was used?”

“Thank you, Sir,” Harry said, standing up. “I visited Malfoy in the cells at the Ministry, because – “

“I’m sorry, did you say you visited the defendant in the cells?”

“I did,” Harry nodded.

“Despite knowing that he had pleaded guilty to the murder of your wife?”

This was going to take longer than Harry thought.

“Yes, Your Honour.”

“Why would that be, Mr Potter?”

“Because I found it hard to believe that he had killed Ginny, and I wanted to find out what had happened.”

Harry could feel the excitement his words had provoked. It would only get worse.

Harcourt stood, and at a nod from the Judge, asked, “And why would you be surprised that the defendant had killed your wife? You have a history of enmity, don’t you?”

Harry could not believe schoolboy matters were still biting him in the arse all these years on.

“Malfoy and I weren’t friends when we were at Hogwarts,” Harry said, tamping down his temper. “But school was a long time ago. Malfoy is a major shareholder in the Harpies, for whom my wife played. They got on well.” Harry took a deep breath. “In fact, they got on so well that Malfoy and Ginny wished to get married.”

The court erupted.

“Order! Order!” Anglehurst pounded his gavel, and eventually everyone simmered down.

They just wanted to hear more, Harry thought.

“Are you telling the court, Mr Potter, that your wife and Mr Malfoy were in a relationship?” Anglehurst asked, his face mirroring his astonishment.

Harry looked over to Malfoy, bound in the chair in the centre. He had his head bowed. Harry had to grit his teeth. He was going to do this.

“Yes, Sir.”

The Judge nodded again to Harcourt, who was obviously wanting to take this further.

“Mr Potter, had you forbidden them from seeing each other?”

“No!” Harry exclaimed.

Everyone in the room was sitting forward avidly. The trial had become not just about famous names, but turned into a juicy scandal.

“No,” Harry repeated, “but I had asked them to be discreet until all the children had left school.”

Harcourt had a horrible, smug face, Harry decided. He looked positively gleeful as he said, “Forgive me, Mr Potter, but are you telling me that you allowed – allowed – your wife to cuckold you with another man?”

Harry could see the whip of the Quick Quotes Quills flying across the parchment in the gallery. He glanced up at James and Albus, and was relieved to see Albus give him a quick thumbs up.

“They would have preferred it if Ginny and I had divorced at once, so that they could marry straight away, but they agreed to my request to keep the relationship secret,” Harry explained.

“So you approved of them – carrying on – behind your back?”

There were titters in the auditorium.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I was grateful to them for acting discreetly,” he bit out.

“I see,” said Anglehurst, leaning back in his seat. His fingers stroked his beard for several moments, before he leant forward again. “This court is not here to enable you to extract revenge, Mr Potter. Mr Malfoy has pleaded guilty: the court do not need to witness Mrs Potter’s death, nor Mr Malfoy committing the deed, to enable them to pass sentence, and I am a little surprised that you should want to humiliate them both when I see that your sons are present in the court – “

“Humiliation!” Harry snapped. “You can’t think I want to show what is in those memories?”

“Then do not,” Mr Potter,” Anglehurst said severely. “And you will moderate your tone or leave this court.”

Hermione quickly stepped in. “Your Honour, Mr Potter meant no offence. He has no desire to cause humiliation to Mr Malfoy or to his wife’s memory, and in particular, to cause distress to his children. It is only because of his highest regard for the truth, and his unfailing honesty and compassion – “

“We do not need a recitation of Mr Potter’s noble qualities, Mrs Weasley. Get to the point.”

“Yes Sir. The fact is, that despite the embarrassment that the evidence will cause, and the hurt to his family, Mr Potter feels that the memories must be seen in order for justice to be served.”

“The Wizengamot will decide on what is just and right, Mrs Weasley. It is not for relatives to call for harder sentencing – “

“He’s bloody innocent!” Harry bellowed, his chair falling with a clatter behind him as he leapt to his feet.

There was a moment of stillness, of utter silence, as if everyone in the room had held their breath at the same time.

And then all hell broke loose.

Anglehurst began pounding his gavel once again.

“Order! Order! I will have order!”

The room came to heel.

Harry glanced up at the gallery again. His boys were looking at him approvingly, and he gave them a small smile. As he turned back, his eye was caught by Scorpius, who was sat forward, leaning on the balcony rail. The hope in his face was almost painful to see.

“Mr Potter!” Anglehurst barked.

Harry swivelled back at once.

“One more – just one more word out of place, and I will banish you from this court.”

“My sincere apologies,” Harry said, with a slight bow.

“Yes,” Anglehurst said. He motioned the Prosecutor towards him, and they conferred briefly.

The court waited expectantly.

“I think it’s high time we saw the Veritaserox evidence,” Anglehurst said firmly as Harcourt returned to his seat. “Perhaps we can get to a very brief explanation?”

Hermione stood up once again.

“Might I call on the creator of the potion, who administered it, in this instance, to do that, Your Honour?”

“I suspect that would save a great deal of time,” Anglehurst sighed.

There was a murmur of disappointment in the room.

Hoping for more of his revelations, Harry thought bitterly.

“Then may I call Potion Master Severus Snape,” Hermione said clearly.

The court thought all their holidays had come at once.

Harry couldn’t remember Snape ever looking so magnificent. He strode into court wearing a severe but beautifully cut robe; the snap of the skirt took Harry straight back to Hogwarts. Then, however, Snape had been gaunt and pale; now, with his skin glowing, and his hair, cut short and streaked with grey, he looked not only distinguished, but as if he had grown into the person he should be.

He strode across the floor to stand at a podium that had appeared at one side. He didn’t look at Draco, or around the court, but turned his attention directly to Anglehurst.

“Potions Master Snape,” Anglehurst addressed him. “I thought your name on my papers must have been an error.”

“No indeed,” Snape said. “You have questions for me?”

And with that, he dismissed any chance of discussion as to his apparent death.

Harry’s lips twitched.

Snape gave a brief explanation of the nature of Veritaserox.

“And Mr Potter asked you to administer it to Mr Malfoy?” Anglehurst asked.

“Yes.”

“Excuse me,” a middle aged witch of the Wizengamot asked, “but why did Mr Potter ask you to give it to Mr Malfoy?”

“A good question, Madam Bellamy,” Anglehurst commented. “Are you able to answer, Master Snape?”

“Mr Potter doubted the accuracy of the memories he witnessed when he performed Legilimency on Mr Malfoy. He thought it appropriate to call in an expert,” Snape said succinctly.

Harcourt had stood up, but Anglehurst asked first, “Mr Potter? You performed Legilimency on the defendant?”

Harry too rose. “When I visited him in his cell. With his permission, of course,” he said quickly, as he could see Anglehurst’s brows twitching.

“Is that correct, Mr Malfoy?” he asked.

Draco sat forward. Ever since Snape had come in, he had been sitting upright, his head turned towards his old Head of House.

“It is, Sir,” he said quietly.

“Very strange,” Anglehurst muttered. “Well, I think it’s time we got on with it. If you would be so good as to do whatever it is that needs to be done, Master Snape.”

“If the court could furnish me with the vial,” Snape prompted.

“Oh! Yes, of course. Is it here?” Anglehurst asked, looking as if he suddenly expected it to appear in front of him.

The scribe stood up and turned to the Judge, whispering something. Another attendant was called over, then hurried out of the court.

“Whilst we’re waiting for the vial,” Anglehurst said in a long-suffering tone, “perhaps you’d tell us what to expect, Master Snape. For some reason, we appear to be the last country to be using Veritaserox.”

Snape ignored the inquiry in his voice on the last point. “Of course. When the vial arrives,” he paused, causing a smile to simmer around the Wizengamot, “I will first check that the seal that I set on it has not been broken. Two copies only of the memory exist,” he explained, anticipating the question on the Judge’s lips. “One I have reviewed with my client, Mr Potter. If all is in order with the vial that has been in the Ministry’s keeping, I will pour the contents into the teleconverter. Everyone will be able to see the evidence. I am able to stop the machine at any point if you have questions, but I do suggest that you restrain yourselves,” he glanced around the room. “It is much easier to get a cohesive view if you allow it to play through until the end.” He paused, looked at Harry, and then said, “I would be negligent if I didn’t inform the court that that the material you are about to see is highly disturbing. If you suffer from any nervous or medical conditions that would react badly to shock, may I suggest that you ask the permission of Judge Anglehurst to be excused at this point."

There was a lot of excited whispering.

“Master Snape is very wise,” Anglehurst spoke loudly. “Does anyone wish to leave the court?”

The silence that fell over the room was broken by the sound of the door crashing back. The embarrassed usher came rushing forward with the vial, which he presented to the Judge. Anglehurst looked at it, then handed it back to the usher to give to Snape.

Harry braced himself as Snape poured the contents into a funnel in the top of the machine.

Everyone leant forward to watch.

At first, Harry was surprised. The quality of the transmission reminded him of Princess Leia being projected from R2D2 in the Star Wars film that he had seen many years ago with Josh, one of his fellow apprentices at the workshop, when they had spent a whole weekend watching every one of the Star Wars films, sitting on the sofa in his cottage living room with beer and crisps and pizza. It made him feel much more distanced from it that when he had gone into Malfoy’s mind, or when they had viewed it in the pensieve. However, the reality of it pulled him in as shocked gasps rose from the viewers. Harry found himself looking at the memory through the eyes of strangers, and gritted his teeth as he realised that seventy or more people were watching Malfoy make love to his wife. He glanced up at the gallery, at James and Albus; in theory, he knew that they would be better prepared, by witnessing the memories, to cope with the fallout once this hit the papers, but seeing them here, watching - he was horrified.

It was wrong. He didn’t like what Malfoy and Ginny were doing: he’d had too many years of shame and guilt that he hadn’t been able to do this, to give Ginny what she wanted. But seeing it now, all he could think of was that it was intimate. There was more than passion and need going on: he could see the connection, the closeness between the two. And it felt a terrible violation that they should be watching that.

But it was necessary. He could not allow a man to die for something he didn’t do. And Ginny had loved Malfoy.

“Watch this carefully,” Snape said. “This is the point at which a false memory had been implanted in Mr Malfoy, to make him believe that he had killed Mrs Potter.”

There were gasps in the court.

Then sudden silence as the three masked figures entered the scene. Not a sound was made through the following minutes, except the scritch of the Quick Quotes Quills and the scribe’s note-taking.

When the memory had finished, the sound of weeping could be heard. Looking round, Harry could see several witches wiping their eyes or noses, handkerchiefs fluttering in shaking hands. Many of the wizards were looking down, trying to hide their reactions. Harcourt stood up, his face furious.

“I think this might be an appropriate time to take a break,” Anglehurst said. “The court will reconvene in an hour.”

Harry watched as Malfoy was released from the chair. A guard offered him a cup of water.

When he had been brought in, the same guard had roughly thrust him into the chair.

The tide was turning.

Outside, Harry made his way through the milling throng to find his sons. People parted to let him through, avoiding eye contact.

He spotted James and Albus, and the next moment was enclosed in the arms of his sons.

He could hear the flash of cameras, but he didn’t care.

“Are you alright?” he asked them. He pulled back to look at them.

Both boys were pale.

“Yeah, fine,” James said.

Albus shrugged.

Harry knew that they were not.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, “sorry to put you through this.”

Albus immediately looked contrite. “You had to do it, Dad, we know that. Poor sod, to be made to think you’d done that.”

Harry saw Snape standing quietly beside the door to the court. Further along the corridor, Scorpius was standing with his head bent towards the young chap who had been sitting next to him. Lucius Malfoy exited down the stairs from the gallery, saw Scorpius, and deliberately turned away.

“Let’s go to the canteen,” Harry said. He strode across to Snape. "I'm desperate for a cup of tea. Care to join us?”

“A most sensible idea,” Snape said approvingly.

“Uncle Ron is waving at us,” Albus nudged Harry from behind. Hermione had gone to speak to Ron, who was standing with his brothers. Ron was waving at them to join them.

“We’re heading for a bite,” Ron said, “though frankly, I haven’t much stomach for it. Let’s go to the staff canteen on Level 4: it’s quieter there.”

“Can we go in there?” James asked.

“Nobody’s going to stop us,” Ron said firmly.

“We’ll catch you later,” Bill said. “We could do with a bit of air,” and he and Charlie set off with loping strides.

“They’re upset,” Harry said bluntly.

Ron rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I know we talked about this last night, but I don’t think they expected to see what they did see. And Bill has history with Malfoy, of course. He didn’t think it mattered, but…”

“Come on,” Hermione took Harry’s arm, “let’s go get some tea. I think it’s going to be a long day.”

Chapter Text

When they returned to the court, it was obvious that the Wizengamot hadn’t just been taking a tea break.

“There are a number of questions raised by what we have seen,” Anglehurst announced. “Master Snape, this record is a true and accurate account of events?”

“It is,” Snape said.

“And Veritaserox is accepted in courts across Europe?”

“And in the Americas and Asia,” Snape responded.

“I would like to question the witness, your honour,” Harcourt asked.

“Go ahead, Mr Harcourt,” Anglehurst nodded.

“Master Snape, is it not possible that your previous relationship with the defendant might have influenced your results?”

Breaths were held around the court.

Snape made no indication that the question had in any way perturbed him. “It is a fact that Draco Malfoy was a pupil at Hogwarts School and that , for a period, not only was I his Headmaster, but that for six years, I was Head of his House. It is also a known fact that I made an Unbreakable Vow with relation to the defendant. However, until I was called by Mr Potter to assess the veracity of the memories of Mr Malfoy, I had not seen, or heard from, or had any contact of any nature with him, since May 2nd, 1998.”

Everyone knew the date of the Battle of Hogwarts.

“That doesn’t exactly answer my question, Master Snape.”

“I have no duty or debt towards the defendant,” Snape confirmed. “Moreover, the court might like to know that there are only three wizards who are approved by the International Council of Courts to administer the potion and use Legilimency on defendants or witnesses, of which I am one. Furthermore, as the creator of Veritaserox, I am the only Potion Master who has the formula, and therefore the only one who makes it.” He looked around the court as his credentials sunk in, before adding, “I confirm that the court has seen a true record of the events in question.”

“Thank you, Master Snape,” Anglehurst said. “The Wizengamot would like you now to administer Veritaserum to the defendant.”

Snape graced the Judge with a supercilious look.

“I am here as the specialist employed by Mr Potter. I do not carry Veritaserum around as a matter of course, and I would not administer such a potion made by another hand. Moreover, the point of my presence here is that Mr Malfoy had been implanted with a false memory of the events of that night. Under the influence of Veritaserum, should there be other false memories, he would answer as he believed such memories to be true.”

“But you’ve now found the true memories,” Anglehurst quizzed him.

Snape sighed. “In relation to the events that you saw in the memory,” he agreed. “But if you intend to question Mr Malfoy on other matters, we cannot be certain that the masked perpetrators have not altered any other memories, prior to the events depicted, if, as appears to be the case, Mr Malfoy was being set up for a crime he did not commit. Therefore, I would have to advise that any further evidence, even that gained under Veritaserum, would have to be regarded as unsafe.”

“So, you’re saying that it would be useless to question Mr Malfoy?”

“I am saying that the court could not be sure that his evidence was the truth, even if Mr Malfoy believed it to be so.”

Anglehurst conferred with the witch and wizard on either side of him, and once again called Harcourt over. Eventually, just as the impatience of the people in the courtroom began to make itself known, Harcourt returned to his seat, and Anglehust spoke: “The court has something of a dilemma, in that case. Whilst it appears clear that Mr Malfoy did not murder Mrs Potter, it is also clear that he was involved in violent activity towards her, and we cannot be certain, given that she was handcuffed, presumably by Mr Malfoy, that he was not complicit with the attackers.”

No, Harry thought. No. He was so stupid. He had just thought that they would see the memories and let Malfoy go. How could he have been such an idiot?

Anglehurst was rubbing his head. “Mr Malfoy must remain in custody pending further - ”

Harry stood up.

Hermione had reached out to grab his leg to yank him back down, but Harry said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, Your Honour. My purpose in requesting that this memory be shown, despite how difficult it was for us as a family, was because it proved Malfoy innocent of the crime for which he was charged. I can’t see that there is any evidence that Malfoy was complicit with the men who killed Ginny, and surely a man is innocent until proven guilty?”

“Mr Potter,” Harcourt cut in, “Mr Malfoy had violent sex with your wife, a memory that must be true as it was produced under Veritaserox.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, but that doesn’t make him complicit with the men who killed her.”

“I’m sure the court appreciates that the evidence must have been very painful for you to witness. You perhaps failed to notice, Sir, that your wife was handcuffed to the bed, in a position where she could not escape or reach her wand to defend herself. That Mr Malfoy put her in that position?”

Harry looked down.

“Mr Potter?” Anglehurst prompted. “Did you not notice? I think the evidence was quite clear -”

“I think it was quite clear that Ginny was enjoying the situation,” Harry bit out.

Tittering broke out around the court.

“As those were the memories of Mr Malfoy, surely that was his interpretation of events. He was certainly enjoying himself,” Harcourt sneered, to more sniggering.

Harry’s fists were clenched. He hadn’t expected to have to say this. Surely it had been perfectly obvious? “Ginny liked that,” he said, biting his lip. He raised his head.

Malfoy, still in the chair, was looking down.

Harry felt very lonely.

“Perhaps you could clarify that comment, Mr Potter?”

“How can I be more explicit?” Harry snapped. “People like all sorts of things in bed. Ginny liked things a little…rough. She liked to use handcuffs.”

The court hummed with excitement. Harry felt sickened by their interest.

“Mrs Potter liked to handcuff you to the bed?” one witch of the Wizengamot asked.

There were outright giggles.

“My wife is dead!” Harry bellowed. “It’s none of your damn business what we did in bed.”

“I am sorry to cause you distress, Mr Potter,” Anglehurst intervened, “but Madam Jenkins is perfectly entitled to ask any question she desires. And in this case, it is entirely relevant, if you are making the argument that the behaviour we saw was not unusual for Mrs Potter. Therefore, perhaps you will be good enough to answer the question?”

Harry shook his head.

“You’ve got to answer, Harry,” Hermione hissed at him from his side.

“Mr Potter, the Wizengamot asks again, did you and Mrs Potter indulge in violent sexual practices?” Anglehurst prompted impatiently.

“I refuse to answer. I am astonished that the Wizengamot will not accept the evidence of their own eyes, nor my view, that Ginny was willing in the scene we have witnessed here. She and Malfoy were in a relationship. They met each other’s needs. They loved each other. I cannot understand why the court would need to know what Ginny and I did back in the day when we still had a sexual relationship.”

“Leaving aside for a moment the fact that you are currently in contempt of court by refusing to answer,” Anglehurst said, looking at Harry severely over the rims of his glasses, “perhaps you would be willing to tell us when you last had sexual relations with your wife.”

Harry’s brows drew together. “The sexual side of our relationship ended long before Ginny was involved with Malfoy. There’s no issue of him breaking up our marriage – “

The hush that fell on the court was disturbing.

“Mr Potter, I repeat, when did you last have intercourse with your wife?”

Harry looked to Hermione. “What the hell is going on?” he whispered fiercely. “How can they ask that? Why on earth does that matter?”

“I think we’ve got Muggleborn-itis,” she whispered back. “I haven’t got a clue. Best just answer.”

Harry stood up tall. “The last time I made love with my wife,” he said, “was on Ginny’s birthday. Nine years ago.”

The noise was astonishing.

How could people care so much about his love life? Harry looked up at the balcony. Ron was hanging his head. Bill and Charlie had stood up and had turned away. Only Percy sat there, staring down at him.

Eventually, Anglehurst banged his gavel again, until order was restored.

“Everyone except the Wizengamot may leave the court,” he said. “Be available to return on the hour.”

Harry stood there a moment, wondering what was going on. The guards were unstrapping Malfoy, but Malfoy still didn’t look at him. Up in the balcony, the viewers were already heading to the door.

Anglehurst made a noise, and Harry looked at him. “That includes you, Mr Potter, Mrs Weasley,” he said pointedly. “Prosecutor Harcourt, please stay.”

“Sir,” Harcourt bowed his head in consent.

“Yes, of course,” Hermione said, picking up her papers.

They headed to the exit.

“What’s happening now?” Harry asked Hermione. “I’ve done something wrong again, haven’t I?”

“I don’t understand it either,” Hermione shook her head as they went through the doors.

And then something wet hit Harry in the face. He reeled back, reaching for his wand even as he wiped his eyes clear. Hermione’s hand on his arm stayed him.

An old witch stood there, in front of him, and spat again.

Harry wiped the spittle from his cheek, looking the woman up and down. He did not recognise her.

“Why did you do that?” he asked. “I don’t know you, do I?”

“You deserve it!” she hissed. “Think you’re this great hero and then treat your wife like that?” and she turned away and stormed off.

“Okay, we need Ron,” Hermione said.

But Ron’s reaction was bizarre too.

“We’ll go to my office,” he said bluntly, not looking at Harry.

Albus and James had appeared, making their way along the corridor, and Snape had just come out of the door behind them. Harry flicked his head to suggest they followed.

“I’m not talking about what you’ve done in front of your kids!” Ron grunted.

“Ron, they’ve just seen their mother murdered in our own house. Not to mention having sex. This can’t be worse than that, surely?”

Ron’s face was so grim that Harry suddenly felt angry. “I haven’t a clue what I’m supposed to have done now,” he snapped, “but you obviously do. Everyone’s staring at us and I’m not leaving my kids facing this bunch of ravening lions. Come on, Ron.”

With a shrug, which annoyed and troubled Harry in equal measure, Ron turned away. They all followed him. People stared or turned their backs.

“Do you know what this is all about?” he asked Snape, who had fallen into step beside him.

“I have suspicions,” Snape said. “Let us wait to hear what Weasley has to say.”

Harry glanced round at the boys, and was surprised to see them whispering together, frowning. Did they know what was up?

Within minutes they had ridden the elevator to Ron’s office. He shut the door firmly on the Aurors outside at their desks, who had all glanced up with interest as they arrived.

“Order some tea, Ron,” Hermione said firmly.

Ron stuck his head out the door. “Ed. Can you get us tea and cakes? There’s six of us. Pretty damn quick, please. And Jemima? Would you mind asking Dalrymple at Court 7 to let us know as soon as the court is recalled?”

Harry watched as the Aurors jumped up to do as they were asked. He hadn’t seen Ron in boss-mode much, so it was interesting to see the combination of authority and informality.

Ron came back inside and threw himself down at his desk.

“So what have I done to deserve an old hag spitting in my face and you looking at me like I’m a blast-ended skrewt?” Harry asked, leaning against the filing cabinet with his arms folded across his chest.

Hermione and Snape had both taken chairs, and James and Albus were in the process of transfiguring ones for themselves. James snorted at his father’s words.

“Right, you really want me to go ahead and say this in front of the kids?” Ron asked aggressively.

“They’re men,” Harry said. “I suspect, from your attitude, that they’re going to have to cope with worse from other people. Spill it, Ron.”

Ron sat forward, leaning his elbows on the table. “Alright. Let’s say, first, that if we were alone, I’d deck you first and talk after.”

“Okay,” Harry said slowly. “We’ll take that as a given.”

“Honestly,” Hermione muttered. “How old are you both?”

“We agreed that you had to show this stuff,” Ron said. “I didn’t realise how awful it would be. And it makes Ginny look…” he tailed off, glancing at the boys and then away again.

“Human?” Hermione suggested.

Ron’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t want to say slutty, but – ”

“Because she was wearing stockings and enjoying herself?” Hermione spoke again, her tone getting annoyed. “As if you don’t like that!”

“Too much information, Mione!” Harry interrupted what was fast looking to be a marital spat.

Hermione flashed a small smile at him. “Well,” she said. “It’s a bit insulting if it’s alright for his wife but not for his sister.”

“Alright, point,” Ron said, ears as red as his hair. “What I was trying to get at was that Ginny’s reputation has been ruined, whilst you were trying to pretend you were all goody goody.”

“What?” Harry said.

“It was all about Ginny having an affair with Malfoy.”

“She was having an affair with Malfoy,” Harry said in exasperation. “I didn’t blame her for that.”

“Exactly.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on,” Ron said. “You forced her into it if you’d refused to have sex with her. And it’s not like you haven’t been getting your oats either.”

“WHAT?”

“I’ve seen you use wandless magic just to stir the dinner when you can’t be bothered to get up from reading the paper,” Ron said, as if that explained everything.

“I feel like I’ve fallen into an alternative universe,” Harry said. “What the bloody hell are you going on about, Ron? What has magic got to do with anything?”

Snape gave a slight cough. They all turned to look at him.

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” Harry demanded.

“I believe Mr Weasley is referring to the old belief that regular sexual congress was essential to maintain a wizard’s magic,” Snape said. “Or a witch’s, of course.”

“Oh come on, everyone knows that!” Ron exploded. “You have to have been having some to be able to do wandless without a blink.”

“I’ve never had much trouble with wandless,” Harry shrugged. He turned to the boys. “Have you heard about sex and magic being connected?”

“People muttered about it at school,” Albus answered, “but I assumed it was just an excuse to get laid. “

“As if anyone needs an excuse for that!” James muttered, sniggering.

“Come on, they teach it in the Personal Magic class! Or they did in our day. You must remember, Harry! I’m sure the girls must have been told too in their sessions, Mione, surely?” Ron argued.

“I’ve never heard of it before,” Hermione shook her head.

“Maybe I was wrong about the lessons, but we certainly practice it, don’t we?” Ron smirked at Hermione.

“What?” Hermione’s brow furrowed.

“You know,” Ron blushed.

“I don’t,” Hermione insisted.

Harry was cringing, but Hermione had now really taken the hump, and Ron had to dig himself out of the hole he was in.

“When I say, ‘Let’s whip up some magic tonight,’” Ron whispered fiercely, leaning across the table, “you always seem pretty keen on the idea.”

“That could be because I thought you meant romance, Ron. Are you telling me you instigated sex just to ‘fire up your magic’?”

“You’re misunderstanding me - ”.

“I don’t think so,” Hermione replied.

“Delighted as we all are to hear the details of your marital escapades,” Snape interrupted the heavy atmosphere, “Mr Weasley is correct that it is a commonly held belief.”

Ron looked triumphant, until Snape continued. “The slightest application of intelligence, would, however, throw doubt on it. If you cast your minds back to your schooldays, I do not believe that there was a single teacher at Hogwarts who was married, and although some might have been leading amorous lives outside of wedded bliss,” he cast a glance at the Weasleys, for whom bliss seemed unlikely to happen for some time, “I suspect the vast majority were not. Which is one reason why such nonsense was unlikely to be taught at that time.”

Harry’s brain whizzed over thoughts of Filch, Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore and Flitwick and Trelawney, and felt himself in shuddering agreement with Snape. He wondered if Snape was getting any then – and pulled his mind away quickly.

“Well, teachers don’t have to be particularly strong, do they?” Ron said, without seeming to notice the size 12 he’d just stuck into his mouth.

“Hello? Dumbledore?” Harry waved at him. “Not that I don’t think all the others must use much more magic than the average witch or wizard going about their lives. I mean, they’re using it all the time; and they must always have some in reserve for dealing with emergencies.”

“And let us not forget the Dark Lord,” Snape said.

Again, all eyes turned to him. “I concede,” he said, after a moment, “that Bellatrix LeStrange might have been willing, but if you think that the rest of the Death Eaters were laying their arses out for his attention, think again.”

“Oh my god,” Harry mimed a finger down the throat. “Did you have to put Voldemort and sex in the same sentence? You’ve just burnt my brain.”

“Was he ugly?” Albus asked, interested.

“Inhuman,” Harry replied honestly. “If you can imagine having sex with – no, I can’t even think about that. Uuurgh.”

The mood had lightened a little.

“Well,” Ron said defensively, “it might not be true about the sex, but everyone thinks that.”

“I’m sure Gin didn’t,” Harry said. “She never mentioned anything of the sort. Ever.” And she would have, he thought.

“Do your brothers think the same?” Hermione asked.

“Definitely. I’m sure Mum’s mentioned it: she would have talked to Gin too.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if that was another thing that your parents decided her ears were too sweet and innocent to hear,” Hermione contradicted. “You know they treated her differently,” she hastened on, as Ron went to speak. “I expect they just saw that she was married to Harry and having kids and her magic seemed fine, and they just never brought it up.”

That was all too likely, Harry thought.

“So loads of people are going to think you’re a ..a…philanderer, Dad?” James asked, after a moment.

“Looks like it,” Harry agreed.

“Well, does that matter?” Albus queried. “I mean, I know it’s not nice for you, but it draws the attention from Mum, and makes people more likely to believe Malfoy was having a real relationship with her, which should help people believe that he didn’t do it, which should help him get free, which is what this is all about, isn’t it?”

Harry just got up and hugged his son. “You’re absolutely right,” he chuckled.

“But people will be horrid, Harry,” Hermione said fiercely.

He looked across at his old friend. “Well, I’ve been through that before and survived, haven’t I?”

“You really haven’t been bonk – you know, having se - a relationship - with someone?” Ron asked.

“Only if you count my right hand,” Harry said.

“Harry!” Hermione remonstrated, but she was laughing.

A memo flew through the door.

“The court’s been recalled,” Ron said, getting up. “And not even time for cake.”

Hermione stood up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Well, don’t expect any afters later, either, Ronald. I think a little abstinence will test whether your theory is correct, don’t you?” And she headed to the door with her nose in the air.

“Oh shit,” Ron breathed, looking rather desperately at his wife’s receding back.

Chapter Text

“I can’t shake your hand,” Malfoy said, standing in front of him. “I know I ought to, but ….”

Harry nodded. He could understand Malfoy’s mixed feelings.

The trial, once the Wizengamot had been reconvened, had been over in minutes. Malfoy had been found Not Guilty, although Harry was shocked that despite the evidence, there were a handful of the Wizengamot who had still raised their hands to vote against him.

The court was emptying fast: Harry knew that the minute that they were out of the doors, the cameras would be flashing and the questions coming.

Hermione was packing away her papers, studiously giving them a sense of privacy, which was interrupted when Auror Franklin came up.

“Are you going home, Mr Malfoy? I thought you might need to know that your wards were dismantled by our department when we searched your house. Although there are basic wards in place, given the interest the case is likely to generate….” She glanced towards the door. Every time it swung open as someone left, the noise from the excited throng waiting outside swept in.

“You searched my house? In my absence?” Malfoy’s brows snapped together. “I pleaded guilty.”

“Routine, Sir,” Franklin said, her face blank.

“Really?” Hermione’s drawl expressed her disbelief. “I’ll look into that.”

A roar of noise burst in once again.

“Damn,” Malfoy muttered. “It’ll be hell resetting them if they’re under bombardment at the same time.”

“Do you want to come to Grimmauld Place?” Harry asked, his mouth offering before his brain thought it out. “Give it a few hours and they’ll start looking for you elsewhere, then I can come back with you and give you a hand.”

Malfoy was looking at him as if he had two heads.

Then Harry remembered that the last time Malfoy had been at the house had been the day of Ginny’s murder. “It’s – I didn’t mean – I - that is, it’s all cleaned up,” he said, awkwardly. “I only meant it was somewhere where they couldn’t get at you for a few hours.”

“You just can’t stop yourself dashing to the rescue of damsels in distress, can you?” Malfoy said, his lips twisted.

Harry’s instant reaction of annoyance was allayed when Draco quickly added, “I didn’t mean to be rude. You’re too generous for your own good, Harry. I owe you so much already – ”

“Rubbish,” Harry said. “So, do you want to come?”

“Tea and sympathy? We make an odd couple.”

Harry barked a laugh, and Malfoy’s face quirked just a hint, before lengthening. “I really need to see Scorpius,” he said, looking up to the gallery to see if his son had left it yet.

“Bring him too,” Harry offered. “There’ll be a few of us, I expect, but you can have the parlour to yourselves, if you want.”

He turned round, suddenly aware of Snape lurking. “Are you coming too, Severus?” he asked, and then saw Malfoy’s eyes widen as he heard Harry use Snape’s first name. But then Malfoy had called him Harry. The world was turning upside down.

“There’s a lot to discuss,” he said.

“Yes,” Snape nodded.

Harry had a sudden embarrassed thought. “Oh god, I haven’t even asked about your fee, or anything. And now is not the time and place,” he went on, realising it was the last thing he should have said in front of Malfoy. “Sorry,” he added, not quite sure which of them he was apologising to.

“I should be meeting that,” Draco said.

“No! I didn’t mean to mention it!”

“It would be entirely inappropriate for you to do so, Draco,” Snape said. He looked at Harry. “We will discuss that later. Shall we go?”

Auror Franklin had been lurking nearby, and stepped forward again. “If you’ll allow it, Gentlemen, Madam, Auror protection might be advisable.”

“At home?” Harry queried.

“I meant to get to the floos.”

“Very well,” Draco said, “but I need to get my son.”

“My boys too,” Harry added.

“And I need to catch Ron,” Hermione said. “I don’t know if he’s going home or straight to the office.”

It took nearly half an hour to get to the floos in the atrium through the pushing, shoving, shouting crowds.

“Holy shit,” James exclaimed, brushing himself down as he landed back in Grimmauld Place.

“In the kitchen,” Hermione’s voice called. “I’ve got the kettle on.”

Somehow, hearing her disembodied voice made James feel his mother’s absence like a sharp blow. He’d never again hear his Mum calling out to welcome him home.

Scorpius Malfoy came through the floo behind him, followed a moment later by his father.

James had rather resented the fact that his Dad had invited them back, but now, he was suddenly glad that the house would be busy.

The floo whooshed again and the Malfoys stepped aside, but it wasn’t his father, but Lily who stepped through. Draco Malfoy stretched out his hand to steady her.

It was weird to think that these two men might have become part of their family, might have spent Yule with them, that Draco Malfoy would have been his step-father. He didn’t know what he thought about it. And following on that uncertainty, he supposed it was possible that his father might remarry some day: probable, in fact. That would be strange too. But his father must have been so lonely, amidst the veils and screens of his false marriage, whatever he said. He determined that he would accept whoever it was his father brought to share their lives – not that it would be difficult, now that they were all going their own ways, but family was a link, of that there was no doubt. It had meant so much to his father: there was no way he was going to let him down.

Scorpius was introducing Lily to his father, and she was saying that she was glad that he had been released, and the floo whooshed again and Albus stepped through, and seeing them both in control of the Malfoys, he strode along to the kitchen to help his aunt.

“Have you got milk in?” Hermione asked, looking anxiously in their cool cupboard.

“Mitty!” James called.

The elf popped up instantly. James thought she looked rather bedraggled. Were they working her too hard, with Mum gone?

He gentled his tone. “Have we more milk, Mitty? And could you get out the rest of that lovely cake you made? The chocolate one we had last night?”

“Mitty is getting them right away, Master James,” Mitty said, bowing and blushing at the praise. “And I has been making a sultana cake while you is all out, and sausage rolls, and other things. Shall Mitty get them?”

“Sounds brilliant!” James said.

Mitty bobbed a curtsey, looking pleased, and disappeared.

Harry walked into the kitchen, his arm around Lily. “Ron sent Lily back,” he said to Hermione. “He’s talking to Molly and Arthur with the others. Want to stay here or head over to the Burrow?”

“I’d rather stay here, I think,” Hermione said.

Harry snorted. “Coward.”

“Oh yeah,” Hermione grinned. “Professor,” she said, looking over Harry’s shoulder. “Tea?”

They were sitting in the family room, sprawled on the sofas, when there was a tap at the door.

Earlier, Harry had shown the two Malfoy men into the library, realising that the family would still need access to the floo in the parlour. Draco Malfoy had still been wearing prison robes, and Harry had offered him some of his own. He’d been surprised when Draco had brushed the suggestion away. Malfoy had always seemed so prissy, and he wondered if the change had come from his imprisonment, or had happened long before.

The door opened and Draco peered in. “Potter? I’m sorry to disturb you all –” he began.

Harry stood up and came over. “Are you ready to go home?” he asked. “You’re both welcome to stay here –”

“Thank you, but if you’re free, I would prefer to go home,” Draco said.

“You’re resetting Draco’s wards?” Snape asked, coming to stand beside him, and at Harry’s nod, continued, “Would you like another hand?”

“You alright, kids, if I shoot off for a while?” Harry turned and asked.

James stood up. “I wanted to head back to the flat anyway. I need to make a couple of floo calls to work, and sort out some stuff.”

Harry nodded. He had gone over James’ wards himself as soon as James had returned to his flat after Ginny’s death.

“I’d better do some homework then,” Lily said with a sigh.

“What are you working on?” Hermione perked up at once.

“Oh god, not homework! Can I help, Dad?” Albus offered, coming over.

Harry looked to Malfoy. It was his home after all.

“I’d be honoured,” he said, with a slight bow.

They walked along the corridor to the parlour. Harry realised that like himself, Scorpius had thrown off his robes, though Scorpius was still wearing the smart jacket of an elegant suit, whereas Harry was in his shirt-sleeves. He was just about to remind him to collect his robes from the library when he realised that Draco was wearing it. Something deep inside him was very moved.

They floo-ed through to Malfoy’s London home. Harry had never been there. He assumed Ginny had been very familiar with it – in fact, though he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, he’d been shocked that Ginny and Malfoy had been having an assignation in Grimmauld Place. He’d never banned Malfoy from the house, but he’d never expected that they would have sex in his home. He had felt betrayed.

“Merlin’s balls, they’ve hardly put anything in place!” Draco exclaimed, testing.

Harry allowed his senses to feel out. He had to agree, the wards were next to useless. “They’ve already been breeched,” he commented.

Malfoy looked at him sharply. “Not human,” he said quickly.

“Post owls, then, I expect,” Snape said.

They all clattered down the stairs behind Draco to the entrance hall, where a mountain of post was heaped up, and several owls who had been perching on the banisters came swooping towards Draco.

As if alerted to the presence of people inside, there were several bangs on the door, and voices shouting.

“Let’s get to work,” Snape said firmly. “What wards do you usually have, Draco?”

There was some discussion, and Harry outlined the additional wards he had placed at Grimmauld Place, his shop and James’ flat. They set to. Albus had never worked on wards before, so Harry was pleased that he should have the experience. With five of them working, it shouldn’t be too draining.

They were all done in less than an hour.

“That was a lot less strenuous than I expected,” Scorpius said.

“You’ve worked wards before?” Albus asked.

“Only on my flat, and with Dad’s help,” he said. “It seemed a lot harder, though, even though the property is tiny compared to this.”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Draco looked at Harry. “I had no idea you were so strong. You could have done it all on your own.”

“I’m used to working with space,” Harry shrugged. “Anyway, they’re much better for having more than one person, and especially the owner.”

Draco eyed him speculatively.

Harry hated anyone talking about his power. It wasn’t something he understood, really. How could one know how much power other wizards had? He just knew what he could do. End of story. He looked over at Scorpius. “Have you updated your wards recently, Scorpius? Do you think it would be a good idea to just give them an upgrade? While there’s a few of us to lend a hand?”

“Do you think that’s necessary?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“They might think your father is at your flat, if they’ve been unable to find him elsewhere,” Snape suggested.

“Shit! I never even thought of that! Shit!”

“Problem?” Albus asked.

“Andy,” Scorpius said, looking at his father.

“Apparate straight over, and open the floo to us,” Draco said, firmly.

Scorpius was gone in a crack.

Harry followed.

“Where the hell has he gone?” Draco exclaimed.

“Who knows, with Potter?” Snape said, striding to the fireplace. “The address, Draco?”

Within moments, they were all assembled in the tiny sitting room in Carnegie Place. Scorpius was trying to hold Andy, who was gesticulating wildly. There were shouts outside, and Howlers, which had obviously collected under the owl chute, awaiting the arrival of their addressee, were now flying across the room and hurling abuse at Scorpius.

Draco had just assessed all this when Harry flung out a hand, said “May I?” to Scorpius, and incinerated the lot.

The smell of burning filled the air for a moment, and then, Harry gave another little movement of his wrist and they all disappeared.

“Neat!” Albus said. “I thought for sure they’d burn the rug! How did you do that, Dad?”

“Practice,” Harry answered.

“When have you had Howlers?” Albus queried, hands on hips.

“In my mis-spent youth?”

Snape choked.

The young man who had been sitting next to Scorpius in the court stepped forward, and held out his hand. “You must be Harry Potter,” he said, easily. “I’m Andy Boniface. You were at school with my Mum – Susan Bones. And I’m afraid I don’t know you, Sir?” he held out his hand to Snape, after letting Harry’s go.

“Severus Snape. Your mother was one of my better students.”

“I asked her to visit Draco,” Harry said. “Small world.”

Andy grinned. “Did you really have a lot of Howlers?”

“You wouldn’t believe.”

Snape, meanwhile, had moved over to the window and cast a transparency spell on the curtains, which had been drawn closed. Harry walked over to him.

“There’s maybe a dozen people,” Snape said.

“What’s that they’re shouting?” Harry asked, trying to make words out amongst the noise.

“They’re horrid,” Andy said. “As if it’s anything to do with you, Scorp! I tried reasoning with them, and then telling them you weren’t here, but they won’t listen!”

“That sort of person never does,” Snape said dismissively.

“I’m so sorry,” Scorpius was saying again to Andy.

“So am I,” Draco added. “Thank you for supporting my son. This can’t have been easy.”

“I don’t mind,” Andy said, throwing up his arms again, “except they’re mindless, shit-for-brains wankers!”

Albus snorted a laugh. Even Snape’s lips were twisting up.

“Albus? Hi! Sorry! We’ve never had so many people in the flat. Haven’t seen you for ages. You alright?” Andy said, and then paused, and added, “Bloody hell, I’ve got shit-for-brains too. What am I thinking? I’m so sorry about your Mum.” He turned to Harry, going red. “And sorry – about Mrs Potter, I mean.”

Albus shrugged awkwardly. “Thanks.”

Harry knew just how he felt. It was always difficult to know how to respond.

Everyone moved to join the two men at the window.

“I’ve been trying to ignore them,” Andy said. “I thought if I hexed them it would only make more trouble. But the neighbours are going to use this against us if it goes on much longer.” He cast an anxious look at Scorpius.

“It’s hardly your fault,” Harry commented. “Have you got nasty neighbours, then?”

“It’s hard for them to accept two wizards living together.”

Harry frowned. “What? My son James shared with another wizard for a bit.”

“The neighbours know this is a one-bedroom flat,” Andy explained.

“You didn’t think to opt for a two bedroom one to allay suspicions?” Snape asked.

Scorpius snorted. “It probably would have been sensible to, but we don’t need two bedrooms, we liked the flat, and I expect I was being pig-headed about it.”

“The answer in a nutshell,” Draco murmured. “That last part, that is.”

“Oi!” Scorpius said. “Why pay for a bigger place? No one wants to stay over with two gay wizards anyway: they’re all scared it’s catching.” His voice had turned a trifle bitter.

“It is a nice flat,” Albus said, glancing round, trying to relieve the tension.

“Thanks,” Andy said.

“So, what do you think about these people?”

“I could go out and talk to them,” Harry said. “It’s ridiculous that they’re still blaming your father, and ridiculous that they should be taking that out on you.”

“You’d be wasting your breath,” Snape said. “You can’t reason with ‘mindless, shit-for-brains wankers’.”

Everyone snorted with laughter at those words repeated in Snape’s cultured bass.

“What do you suggest?” Draco asked.

Severus cast. There didn’t seem to be any change, but then after a minute or two, the shouting stopped and there was some whispering. Then it started up again, but half-heartedly. Harry could see the perpetrators wrapping their arms around themselves, and slapping their arms against their thighs.

“Nothing like a simple freezing spell over the area to make them decide to go home,” Snape said.

“How long will that last, though?” Scorpius said gloomily. “They’ll be back in the morning.”

“It should last for a few days. By then, they might have got bored with the idea or actually decided that despite them wishing otherwise, your father is actually innocent.”

“Thanks,” said Scorpius, as the group outside huddled together to talk again, before finally staring up at the windows and then heading off.

“Wow. It worked!” Andy said.

“Magic. Isn’t it wonderful?” Snape said drolly.

Harry had been having a feel of the wards. As it was Andy’s flat as well as Scorpius’, he said what he thought needed doing to improve matters, and asked if they wished for help.

“Can you just feel what’s there?” Andy asked, interested.

“I think most wizards can – it’s just experience,” Harry said. “Don’t you think so?” He looked to Draco and Snape.

They both nodded. There were three young men here who needed to learn, Harry thought, so he went ahead and explained to them what he looked for, what he did, what he felt. Soon, they were all standing there, closing their eyes and feeling out.

Draco sat down.

“You look exhausted,” Snape said quietly. “Can I get you anything?”

“I think I just realised that I’m free,” Draco answered, his head back on the chair and his eyes shut. “Or I could be in the underworld, where a Potter look-alike will teach endlessly on every subject until I want to rip every remaining hair out of my head.”

Snape chuckled.

“He’s surprisingly good at it,” Malfoy commented.

“Thanks,” Harry perched on the arm of the settee. “I’m sorry, Draco. I should have realised you’d be tired. Would you like us to set the wards without you?”

Draco heaved himself to his feet. “Don’t be silly, Potter, this is my son we’re talking about. Let’s do it.”

They set the wards. Harry was careful to take as much weight as he could, though he could feel that Scorpius and Andy were strong.

When they’d finished, though, it wasn’t only Draco who wavered on his feet, but Albus too.

“Sit,” Harry said. “All of you. Snape, you can help.”

The two wizards went into the little kitchen. Harry made tea and hunted out the sugar bowl, whilst Snape looked in the coolbox and rustled up something in a saucepan.

Shortly after, they returned to the sitting room, handing round plates of scrambled eggs on toast, steaming mugs of tea, and bottles of Muggle beer that Harry had found.

“I’ve used up all your eggs and most of your bread,” Severus said.

“No worries,” Andy took his plate. “This smells great.”

“I raided your herbs and also used a little cheese.”

“Tastes fantastic too,” Scorpius said, forking in a mouthful.

“It’s delicious,” Draco agreed. “Thank you.”

“And I found your beer stash. Good choice,” Harry grinned, raising the bottle in salute. “What?” he said, at the faces watching him as he swallowed. “It’s a good energy drink, high sugar content, and all that crap. And slides down a treat.”

There were smiles, and as the others finished their tea and meals, all the other bottles got opened too.

“Is ward-setting usually tiring?” Albus asked, taking a swig.

Harry could tell he was worried. He wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t usually have any problem with it.

“It uses a lot of magic, and concentration,” Snape spoke instead. “Also, most wizards are not used to working together on projects. And doing two wardings in one day is extremely unusual.”

Draco had regained a little colour in his face, Harry thought, watching him twirl his bottle idly between his fingers. Not that he had much anyway, but he looked less…deathly…than he had. It was weird to think that if they hadn’t taken the action this morning, Malfoy probably would be dead at this moment, lying on a cold slab somewhere, or worse, some horrible limp body left huddled and drooling by the Dementors. He looked at Scorpius, and didn’t know how Malfoy could have put him through that. Sometimes you had to swallow your pride to live and fight another day.

He stood up, and started clearing dishes. “We’ll do that!” Scorpius leapt up.

“Alright, thanks,” Harry said equably. “I really ought to be getting home. I left Lily with Hermione hours ago. They’re both probably mad at me,” he grimaced.

“Na,” Albus said, standing too. “She’ll be glad to have had a quiet time to get her homework done. What with the NEWTS this year,” he added.

“They should give her some dispensation,” Snape suggested. “Although there is still plenty of time before the exams.”

Harry nodded. He felt guilty that he hadn’t really thought enough about how all this time off, not to mention the shock and upset of losing her mother, was affecting Lily’s studies.

“You’re not responsible for everything, Potter,” Malfoy said.

Harry looked at him in surprise.

“You should know by now that you can’t control everything. And Ginny always said Lily was very bright: you got through tough times: give her some credit for doing the same.”

It was a strange speech. 'Tough times,' was an interesting way to describe his teenage years and the life-threatening events he had regularly faced, and it was even weirder to think that Malfoy was actually crediting that his schooldays had not been a whirl of fun and laughter. But he actually felt touched that Malfoy was thinking so well of his daughter, that Ginny had talked about her.

He nodded.

Snape stood too. “Draco, are you staying here – on the sofa, for lack of the aforementioned spare bedroom – or shall I see you to your home?”

“Home,” Draco said, stirring himself.

“Would you like me to come and stay with you?” Scorpius asked.

“And leave Andy with all the clearing up? After all he’s gone through already? Have a heart, Scorpius,” he smiled.

“Honestly, Mr Malfoy, I don’t mind – “ Andy began.

“Of course you do, and quite right too,” Draco said, getting to his feet with a hint of his old elegance. “I just want to have a shower, and sleep, and I’m not so senile that I can’t manage those alone. It would be good to see you both soon, though,” he added, and Scorpius came up and hugged him, and then, to Harry’s surprise, came and shook his hand.

“Thank you again, Sir,” he said.

Harry was aware of Draco watching them.

“Your son asked me to come and visit you,” he explained.

“Interfering?” Draco raised his eyebrow at his son.

“Yes,” Scorpius said. “Now, go home to bed. Goodnight, Master Snape.”

“Goodnight, Scorpius, Andy,” Snape said.

Draco had gone into the floo, and Snape turned, powder in his hand, as he was about to step in. “You know, if you did have a second bedroom, you’d find not only your father staying, but friends too. We certainly did.” And with that, he threw the powder into the flames and was gone.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Harry had braved up and gone to the Burrow. Molly had offered him breakfast, but Harry soon realised that, rather than it being an olive branch, it was an avoidance technique. She clattered around the kitchen, mostly with her back to him, and when he offered to help, she asked him to go and find some chives in the garden, which as far as Harry knew, had never been part of any breakfast he’d ever eaten there before.

He took his time.

The rejection hurt.

That was unfair of him, he thought. He hadn’t been kicked out. What more could he have expected?

But he had always felt part of the family, and now he didn’t.

He heard the back door and turned round. George was coming down the path towards him.

“Give it time,” George said, clapping a hand on his back.

“I shouldn’t have come.” Harry’s agitated fingers crushed the herbs that he had picked.

“Don’t be daft.” George bumped against him, shoulder to shoulder. “They would have been really hurt if you’d stayed away. But it’s a lot to take on board, you know? That your daughter who you’d stuck on a pedestal, brilliant career, brilliant mother, brilliant wife, all that crap, was human after all. It’s knocked the stuffing out of them, made them doubt their judgement. And Mum won’t even have the chance to shout at her and tell her she’s throwing her life away. And on top of that, they know that you’ve been coming round, acting as if you were still part of the family, when you knew that you’d be leaving.”

“I always felt like I was part of this family,” Harry remonstrated, “long before I even went out with Ginny. And I suppose I hoped I’d still be part, especially with the kids. It’s not like they won’t still be their grandparents or anything.”

“I know,” George said, “but it’s just hard for them. Give them time. Keep coming over. Don’t give up on them.”

Harry nodded, and they turned and set off down the path.

“They’ve lost a son and a daughter now,” George said quietly. “It’s more than any parent should have to bear. Don’t let them fear that they’ll lose you or the children.”

“Thank you, George,” Harry said, a quick hand on his arm before they went in.

“Well, that’s the parents. You’re on your own with the rest of the family,” George grinned.

Harry groaned.

In the kitchen, Bill had just wheeled Arthur in, dressed and ready for the day.

“Ginny!”

There was a moment of silence. Harry could see friendliness, followed by agitation on Arthur’s face. Arthur had trouble finding the right words, and often, a linked word to the one he was seeking came out; he would call his sons by each other’s names, or sometimes he would call one of them ‘Edward’, his brother’s name. Normally, the family laughed, but this time…

Harry went over and squatted beside his chair.

“Morning, Arthur. How are you today?”

“Breakfast’s up,” Molly said, in an over-cheerful voice.

“Oh dear,” Arthur said, and Harry leant forward and gave him a quick hug. Arthur patted his back with his good hand.

Harry felt a huge sense of relief that at least one of his parents-in-law was talking to him.

Percy appeared too, and they all sat down, eating in silence.

“This is delicious, Molly,” Harry said.

“Tear some chives onto your scrambled eggs, they’ll taste even better,” she replied. “Put the rest in the middle of the table if you picked enough.”

Well, Snape had put herbs in the scrambled egg last night, but they’d gone in at the cooking stage. And god knows what shape his system would be in with scrambled eggs for two meals in a row. Nevertheless, Harry shredded a couple of the battered looking leaves, and then deposited the rest on the edge of the bread board.

“Well, they look enticing,” Bill commented.

George snorted. “Who eats chives for breakfast? What were you thinking, Mum? We’ll stink of onion all day.”

“Sorry,” Harry said: they were looking mangled to death.

“Yeah, I reckon you are,” Bill said, after a moment.

Harry squirmed. “I couldn’t let him die,” he said quietly.

And there they were, at the conversation.

“You ruined our Gin’s reputation,” Molly sniffed.

“She loved him,” Harry said. “What would she have thought of us if we’d let him die for something he didn’t do?”

“Who…who.. who?” Arthur got out.

“You sound like an owl, dear,” Molly said, cutting up her sausage, making Harry choke on his toast. “Who what?”

“Who…di…did…it?” Arthur asked.

Harry sat up straight. “That’s the question, Arthur. And the worst thing about Malfoy thinking that he’d done it and pleading guilty, is that the ones that did do it have had time to get away.”

Arthur’s question really seemed to break the barrier between Harry and the Weasleys.

“The Aurors will be following it up, won’t they?” Percy queried. “I mean, they’ve got to!”

“Well, I damn well hope they’ll try, but it isn’t going to be easy,” Harry said. He thought. “Not for them, and not for us. I suppose they’ll be round asking us questions, to see if there’s any way Gin knew them.”

“Do you think she did, Harry?” Molly look horrified.

“I don’t know. I didn’t recognise them. And I can’t think that anyone that knew Ginny would treat her like that,” he said, suddenly finding his voice cracking.

There was a moment’s silence. Harry hoped he wouldn’t cry. He hated the bursts of emotion that just grabbed hold of him out of nowhere, uncontrollable and embarrassing.

“I don’t know why Ron can’t be involved,” Molly shook her head. “He’s good at his job. You’d think someone wants the culprits to get away with it.”

“Perhaps they do,” Bill said slowly.

“I’ve been wondering something along the same lines,” Harry agreed. “Which means we can’t trust the Ministry.”

“Well,” said George, leaning back in his chair. “Dark deeds, masked figures, corruption in the Ministry: is it time to resurrect the Order of the Phoenix?”

“George! Don’t joke!” Molly exclaimed. “Your sister’s dead!”

“I’m not joking, Mum,” he said seriously. “Something’s up. There are whispers everywhere. Antagonism to Muggleborns again. The Ministry haven’t done anything to improve matters, and I’m beginning to wonder if that’s deliberate.”

“But Hermione hasn’t had any problems!” Molly said. “Look how well she’s done!”

“Look what she hasn’t achieved yet,” George answered. “She could be Minister for Magic by now: she’s seriously able. But people are scared of her.”

“That’s because she's seriously scary,” Harry said, and George laughed. “Really though?” Harry continued. “I’ve never thought of Hermione going for high politics.”

“Come on!” George argued. “Have you ever known anyone so good at knowing absolutely everything? She has the whole Muggle and Wizarding thing, she’s a lawyer, she’s a war hero, she’s a mother, she’s analytical, what can’t she do?”

“Cook?” Molly said.

“Molly!” Harry burst out laughing.

“Well, dear, it’s true and you know it. She could run the country, I’ve no doubt, but if she hadn’t agreed to have a house-elf – paid or not – that family would starve. Ron still comes here three times a week to top up.”

“He doesn’t!” Harry was still chuckling.

“Does,” Arthur joined in.

“Mind you,” Molly said, “I’m not complaining. I expect we’d never see him otherwise.”

“You’re terrible, Mum,” George was grinning.

“Well, Hermione is wonderful, I'm not arguing on that. But she isn’t a homemaker.”

“I always thought you used more spells than anyone I knew,” Harry said, but to his surprise, instead of taking the compliment, Molly seemed to withdraw into herself.

“Well,” she said after a moment, “we need to see what Ron has to say about what the Auror department are doing. Shall we have an Order meeting here tonight?”

“Blimey, there’s no messing about with you, Mum, is there?” George looked at his mother with awe.

“Ginny’s dead and three wicked people killed her,” Molly said. “Who’s next?”

That evening, a strangely friendly gathering met in the kitchen of the Burrow.

Harry has spoken to Kingsley, and liaised back with Molly: it was too soon to call up the Order, but instead, a collection of those interested in finding out who Ginny’s murderers were had come, which was a starting point to focus on. Which meant that all the Weasleys were there, including Charlie, looking rugged and glowing with health, Hermione and Angelina, Neville, Teddy Lupin, James and Albus, Severus Snape and Kingsley Shacklebolt, and, accompanied by Harry, a rather apprehensive Draco Malfoy.

Once again, despite his speech difficulties, it was Arthur who broke the crashing silence that followed their arrival.

“Welcome to the B..B..home,” he said, and held out his good arm.

Draco went over, and shook it. “Thank you, Sir,” he said. Then, “I’m so very sorry. Sorry that I couldn’t protect her.” He turned round, still holding Arthur’s hand, and sought out Molly. “I’m so sorry, Mrs Weasley,” he repeated clearly.

“Should have come sooner,” Arthur said, tugging on his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Draco looked upset. “I was released yesterday: I should have come at once, but I wasn’t sure – ”

“No,” Arthur shook his head. “With Ginny. Before. Happy days.”

Harry swallowed. It was his fault that Ginny hadn’t been able to bring Malfoy home. He opened his mouth, but Molly spoke first.

“Well, that’s water under the bridge now. We’re all here for the same thing, aren’t we? We want to find out who killed our Gin? And why? Ron, can you tell us anything?”

There were a couple of spare seats, one between Bill and Kingsley and one between Angelina and Percy. Harry took the one next to Bill: he didn’t know how Bill felt about Malfoy, and it wasn’t the time to put it to the test.

“Well, it’s obviously not my team and they’re pretty keen to tell me to mind my own business,” Ron said. “But I know a couple of the Aurors quite well so there’s no problem with finding out stuff. Basically, they don’t have any leads, which I’m pretty sure we knew anyway, and they’re going over the memory to try and pick up clues.” He looked from Harry to Snape to Shacklebolt. “You’ve done that already. Is there anything you can tell us?”

“I’d better explain,” Kingsley said, in his deep voice, “that I’ve been working on a European task force looking into new threats.”

“That explains a lot,” Charlie interrupted. “I couldn’t believe you’d just given it all up.”

There had been lots of astonishment and welcome when Shacklebolt and Snape had arrived.

“Well, I did ‘give it all up’ – for better things – for a while,” Kingsley contradicted. “But then, I was asked to help, and here we are. The bad news is, that I’ve seen the masks the murderers were wearing before, in Europe. On one occasion, a French Minister was assassinated.”

“So what do you think is going on, Mr Shacklebolt?” Angelina asked. “And why would this group kill Ginny? She wasn’t a political figure. Are other sports’ players likely to be targeted?”

“Angelina writes a column for Quidditch Heroes magazine,” Molly pointed out. “She knows everything about everybody in the quidditch world.”

“Thanks Molly,” Shacklebolt smiled. “Actually, I have a subscription to Quidditch Heroes: good article on Monty Perkins last week, and I hope you’ll call me Kingsley so that I can call you Angelina, because saying ‘Mrs Weasley’ around this table is going to be plain confusing.”

“What a good idea – is everyone happy with first names?” Hermione asked, amidst the chuckling that ensued. “Master Snape? Malfoy?”

“Fine.”

“Of course.”

“Excellent,” Shacklebolt said. “One ground rule sorted. Now, as for sports’ players – the answer is, we don’t know. I don’t think it’s likely, but we really don’t know who is going to be targeted, because we don’t know the motivation of the killers. If we can just get inside what their planning is, their purpose, if we can capture one man, or woman, we can begin to understand. Draco, you can be the most help here: did you recognise anything, anything at all – their way of speaking, a movement – in the perpetrators?”

“Two Aurors came round today to ask me the same thing,” he said.

“Really?” Ron’s eyebrows drew together. “No-one mentioned that. It makes sense, of course. Who were they?”

“Wilkinson and Freeman. I hadn’t seen them before.”

“I’ve seen them around. Were you happy with the way they questioned you?”

“What can I say to that? They didn’t beat me up or anything.” Malfoy realised what he had said and looked at Ron. “I – ”

“Fair comment,” Ron shrugged. He had already apologised to Malfoy.

“So, did their questions prompt anything helpful?” Kingsley asked.

Malfoy shook his head. “I didn’t recognise them. Not their voices or anything. They spoke English, they were all men, one was shorter than the other two.”

“Were they white? Black? Asian? Could you tell the skin tone?” Charlie asked. “Sorry if it’s a silly question, I wasn’t able to get to court, so I haven’t seen the memories.”

“It’s a good question,” Kingsley said. “Draco?”

“It’s hard to be sure. They wore gloves as well as masks, so it was only the skin around the eyes that I could see. I think they were all white; maybe not as white as me.”

“No one is as white as you, Draco,” Hermione said. “What? It’s true!”

“It is,” Harry agreed, smiling. “So, do you think my sort of colour, or Ron’s, or Sn -Severus’? We’re all white but different shades.” He put his fingers around his eyes as if he had a mask on.

Draco looked at him as if he was an idiot. “Seriously, P - Harry,” he said in exasperation, “you can’t really think I can guess from you doing that?” He looked round the table. “I’m really sorry, I just don’t know. I – I guess I was too shocked, and – “. And he stopped.

“You’ve thought of something?” Kingsley prompted.

“I was just about to say, I was petrified – literally, by spell – and they had their backs to me mostly, and then I remembered the one who did the memory stuff to me. He held my face. Strong grip. He had bags under his eyes – puffy. And his breath…” He paused. “It smelt of …aniseed.”

“Excellent, Draco! Memory extraction is excellent at visual impressions, and sound, and yet not so effective at relaying sensations such as, as you say, the strength of a grip, or odours. The aniseed in particular is very helpful, I would think. Severus?”

“It could be that he was just partial to aniseed sweets, but there are a number of potions that use pimpinella anisum. It is used in remedies for coughs and flatulence, both of which problems I think you may have noticed.”

Albus snorted. Harry caught his eye and shared a smirk with him.

“However,” Snape continued, after a quelling glance around the table, “it is also an ingredient in Felix Felicis.”

“You think the man needed Dutch courage?” Hermione looked thoughtful. “Draco, did he seem less involved than the others? Apart from doing the memory work? Do you think he could have been forced into it? Because he was the only one who could do the memory stuff?”

All those who had seen the memories thought back over them. “It could be,” Draco said slowly.

“We’ll need to review the memories again,” Shacklebolt said. “Just focus on that chap. In fact, we need to view the memories several times, concentrating on one at a time, to build up a profile as best we can of each.” His brows drew together. “If he was brought in just to do the memory work, perhaps by force or blackmail, and it’s failed…”

“You think they might kill him?” Bill suggested.

“It’s a possibility. Ron, can you keep your eyes open for any unexplained deaths in wizards fitting the description, scant as it is?”

“I could keep my eye open at St. Mungo’s,” Teddy offered. “I’m a trainee nurse,” he explained. “I‘m friendly with a couple of the girls in reception, or I could wander down to the mortuary, start chatting to the people there. Then if any DOAs come in I could see if they might be our chap.”

“Are you sure, Ted?” Harry asked. “I don’t want you getting into trouble.”

“I chat to loads of people. Nobody will think it’s odd,” he shrugged. “I can always go in disguise, if need be. Haven’t really used my natural talents for anything serious before.”

“You would have been very welcome in the Auror programme with your skills,” Kingsley suggested. “Your Mum was a great asset.”

Teddy nodded. “So I’ve heard, but I wanted to be more than someone who’s useful just because he can change the way he looks.”

“Fair enough,” Kingsley smiled. “Any information you can gather will be very helpful.”

“Susan Boniface would help too, if we needed it, I should think,” Draco said quietly.

“Who’s that?” Charlie asked.

“Susan Bones before she married,” Ron said. “We went to school with her.”

“It’s probably better to keep things close to home for the moment,” Kingsley suggested.

“She’s also my son’s lover’s mother,” Draco said.

Harry was impressed with the way he just came out with it: no embarrassment. He watched the Weasley’s reactions: they didn’t know Snape and Shacklebolt were together, and he wondered how widespread the homophobia that was endemic in Wizarding Britain actually went. The Weasleys had a son who had some werewolf tendencies, and a daughter-in-law who was Veela. Teddy’s father had been a werewolf. Surely these people couldn’t be prejudiced against others who were just a little bit different? But Molly had her head down, her cheeks red, and Bill looked awkward. Harry’s heart sank.

“Then it would be great if you’d ask her,” Kingsley said, firmly. “Would your son and his partner be willing to help?” he went on, drawing an audible gasp from Molly.

Kingsley ignored it. “What we need,” he said, “is people across a broad spectrum keeping their eyes and ears open. I’m worried about this group. I’m sorry your daughter is dead, Mr and Mrs Weasley, but I don’t think she’s going to be the last.”

“Blood,” Arthur said.

They all looked at him.

“People will die, do you mean?” Kingsley asked. “They will.”

But Arthur was shaking his head. “Blood,” he said again. “Oh bugger,” he sighed. He got terribly frustrated, knowing what he wanted to say but unable to find the right words. He used his good hand to point at his family around the room, then at Angelina and Kingsley. “Blood,” he said again. “Clean,” he said, then shook his head, looking horrified.

“Do you mean Ginny was a pureblood, Dad?” Percy asked.

Arthur nodded vigorously. “Phew!” he said, making them laugh, though somewhat uneasily.

“You’re asking why she was killed if she was a pureblood?” Snape asked. “If blood purity is supposed to be important to this new group?”

Arthur continued to nod, relieved.

“It’s a good point,” Kingsley said. “And I don’t have any answers. Yet.”

Chapter Text

The next day, after further discussions with Kingsley and Snape, and a night thinking on it, Harry sent an owl to Lucius Malfoy, and an hour later was sitting in Malfoy’s drawing room.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch earlier,” Harry said, sipping the Earl Grey tea that had arrived at his elbow on a neat tray. Harry wondered if Malfoy was too shaky to pour it himself. And if it was a rebuke for his own lack of the usual niceties.

“I have no complaints about an extra few hours in this world, Mr Potter. Though I would very much appreciate it if you would allow me the opportunity to visit my son before I die. I will, of course, not mention the agreement.”

“Are you satisfied that I have fulfilled my side of the bargain?” Harry asked, not answering Malfoy’s request.

“My son is alive. And proved innocent too,” Malfoy said. “You have fulfilled your side of the bargain, and more, Mr Potter,” he inclined his head.

“Good, we’re agreed on that, then,” Harry said.

He sipped his tea.

“Are you deliberately trying to prolong my discomfiture?” Malfoy asked imperiously.

Harry put down his cup. “The thing is, Mr Malfoy, I’m not the vengeful sort.”

Harry could see the infinitesimal tightening of Malfoy’s hands.

“However, we made a bargain. We’ve agreed that I have fulfilled my part. Now, I’m going to make a suggestion.”

“A suggestion? What have you in mind?” Malfoy suddenly drew in a sharp breath, and raised his chin. “If you wish me to be your house-elf, your slave, and humiliate me publicly, I prefer death, thank you very much.”

“My house-elf?” Harry choked. “I can’t imagine anyone less suited to it! And, surprising as it may seem to you, I’ve no desire to humiliate another human being. On top of that, I’m absolutely positive that I couldn’t stand to have you in my house for an hour, let alone a lifetime.”

Malfoy’s lips were so pursed, and his back so ramrod straight, that Harry fought back the continuing desire to laugh. Malfoy as a house-elf indeed!

“Perhaps you’d enlighten me, then, as to what you had in mind,” the older man asked tightly.

Harry sat back. He could force the issue, or entice. He wasn’t very good at either, but he knew which one he was going to try.

“When I first saw you, it seemed pretty clear to me that your offer wasn’t much of a hardship.”

“I beg your pardon?” Malfoy’s outrage intensified.

“I thought you had the air of a man who had pretty much given up on life. As if there were little to interest you, or keep you going.”

“Many of my previous activities are no longer open to me,” Malfoy said curtly.

Harry nodded. He leant forward.

“Mr Malfoy, three people – three people who we think are just part of a larger organisation - set your son up for a murder he didn’t commit. And they deliberately forced him to suffer intensely by making him believe that he had done it. They have eroded his chance for the future he wished for, and for the future you envisaged for the Malfoy family. To cut a long story short, we believe that these people have plans, and at this moment, we’re not sure how the murder of my wife, and the manner in which your son was set up, feature in the bigger picture. But we do plan to find out, and to put a stop to it. I’m asking you if you would like to be involved in finding the bastards who did this.”

Harry sat back, and waited.

Malfoy was trying to resume his usual mask, but not quite succeeding. “You don’t trust the Auror Department to deal with it?”

“Do you?” Harry shot back. “We think these people have a foot in the Ministry. Why was your son’s trial moved? Somebody powerful decided to recall the whole Wizengamot from their recess. The initial speed for the trial was much faster than previous trials – I checked that. I put a spanner in someone’s plans there by asking them to wait until after my wife’s Funeral Rites. Then the minute I got Snape to legilimize Draco with Veritaserox, the trial was pulled forward. Two days! No time for him to change his mind, work on a defence, had he wished it – nothing!"

Malfoy looked thoughtful. “I assumed the initial speed was due to your – position – in the wizarding world. I expect everyone else thought so too. So, what are you asking me to do, exactly? Are you asking to use my money to fund your enquiries?”

“That money is now mine, Mr Malfoy, not yours. You knew that from the moment you agreed that I had completed my part of the bargain, the magical contract would have ensured that Gringotts would transfer all your holdings into the vaults I nominated. But I’m asking a lot more of you than that.”

“It appears you like your pound of flesh.” Malfoy was watching Harry like a hawk. “If it isn’t my death you’re after, what is it that you are expecting me to do as a penniless wretch? “

“I will give you access to the vaults, and allow you to continue to live in your own homes, as you have been doing.”

“If…? There are conditions, no doubt.”

“There’s a task,” Harry said. He saw the surprise in Malfoy’s eyes, and continued. “I’m not interested in your money; you may spend as much of it on completing your task as you will. I want you to infiltrate this organisation, help us find out what they’re up to, and help us find out who killed Ginny and set up Draco, and why. Interested?”

“You’re asking me to be a spy?”

“Mmmm. Isn’t all that intrigue and manipulation appealing?”

Malfoy snapped his fingers, and his elf appeared. “Coffee,” he demanded. “At once.”

In a moment the elf had returned, with a cafetiere of coffee. Harry thought it smelt fantastic. He wasn’t really an Earl Grey man.

“I find it sharpens the brain,” Malfoy waved a hand at the pot. “It sounds as if I am going to need it. You’d better tell me about this group, and what exactly you expect of me.”

Harry explained what they knew. “I know it doesn’t make sense, given that Draco and Ginny are Purebloods,” Harry said, several minutes into the discussion, “but everything else we know about them suggests that anti-Muggle feeling is a strong element of their cause. Given your previous views on Pureblood status, and your treatment as a consequence of your actions in what they may perceive as a worthy cause, it is possible that you may well be able to ingratiate yourself into the movement.”

“Ingratiate myself? I am a Malfoy,” Lucius sneered.

“That’s probably exactly the attitude they’ll love,” Harry commented equably.

“So you expect me to join this organisation and report back to you on what they’re doing?”

“We don’t know if they’re organised enough to have a membership, or if it’s something looser. But in effect, yes. Though I won’t be your contact.”

“And who would be? Severus Snape? Who exactly, are the ‘we’ you are referring to? The Order of the Phoenix?”

Harry shook his head. “A number of interested people who are keen to find Ginny’s killers, and prevent anyone else suffering the same fate. I’m not going to give you any more information than that: it could be dangerous for them, and dangerous for you. I’m afraid you’re going to be out on your own. I’ll let you know who your contact is shortly, but it won’t be Master Snape.”

There was no way Harry was going to put Snape into the position of having to deal with Lucius Malfoy. There was too much history there. Snape had done his bit on the spying front, and Harry had no intention of ever forcing him into a similar position again.

“When will I know that I have completed the task to your satisfaction? And what happens then?” Malfoy asked.

"We’ll come to a mutual agreement on when the task is done,” Harry said. He hadn’t really thought about after. “As for afterwards…what are you asking?”

“I’m asking if the agreement reverts to the original terms, Mr Potter,” Malfoy asked.

Harry looked puzzled.

“Is this just a stay of execution? Will my life be forfeit afterwards?”

Harry was genuinely shocked. “I don’t know what sort of man you think I am, Malfoy -” he began.

“I don’t think I have any idea,” Malfoy said. “I have to admit, you’ve confunded my expectations.”

“I don’t think I’ll ask what you expected me to be,” Harry gave a slight smile. He leant forward. “I can tell you this: if you complete this task to my satisfaction, I will consider our agreement fulfilled. Your life will be yours.”

“That is….generous,” Malfoy conceded. “You will not be asking me to perform further tasks?”

“I will not.”

“And my estates?” Malfoy said, delicately.

“You’re putting me on the spot,” Harry said. “I need to think about that. Let me say this: it would be unwise of you to decide to spend absolutely everything in fulfilling your task, in an attempt to spite me, so that there is nothing left at the end.”

Malfoy looked genuinely pleased. “A carrot and a stick. You are an interesting man, Mr Potter.”

“I hope I’m an honourable one,” Harry said. “And I hope I’m giving you the chance to be one too.”

He watched Malfoy stiffen, but didn’t back down.

“When your son approached me about marrying Ginny,” he continued, “I looked into your family tree.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your son would inevitably have had influence over my children; even adults are influenced by those around them,” Harry went on. “I saw that he’d turned his life around. He was doing everything he could to make the Malfoy name respectable again. It made me wonder why he was so proud of his heritage.”

He gazed calmly at Malfoy, who was sitting rigidly in his chair, trying not to look stunned. Harry felt a shiver of pleasure at surprising the supercilious bastard.

“I found out that your family have had a great influence in wizarding affairs over the centuries, and not just because Malfoys seem to have a nose for politics. Septimus Malfoy was an incredible spell-crafter. Leonora Malfoy was a much admired Headmistress at Beauxbatons. Hyperion Malfoy created more healing potions than anyone else before or since. I could see why Draco was working so hard to restore that pride. Scorpius too, I think, is going to be another Malfoy who has a real and beneficial impact on wizarding society. To be blunt, at the moment, you represent a stain on the Malfoy heritage. But you’ve only lived – what – half the lifespan of a wizard? You’ve got time to turn things round. To offer something to the world and to your line of which you can be proud. If you want to.” Harry stood up. “I’ll leave you to think about my request.”

Malfoy got to his feet too. “Of course I am going to accept, Mr Potter. I’ll start at once. You’ll let me know my contact, but if anything comes to my attention before then, I’ll contact you discreetly. Is that acceptable?”

“You can’t let anyone know what you’re doing, you realise?” Harry asked. “Not even your son. I’m sorry that this might make things more difficult between you –”

“As you’ve indicated, Potter, this is a long game. You are already aware that my son doesn’t invite me into his home. You’ve given me perhaps more hope than I have had in many years.”

“May I have your word that you won’t abuse the position and power that your task may give you? You may find yourself aligned with the beliefs of this organisation. If they’re after the sort of intolerant society that the Death Eaters sought, be assured, I will do whatever is necessary to destroy it. Do you understand me?”

“You are, of course, entirely in a position to threaten me – ”

“I’m not threatening you, Malfoy. I’m just being absolutely clear about what I expect of you. Either I have your word or the deal is off.”

“You have it, of course,” Malfoy extended a languid hand, which Harry shook.

Harry stepped away towards the fireplace.

As if unable to let Harry leave with the upper hand so clearly held, Malfoy said, “You realise that, after your confession in court, your golden boy reputation has been - tarnished - shall we say?”

Harry turned and raised an eyebrow.

“I can feel the power rolling off you.”

“I don’t much care what people think of me,” Harry shrugged. “They can think that I was unfaithful to my wife, as well as she to me, and that we stayed together to give our children a sound home. We wouldn’t be the only family with such an arrangement, I’m sure. Or they might consider that I have very little power, from choosing not to indulge. It’s always nice to be able to surprise people, of course. Or they might notice how much power I have, as you have done, and wonder: is this his normal power, fuelled by an active sex life? Or is it just a smidgen of what it could be?”

Malfoy’s eyes widened.

“Or they might think sex and magic are totally unrelated,” Harry said. “I’ll be in touch.”

He threw a handful of floo powder into the flames, and disappeared, leaving a very thoughtful Lucius Malfoy staring after him.

It was a busy week. The day after that, Aurors Hencliffe and Franklin called. Harry had to accompany them to the Ministry. “Just so that we can go over the facts, Mr Potter,” Franklin said.

Harry was hugely relieved that as he walked into the Auror offices, Ron casually strode out of his office, mug of tea in hand.

“Harry! Didn’t expect to see you today, mate!”

“I’ve been asked to go over a few facts,” Harry indicated the two Aurors.

“Really? I didn’t think we were ready for you. I didn’t get a memo at all. What on earth is going on with the system?” He shrugged, smiling at the two Aurors. “Hold on, I’ll just get my robe. The interviewing rooms can be damn chilly, can’t they? Want a spare, Harry?”

“This doesn’t concern you, Auror Weasley,” Hencliffe began.

“Of course it does. Hey! Bolt! Daventry? You need to come and watch this too,” he called, over Hencliffe’s shoulder at a young man and woman sitting at their desks.

“What are you doing, Sir?” Auror Franklin hissed. “You know you’re not allowed to be involved in this investigation – ”

“What?” Ron said, all gormless charm. Harry thought he’d really mastered that wide-eyed look, though it was amazing he could still pull it off at his age. “You got the message from Felton, of course? The international co-operation thingy?”

“What ‘thingy’?” Franklin said distastefully, her hands going to her hips, spitting out the word as if it were poisonous.

She reminded Harry a bit of Professor McGonagall.

“And I don’t believe we should be having this conversation in front of a witness,” she said primly.

“Good point,” Ron said, his eyes twinkling at Harry. “Here, step into my office, it’s on my desk. Hencliffe, I’m sure you can keep this dangerous criminal under control,” he chuckled.

“Hi Harry,” Jemima Bolt said, coming over. Harry had met her a couple of times in the pub, and Daventry too, when he’d met Ron after work sometimes.

“How’s the knee?” Harry asked.

“Brilliant, now, thanks. Good as new,” Jemima beamed at him. “Though I won’t be trying a Wronski Feint again, I can tell you! Who invented such a stupid move?”

“Er, Wronski?” Hugh Daventry suggested sarcastically, coming up. “Hi Harry.” He shook his hand.

Hencliffe rolled his eyes.

Ron and Franklin exited the office, with Franklin looking riled. Harry raised his brows at Ron, who grinned back.

“Okay, off to the interviewing rooms. I’ve ordered some coffee,” Ron added.

“This is not a social event,” Franklin said, tightly.

“No, it’s interviewing a bereaved husband and potential witness,” Ron replied, voice suddenly firm. “Whom we treat with respect.”

“It’s only suspects who get the rough treatment, eh?” Hencliffe mumbled under his breath.

“I was completely out of order, and I’ve apologised to Malfoy,” Ron said sharply. “Suspects should also be treated with respect, too, of course. This case is an obvious indicator of why,” he added, to the two Auror trainees, “as the man was completely innocent. But innocent or guilty, all prisoners should be treated with respect,” he lectured. “It’s for the Wizengamot to decide on guilt and the appropriate punishment.”

“Yes, Boss,” Hugh said, saluting.

“Alright, alright, lecture over,” Ron said. “Don’t say that I don’t take my mentoring duties seriously.”

“How far into your training are you?” Hencliffe asked the two.

“Last couple of months; finals in June, Sir,” Jemima said.

“What department are you hoping to go into?”

My God, Harry thought, a couple of minutes later, as Hencliffe continued to quiz Jemima as they walked along, completely ignoring Hugh,: was he really chatting her up? He glanced at Ron, who raised his eyebrows in agreement with Harry.

When they reached the interview room, Ron said, “We’ll observe from the other room,” gave Harry a thumbs up, and disappeared.

Harry felt surprisingly bereft. Perhaps he should have had Hermione with him: weren’t you supposed to have a lawyer with you if you were interviewed by the Police? But Ron hadn’t said anything. And Harry hadn’t done anything. He wasn’t a suspect, was he?

It became clear in the next half hour that he was being ‘eliminated from enquiries’. He had to say where he was on the day Ginny died, and various questions of that sort, and then they took a different tack and asked if he recognised any of the attackers or knew any reason why anyone might want to murder Ginny.

He was terribly glad that even though Ron wasn’t in the room, he knew he was on the other side of the glass.

He came out feeling battered and shocked. Which was stupid, because he’d been expecting to be questioned. Ron came out, but Harry could see that he really needed to be in work mode. Hugh and Jemima were right behind him. He steeled himself.

“You alright, mate?” Ron asked, then said, “’Course you’re not. Look – “

Harry put a quick hand out. “Bit of a shock,” he agreed, keeping his voice even. He glanced at his watch. “Damn, I’ve got a customer coming in at three. I’ll see you, yeah?”

“Sure thing,” Ron said, looking worried and relieved.

Harry could see that his two trainees weren’t quite sure what to say to him: suddenly he had morphed from Ron’s friend to the sort of person who was interviewed over a rickety table with a Recording Quill taking notes.

He got out of the building as fast as he could, exiting onto street level and taking breaths of fresh air. It was a long walk to his shop, but he needed it.

He had a cantankerous customer to deal with that afternoon, and a recalcitrant piece of timber that he ruined with a badly made cut.

Albus was out for the evening, and Harry ate bread and cheese and beer before falling into bed and then finding that he slept badly, waking from tortured images of blood and stockings and a horrid image of the subcutaneous fat peering at him from the peeled edges of the slash across Ginny’s breast. He tumbled out of bed, and found himself staring at his face in the bathroom mirror, his hands on the edge of the basin shaking. He went down and made himself tea, tiptoeing so that he didn’t wake Albus, only to realise when he glanced at the family clock that Albus wasn’t home.

He sat up in fear, wondering whether Albus too had been attacked, and an hour had passed before he realised that the clock would tell him if any of his children were in danger, and that he might well be anywhere – at his brother’s, at a friend’s, with a girl. He hauled himself back up to bed, and in the morning, when Albus zipped downstairs and snagged a piece of toast, he said nothing at all.

The next day, Molly fire-called and asked if he’d pop in after work. He’d gone along, curious.

Molly had bustled about in the kitchen, making him an evening meal. Albus would just have to fend for himself, Harry thought, and for a moment he contemplated not letting Albus know where he was, to give Albus a taste of his own medicine, before realising how childish that would be, so he borrowed their owl and sent a quick message.

Only Molly and Arthur were home, although the boys would be around later to help get Arthur to bed. Harry was glad of the quiet comfort of the Weasley home.

“I need to ask a favour, dear,” Molly said, as Harry tucked into a steaming stew and dumplings.

“What do you need?” Harry asked. “Of course I’ll help.”

“Would you mind awfully having the meetings at Grimmauld Place?”

“Of course not!” Harry said easily. “We only came here because we thought it would be easier for you both.” Harry thought. “Floo and side-along are difficult for Arthur, I know. Even portkey is tricky, but how about you come and stay the night before – ”

“I – thank you, but no, Harry.”

Molly was looking down, avoiding his gaze. Arthur was forking potato into his mouth with his good hand.

“Molly?”

Molly shook her head. “We – it’s too much for us, Harry. I don’t just mean having people here, what with our magic not being what it was, and all the work – just – I can’t go over and over Ginny’s death. Whatever is said in those meetings, it won’t bring Ginny back.”

“No,” Harry said quietly. “No, it won’t.”

“What you’re doing – I know it needs doing – the bigger picture – but I – we – can’t think about that right now,” Molly continued.

“Of course,” Harry said.

“Tell us,” Arthur said.

“Keep you informed? I will – ”

Arthur shook his head. “Over.”

“When it’s over? Okay. And if you change your mind, just let me know.”

“You’re a good dog.”

“Arthur!”

Arthur was shaking his head frantically, but Harry started laughing.

“I hope you mean good boy,” Harry said, and Arthur nodded enthusiastically.

“Thanks,” Harry grinned.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Molly said. “We’re going to have a discussion one of these days, you and I, but I’m not ready for it yet.”

“Alright,” Harry said, sobering at once.

He didn’t think he would ever be ready for it.

The day after Harry had had supper with the Weasley’s, Scorpius Malfoy had sent him an owl, once again thanking Harry for getting his father out of prison, and offering to help in anyway he could. Harry had invited him to come along the next Friday. Andy Boniface had arrived with him, and several others of the younger generation – Victoire, Rose, Molly and Fred had come along as well.

There was little to report, but everyone was asked to be aware of any individuals making regular anti-Muggleborn comments, or any suspicious approaches. Several had reported the ease with which such comments were being made, in pubs and clubs and even in the workplace.

As people made their way out, Hermione said, “You looked exhausted, Harry. Are you alright?”

It’s been a long week,” Harry answered, rubbing his hand over his face. He felt grey with exhaustion.

“I’d ask you to come over and stay with us but it’s my parents’ Golden Wedding Anniversary,” Hermione was apologetic.

“God, I’d forgotten all about that! Give them my love, won’t you? Damn, Ginny would have organised a card and – ”

“Don’t be silly, Harry,” Hermione said, giving him a hug. “Now, can you have a rest this weekend?”

“We can’t offer any particular activities, but if a bit of sunshine and good food would be of any help, you’d be very welcome to come back with us,” Kingsley offered, coming up behind them.

Harry turned round in surprise. “Oh, I’m fine, really – ”

“You don’t look it,” Snape said, bluntly.

“Harry! What a wonderful idea!” Hermione said warmly. “A weekend away will make you feel miles better!”

“I can’t just up sticks and leave Albus – ”

“Albus!” Hermione called imperiously, attracting her nephew, who was apparently arguing with his brother.

“Don’t, Mione!” Harry hissed. “I’m fine.”

“Whassup?” Albus asked, coming over, glancing round the group of adults.

“Nothing!” Harry snapped.

“Whoa! What’ve I done?” Albus held up his hands.

“Sorry – ” Harry began.

“Your father is under the impression that at seventeen he was old enough to vanquish Dark Lords, but at somewhere over that you couldn’t manage for a weekend alone,” Snape said. “Of course, you’d be welcome to come too, if you wished, but the company is elderly.”

“What?”

“I’m fine!” Harry insisted.

“You look like shit, Dad,” James said, joining them.

“Thanks for that, son,” Harry false-cuffed him.

James grinned. “What’s going on, then?”

“Profess – Master Snape and Mr Shacklebolt have invited your father to stay with them for the weekend,” Hermione explained. “For a bit of sun and relaxation. He’s busy finding excuses. Which would be you two.”

“Well, sod that, Dad,” James said. “Millie, the new girl at work, asked if I had any friends to make up a foursome to go and see the Cannons play the Pride of Portree, and I just asked Albus to come and he said he didn’t think he ought to. I said I thought you were knackered, not about to slit your wrists –”

“James!” Hermione was horrified, but Harry was grinning.

“Well, you’re not, are you, Dad?” James smirked back.

“Nowhere near. Just tired is all. And I don’t need you to tuck me up, Albus, thanks though.”

“Well, please, bugger off then,” James said, making them all laugh. “I haven’t seen a game in ages, and it doesn’t feel so wrong if you’re enjoying yourself too.”

“Are you sure it’s alright for us to go to a match, Dad?” Albus asked, looking a bit worried. “People will talk.”

“Your mother would have been delighted you were off watching a game,” Harry said firmly. “Don’t even think about what other people will say, or it’ll start ruining your life. Go with what feels right for you, and bugger the lot of them.”

“Right on, Harry,” Ron appeared, slinging his arms over James’ and Albus’ shoulders. “And you know I’ve got a season ticket for the Cannons, and omnioculars, so I’ll keep my beady eye on these lads, and check out the luscious young ladies they’re with.” He gave an evil grin at the boys, who groaned. Albus dug a friendly elbow in his ribs.

“You can’t go leering over young women,” Hermione said tartly.

“Oh can’t I?” Ron answered back, waggling his eyebrows. “Looking’s all I’m getting these days, you know, since she decided to experiment on magical theory. I’ve got to get my jollies somewhere.”

“Not from ogling our dates, you haven’t,” James said.

“Still in the doghouse?” Harry laughed, looking from one friend to the other.

“Quidditch is my only pleasure,” Ron said, wiping a woeful brow.

“Oh you!” Hermione swatted him.

Everyone was grinning.

“Are you sure?” Harry said, turning to Snape. His boys could do with some light relief, and a quidditch match would be brilliant. Harry wondered if Albus had spent the night before with the young lady he was going to take. And now it looked as if James was getting fixed up too. It was good, really. And the thought of lying in that hammock again, feeling the fluttering breeze and the hot sun, and not having to think about anything, was very tempting.

“I think it’s all decided,” Kingsley answered, but Harry kept looking to Snape.

“Potter, your company is tolerable. Especially when you are lounging in the sun and I am in my laboratory.”

Everyone laughed, but that was good enough for Harry.

“Thanks,” he said.

To Harry, it was a wonderful weekend. Astonishingly, he slept until past midday on the Saturday, and when he wandered into the garden, embarrassed and apologetic, Kingsley just said, “You’ve not missed a thing. Severus has been brewing all morning – a rush order came in from the local hospital. I’ve just finished this thriller – it’s not bad. Want to give it a try?”

Before he knew it, it was Sunday evening and time to go home.

Harry thanked them profoundly.

“Nonsense, you’re welcome anytime,” Kingsley gave him a hug.

“And if you’ve happened to wander into Muggle London and come across some Twinings’ Lapsang Souchong, you’d be doubly welcome,” Snape said, standing tall and restrained.

“Severus! You can’t ask guests to bring gifts!” Kingsley remonstrated, but Harry grinned.

That was a true invitation from Snape.

He returned home, sat up for a bit with Albus, talking over the game, asking about the girl Albus had taken.

“Oh, I only went with Flora,” he shrugged.

Flora had been a good friend from Hogwarts, a Muggleborn girl, and a frequent visitor to the house.

“No romance there, then?” Harry prompted.

“With Flora? She’s just a friend, Dad. Actually, she’s just broken up with her boyfriend. I sat up late talking with her one night in the week. He was a Muggle, so it was all a bit difficult.”

“Had she told him?” Harry asked.

So that was where Albus had been.

“Nah, it’s tricky isn’t it?” Albus scratched his head. “It must be such a shock to discover magic exists.”

Harry laughed.

Later that night, under the duvet in a room much more chilly than the one he had occupied for the previous two nights, Harry lay sleepless, but relaxed. He knew that, in the bare room next to his, his wife had died. He knew that some horrid threat was once again rising to torment the wizarding world.

But his sons had watched a quidditch match, and had friends and maybe lovers in their lives.

Hermione’s parents had survived being sent across the world all those years ago, with memories whipped away, to come home and share fifty years of happy marriage with their daughter.

Old acquaintances appeared to be becoming new friends.

For the first time in a long time, Harry felt hope.

As he was drifting off to sleep, a memory from that afternoon surfaced. He’d felt rather as he did now, warm and snug, though then he was warmed by the afternoon sun, a rug over him, having fallen asleep in the hammock again after lunch. He’d woken silently, absolutely still, unable to change the habit that had come in the months when he had travelled the country with Hermione, hunting Hocruxes, scared within the flimsy security of a canvas tent. He’d opened his eyes slowly, trying to judge his surroundings in the disorientation of half-sleep. The dappled shade and dry warmth soothed him to awareness of his location, and his eyes adjusted to the sight of Kingsley, still sitting at the outside table, reading a newspaper. Snape had come out of the backdoor, two espresso cups on a tray, and slid the whole onto the table. As he bent, Kingsley had turned his head, and captured Snape’s lips in a kiss. Harry had watched, motionless, as Snape’s fingers had curved around the back of Kingsley’s head, holding him in place, and Kingsley’s hand had moved to Snape’s hip.

The kiss seemed endless to Harry, lying there, and then it was over, and Snape had sat down, next to his lover, taken a bit of the paper, and Kingsley had reached across to take his cup from the tray and raised it to his lips.

That quiet moment of pleasure, of possession and gentle passion, set into the routines of everyday life, had struck Harry as hauntingly wonderful. Remembering it, he strove to ignore the counterpoint of loneliness, and hold onto the feeling of hope that there were good things to be had in the world.

Chapter Text

At the second meeting at Grimmauld Place the atmosphere was grim.

Teddy had floo-called Harry in a panic the day before, after a chap who’d been in his year at Hogwarts was admitted to St Mungo’s.

“His brain’s like rice pudding, Harry,” he explained. “It’s awful. But I thought of you – well, you know – the man we were worried about – because Daniel was brilliant in school, brilliant at everything, and I know he had private lessons in Legilimency and Occlumency with Professor Barnfield. I thought for sure he’d go into the Aurors, but he didn’t. He was so good at everything that he could do anything he wanted, and he went off to study in Paris. We weren’t close or anything, and I’d not heard from him since. And then he turns up here. They think he’ll end up on the Janus Thickey Ward. I can’t believe it. They called CAW in, and I did a bit of lurking, and I heard them talking with the mediwizards. They said it was like his brain was scrambled eggs, like someone had just whizzed it up – dozens of spells, and to finish it off, Cruciatus until he just went completely bonkers. Merlin! I feel ill thinking about it, Harry, and it’s not as if I don’t see some pretty nasty things on a regular basis. And it’s such a waste! But I thought it might be worth investigating, you know, to see if he might have been the one who might have done the spellwork on Mr Malfoy.”

“Well done, Teddy,” Harry said, when he could get a word in at last. “I’ll tell Ron – if he hasn’t been called in already. With the Cruciatus being such a signature for the Death Eaters, I’m sure his department should at the very least have been notified.”

“It’s getting worrying, isn’t it?” Teddy said quietly. Then he looked horrified and apologetic . “Not that it wasn’t with Ginny being murdered – ”

“I know what you mean, and I agree,” Harry said. “I just still can’t understand what killing Ginny has to do with anything.”

“I’ve talked to his family,” Ron said, looking round the table at the horrified faces of everyone gathered for the second meeting, after Teddy had kicked off with his information. “Sad story. The lad went to France, and started off having a great time, from the sound of it. Did really well with his studies. Got a job with the French Ministry. To be honest, his parents didn’t see that much of him, but I talked to his sister. She began to get worried about odd comments, and she met some of his friends once. She wasn’t too keen on them, but wrote it off as the language barrier that gave her a weird feeling about them. Anyway, the last few months, she said he seemed to be increasingly secretive. She went to visit him; she thought he seemed – erratic - and scared. He didn’t want her there, and they had a big argument, and she thinks now that he might have deliberately done that to make her go. She’s feeling pretty rotten about it all, anyway. Then, last week, he suddenly appears at her house, gets drunk, cries, tells her he loves her, loves his parents, and apparates out. She’s seriously worried that he’s suicidal. She floos over to France, no sign of him in his flat, calls for him at work and finds he hasn’t been there for weeks. She reports him missing to the French Auror department. Of course, turns out the poor sod was in England. We really need more intercontinental co-operation,” he said, looking to Kingsley, “at all levels, not just for particular missions.”

Kingsley nodded.

“Well, it’s sad, but he was one of them,” Victoire said.

They all looked at her.

“It’s not as if he was some complete innocent,” she shrugged.

“Sometimes you can get in over your depth,” Harry said, very conscious of Snape sitting down the table. “It can be hard to get out. It sounds like he might have wanted to.”

“I should think that there might be quite a few members who’re shitting themselves now,” James commented. “I mean, that was a warning, wasn’t it? They could have killed him cleanly, but they didn’t. He had to suffer, and he’s left there rotting and still alive so that nobody will forget.”

“Some people will be too terrified to get out, but some might realise that this really isn’t a group they want to be involved with,” Kingsley said, “which might mean that there are people that are willing to talk. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

Harry looked to Neville, who was sitting there very quietly. Neville had spent years researching plants and drug treatments that might help his parents. They were still on the Janus Thickey Ward, and they did sometimes speak and recognise him, but the effects were never long-lasting.

“Neville,” Harry asked carefully. “None of the treatments you’ve devised might help in questioning him? Just enough to help find out who’s done this to him?”

“Possibly,” Neville said cautiously, “but I’d have to be sure his mediwizards were happy for me to try. I’m not sure if it would be dangerous so soon after the damage.”

“It should be better,” Teddy sat forward, interested. “The brain is still reacting. If you can do something before the healing sort of sets it, you might be able to help him.”

“I’d be pleased to look at what you’re using and see if there are any further modifications I could help with,” Snape said quietly. “Sometimes even the base by which a draught is delivered can make a difference.”

Neville nodded. “The sooner the better, then, if you have time. Tomorrow morning? It’s the best time to harvest some of the leaves.”

Harry marvelled at how Neville had changed. It had started the year of the DA, of the Department of Mysteries, but he’d been away that last year, hunting Horcruxes, when Neville had really turned into a man and a strong wizard. It was hard to remember him now as the boy he had been, but Snape hadn’t known him for all these intervening years. Had Snape seen the transformation, whilst he was Headmaster?

Audrey, Percy’s wife had floo-ed Harry earlier in the day, asking if she could bring some provisions over, as it would be much easier for people not to be hungry, or trying to fit in food before or after the meeting. Harry was pretty much happy with anything people chose to do, but had been quite surprised when Audrey had appeared with the most enormous cauldron of curry and another of rice. Harry had quickly got Mitty to take charge of it. All the while they were talking, the smell was wafting over them. Harry found it distracting and delicious at the same time.

Most people stayed to have some, and before Harry knew it, there was a rota to provide a meal every week. Harry wasn’t surprised to find that when everyone had gone, there was plenty left to feed him and Albus for the next couple of days.

It was strange how people expected men not to be good cooks, even though most famous chefs were men. Harry had learnt to cook at the Dursleys, and had always cooked for the family. Ginny’s forte had been what Harry called fiddly food – the sort of time-consuming meals that Ginny cooked if they had people over to dinner. Harry really enjoyed them, but he also enjoyed plain meat and veg, casseroles and roasts and thrown-together stir fries. He certainly wasn’t too proud to accept someone else’s offerings.

Harry wondered if anyone was treating Draco with similar kindness. Draco had left as soon as the meeting part was over for the first two weeks, and Harry determined to ask him to stay the next week. The man looked as if he had aged twenty years, his receding hairline no longer distinguished but somehow weary. There only seemed a spark of life when he looked at his son across the table. His grief was something he had to bear alone. Harry felt guilty that people felt sorry for him rather than Malfoy, and yet, it wasn’t as if Ginny wasn’t important to him too. He loved her. He had loved her. Maybe that love had changed, maybe that love hadn’t ever been the fierce passion that she had shared with Malfoy, but it still counted for something.

But so did Malfoy’s.

Harry found himself having odd thoughts about love over the week. How strange it was, how very real it was even when the object of it no longer existed. He thought about Molly and Arthur, Ron and Hermione, Snape and Kingsley.

Try as he might, he found it very hard to think of Snape as Severus, even though he'd managed to say it a time or two. He was not a man who exuded warmth, like Kingsley did. His name was tight and sharp, and suited him. Snape. Besides, ‘Severus’ made him think of his son.

“Hey, Harry!” George said, spotting his silent partner entering the shop. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“No, I came on the off-chance. Got a few minutes?”

“Sure, come on through,” George lifted the counter. “Pete! The shop’s all yours mate, I’m just going for a cuppa.”

“Sure thing, boss,” the young salesman said, with a mock salute to his baseball cap as he strolled over to take up a position near the till.

Harry and George headed up the stairs.

Five minutes later, Harry was settled at the small table in the little kitchen above the shop. Although George no longer lived there, he had never rented it to anyone else, and he entertained members of the family in it probably a great deal more than he did in the massive pile that he and Angelina had bought in the Cotswolds. For all his wealth, George had no pretensions at all, and handed Harry a steaming cup of tea in a chipped mug that Harry was sure he had been using there since the twins first opened Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

After Fred’s death, George had struggled to find the enthusiasm for jokes and tricks. He’d kept working in the shop though, selling the old ideas, as if immersing himself in it helped him find a link to Fred.

They said time healed all ills: Harry doubted it, but he did know it eventually got easier. George had started dabbling, inventing things again, bit by bit, firstly to amuse Teddy, and then Bill’s children, all the while selling the ideas that worked in the shop. Then Angelina had come back into his life, and though it was Fred who’d taken her to the ball all those years ago, they fit together perfectly. Harry had often wondered if it rankled at all that Angelina had chosen Fred, but in fairness, Fred had been the one doing the asking. Maybe George liked that extra link to his brother, that Fred too had liked Angelina. Harry didn’t know. It was good enough that George was happy. And with that happiness, and fathering Fred and Roxanne, had come a huge burst of creativity that didn’t seem to end. Roxanne in particular seemed to be a chip off the old block, and Harry was pretty sure she was keeping Hogwarts as lively as her father and his twin had. She already talked of entering the business as soon as she finished school.

Thinking of his children, Harry wondered if he was being unfair coming to George.

“What is it, Harry? You’re looking serious.”

Harry scratched his head. “Well, I wanted to ask you if you were willing to do something, but – I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Great way to go, mate. You know I won’t rest until you’ve told me now,” George teased.

Harry quirked a small smile. It was funny how things changed over the years. The age gap that had existed at school had been minimalised by the passing of the years, and what with their business interactions, George had become a good friend as well as his brother-in-law.

“I was worried about putting you into danger.”

George sat back and stretched out his long legs. “Looks like we’re all going to be in that,” he said. “Come on, spill. I’m old enough to make my own judgement calls.”

“You’re right. Well, it’s sort of a business opportunity, although it isn’t really. Well, it might make money – well, it will, but –”

“Bloody hell, Harry, cut to the chase!”

“Yeah, sorry, that was a mess,” Harry admitted. “Right, it’s this.” He looked round, as if sensing.

“Tons of wards. What’re you checking for?” George asked.

“Silencing spells. I know your staff are good, but – ”

“Permanent one-way ward on this room,” George said. “I can hear if they call up, no noise gets down.”

“Good. Okay. The thing is, I – we – ” Harry whirled his finger in an encompassing gesture – “the sort-out-the-bastards-brigade, needs a contact for a spy. I’m thinking that could be you.”

“We-ll, Mr Potter, you are a bundle of surprises,” George said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “You – we – have a spy?”

“Only just,” Harry said honestly. “I don’t suppose he’s found out anything yet. But we’ve tasked him to infiltrate whatever this bloody organisation is. He needs a contact, that he can justifiably meet up with. Without it looking dodgy. I know it sounds like I’m not trusting the others, and that’s not the case. But when Snape was spying, the whole Order knew who he was. It’s astonishing that his cover wasn’t blown at least twice a week. Voldemort was a brilliant Legilimens: he could have captured any of us and got the secret out in minutes. I don’t know why he didn’t. I think he was too arrogant to really believe that any of his Death Eaters would dare to do it.”

“Hmmm, so it’s not Snape. And it sounds like it’s someone you care about – ”

Harry couldn’t help the giant snort that erupted.

“You don’t care about him? Curiouser and curiouser,” George twinkled. “And who is this ‘we’ you’re talking about? Shacklebolt? Snape? Ron and Mione?”

“Shacklebolt and Snape.”

“Hold on, even Ron doesn’t know about this?”

“If Ron knew, it would compromise his position in the Ministry,” Harry shook his head. “He’s going to kill me for keeping him in the dark, but – and if – if he treats the spy any differently, that could be bad all round too.”

George looked at him shrewdly. “So, he knows the spy. Which means he’s either a friend or,” George was clearly thinking. “It’ll compromise Ron. Would you treat a spy better or worse? Better, so someone -”

Harry saw the moment he made the jump to the truth.

“Your spy is one of Ron’s ex-Death Eaters?” George leapt up. “Fucking hell, Harry, you’re not thinking about Lucius effing Malfoy? You can’t trust that man! Merlin’s saggy bollocks, he practically arranged Ginny’s death in her first year! Have you gone out of your bloody mind?”

“What I’m about to tell you can go no further than this room,” Harry warned.

“I can’t think of anything that you can tell me that would make me trust that slimy snake,” George snapped.

“He offered me his life. In exchange for Draco’s. Like what happened during the trials after the war.”

“He did?”

“I accepted.”

“You –you accepted?”

Yes. I own him. His life, and all his wealth.”

George was speechless.

“You accepted?” he said again. His eyes sharpened. “Before or after you knew the truth? That Draco hadn’t done it?”

“After.”

“Bloody hell, Harry, when did you get so ruthless?” George didn’t mince his words.

“I don’t know. Perhaps when someone killed my wife?” Harry said harshly.

George held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. But – ” George looked away.

“What?” Harry said. “We’re talking pretty straight here, don’t hold back. It’s not your style.”

“Alright, I won’t,” George said forcefully. He took a breath. “Harry – ” His tone changed, the aggression falling from it. “You knew she was having an affair with Draco. Wanted to leave you.”

“Do you think that means I feel less gutted by her death?” Harry said, astonished. “George, I might not have been in love with her, but I still cared for her! We’d been married for over twenty years, for god’s sake. We wouldn’t have agreed to keep things going the way we did for the kids if we hadn’t got on well. I wasn’t the right husband for her, but we were family. We talked about the kids, about life. We would have remained friends, I’m sure. I miss her.”

“But – come on, Harry, you must have been angry with her?” George said curiously.

“No. Yes. I suppose I was pissed it was Malfoy to begin with, but – she was really happy. That made life much easier, to be honest. I didn’t have to feel guilty because I couldn’t be what she wanted. And it made her – sort of joyful, I suppose. And with Malfoy, she could show it.”

“What does that mean?” George questioned.

Harry sighed. Should he tell George? “Look, I don’t want you to feel I’m slanging her off.”

“But?”

“Malfoy wasn’t the first,” Harry said quietly. He could see George’s eyes widen in shock.

“When things got serious with him, it was a relief, really. Not having to worry about anything getting out. I mean, if it did get out, it was fine, because she was planning to marry him. I didn’t want people saying bad things about her. I didn’t want the children hurt.”

“Merlin’s knickers, my sister was a bitch!”

“No!” Harry said quickly. “She was a good Mum, a good daughter, a brilliant quidditch player – ”

“But not a good wife,” George said.

“I think she would have been a good wife for Malfoy,” Harry said. “Look, it didn’t work out, but I don’t regret it, George. We had three great kids, and we were happy for a long time. Not all relationships are cut out to last forever.”

“Well, I don’t know what to think. You sound as if Ginny walked all over you, and yet you’re being a shit to Malfoy,” he said bluntly.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “A minute ago you were swearing about him, now you’re feeling sympathetic?”

“But you knew Draco was innocent.”

“Yeah, but I told Lucius he was,” Harry took the wind out of George’s sails yet again.

“You’ve got me. I don’t understand this at all.”

“It wouldn’t have been fair to let him think Draco had done it.”

“But why did he offer, then?”

“He’d already made the offer. I had it under consideration. I told him that Draco was innocent. But, as you know, Draco still intended to plead guilty.”

“But you intended to show the evidence and free Draco.”

“I told Lucius that I had the evidence, but that to show it would be at great cost to my family. Which it was, frankly. I’d rather have not had to put the kids through that, or Molly and Arthur.”

“So Malfoy – blimey.”

“It’s all about honour in that family,” Harry said. “Twisted as it all is.”

“So what happens now? How did this spying come about?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to take his life, George! Come on!”

“You wanted his money?” George couldn’t believe it.

“Don’t be daft. I’m stinking rich already, what with the inheritances and all the dosh Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes bring in.”

“You make a bob or two yourself,” George added. “I thought about buying one of your pieces and nearly died at the cost.”

“Yeah, but you’re famous for being tight,” Harry grinned.

“True,” George admitted cheerfully. “So – why Malfoy?”

“I don’t intend to harm him, but I thought he could be useful. Frankly, I thought he might like the chance of getting whoever set up his son. And there’s a nice bit of – balance – in using his life offer to find Gin’s murderers after what he did to her at school. I think she’d be pretty pleased about it,” Harry said, his eyebrow quirking.

George gave a slow smile. “She’d be laughing in her grave, if she had one,” George agreed. “Alright, so where do I fit in?”

Lucius Malfoy sat, sipping a glass of excellent burgundy, in the salon on the first floor of his Parisian town house. Opposite him, looking more at ease than he might have expected on his Louis XVI chairs, sat Harry Potter, George Weasley, and Minister Shacklebolt. Ex-Minister, of course. Nevertheless, it was some years since he had played host to such a group of eminent guests: a politician of Shacklebolt’s calibre, a millionaire businessman, and the ever-intriguing Harry Potter.

He had felt curiosity rather than irritation when he’d received Potter’s blunt missive, which stated simply,

Malfoy,

I have need of La Petite Maison. Meet us there at 6.30pm, this evening. Please confirm if this is convenient by return owl.

P

He would have considered it rude, except that Potter owned the house. Owned him. There were no fancy words, just practicalities. There was the option for refusal. It could have been a lot worse.

He had wondered who ‘us’ was.

He would never have guessed George Weasley and Shacklebolt in a million years.

He had led his guests from the floo to the impressive salon. The glow of the evening sun flooded in through long windows, casting light beams across the wizard–made rugs, once precious flying carpets from the Mogul Empire. Their spells had long since faded as much as the wools and silks from which they were woven, but even as a child he had loved them, sitting on them for many happy hours when he was forced to remain quietly beside his grandmother’s chair, thousands of miles away in his imagination on flying carpet adventures in the exotic lands which he longed to experience.

He was pleased that his guests had paused, momentarily, on the threshold. It was not a room that could be ignored.

He had earlier had the house elf open a bottle of vintage burgundy to let it breathe, and was pleased to see his guests enjoying the wine. Potter seemed to be enjoying the little plate of amuse-bouche as well.

He waited patiently for his guests to come to the point.

“I don’t know if you’re aware,” Potter said, putting down the glass, “but I’m a shareholder in Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.”

Well, that was a surprise. Potter must be worth millions. Even without his money, Lucius thought.

Which meant that Potter hadn’t needed his money.

“I was not aware,” he said cautiously. “Congratulations.”

Potter laughed.

“We’d like to rent this house. At least, the ground floor of it,” Potter said calmly.

“I see.” He didn’t. It was Potter’s bloody house! Didn’t he realise that?

“I saw the house in the list of properties that you forwarded to me,” Potter said, pulling that carpet out from under Lucius’ feet, “and thought it would be just the thing.”

“Just the thing? Just the thing for what, might I ask?”

“Just the place for opening a new branch of WWW,” Potter said.

“Are you completely barking?” Lucius snapped, before realising that he had not a leg to stand on. But damn-it-all-to-hell! La Petite Maison had been in the family for generations. That many of the properties around had converted into shops or restaurants was neither here not there. “I beg your pardon,” he said, biting his tongue.

“No, that’s alright,” Harry said cheerfully. “That’s just the sort of attitude we need, actually.”

“Indeed?” Lucius practically growled. He looked at George with narrowed eyes. The ginger-haired wizard was casually dressed, but his robes were well cut and the deep grey was well chosen with that hair. His boots looked to be finest dragon-skin. Shacklebolt was sitting back, smart and businesslike, looking utterly at ease. “I take it you have shared – intimate information – about my – situation – with your colleagues?”

“Yes.”

There was no prevarication, which took Malfoy by surprise. He didn’t know why he’d expected Potter to be more discreet.

“You needn’t worry that I’ve spread it far and wide,” Potter said, as if reading his mind. “Kingsley actually suggested that you might be a good spy, so you owe him your life, in a way. Only one other person, besides us here,” he gestured around the room, “is aware of your situation, both in terms of the fact that I hold your life and your task. It would have been unfair on you should no-one else be aware of the latter, in case you were endangered and I wasn’t in a position to help. Oh, Kingsley has something for you.”

Kingsley reached into his robe pocket, took out a small coin, and handed it to Malfoy.

“Keep it on you. It’s an emergency portkey, in case you’re in real danger. It will take you to my office.”

Lucius was stunned. Potter’s matter of fact attitude – as if Lucius should have every right to help, if he were in danger – took his breath away. He’d thought he was out on his own. Now, here they were, saying that not only was he not alone, but he had the might of Kingsley Shacklebolt behind him. He did not know what the man was currently doing, but it was obvious from his presence that his old position, as Head Auror, was not entirely behind him. He was here, in France, for a start, which obviously spoke of a European role.

He’d be doing some investigating on his - allies, for want of a better word.

He turned the coin over in his hand, and slipped it into his pocket.

Potter was talking again, and he nearly missed the import of his first words.

“This is what I have in mind. George has shops in America, Australia, Spain – well, I’m not going to list them all – but surprisingly, given that his family too have connections here, not in Paris. And it occurred to me that this would be perfect.”

“I see.”

“You don’t, but you will,” Potter said. “This is what happens. George makes you an offer to buy the house. You refuse. It gets in the press, maybe just a little. Over here, rather than in England. George wants it. The location is actually perfect, and everyone knows how well chosen every location of a WWW shop is. You’ve recently started investing in various businesses: you’re making yourself a new place in the world, as we know. You offer George a deal: the use of the ground floor, for a percentage of profits. George agrees.”

“That’s all very well, but – ”

“You therefore have every reason to visit George as and when you need, which is the objective of this little exercise, as George is to be your contact.”

“And it raises your profile,” Weasley said, “which I believe you’ll need to do if you’ve a hope in hell of managing to achieve anything.”

“And what percentage of the profits am I to expect? It will be paid into your accounts, I take it,” he said to Potter. “You’ll be paying with one hand and gaining it back with the other.”

“You know the deal on the accounts. It’s up to you to negotiate with George on the percentage.”

Potter really did believe in the carrot and stick method. The profits could be astronomical. But he was also right, it would raise his profile. He would be conducting a deal with one of the most profitable and well loved businesses in the Wizarding World. The clientele were all of a younger generation, two generations, both parents and children, which would, again, raise his profile across a wider market. It would help him to establish himself quickly to an entirely different audience to the ones he was already working on. Somehow he expected Potter to be an impulsive person, and yet once again everything showed that he could play a long game.

Well, so could he.

“Very well.”

Potter nodded. He picked up his glass and sipped his wine. “I like this,” he said.

“It’s an excellent vintage. You own two dozen bottles, or so.”

There was a moment’s silence.

Shacklebolt took another of the little savoury nothings and popped it into his mouth.

Potter carefully put the cut glass down on the delicate table beside his chair, and sat forward. He made the smallest gesture with his hand.

“I’ve cast a privacy ward, though, frankly, you don’t deserve the consideration. You chose to offer your life, and you chose to accept this alternative. I have never forced anything upon you. So you can cut the antagonism and snipey little comments right now, alright? If I want something, I’ll ask for it.” He glanced up. “Rather like I did with this property. Just to be absolutely clear, I don’t need anything from you apart from your assistance in finding my wife’s killer, and in helping us to find and shut down whatever organisation did it and framed your son. I’m not going to run off with your Rembrandts or your antiques or your wine cellar. You may continue to live exactly as you have done – more extravagantly, frankly, than you’ve done recently. I know it’s not going to be easy, but this needs doing. Now, I expect my friends will have the courtesy to pretend that you have not just been obnoxiously rude. We came here to make things easier for you. And to that end,” he released the silencing spell, “We have some information that might be of use as a starting point.”

Lucius once again revised his opinion of the wizard in front of him, and listened intently as Shacklebolt told him about Daniel Poulter.

Chapter Text

Forty five minutes later, Harry, George and Kingsley stood on top of the Eiffel Tower. Harry had mentioned before setting off for Paris that he’d never visited it, and the two older men had humoured him, persuading him to go up in the Muggle lifts. Night had fallen, and the cityscape was lit up all around. Harry leant on the rail, the wind blowing in his hair.

“It’s fantastic!” he enthused, grinning at the other two. “It’s like being on a broom, without the flying bit.”

“What is there to a broom, apart from the flying bit, you daft-head?” George cuffed him amicably.

“Height?” Harry answered back. “The wind? The view?”

“When did you last fly?” Shacklebolt asked.

“Not sure,” Harry shrugged. “We had a knock up quidditch match at the Burrow last summer,” he remembered.

“What’s stopping you, if you love it so much?”

“Old age?” Harry quipped.

“Thanks,” Kingsley said.

“I didn’t mean – ”

Kingsley chuckled. “You better not have. Well, I don’t know about you two, but I’m absolutely starving. Those little nibbles at Malfoy’s have just made me hungrier.”

“They were great, weren’t they?” Harry said.

“Fiddly little nonsenses,” George sniped. “How’s that suppose to fill you up?

“It’s supposed to whet your appetite, not sate it,” Kingsley grinned. “And as I missed lunch, I could eat a horse.”

“You’re in the right place, then,” George said. “Plenty of horse on the menu over here, they say.”

“There’s a nice little restaurant on Rue St. Etienne,” Kingsley suggested. “No horse, as far as I know. Do you fancy it?”

Harry was about to say no when he thought that, if Lily was going to come and live in Paris, it might be a good idea if he knew a good restaurant. Weren’t students supposed to like being taken out to meals by their parents? Albus was out too, tonight, he remembered. “I’m in,” he agreed.

“Na, Angelina’s parents are coming over tonight, I’d better show my face,” George said easily.

“You going to apparate from up here?” Harry asked.

“Might as well,” George said

“Thanks, then, George. I know he’s a pain in the arse, but we can only hope he’ll be useful. I know you won’t stand for any bullshit from him, anyway.”

“If you have any doubts, contact me,” Kingsley said seriously.

“Fair enough,” George said. “Enjoy your frogs’ legs,” he grinned, and was gone with a pop!

Fifteen minutes later Harry and Kingsley were sitting in the restaurant, having a beer as they looked through the menu. Harry had waved a translation spell over his own, one of the useful skills Hermione had taught him years back.

“What’s good?” he asked, after a moment.

The maitre d’ had greeted Kingsley effusively by name, and kissed him on both cheeks, so Harry assumed he was a frequent diner.

“The filet d’agneau is really good here – lamb is a house speciality. But the steak’s great, too. Of course, in France, it’s the sauces that are to die for – what?”

“Just relieved,” Harry grinned. “The first item on the menu with this translation spell came up as ‘cow’s head with cabbage and rat lenses’. I thought I’d stumbled into Snape’s store cupboard.”

Kingsley was laughing hard, reaching across the table to turn Harry’s menu round and look at the translations that were hovering next to the text.

“Oh, my word! And look at this one! ‘Chicken neck stuffed with organs'– oh oh, that’s what it actually is – no mistake.”

“Think I’ll give that one a miss,” Harry hadn’t laughed so much in ages. “’Strawberries in an emulsion –‘” he choked, reading on.

“Someone definitely needs to work on that spell,” Kingsley grinned, sitting back. “Why do you call him Snape? His name’s Severus.”

“I – I don’t feel I ought,” Harry said. “It feels presumptuous.”

“You call me Kingsley.”

“You’re not Snape. There I go again. You’re – more relaxed, I suppose.”

Kingsley looked at him inquisitively.

“Don’t you think Severus is more relaxed nowadays?”

“Oh yes,” Harry said quickly, not wanting to cause offence. “He’s a different man than when I knew him back then. But,” he shrugged, “he was my teacher for six years.”

“So was Minerva,” Kingsley commented.

“Well, I still have trouble not calling her Professor McGonagall too, even though she’s retired,” Harry said. “I don’t think he would want me to,” he added. “I asked him to call me Harry, but I think sometimes I’m still Potter-the-Pain to him.”

“Maybe,” Kingsley said. The waiter came over. “Have you decided?” Kingsley asked Harry. “I’m going to go for the lamb, it’s too good to miss. I wasn’t going to have a starter, but why not? The langoustines in garlic butter are fantastic. “

“I’ll have the lamb, but I’ll have the goat’s cheese tart for starter. I had goat’s cheese over here when we came over when Gin played for England. Never found anything quite like it back home. Will you order for me? My accent’s enough to make the kids die of hysterics.”

“Fancy a bottle of red? The house wine here is reliable, even if it isn’t quite up to Malfoy’s standards,” Kingsley quirked a wicked eye at Harry.

“He’s such a git,” Harry agreed. “House wine’s fine for me. I wouldn’t have a clue how to choose, anyway.” He’d glanced at the wine menu, which ran to more than a dozen pages.

The waiter had gone, some olives, bread and some little fancy things reminiscent of those they’d eaten at Malfoy's had been deposited on the table with a flourish, and the wine had been poured.

“He doesn’t think of you as a pain,” Kingsley said. “It’s just - you challenge him.”

“Always have,” Harry sighed. “What have I done this time?”

“No, it’s good,” Kingsley said. “However he comes across, he likes a bit of intellectual challenge.”

Harry snorted. “There’s no way Snape would find me intellectually challenging! Come off it, Kingsley!”

Kingsley shrugged. “You make him think about things from a different perspective. For example, what you said about Albus. About setting you up to die. It’s made him consider his own role in going along with that. I think he feels he failed you.”

“Bugger that!” Harry retorted. “He was the only one saving me, for most of the time. And Dumbledore used him – he got him to keep saving me and then dumped it on him that it was just so I could die at the right time. He was a right old bastard. Where did that leave Snape? It was too late in the game to make any other decision.”

“I think he’s been going over where he could have done things differently.”

“Bloody hell! It’s all over,” Harry said. “Dumbledore asked far too much of Snape as it was. He was juggling a dozen balls in the air, and he couldn’t have done anything else without dropping the lot. Something would have gone wrong for someone else. We placed our trust in Dumbledore: too much, frankly. But he just swept us all along, and we were all happy to let him lead us.”

“You don’t hold a grudge?”

“Against Dumbledore?”

“Severus.”

“Don’t be daft; why would I? I admit, he was a horrible, horrible teacher, and he hated my guts, but he was doing bloody amazing things with no recognition and no protection. I don’t know how he did it, frankly, year after year. I feel anxious asking Malfoy to do it. James Bond might be a hero in the Muggle world, but it sounds a miserable and lonely life to me. Oh!” he added, thinking. “Were you and Snape together then? Did he have you?”

Kingsley shook his head. “No. Obviously, I knew him, through the Order. Didn’t like him much either at first,” he grinned. His face straightened. “Didn’t trust him, of course. That’s changed.”

Harry nodded. “Yes.”

The waiter slipped their starters in front of them, and left with a little bow.

“Anyway, things are different now, aren't they? You’ve both been so kind to me.”

“Nonsense,” Kingsley said, dismissing the thanks.

Harry just smiled. “You’ve got an interesting privacy ward there,” he commented, changing the subject. “How come the waiter didn’t look all confused?”

“It just translates whatever we’re saying into idle chatter, should anyone overhear it,” Kingsley explained, picking up one of the langoustines with obvious pleasure.

“The magic must be very complicated,” Harry said, with interest.

They got into a long conversation on magical theory.

Kingsley had gone off to the loo, after the main course, and while they were deciding if they could manage a desert and whether to have another bottle of wine. Harry sat back in his chair. What had started as an evening that he’d rather not have had had turned into a very pleasant night out. He looked around the restaurant. He liked the warm-toned lighting, the friendly but discreet service, the quiet liveliness of the place. He smiled genially, observing a couple holding hands across their white tablecloth, then did a double-take as he realised that they were both men.

He looked around at his fellow diners more carefully. There were several tables where groups sat, chatting animatedly, but most were occupied by couples. And most of them were of the same sex.

Harry saw Kingsley returning in one of the many mirrors that covered the walls. He watched several heads turn, around the room, watching him. Kingsley was wearing muggle clothes, as he was himself, having done a quick transfiguration before they ascended the Eiffel Tower. The low slung jeans and white open-necked shirt suited Kingsley, the shirt only hinting at the muscles underneath, whereas the faded denim fairly strained against bulging thigh muscles. Harry noted at least two people staring at his arse as well, before Kingsley slid back into his seat.

“Kingsley,” Harry leant across the table conspiratorially. “Did you bring me to a gay restaurant?”

“What?” Kingsley glanced round, and a slow smile formed. “There’s no sign on the door: it’s open to anyone. But yeah, I suppose quite a lot of gay people come here.”

Harry started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Part of the reason I came, was because I thought it would be handy to know a good place to bring Lily. She’s thinking of studying in Paris.” He continued to giggle.

“And I thought it was for my scintillating company,” Kingsley quirked. “More wine, or beer?” he asked, summoning a waiter.

“Coffee, I think. I could drink a glass more, but not a whole bottle, and I’m not mad on the beer, really. It’s not a patch on bitter, is it?”

“How about a cognac with the coffee, then?”

“Sounds good,” Harry agreed, though he wasn’t that keen on brandy. So far, though, everything that Kingsley had recommended had been delicious.

When the waiter had gone, Kinglsey sat forward, elbows on the table. They both started to speak at the same time, Kingsley asking, “Would your daughter feel uncomfortable if you brought her here?”

And Harry saying, “I didn’t mean to be rude about your company.”

They both halted and grinned. “No worries,” Kingsley said.

Harry looked around again. “No, I think she’d be very happy to come here, the food’s great and the atmosphere is really relaxed. It was just funny that the only place I’ll know in Paris is a gay bistro. She’ll be asking me if I’ve started batting for the other team,” he grinned.

“There’s quite a few men in here wishing you were,” Kingsley teased.

“What? No-one’s even noticed me. Though your arse caused a lot of interest just now.”

“Really? Which tables?”

Harry laughed. Kingsley was so comfortable with himself that it was very relaxing to be in his company.

“Table at eleven o’ clock,” and both chaps on the one at two.”

Kingsley looked into the mirrors, reversing the directions.

Harry was amused, but practically spat his water over the table when Kingsley said, “The chap at eleven has been watching you all evening. He’s either eyeing me up as opposition, or wondering if we’d be up for a threesome.”

“Bastard,” Harry said, after he’d finished spluttering into his napkin.

To add to his embarrassment, the waiter had arrived with the drinks and had offered to slap him on the back, before proffering a card to Kingsley, after which ensued a brief conversation. The waiter had shrugged, given Harry a gentle smile, and headed off wending his way expertly through the tables.

“What was that all about?” Harry asked.

“Do you really want to know?” A smile played over Kingsley’s lips.

“Go on, I can see I’m not going to like it,” Harry said.

“On the contrary, it was a compliment.”

“Hmmm?”

Kingsley passed over the card. “The guy at eleven o’clock asked us whether we’d like to join him for a drink,” he grinned.

“No!” Harry couldn’t stop himself from glancing across the restaurant , where the guy raised his glass at him.

“Oh my god!”

“Told you,” Kingsley said.

“But – but he’s quite good looking!” Harry burst out.

Kingsley laughed aloud. “Why shouldn’t he be?”

“Kingsley, you’re an attractive man, but why would he want anything to do with me? I’m a middle-aged, too short, nondescript – nothing.”

Kingsley took a sip of his coffee, inhaling the intense aroma. He looked at Harry seriously over the rim. “You’re a wizard. You’re certainly not middle-aged in wizard terms – good heavens, even Severus and I aren’t, and we’ve got twenty years or more on you. Wizards age much slower, once they’re adults. You probably look thirty to him, max. You’ve got a good body, an attractive face, and he can’t see exactly how much of a short-arse you are because you’re sitting down. What’s not to like?”

Harry laughed, feeling teased and flattered.

“What’s with the false modesty? You must have had lots of women after you?”

“No,” Harry shook his head.

“I find that very hard to believe. I’m sure I remember, before I left London, a flock of women around you at one of the Ministry balls.”

“Yeah, but apart from the fact that was over twenty years ago, they didn’t find me attractive,” Harry said. “It was just a bit of post-Voldemort hero worship, wanting to get their pictures in the paper with me, that sort of thing. Some knew I had money too: always a big attraction.”

Kingsley sat back, his coffee finished, and twirled the stem of the cognac glass. “Well, I expect you’ll have another flock hovering, once they think you’ve had enough time to recover. You’ll be back on the marriage market.”

Harry’s face must have reflected his shock.

“God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so unfeeling,” Kingsley said, reaching across the table and putting his hand over Harry’s.

Kingsley’s hand felt large, and warm. Protective. Harry wanted to turn his own over and grasp those fingers, draw strength from them. It would be entirely inappropriate, especially here. He felt those ridiculous tears sprouting again. Damn! Why did they suddenly hit out of the blue?

He detached his hand carefully and picked up the brandy glass, trying to blink them away as he took a sip. He grimaced, although the fire of the drink gave him an excuse for the shine in his eyes. He pushed the glass across the table to Kingsley.

“Not my cup of tea,” he said. “D’you want it? I – I’m sorry to be such a weed,” he apologised. “I feel a right twit. I suddenly just - the tears – and – ” He fought them off, picking up his cup instead and drinking the cooling coffee.

“Harry, your wife has just died. You’re entitled. Don’t feel you have to be all macho for me.”

Harry nodded, his throat tight. “I’ve ruined the evening.”

“I’ve had a great time,” Kingsley said, “and I think, until a minute or two back, so had you. Let’s chalk that up as a few good hours, and not worry about the rest, alright?”

“You’re very easy company,” Harry said, having blown his nose.

“Glad to hear it. Years of practice with Severus will do that to a man.”

Harry snorted. “He’s much more relaxed company himself than I expected,” he confided.

“Good. We enjoy your company too.” He drank down the cognac. “All done?”

Harry nodded. Kingsley signalled to the waiter again, indicating it was time for the bill, and five minutes later, they were outside, walking along to a nearby alley to apparate from.

“I’ll see you Friday,” Kingsley said, surprised Harry with a quick hug, and was gone.

Kingsley wandered through into the bedroom, where Severus was sitting in bed, bare-chested, reading.

“What happened? I thought you’d be in the lab all night.”

“Four failures,” Severus said, looking over his reading glasses at his lover.

“Ouch.”

“I pretty much expected it,” Severus dismissed the wasted evening, his eyes on the skin revealed as Kingsley undid the buttons of his shirt. “Did you go to Le Lion d’Or with Harry and George?”

“Just Harry. We were propositioned.”

“Were you indeed? I’m not surprised in those jeans. Your thighs look like they could crack a man in half.”

Kingsley looked down at himself. “They’re good, aren’t they?” He slid his hands over his thighs, brushing one up over his crotch. He heard Severus’ intake of breath, smiled, and popped the button out of the hole.

“You’re a tease, Kingsley Shacklebolt,” Severus said, putting his book onto the bedside table without taking his eyes off the slow strip in front of him.

“No teasing, just lots of promise,” Shacklebolt stretched his chest wide as he peeled off the shirt.

Severus pushed down the sheets, and took hold of the swelling flesh that was so happily responding to the sight in front of him.

“Mmm, I want that,” KIngsley said, as he stalked towards the bed.

“I want to see you with your flies open,” Severus responded, “and your cock jutting out.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Kingsley slowly slid the zipper down.

“Definitely,” Severus agreed, admiring the heavy penis that stood to attention in the V-shaped gap. “That’s a good look on you.” He licked his lips.

Kingsley’s cock jumped in response, and he groaned. He climbed onto the bed, still wearing the jeans.

Severus reached out a hand, tugging Kingsley towards him with a firm grip. “So you haven’t already indulged in a torrid threesome with our diminutive colleague?”

“I haven’t,” Kingsley said. He slid his hand down Severus’ abdomen, coming to rest on the rise of one hip. “He took an hour and a half to realise that the clientele were mostly men who were interested in other men.”

Severus laughed, releasing his handful, and turning his face into Kingsley’s shoulder, biting gently at the tendon. It was a move that always provoked his lover, and he was not disappointed, as Kingsley groaned, stretching his neck for more. “Not the most observant of fellows, then.”

“I don’t know, he called me attractive,” Kingsley edged his hand across, stretching his fingers wide, and was rewarded with Severus bucking his hips, trying to get more contact.

“Did he now? Do I need to worry that you’ll trade me in for a younger, handsomer model?” Severus’ lips had moved to Kingsley’s nipple. His tongue licked a stripe, before his teeth took hold, tugging a little, as he awaited his answer.

“God, you know I love that! Not a chance in hell,” he added, in response. “So you think he’s attractive, do you?”

“You don’t?” Snape countered, biting then licking soothingly.

“He doesn’t realise he is. Cried a little, actually, when I suggested the women would be after him now he’s on his own again.”

Severus pulled back. “You’ve had a ghastly time.”

“No need to stop,” Kingsley’s hand slid down, cradling Severus’ balls, rolling them gently. “Actually, I had a really good time. He was only a little soggy for a minute. We laughed a lot.”

“With Potter?” Severus said, disbelievingly, letting his legs fall apart. His head had fallen back.

“You look fucking fantastic like this.” Kingsley’s voice was husky as he shoved the sheets further down so he could admire more of that long lean body. “Yes, with Harry, which you called him earlier, and don’t pretend you don’t find him acceptable company, either. I know you.”

“If you know me, you know that mouth of yours could be being used for much better things than talking about Harry,” he said, his breath hitching as Kingsley worked his magic. “I’ll demonstrate.”

Moments later, the only sounds were the creaking of the bed, the rustling of the sheets, and the sloppy sounds of mutual enjoyment.

Chapter Text

Daniel Poulter was the first topic of discussion at the next meeting, as Neville and Snape reported back on their joint visits.

Neville revealed that when he saw him, he realised that he did know Daniel Poulter: the name hadn’t rung any bells, but that hadn’t particularly surprised him, as in the years when Daniel and Teddy had been at school he had only been teaching part-time. Seeing the young man with the vacant gaze, so reminiscent of the blank expression of his parents, he had had a sharp memory of seeing that face, fired with humour, flying through the Hogwarts' corridors one day, laughing and shouting with his friends.

"I just wish I'd known him," Neville said. "Maybe I could have done something -"

"You can't be responsible for everyone you come across," Hermione said gently.

Neville nodded, but obviously still felt troubled by it.

The family and Mediwizards had been happy for them to try anything.

Snape explained that it had been a bit of a hitch when Poulter had started talking in French, but a quick translation spell had allowed them to get the gist of it.

“None of it made sense,” Neville said glumly.

“It might not have made sense to us,” Snape said, “but it might have made sense to him. We can’t be sure it was meaningless.”

“What did he say?” asked Victoire. “In French? It might have some meaning in French that didn’t come across in the translation spell.”

“Excellent point,” Kingsley gave her a thumbs up.

Victoire blushed.

Harry hid a smile. Kingsley certainly had an aura about him. His whole personality was attractive, Harry thought, and both sexes responded to him easily. That he was partnered with Snape was astonishing, really. They were chalk and cheese. And yet…

“I can’t remember the exact words in French,” Neville said worriedly. “Severus?”

Harry nearly choked on his tea. They were on first name terms?

“I couldn’t be sure of being accurate,” Snape agreed. “We’d best put it in a pensieve.”

The pensieve was brought, Snape extracted his memory, and dropped it into the basin.

“Shall we?” he said to Victoire.

“I’ve never done it before,” she said nervously.

“I could accompany you,” Draco said tentatively. He hardly spoke usually. “I’ve done it before, and I speak French. Obviously, not as well as you, but I’ve spent a fair amount of time in France.”

There was some shifting of positions around the table, to allow the two to go in together.

“Harry,” Ron said, sidling up to squat down beside him whilst the rest of them were waiting for the travellers to resurface from the bowl.

“Problem?” Harry asked, turning to talk to him.

“You know we bought the grub for tonight?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry said. “Did you want to get it cooking?”

“Nah, I’ve already had a word with Mitty, she’s got all that in hand. The thing is, what with it being Rose’s birthday, we - ”

“Shit! Shit!” Harry bit out.

Half the table turned to look at him.

“Come into the hall,” he whispered.

They both got up.

James brushed past them, returning from the loo. “I’ll stick the kettle on again, shall I, Dad? Whilst they’re doing that?”

“Good lad,” Harry nodded.

He whisked down the corridor into the sitting room with Ron. “I’m so sorry! I completely forgot,” he apologised, face red. “Ginny was so good at all that stuff – ”

“Hey, don’t sweat it,” Ron said, putting a hand on his arm. “I only wanted to ask if you’d mind there being a few beers and some wine to go with the food. I packed it small, but if you’d rather not – ”

“Of course I don’t mind!” Harry said. “God, I can’t believe I’m such a useless uncle. What on earth is she doing here on her birthday anyway? She should be out with her friends, having fun, not stuck here having to think about this.”

“Well,” Ron said, rubbing the back of his neck, “half the people she’d have chosen to spend the evening with are here anyway, so…”

“We should have cancelled,” Harry said. “People don’t need to always come anyway. It’s not possible.”

“I know this sounds horrid, mate, but I think they quite enjoy it. I mean, not thinking about what happened to Gin, of course, but the trying to solve a problem, to have a role in things. You know, like we felt back then, sometimes.”

“What, shit-scared?” Harry suggested.

“Come on, some of it was fun, wasn’t it?” Ron bumped his shoulder.

“You’ve got your rose-tinted specs on, haven’t you?” Harry looked at Ron in amazement.

“Don’t you miss the adrenalin-rush at all?” Ron asked. “Really?”

“You’re bonkers, Ron,” Harry shook his head.

“Not even defeating the troll? The chess game?”

“The spiders?” Harry countered.

“Yeah, well, I could have done without that bit,” Ron agreed.

“I could have done without being tortured, and I expect Hermione could too,” Harry said shortly, making Ron sober instantly. “You can’t really want your Rose to have to face stuff like that?”

“I hadn’t really thought of it like that,” Ron looked a bit horrified. “But if we can sort them out by strategizing – ”

“Yeah, well I hope we bloody well can,” Harry said, “because if any of our kids end up like Ginny then I’m going to –”

“Dad! Ron! Everyone’s waiting for you!” Albus called from the kitchen doorway.

“I see your point,” Ron said grimly as they headed back down the corridor. “Still, alright for the beer then?”

Poulter had been reciting a couplet of poetry, over and over. Neither Draco nor Victoire recognised it. “I’ll ask Mum if she knows it,” Victoire promised.

Harry could see the pride of involvement on her face that Ron was alluding to, but he wished with all his heart that it wasn’t necessary.

“I’ll see what I can scratch up,” Malfoy said quietly.

The meeting came to an end. Draco got up to leave.

Harry stood up, rattling his chair, and Draco turned to look.

“One last thing,” Harry said.

The room fell silent.

“I’m afraid I owe someone here an apology. I’m beginning to realise all the little things that Gin did that made this family run smoothly, and today, I’ve failed at another of them. I can only apologise, and say that I’ll be working on getting better at it. So, I hope you’ll all stand and wish Rose a Happy Birthday, and Ron tells me that there’s beer and wine to go with the food tonight, so stay as long as you like. Happy Birthday, Rose!”

Rose sat blushing as they all sang her Happy Birthday, but she glowed with pleasure too.

Much later, after they had eaten, the younger generation had moved into the sitting room with the booze and were watching DVDs on Harry’s system.

In the kitchen, only Ron and Hermione remained at the table with Harry.

“I don’t know how these youngsters do it,” Percy had said a few moments earlier, having popped his head into the living room to say goodbye to his niece and wish her Happy Birthday once again. “They’re drinking like fish in there.”

“Bloody prig,” Ron grumbled, after he’d gone. “I bet he was too uptight to have more than a pint even when he was young.” He took a swig from his bottle, winced and got up. “And I’m getting old too. I’ve had enough. A cup of tea! That’s what I bloody need. How sad is that?”

“Put enough in for me,” Hermione agreed, as Ron filled the kettle.

“Me too,” Harry added, and then they all looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Sorry about that lot,” Hermione said, twitching her head in the general direction of the living room. “I didn’t mean for them to settle in for the night.”

“They’re fine,” Harry waved it off. “They can all stay over, if they want. Makes no difference to me. I like having the house full, anyway.”

“They’ll watch films all night,” Hermione warned him. “And then they’ll be too drunk to floo home.”

“It’s Saturday tomorrow,” Harry shrugged. “Who cares? They can sleep in there or there’s plenty of beds.”

“Sure you don’t mind?” Hermione asked. “It’s a damn cheek of us – ”

“Oh, cut the crap,” Harry said equably.

Mione grinned. “Well, if you’re truly not bothered, maybe we’ll leave you to it. Our house is empty, and I’ve a fancy to swing from the chandeliers – ”

Ron swung round faster than a wand with a Point-me spell.

“Are you suggesting - ?”

Hermione’s eyes were twinkling.

“Bugger the tea,” Ron said, grabbing Hermione’s hand and heading off towards the floo in the parlour. “Keep the kids all weekend, if you can, mate,” he called back to Harry.

“Are you sure – ?” Hermione began, as she was dragged along.

Harry grinned. “Have fun. If there’s a magical explosion I don’t want to know about it!”

Harry began to clear up. After a few minutes, Mitty appeared, her ears flopping low and her shoulders drooping.

“Master doesn’t want Mitty to do the cleaning anymore?” she said, sadly.

“I thought you’d be in bed, Mitty,” Harry replied. “I didn’t want to disturb your rest. I know we’ve been relying on you such a lot lately.”

“Mitty is here to serve,” Mitty began to sob, wringing her pillow-case outfit.

Harry had been in a good mood, really. It had been a nice evening. He suddenly realised what Ron meant, about the planning. There was a real spirit of camaraderie that was unique and …comforting, in a way. And the food and party bit had been fun, with everyone relaxing. He liked knowing the kids were enjoying themselves in the sitting room. He really didn’t want it all ruined by a weepy house-elf when he’d be quite happy to pootle along and get the clearing up done on his own.

But….needs must.

“Please don’t cry,” he said, crouching down beside the elf. “I’d be very glad of your help.”

“Master is too kind,” Mitty wobbled back and forward on her heels.

“Well, there’s a lot to do,” Harry said. “It’s Rose’s birthday and the young people are watching films. I expect most of them will stay the night, so would you mind making sure all the beds have fresh sheets?”

“Mitty is happy to be doing it!” the elf beamed. “And they will be needing breakfast, and lots of coffee, and Mitty can be doing it all!”

Harry grinned at her simple pleasure. If only humans were so easily pleased.

“And will Master Harry want the green sheets or the brown ones with blobs on?”

“Oh! You needn’t worry about my bed – ” Harry began, and then thought about the number of people staying. “Actually,” he took a deep breath, “it would be good if you’d do my room, and just clear the tops of any of my stuff?” he asked. “So visitors can go in there. I could try out my pack-away room trunk,” he said. “You know the one? Put that up in the master bedroom, will you, Mitty? I’ll give that a go.”

“Master is going back into his proper place?” Mitty said excitedly.

“Well, someone has to sometime,” Harry said. “I don’t suppose any of the visitors will want to go in there.”

Not in the room Ginny had died in.

Somehow, the thought of doing it with the house full of other people made it seem easier.

Harry had slept in there before, of course. He’d started sleeping in the linked bedroom, which was on the other side of an en-suite that served the two, years ago. It had often struck Harry that the fact that the house was designed like that just showed that the arrangement that he had with Ginny was not unusual at all, that when the house was built, the master and mistress expected to have their own chambers. It was an odd comfort.

Now, the room on the other side of the bathroom was empty. The Rites had made sure of that, and Harry hadn’t even thought about returning the furniture that he’d banished to the attic. He’d been in there though. He’d needed to check that the magic had washed the taint of the evil from the air, had truly cleansed the room.

It had.

Its bland cream walls didn’t carry any trace of Ginny lingering there.

“Mitty will do everything and then come back and help Master!” the elf said happily, and blinked out.

Harry was pleased that she hadn’t insisted on him going to bed and leaving everything to her. The elf had got used to the fact that Harry liked to use his hands, liked to cook, to be active, to do.

Not that he always wanted to be washing and cleaning, but they had found a working balance. He suspected with Ginny gone, Mitty wasn’t quite sure of her role. He really ought to talk to her.

And then it hit him like a bludger.

“Mitty!”

The elf appeared at once, her face hidden behind a mountain of sheets. “Master called?” the muffled words came through the cottons.

“Sorry,” Harry apologised. “Mitty, when you’re done with the beds, can you come back down?”

“Mitty was promising Master to do that anyway,” the elf said curiously as she patted the pile down and peered around the edge.

“Of course you were,” Harry said, still thrumming with adrenalin at the thoughts racing through him. “Right, then, I’ll see you back in a moment.”

Mitty bobbed a curtsey, almost dropping the towering linens.

Harry ran the taps, scraping plates and flinging them into the sudsy water, his thoughts whirling.

He’d practically finished the whole lot of washing up by hand, having forgotten that he’d intended to set a washing spell, when the elf reappeared.

“Master has been very busy!” she praised. She snapped her fingers. Steam rose from the crockery as it dried instantly, and with another snap, the plates and dishes started floating across the kitchen to stack themselves in the dresser, and the cutlery shot across and loaded itself into the right slots in the drawer.

Harry sat down, and patted the chair next to him. “Come and sit down, Mitty,” he invited.

The elf was used to Harry’s often strange behaviour, to being included in family occasions with her own place at the table, and to being given presents at Yule and on her birthday by all the family, and so hopped onto the chair.

“Mitty, I had a sudden thought. You were here the day Ginny died, weren’t you?”

To Harry’s horror, the elf threw herself off the chair and onto the floor, banging her head repeatedly. It was years since Harry had seen her show such behaviour.

“Mitty, stop! STOP!”

The elf lifted her head. Green slime streaked from one of her nostrils to the red-tiled floor. Her eyes were pools of misery, filled to overflowing.

“Sit down,” Harry said firmly, helping the elf up and back onto her chair. He was about to hand her a hanky when he realised that might cause even more distress, if she thought it was clothes. “Wipe your nose,” he said gently, “and dry your eyes. I had no intention of upsetting you, Mitty.”

The elf did as she was told, pulling a rather disgusting piece of cloth out of the capacious pocket she had stitched onto the front of her outfit.

“We’re all very upset at Mistress Ginny’s death,” he said gently. “I’m so sorry that we hadn’t thought how distressing it must be for you too, when you were so close.”

“Mitty is a bad elf!” Mitty wailed, in response.

Harry got up and shut the kitchen door. He didn’t want the children disturbed.

“Tell me why you think you’re a bad elf?” Harry asked. “I’m sure that can’t be true.”

“Master is so kind! And Master James and Master Albus and Mistress Lily is all so kind to Mitty, but she is such a bad elf,” she howled.

Harry instantly noticed that Ginny’s name was missing from the roll call of kind family members.

“Was Mistress Ginny not kind to you?” Harry asked in surprise. Harry couldn’t believe it. Ginny was sometimes a bit dictatorial with the elf, but Mitty had seemed to relish the clear instructions, and Ginny had always said how absolutely brilliant it was to have an elf and how she didn’t know how her parents had managed without.

Mitty looked shifty. “Mistress was very kind to Mitty,” she said. She wiggled on her chair.

“But?” Harry prompted.

“Mistress was not being kind to Master,” Mitty sobbed, and then banged her head on the table over and over.

Harry reached over and stopped her.

“Is this about Mr Malfoy, Mitty?” Harry asked.

The elf’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. The tears that had reappeared splashed out, and one of them plopped onto Harry’s knee.

“Master is knowing about Mister Malfoy?”

“I did know,” Harry said.

“Mitty is not knowing what to do,” Mitty sobbed, pulling up the front of her pillow-case and burying her face in it.

Harry tried fiercely not to look at what was revealed. He really did not want to look down there. And yet his eyes started drifting down…he yanked a piece of paper that had been left on the table covered in doodles and dropped it on the elf’s lap. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Mistress is bringing Mr Malfoy into the house and Mitty is getting them lunch and Mitty is very happy to serve Mistress and Mr Malfoy’s family are on the family tree and everything is very happy and then they is going upstairs, and Mitty is hearing noises, and she is not sure if Mistress is alright, and so Mitty goes to check, and Mistress shouts at her – ” Mitty heaved a breath and a giant sob.

“Oh, Mitty,” Harry said, his hand patting her arm. “So the men weren’t in the room at that point?”

“There is only being Mr Malfoy, without his clothes on, and his bottom is -”

“Yes,” Harry said quickly. He did not need a description of Malfoy’s bottom.

“And Mistress is shouting at me to go away, and so I do.”

“And you didn’t see her again?” Harry said sympathetically. “No wonder you’re so upset – ”

“Of course I is seeing Mistress again!” the elf contradicted. “Mistress speaks to Mitty later and says when Mr Malfoy comes Mitty can go and visit her brother.”

Harry breathed in. So, it wasn’t the first time that Malfoy had been with Ginny in the house. It was a regular thing.

It hurt.

He knew they were having an affair. That it was much more than that.

But this was his home.

The family’s home.

Malfoy had his own place – several, probably. Why the hell couldn’t they fuck there, or in a hotel?

He bit back his anger. He needed to find out what else Mitty could tell him.

“So, Malfoy was a – a frequent visitor?” Harry asked. “When did they start – coming home? Together?”

“They is coming most Tuesdays, and sometimes Thursdays, but not when Miss Lily is home from Hogwarts. It is being since Miss Lily went back last September.” Mitty gave a huge sob.

Harry felt gutted. What had made them start bringing the affair into the house? Although Harry worked long hours, he was his own boss. Sometimes he decided to come home early, or in the day. He could have come across them at any time.

Had they wanted Harry to find them?

Was it an extra thrill of excitement that Ginny sought?

The taste felt bitter in his mouth.

Harry looked down at the elf, sitting miserable and huddled over.

“Did Ginny tell you not to say anything?” Harry asked.

The elf shook her head. “I is not knowing what to do. Mistress is doing things with Mr Malfoy that she isn’t doing with Master.”

It took Harry a moment to decipher that.

“In the bedroom, you mean?”

“If they is making babies they’ll be Malfoy babies, and then Mitty doesn’t know if she will have to be a Malfoy house-elf,” the elf sobbed.

“Oh Mitty! This is your home,” Harry said gently.

“But Mitty is liking babies,” the elf said, and started wailing louder than ever.

The door opened and Albus peered in.

“Mitty! What’s up?” he said, coming over to perch on the floor in front of the elf.

“Mind the snot,” Harry said through the side of his mouth, giving him a quick shove to stop him kneeling in the goo on the tile.

“Mitty is a bad elf!” the little creature wailed again.

“Of course you’re not,” Albus said firmly. “You’re a very good house-elf. We can’t manage without you – ”

The sobs got louder.

Harry and Albus looked at each other.

“Mitty? You’re not ill, are you?” Harry asked. “Or – or – you don’t have to leave us because your Mistress has gone, do you? We want you to stay.”

“Mitty wants to stay too, but I is not knowing what to do!” Mitty’s pillow-case was soaked through.

“Why do you think you might not be able to stay?” Harry said gently. “You know we’re not cross with you, don’t you? Ginny only sent you away because she thought you might not be comfortable while Mr Malfoy was in my place,” Harry said, looking to Albus in apology and explanation.

“Mitty is so bad, Mitty is so bad,” the elf rocked back and forward.

“Why are you bad?” Albus asked.

“Mitty might have to go to a new Master,” the elf almost yelled.

“What? Why?” Harry asked.

“Mitty is having a baby and - ”

“WHAT!”

The two men stared at each other, horror and embarrassment on both their faces.

“Mitty, why didn’t you say?” Harry said. “We’ve been working you so hard – ”

“Master is so kind,” Mitty flung her face into his lap. “Mitty wants to work for her kind Master, but she doesn’t want to leave her baby with Dinky’s Master, and what shall Mitty do?” she sobbed.

Harry resigned himself to elf snot all over his trousers. He could feel it seeping through already. He didn’t think even a cleaning spell would make him want to wear them again.

He patted her back awkwardly.

“I wish you’d told us before,” Harry said. “Who is the baby’s father? He must be so excited!”

More wailing commenced.

“He isn’t happy about it?” Albus asked, sounding annoyed on her behalf.

“He isn’t even knowing!”

“Mitty! You haven’t told him? Why on earth not?”

“Because I is only seeing Dinky on Tuesday’s and Thursday’s when Mistress is sending me away!” Mitty howled.

“You’re having your brother’s baby?” Harry said, astonished, and Albus choked, his eyes flying to Harry’s, shock and humour vying in them.

“Master is being silly,” Mitty lifted her head and hauled herself back into the chair. “Of course I is not. Dinky works with Toaster.”

“Your brother is called Toaster?” Albus was trying to hold back laughter.

Harry elbowed him. “Mitty, I want you to go and tell Dinky first thing in the morning. He must be very worried about you, if he hasn’t seen you for weeks. And I’m sure he will be delighted to hear about the baby. Er, do you know when you’ll be having it?”

Mitty had been about to throw herself on him again, but at the last question she pulled back, and patted her tummy instead. “When it is being ready to come out, of course.”

“Of course. I’m sorry,” Harry said, “I just don’t know much about elf pregnancies and babies.” He scratched his head. “How do you feel? Should we be getting special food in for you, Mitty?”

“Master is so kind, so good – ”

“Just as you’ve always been good to us,” Harry said. “I want only the best for you and the baby, Mitty, do you understand? No heavy lifting, or working if you’re tired, and I’m sure you should have a nap in the afternoon – ”

Mitty was beaming at him. She wiped her eyes. “Master doesn’t need to worry about all that! House–elves is very strong.”

“I know, but that’s no reason not to take care of yourself and your baby.” A thought occurred to Harry. “Is it your first baby, Mitty?”

The elf nodded.

“And you’re worrying that the baby might have to live with her father? Is that normal?”

“I is not knowing,” she said, her face drooping. “Elves is usually living together.”

“Which would you prefer?” Harry asked. “Should I ask Dinky’s owner if Dinky could come and live with us? Or would you rather work for Dinky’s family?”

“Master is willing to do that for Mitty?”

“Of course. You and your baby and its father want to be together, don’t you?”

Mitty’s ears flapped as she nodded. “Mitty has told Dinky many and many and many times how kind her family is, but Mitty is never believing that Dinky could come too!”

“Well, you’d better tell me who Dinky’s owner is, and I’ll go and visit him tomorrow.”

“Dinky is working for Master Thomas Wilkes,” the elf said.

“I’ve not heard of him, but I’m sure we can sort it all out, alright?”

Mitty nodded again, gazing up at her master as if he were Merlin himself.

Harry stood up. He put his hand on Mitty’s shoulder. He could feel the bumps of her skin through the cotton fabric. “I’m sorry that you were put in such a difficult position,” he said gently. “I know it’s hard to understand, but your Mistress was a very good woman. I’m glad you kept her secrets.”

Mitty jumped down off the chair. The soggy paper that had been in her lap fluttered to the floor, and she whisked it up and handed it to Harry, who took it tentatively.

“I is just being sorry that I was not there to protect Mistress,” the elf said. “House elves is hearing everything. Mistress must have put up a silencing spell,” she shook her head side-to-side sadly. “Otherwise Mr Malfoy’s reporter-men would have rushed to help her kind Mistress, Mitty is sure.”

Harry and Albus stood, mouths dropping open, as the elf scuttled away towards her room, which was just off the pantry.

“Mitty?” Harry chased after her, then tried to appear calm and relaxed. “Mr Malfoy’s reporter-men?”

The elf nodded.

“Do you mean Angus Leiland?” Albus asked.

“Mr Leiland is working for Quidditch Queens, not The Prophet,” Mitty said, in the tone of one imparting information that the recipient really ought to know.

“Of course he does,” Albus agreed. “He interviewed Mum back in January, didn’t he?”

The elf nodded. “Right here, in the kitchen,” she slapped her rather large foot on the tiles. “I is not understanding why a kitchen is a place for interviewing.”

“And someone came to interview Ginny the day she died?” Harry prompted. “Did they come with Mr Malfoy? At the same time?”

Mitty was shaking her head again. “Mr Malfoy is flooing in,” she said. “And Mitty is just about to go like Mistress had said she must, and Mitty is happy to go and see her Dinky, but then Mitty sees a mouse peeking out in the pantry, and I is not leaving a mouse in the house!” she said indignantly. “Mitty keeps a clean house!”

“You do,” Harry said, wondering if they were ever going to get to the point. He didn’t want to push it and frighten Mitty off, or into more fits of tears. “A very clean house. You’re an excellent house-elf, Mitty.”

The elf beamed with pride.

“So you dealt with the mouse, I’m sure,” Harry said. “What happened then?”

“After Mitty has put the mouse in the boiler – “

Albus gagged. Harry gave a little shake of his head at him.

Mitty continued, “and checked that there is being no others in a nest, I is going, and then the door bell rings – ”

“The front door?” Albus asked.

“Of course the front door,” Mitty chided, “the back door is not having a bell.”

Albus and Harry exchanged glances. Very few people used the front door. Harry did, if he’d decided to walk home. But most wizards travelled by floo. When they had first come to live in Grimmauld Place, Harry had revised all the warding. The property had no longer been under Fidelius, and they had gained the usual door furniture to blend in with their Muggle neighbours. As the children had grown up, and wanted friends to be able to drop around, it had been necessary to adjust the wards yet again. Harry had worked hard to create a balance which offered privacy without the family feeling that they were living in a prison. He had taught the children how to make the floo recognise someone so that any friend who they had ‘signed in’ to the system would be allowed access to the parlour. It was impossible to get from the parlour to elsewhere in the house unless accompanied by a member of the family or the family member had dropped the warding for that particular person or occasion. They could all do it with barely a thought and a flick of the wrist.

It was impossible for visitors to apparate into the house.

It was impossible to enter the house unless invited.

“And who was there?” Harry asked. “Did you know them?”

“I is not seeing them before,” Mitty said, “but one says they is from The Prophet and they have an appointment for an interview with Mistress.”

“How many were there, Mitty?” Albus asked.

“They is being three wizards,” Mitty answered.

“So what happened then?” Harry asked, trying to keep his voice steady over the pounding of his heart.

“Mitty is shutting the door and checking Mistress’ diary,” Mitty said firmly.

“Well done!” Albus said.

Mitty preened.

“And did Mistress have an appointment?” Harry asked.

“Yes, so Mitty lets the wizards in, but then she is not being sure what to do.”

“That must have been difficult,” Harry agreed. “What did you do?”

“Mitty is not supposed to be in the house,” the elf said, “but Mitty is needing to be looking after Mistress’ guests. Mitty is worrying. But the talking wizard says can they set up their camera in the library, so Mitty is taking them to the library, which is a proper place for interviewing, and she brings them some tea and cake, and the wizard says thank you and they will wait for Mistress, and so Mitty goes to see Dinky. And when Mitty gets back, Mr Ronald is here and he is punching Mr Malfoy.”

“Do you remember what they looked like, Mitty?” Albus asked, urgently.

Harry kicked him quietly with his foot.

“In case they can tell us anything,” Albus added.

“They is wizards,” Mitty answered.

“Were they tall, or short? What was their hair like? Can you think of anything special about each to help describe them?”

“They is being wizards,” Mitty said again, and Harry realised with sinking hopes that to Mitty, all wizards looked pretty much alike.

“But you haven’t seen them before?” he asked.

Mitty shook her head.

“Do you think you would recognise them again?”

“I is always recognising people I have seen before,” Mitty said proudly.

“Good,” Harry said. “Tomorrow I’m going to ask Ron to bring you a photo and you can tell me if it’s one of them. And if either of the other two come again, Mitty, don’t let them in, alright? In fact, don’t let anyone you don’t already know into the house, whatever reason they say. Come and get me and I’ll decide if they’re ok.”

Mitty had begun shaking. “Did Mitty do wrong, Master? Is Mitty a bad elf?”

“Mitty is a very good elf, and some very bad men tricked her. We think we know who one of them is, and you can help by telling us if the photo Ron has is one of them or not. We’re doing all we can to find out who they are, and why they wanted to hurt Ginny, and whether they want to hurt anyone else. In the meantime, you and I have to protect all our children, don’t we?” Harry said carefully.

“Mitty let in the men who …who…killed her Mistress?” Her eyes expanded to saucer shaped proportions. “Mitty is…Mitty is the worst elf ever!” And she started to hit herself in the face.

“Mitty!” Harry said sharply. “Stop that at once and listen!”

Harry had spoken firmly to Mitty before, but he had never snapped at her, and the elf paused with one hand half-way to boxing her ear.

“Now listen carefully,” Harry said. “Are you listening?” he added sternly.

Mitty nodded.

Harry took her hand and put it on her belly. “You have a baby in there, Mitty. You know it‘s a rule in this house that you are not allowed to punish yourself. And now that rule is more important than ever, because you would be punishing your baby too, wouldn’t you? And that baby hasn’t done anything to deserve it at all, has it?”

Mitty shook her head, wide-eyed.

“I’m ordering you to give yourself no punishments, and to look after yourself and your baby very carefully, do you understand, Mitty? I’ll be very, very upset if you don’t take very great care of the two of you.”

The elf nodded wonderingly.

“Can I say something, Dad?” Albus asked.

Harry nodded.

Albus took the elf’s hands in his own. “I know you’re going to be upset if it was those men that killed Mum,” he said quietly.

Harry steeled himself for the elf to start getting agitated again.

“But whoever it was, was determined to kill her. If you hadn’t have gone, they might have hurt you and your baby. If we’d been in the house, they might have killed us too. None of us could have known what was going to happen. So now, we just have to think about making everything safe so that no-one else gets hurt. You will help us so that Lily and everyone here is safe, won’t you, Mitty?”

Mitty nodded her head vigorously.

“Thank you,” Albus said, and gave her a hug.

A green hand crept over his shoulder and his back was gently patted in return.

“Off to bed now,” Harry said gently. “And off to tell Dinky your wonderful news in the morning.”

Albus and Harry hauled themselves into chairs and stared at each other as the elf scampered away.

Chapter Text

It was 2.20am and the worst of the night wasn’t over.

Harry was just brushing his teeth when he heard a knock. He strode out of the bathroom and found James sticking his head around the bedroom door.

“Are you not sleeping in here?” James’ brows furrowed as he took in the tidy room.

“I’ve got a bed made up in the other room,” Harry said. “I wasn’t sure how many people were staying. Mitty’s put clean sheets on all the beds. Whassup?”

James lurched a bit as he straightened. “Albus has put Scorpius and Andy in the same room!”

“So?” Harry said, eyebrows drawing together. “Aren’t there enough rooms to go around?”

“In the green room!” James’ voice was full of implication.

“Yeah? Did the girls want that room?”

“There’s only one bed!”

Harry turned back to the bathroom and spat out his mouthful of toothpaste. He was really too tired for more drama tonight.

James had followed him and was leaning against the door jamb, his arms crossed and looking belligerent. Harry’s heart sank. James in a strop was a painful thing. Harry had thought they were long past the tantrum stage, but his son reminded him of how he had looked as a two year old, cross and determined.

“What’s the problem? If Millie were here, I expect you’d be sharing a bed.”

“They’re men!”

“Exactly,” Harry said. “Old enough to know what they want. As far as I understand it, they’ve been together for years. You can’t expect them to sleep in separate rooms, surely?”

James stuck his chin out.

“What are you asking for?” Harry questioned, rinsing and spitting. “You want to do dorms? All the boys in one and the girls in another?”

“No!” James said angrily. “There’s no way I’m sleeping in the same room as them!”

“Being gay isn’t contagious, James,” Harry sighed.

“I’m not worried about turning queer!”

“From the number of girls you’ve been out with, I didn’t think that was likely,” Harry agreed. “So what are you worried about?”

“They’d be eyeing us up!”

“I seriously doubt it,” Harry said, running water into the sink and getting out his razor. He hadn’t planned on shaving the Muggle way, but he needed to do something with his hands.

Before he strangled his son.

“And if that’s what’s worrying you, then why are you having a hissy fit about them sharing a room? They won’t trouble you at all then.”

“Dad, you can’t let two men share a bed in this house! It’s disgusting.”

Harry put the razor down and turned to his son, hands on his hips. “Actually, James, if there’s anyone whose behaviour is disgusting, it’s yours. They are our guests. What are you proposing? Having everyone else to stay and telling them to bugger off home? If they’re anywhere near as drunk as you are that’ll be a recipe for disaster.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“You are drunk and you know it. That’s neither here nor there. What’s bothering me is your lack of tolerance and hospitality.”

“You’re being all Muggle, Dad. It’s just not done in Wizarding society.”

“It is done, believe it or not. It’s just intolerance such as you are demonstrating right now that forces men to have to hide their affections. I’m shocked, really. I didn’t expect this of you, James,” Harry said, leaning his bottom against the sink and crossing his arms.

“Bill thinks the same as me,” James said, as if that was a trump card.

Harry held back a groan. Bill had always been James’ hero.

“Bill is partially affected with werewolf toxins and is married to a woman who is half creature. None of which is anyone’s business but their own, but I’m not quite sure where he gets off on casting aspersions on people who want to sleep with their fellow humans,” Harry said.

“Mum wouldn’t have allowed it,” James argued.

“Then I would have been very disappointed in her,” Harry snapped, “given that Scorpius would have been her step-son. But your mother was a warm-hearted woman, and I’m sure she would have welcomed Scorpius into the family, and if you dare use your mother’s name like that ever again, drunk or not, James, I’ll – ” Harry took a deep breath, feeling the swirling rise of his magic, responding like adrenalin to the magnitude of the anger that had exploded within him.

James stepped back, looking horrified.

“Go to bed,” Harry bit out. “I’ll go and make sure everyone is sorted.”

“I’m not sleeping here!” James practically ran across the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Harry yanked it open and yelled after him, fear for his son vying with his fury, “Walk home, then, James! The fresh air might clear that thick head of yours!”

Harry leant against the wall, shaking, as James’ lurching footsteps clattered down the stairs. It was years since he’d shouted at any of his children.

More than anything, he was aware of the shimmer he’d seen in James’ eyes. His son had been holding back tears.

They’d have to sort this out in the morning, Harry thought.

It was inevitable that something would give, given the stress and shock they were all still suffering from. But he hadn’t seen this coming.

He pulled himself up and headed down the stairs.

The kitchen was a bustling hive of activity, as the youngsters piled beer bottles into a box and china into the sink. Fred was pouring a glass of water, spraying Andy, who was dealing with the dirty cups. Andy swatted him good naturedly, whilst Fred tried to stick his finger over the tap end to spray him some more. Both stopped like naughty school boys when they spotted Harry.

“Did James just go out?” Albus asked, looking up from the bin, where he was scraping cake remains off the plates.

“You know he’s got to work in the morning. Saturday is the busiest day for the travel agency,” Harry said, avoiding the question and offering an explanation to the youngsters who didn’t know them so well. “Right, you lot ready to turn in? Follow me.”

Albus had intended to put Rose and Molly into Lily’s room, but Harry scotched that idea. Lily would feel pissed off enough that she’d missed the party, without having her space invaded without her permission.

Teddy already had his own room in the house: as Harry’s godson, he’d always been a frequent visitor. Victoire slipped into the room after him with a saucy smile at Harry. Teddy and Victoire had stopped going out years ago, but they had remained very close. Neither of them had other partners at the moment. Harry wasn’t sure if they were friends or friends with benefits: it wasn’t really any of his business. He certainly wasn’t going to begrudge them finding comfort in each other: they were heading towards thirty after all, and old enough to know what they wanted from each other.

The rest of them ambled along to the next door, which was the green room. Before Harry had said a word, Rose had slipped in and thrown herself on the bed.

“Night night,” she said, curling up as they all laughed.

Molly came and sat on the other side. “Budge over, birthday girl, there’s room for two in there.”

“I can transfigure a second bed if you want it,” Harry offered.

“I’m too tired to care,” Rose snuggled her cheek against the pillow. “This is comfy.”

“Fine by me,” Molly said, pulling off her socks.

“Sleep tight, then, girls,” Albus grinned.

They were heading out the door when Rose bounced off the bed in a sudden burst of energy, having to right herself on the bedside table. Harry looked at her fondly. He’d never seen her squiffy before. The next moment she came up and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“Night, Harry, thank you for letting us all stay. I’ve had a really nice birthday. I hope that’s alright?”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Harry gave her a hug back. “Now, off to sleep, and I do hope your Mum will be over with some of her super-duper Hangover Potion in the morning, or we’ll all be up shit creek.”

Everyone laughed, and Fred belched.

“Oops?”

“Get out, stinky boy!” Molly shouted from the bed. She was usually as quiet as a mouse, as uptight as her father Percy.

“You can see she doesn’t have brothers,” Rose grinned.

“Hey!” Albus said, in defence of brothers who had sisters.

Rose thumbed her nose at him.

“You know where the bathroom is,” Harry intervened, chuckling. “And Mitty will have left towels on the shelf. Night, girls.”

“I was going to stick Scorpius and Andy in there,” Albus said, as they stood in the corridor once again. “You’d better come up with me and Fred. Or they could go in James’ room,” Albus suggested, with a mischievous look at his father.

“Or they could sleep in here,” Harry countered, opening the door to his room.

“Hey, have you moved out?” Albus asked, peering in at the tidiness.

Harry hadn’t thought he was normally particularly messy, but the room did have that spare room bare look.

“We’re not putting you out, are we?” Scorpius asked, looking worried. “We could just floo back – ”

“After the amount of alcohol you lot have consumed?” Harry scoffed. “Not a good idea. Anyway, I’ve just moved back into the master-bedroom is all.”

They weren’t to know that he had moved out years ago, rather than just since Ginny’s death.

“Fred’n I’ll head up then,” Albus yawned. “Night all.”

Fred gave a silent wave, and followed Albus up the next flight of stairs to the room on the top floor which many years ago had been Sirius Black’s.

Harry ushered Scorpius and Andy into the make-shift guest room, loping across and opening a door. “Bathroom,” he said. “It shares with the room on the other side – that’s me. I’ll just finish up shaving and then it’s all yours. Towels in the cupboard. Do you need anything else?”

“No, thanks, Mr Potter,” both men said.

“Are you sure this is alright?” Andy asked. “James didn’t go because of us, did he?”

“James went because he was drunk and I shouted at him,” Harry answered, with an honesty that avoided the truth. “We don’t usually, so we were both a bit upset. We were talking about his mum. We’ll sort it tomorrow. Goodnight, boys,” and Harry went into the bathroom and shut the door, scrubbing the tears that were suddenly welling in his own eyes.

Despite being exhausted, Harry lay in the master bedroom wide-awake. Somehow the fact that everything had been wiped clean of Ginny now seemed wrong. There was no lingering scent of her perfume, or whiff of the moisturizer that she used to use to combat the wind damage that flying caused to her cheeks. It was as if he was in a different room, in a different house.

Eventually, he got up and padded downstairs. He put the kettle on to boil and went to look at the damage in the sitting room, but was pleasantly surprised to see that the youngsters had cleared practically everything away, and even straightened the cushions before heading to bed.

They were all growing up.

Somehow, that made his argument with James even worse.

Harry realised that his anxiety about it was the main cause of his sleeplessness. He hated being at outs with his kids. It was a long time since it had happened. He supposed he was foolish to think that now they were grown up, they would never disagree about anything, but this wasn’t just anything. This was something fundamental. Harry felt appalled at the intolerance, and shamed that he could have brought a child up so badly that he would harbour such views.

But Albus didn’t seem to be bothered in the slightest.

Why was James?

He’d heard it said that people who protested were often fighting their own inclinations in that direction. Could James be gay and be worrying about it? It seemed unlikely. James really had had a string of girl-friends: since he was fourteen or so, there was always a Susan or a Sunita or a Siobhan flitting into and out of his life. James had even moved in with Franke, when he’d left Hogwarts; although she’d moved out after a couple of months. But James hadn’t seemed at all bothered by Kingsley and Snape. Harry wondered if perhaps James hadn’t realised that they were in a relationship: the men made no overt gestures in public, sat at different places at the table, and so on. He felt a horrible tightness in his chest at the thought of how James might behave when he did find out. It would be unbearable if his son was rude to them.

He wondered how he could address the problem.

No obvious solution came to him. It wasn’t as if James was alone in his attitude – after all, that was why Kingsley had left his job and the country.

It made him realise how brave Scorpius and Andy were in their openness. And he felt a bit of hope that things might get better, seeing as how the other youngsters appeared to have accepted their presence socially that evening: it was only when it came to bed arrangements that things had flared up, and even then, it was only James who’d been bothered.

He made himself a big mug of tea. On the kitchen table, in a tin, was some left-over birthday cake, so he helped himself to a big slice and carried the lot into the sitting room, where he eased himself onto the sofa, back against the arm with his legs spread out along the seat, feeling a small and ridiculous sense of pride that he’d manoeuvred into place without spilling a drop of tea.

The cake was good, which meant that Molly senior rather than Hermione had made it. There was lots of chocolate butter-cream between the layers of cake, and Harry cursed as he dropped a bit on the white t-shirt that he was wearing. He put down his tea on the carpet and picked the bit off, but it had already left a brown smear. Too late to worry about it. He finished the rest of the cake and his tea without really thinking about anything.

Feeling pleasantly full, he summoned the blanket that lived on a box at the end of the sofa, and snuggled down.

Might as well sleep here as anywhere.

It was a thought Harry regretted four hours later when he was woken by the early morning sunlight streaming straight in the windows. Birds were chirping happily. He wriggled, trying to get comfortable again, but the persistent pressure in his bladder put paid to that idea. He got up, staggered upstairs to the loo, and delighted in the relief.

Coming out onto the landing, the house was still quiet. Harry was knackered and groggy, so he headed back to bed to catch a couple more hours sleep.

He was rubbing the gunk from the corner of his eye as he swung open his bedroom door.

His head shot up at the unexpected sound.

His hand fell from the door knob.

His jaw dropped open. Even as it did so, he felt ridiculous, but it was out of his control.

His eyes were glued to the tableau in front of him.

Scorpius Malfoy was wide awake, even if his eyes had been shut as Harry entered the room.

He was sitting up against the bed-head, one arm flung back, holding onto the top rail over his shoulder. Absurdly, Harry’s attention was drawn to his underarm hair, which was thick and wiry and blond. Harry had never seen anything like it, even at school when he shared a dorm with Neville and Seamus.

He’d never seen anyone having their cock sucked before, either, and certainly not by another man.

Scorpius seemed speechless too. Andy hadn’t realised that Harry had come in, lying as he was between Scorpius’ legs with his back to the door. His shoulders rippled as his head bobbed up and down, and his bottom, underneath the sheets, undulated against the mattress.

His mattress.

Scorpius shoved a hand at Andy’s head at about the same moment Harry found himself able to move too.

Malfoy’s cock exited the man’s mouth with a distinct pop! as Andy said, “What? I didn’t get you with my teeth, did I?” and Harry said,

“Shit! Sorry! Wrong door!” before slamming it swiftly behind him.

He stood in the corridor for a moment, fighting an urge to gasp out a laugh of pure horrified embarrassment.

He turned and dashed into Ginny’s room – the room he was supposed to be in, he realised, and stood with his back to the door.

Holy shit!

How bloody awful of him to have barged in on them! God, he’d have to apologise! And how cringingly dreadful was that going to be?! What must they be thinking?

He was horribly aware that he was wearing nothing but baggy boxers and a dirty t-shirt. He must have looked ridiculous. He’d better get dressed. He was about to head into the en-suite when he realised that he really could not go into the shared bathroom and start clattering about as if nothing had happened. As if they weren’t on the other side of the door, naked and interrupted and…

And his clean clothes were in that bedroom: he hadn’t thought about getting some out the night before. Not that that mattered, he could wear the same as yesterday.

But he needed a shower. The girls were hopefully still asleep. He’d go and use the one down the corridor. Action. That was it.

He picked up his clothes and hurried down the landing to the bathroom: he really didn’t want to face the boys again until he was dressed and had donned an aura of control and normality.

Under the steamy water of the shower, the images played over in his mind. He could not get over how completely given to the experience Scorpius had been, with his head thrown back and his body stretched out.

Harry didn’t know when wash turned to wank, but he quickly scooted his mind to his favourite do-it-quick fantasy: he had a houseful of guests, and a leisurely play wasn’t on the cards. It was a while since he’d even thought of doing it, what with everything that had been happening. He leant one arm against the tiles, letting the water cascade down his back as he worked himself quickly. He’d never, ever mentioned to anyone, not to Ginny or his friends at Hogwarts, even when the boys had sat around at night in the dorm talking wank stories, that his favourite scenario was the Patil twins. He hadn’t seen them for years, it was a fantasy born the night of the Yule Ball during the Triwizard Tournament. He might have lusted after Cho, but there was something wicked about thinking of those two girls, usually so reserved and elegant, surrounding him, golden brown skin against his white, lithe bodies pressed all around him so that he hardly knew where one started and the other finished, but both of them almost suffocating him with their desire. His hand sped up at the familiar thought, his cock rigid and tense under the shifting flow of his foreskin. He felt his balls tightening, his breath gasping as he got close. Rosmerta, his other guilty fantasy, flashed momentarily into the scene, distracting him, and then suddenly it wasn’t Padma or Parvati or Rosmerta, but Scorpius Malfoy stretching taut against him, hard everywhere, and Harry was spurting, almost doubling over with the force of it, his hand flying on, wringing the last of it out of himself, as his mind leapt back from the image that had just brought him his best orgasm in years.

He stared down at himself, the redness of his cock, familiar and yet suddenly alien, as if the softening flesh in his hand had deliberately chosen to confound him. The water sluiced down his body, cleansing his skin but leaving his thoughts untouched.

The doorbell rang, jarring Harry’s frazzled nerves.

Mitty would answer it.

It rang again, and Harry pulled on his jeans, shoving his arms into his shirt sleeves as he ran down the stairs, remembering that he’d told Mitty to go to see Dinky. He glanced at the clock in the hall, wondering who the hell was ringing on the door before nine on a Saturday morning. He glanced down at the socks still in his hands, and began to shove them into his pocket as he flung open the door.

Head Auror Ramsey Felton stood there, with Franklin and Hencliffe, and three other Aurors, all in full uniform.

“What’s happened?” Harry asked, suddenly terrified. “Is James alright?” He stepped forward, reaching out a hand to Franklin. The socks were still in it.

Auror Franklin’s nose wrinkled.

Felton’s fist closed around his arm.

“You are under arrest, Mr Potter, on suspicion of murdering Mrs Ginevra Potter, nee Weasley, on – ”

“What?”

“You heard,” Felton said roughly. “Hencliffe, take his other arm. Straight to the holding cells, on my nod.”

“Hold on!” Harry said, disbelieving. “This is all – you’re crazy!”

“We’re taking you into custody now, Mr Potter,” Franklin confirmed, her face a mask. “You will be given the opportunity to make your statement at the Ministry.”

“Well, let me just tell my kids – ” Harry tried to turn.

“We’ve witnessed you breaking through Auror wards,” Felton said. “There’s no way we’re stupid enough to let you back in that house. On three. One, two – ”

Harry dropped the socks as the whole party disappeared in a rolling thunderclap of apparition.

Chapter Text

“Did you find him?” Andy asked, as Scorpius reappeared in the bedroom.

“He’s not in the kitchen or sitting room, or the library or parlour. Maybe he went back in his bedroom without us hearing? Should I knock on the door?”

“If he’s in his room, it’s because he doesn’t want to see us,” Andy shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Scorp. You just looked so hot, and I didn’t think – ”

Scorpius went up and sat down next to Andy, who was fastening his shoes as he sat on the edge of the bed.

After Harry’s appearance, they’d both been horrified. Harry had been so welcoming, so accepting of their relationship, that it had been a breath of fresh air in terms of the treatment that many wizards exhibited towards them. But Scorpius had seen the shock on Harry’s face, and to realise that they had abused his hospitality was unconscionable.

“Maybe he’s gone out to avoid us?” he asked.

“Maybe,” Andy nodded. “I’m really sorry,” he said again.

“Hush,” Scorpius turned and took Andy’s guilt-stricken face in his hands, and gave him a gentle kiss. “It wasn’t as if I was objecting, was it? I could’ve said no.”

“Takes a strong man to say no when his cock’s in another’s mouth,” Andy quirked.

“Mmmm. Especially yours,” Scorpius said, his eyes deepening to stormy grey. He pulled back reluctantly. “What do you think we should do?”

“I think we ought to go,” Andy said.

“Just like that?”

“Maybe our presence is really offensive, he might be waiting for us to leave.”

Scorpius nodded.

“You’re probably right. We’ll send a letter of apology as soon as we get back,” he said. “I’m not sure whether he’ll want us to come to any more meetings.”

“Bugger. They’re interesting, aren’t they?” Andy commented. “Makes me feel like we can actually achieve something.”

“Yeah. It’s worrying, this new rubbish. Merlin knows, there’s enough intolerance already without this too. I wanted to be able to help. Good for the family image too,” he said pragmatically.

“It’s taken a battering with your father being accused, but that should blow over, shouldn’t it?” Andy said, giving a sympathetic touch to Scorpius’ arm.

“People will always say that there’s no smoke without fire,” Scorpius shrugged. “We’ve never really come out of the cloud of Grandfather’s dealings.”

“He’s old, isn’t he?” Andy said. “It might have helped, him being there at the trial. People could see that he looked washed up – sorry, Scorp, but you know what I mean.”

Scorpius did know. His grandfather had been a very hazy figure in his life – he had been away in Azkaban for much of his childhood. Scorpius had been eight the first time he had met him. He supposed, thinking back, that the man looked better now than he had then, although he looked a lot older than his years. ‘Washed up’ was a bit harsh – Lucius Malfoy was always dressed impeccably, and held himself ramrod straight, but there was no doubting he wasn’t a patch on the man that Scorpius had seen in the family portrait that had been painted when his father had been a toddler. Lucius had never been invited to their home. For some reason, the Ministry had allowed him to hold onto Malfoy Manor – the property was bound up by ancient trusts, apparently, that even the Ministry had been unable to break, and they had visited him occasionally there. Scorpius had never liked the house, or the visits, or his grandfather. People had spat on him in the street because of his Grandfather, long before they spat on him because he wouldn’t hide his love for Andy. When he had told his father about Andy Boniface, and said he had no intention of hiding the best thing that had ever happened to him, his father had merely said, “Well, I think it’s probably time for you to stop seeing your Grandfather. He’s rather old school,” and Scorpius felt that Andy had given him a double whammy, the brilliance that was Andy’s love and the release from ever visiting the old man ever again. It had been quite a surprise to find Lucius Malfoy carefully seating himself beside him in the court, even if he’d barely spoken a word to him.

They stood up. Andy had already tidied the bed, though he assumed that the family house elf would be changing the sheets, even had Harry not witnessed the scene he had.

It appeared everyone was still asleep, the house quiet as they padded down the stairs.

They could smell the unmistakeable aroma of bacon wafting up from the kitchen, and looking at each other, headed down the next flight to see if Harry was there.

“Mitty is making breakfast,” said a house-elf standing on a chair in front of the stove. She appeared to have a pink tulip perched on the top of her head.

“Oh! Er, we were just about to head off. Is Mr Potter around?”

“Master is not being in the house,” the elf shook her head. “But Mitty is telling him last night that she is preparing breakfasts for Master’s guests.”

Andy looked to Scorpius, unsure what to do.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid we’ve got to go,” Scorpius said, then added, as the elf looked crest-fallen, “it smells fantastic, though.”

Rewarded with a beaming smile, Scorpius added, “Could you give our apologies to Albus for just disappearing? And we’ll be sending a note to Mr Potter.”

“Mitty will be telling the Masters,” she bobbed a sort of curtsey before turning back to deal with the sausages spitting in a second pan.

The two young men headed to the floo and home.

Half an hour later Hermione floo-ed in. “Anyone home?” she called.

Mitty scuttled along to meet her as she came into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Mitty. What a lovely tulip! I do love those ones with the frilly petals. Is it for a special occasion?”

The elf nodded, almost jumping up and down.

“And that is?” Hermione prompted.

“Mitty is getting married to Dinky!”

"Mitty! How exciting! When did this happen?”

“Mitty is telling Dinky this morning about the baby and Dinky is asking her at once!”

“Well, that’s wonderful!” Hermione said, sinking onto one of the kitchen chairs. “And did you say that you is – that you’re having a baby?”

Mitty’s ears flapped as she nodded repeatedly, creating a small rushing sound.

“Goodness! That’s wonderful news! And er…who is Dinky? I didn’t realise another elf lived here too.”

“Dinky is not living here yet, but Master is promising last night to be asking Dinky’s master this morning,” the elf squeaked excitedly.

“Ah. Is Harry out then? Kids all still in bed?”

“Master Harry is out, and Masters Malfoy and Boniface have gone home, and the others has not come down to Mitty’s breakfast yet,” the elf explained, looking a little woebegone.

“After all your hard work? What a pity,” Hermione sympathised. “I don’t suppose you have any tea at the ready, do you, Mitty? I’d love a cup.”

Mitty happily made Hermione tea, which Hermione drank as she wandered into the living room to check everything was neat and tidy. It had been her daughter’s birthday after all, and Harry had been a darling about it. With Rose having left Hogwarts but Hugo still there, she’d wondered how this birthday would work out, but hopefully the kids had all had a relaxing time together. She bent over to pick up the throw that was bundled up on the sofa. Her back twinged a bit. That’s what you got for a night on the tiles at her age, she thought, with a satisfied smirk. Ron had been determined to show her just what she’d been missing, and who was she to complain?

She wondered who’d slept on the sofa, drinking tea and eating birthday cake. One of the boys, no doubt. She folded up the blanket and popped it on the chest where it lived, then took the cup and the chocolate-smeared plate back to the kitchen. She took a number of vials out of her bag and lined them up on the table, writing a small note saying,

‘Hangover Potion: one bottle each maximum.

If it doesn’t cure it, you drank far too much.

Tough.’

Then she called goodbye to Mitty, and headed back to the floo.

“Oh, thank Merlin for Mione!” Fred groaned, coming down with Albus and seeing the bottles on the table. He picked one up, snorted at the note, lifted it in salute, and downed it in one.

His curly black hair blew out into an enormous, straight Afro, before the curls pinged back in and it bounced back to its normal proportions.

“Bloody hell, that looks a powerful batch!” Albus grinned.

Mitty had appeared and he took the pint-sized steaming mug of tea she was holding out to him.

“Thanks Mitty. Oh, how did it go?” he asked enthusiastically.

Fred had sat down and handed a vial towards him.

Albus shook his head. “I didn’t drink as much as you lot: Mitty’s tea will do me,” he said, making the elf beam in pleasure as she started to tell Albus all about it as she dished up breakfast.

Soon, Rose and Molly, Teddy and Victoire had appeared, and they were all eating and drinking gallons of tea, coffee and fruit juice, and tucking into the feast.

“Are Scorp and Andy not up yet?” Molly asked, around a mouthful of toast.

“They is already going,” Mitty said, reloading the toast rack. “Without any breakfast!”

“They missed out on a treat, then, Mitty, more fool them,” Teddy said, causing the elf to bob a happy little bow, before she waddled off.

“Your Dad not here?” Rose asked, once they were full.

“Well, he was going to see your Dad today, and Dinky’s owner,” Albus said.

“Did she say she was having a baby?” Molly asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

The girls had come in at the tail end of the story.

Albus nodded.

“I’ve never seen a baby house-elf. Do you think they’re cute?” Molly said.

“Cute? Are you out of your mind?” Fred guffawed.

“Hey, most babies are cute, it’s some evolutionary thing,” Rose said knowledgeably. She took after her mother.

“Yeah, right,” Fred said disbelievingly. “I bet Hagrid looked an absolute sweetie when he was in his cradle.”

“I don’t think he would have fitted in a cradle,” Albus sniggered.

“Well, I think he looks a sweetie now,” Rose said, “let alone when he was a baby.”

“I’ll tell him that next time we see him,” Albus chuckled. “Maybe he’ll ask you out.”

“Oh my god, do not get me even thinking about that,” Rose laughed.

“You could have cute little giant babies together,” Fred teased. “You’d have to use the bath for a cot.”

“Don’t even go there, I’ve got my legs crossed already,” Rose grimaced. “It can’t be physically possible, can it? With a giant?”

“It was Hagrid’s Mum who was a giant and not the other way round?” Molly asked.

“Ouch! Ouch! Stop talking about it!” Rose squealed.

Laughing, they made more tea. It was early afternoon before the visitors finally floo-ed out.

Albus headed into the sitting room, turned on the television, and watched Chelsea play Arsenal, before falling asleep in the same position his father had been the night before.

It was dark when he woke, the room lit by the changing pattern of lights emitted by the early evening Saturday night talent show. He watched for a minute as a dog ‘sang’ in accompaniment to its owner tap-dancing, wincing in sympathy with the judges. Some people really had no shame.

He reached into the slot in his jeans and withdrew his wand, pointing it at the lights as he stood up. Out in the corridor, it was dark too. He made his way down to the kitchen, flicking on lights as he went.

The kitchen was tidy, empty.

“Mitty?” he called.

The elf appeared at once.

“Is Dad in?”

The elf shook her head, and gave a great sniff.

Albus crouched down. “What’s happened? Wouldn’t Dinky’s owner let him come?” he asked gently.

“Mitty is not knowing,” Mitty’s eyes filled with tears. “Master is not returning yet.”

“Dad’s been out all day?” Albus queried, surprised.

The elf nodded.

“Mitty, I’m sure Dad intended to tell you as soon as he could. He must have been held up somewhere. He had lots to do today after all the help you gave us last night, didn’t he? Why don’t you just pop over to Dinky’s and see if he knows how Dad got on with Mr Whatsit.”

“Mr Whatsit?” the elf asked, wide-eyed.

“Dinky’s owner. Thomas Whatever-it-was.”

“Not, Thomas Whateveritwas, Master Thomas Wilkes,” the elf corrected.

“That’s the chappie! Will it be alright for you to go there now?”

“No one will be knowing,” Mitty nodded, “just Dinky and me and Toaster.”

“Come back at once and let me know, will you?” Albus said, before the elf disappeared.

Mitty nodded and was gone with a pop!

Albus stood up, stretching his legs, and strolled over to the pantry. Soon, he was making himself a cheese sandwich. He took a can of cola from the cool cupboard. He was really glad that his Dad had incorporated so many of the good things of the Muggle world into their lives. There was nothing like cola in the Wizarding World.

Mitty popped back.

“How’d it go?” Albus asked, round the bite of cheese and pickle that he’d just taken.

“Dinky is saying Master Harry has not come,” the elf said miserably. “Dinky is thinking Master Harry Potter isn’t wanting another house elf, but Dinky is a good worker, he is, and - ”

“I’m sure he is, and I’m sure Dad hasn’t changed his mind,” Albus cut in quickly. “Is Dinky sure Dad hasn’t been there?”

“He is keeping his eyes and ears open all day,” Mitty nodded.

“You’re not to worry about it,” Albus said firmly. “Dad was going to see Ron too, and maybe he got caught up. I’ll just go and firecall. No worrying, alright?”

But Albus was beginning to worry himself. Dad knew how upset Mitty would get, and it wasn’t like him to leave anyone hanging when he’d made a promise.

“Albus! Hi,” Rose answered, when he put the floo call through. “Aren’t you watching the TV? That talent thing is on.”

“Yeah, I know, and it’s as crap as ever. Is your Dad there, Rose?”

“Sure, come through.”

Albus stepped out into the smart modern house where Rose’s family lived. It was very unlike most Wizarding homes, with clean lines and no nooks and crannies, and Albus was glad that he didn’t live there. Ron came into the room, beer in hand.

“Hi Albus. Whassup?”

“Dad’s not here?”

“No, why?”

“What time did he go?”

“We haven’t seen him today. We were only over at your place last night. Why?”

“Something’s up,” Albus said, worry suddenly bursting into life.

“Mione!” Ron called. “Turn that TV off, Rose,” he added.

“What is it?” Hermione asked, a pinny on and flour down the front.

Ron looked to Albus.

“I haven’t seen Dad all day – ”

“Not gone off to Severus’ again, has he?” Hermione asked.

Albus hadn’t thought of that. He knew his Dad had been over there a couple of times in the evenings, as well as that weekend, but –

“He said he was coming to see you today, Ron. And Dinky’s owner. He hasn’t been to either.”

“Who’s Dinky?” Ron asked.

“The elf Albus’ house-elf wants to marry,” Hermione said, sitting down.

Everyone looked at her. “I talked to her this morning when I dropped the Hangover Potion over. She’s pregnant. She thought Harry was over at Dinky’s owner then. You mean, he never went? You checked?”

Albus nodded. “I fell asleep this afternoon, after watching the footie, and woke up half an hour ago or so. Mitty was all upset and I sent her over to check. He hasn’t been.”

“Maybe it went out of his mind?” Ron suggested.

“It wouldn’t, not something like that, and anyway, he was coming to see you too and he hasn’t. And it was important.”

“What’s happened?”

“We were talking to Mitty last night and she told us she’d let the three men in that killed Mum.”

“What?”

Albus nodded. “They told her they were reporters from the Prophet. She hadn’t seen them before, but she checked Mum’s diary, saw she had an interview and let them in.”

“And didn’t do anything to stop them killing her Mistress?” Hermione looked stunned.

“She left them in the house. Mum had instructed her that she was to go over to visit her brother when she had Malfoy round. You know, if they were upstairs,” Albus said, blushing.

Hermione patted his hand.

“She hadn’t realised anything,” Albus defended the elf. “She just made a passing comment about them. Dad said he’d ask you to bring a photo of the guy in St Mungo’s to see if she recognised him. Darien Poulter. He wouldn’t have not come to see you.”

“You’re right, something’s wrong,” Ron said, face grim. “Who saw him last, d’you know?”

“Well, we all pretty much saw him when we went to bed,” Rose said. She’d been sitting quietly up till that point. “I don’t know if Andy or Scorpius saw him this morning, they left before the rest of us got up.”

“What about James? Have you spoken to him?” Hermione asked.

Albus shook his head. “He had to work today, so I don’t suppose he would have seen Dad anyway.”

“He might have seen your Dad before work,” Ron suggested, “if they were both up early.”

Albus shook his head. “He went home last night. To his flat. But I’ll call him anyway, he needs to know.”

“There might be nothing to worry about,” Ron said, putting his hand on Albus’ shoulder. “I think we’d better call all the youngsters who stayed over, though, just in case anyone saw anything. Better still, get everyone together. Albus, go back to your place, and get James, Andy and Scorpius to come over. Who else stayed the night?”

“Fred and Molly and me,” Rose said. “And Teddy and Victoire.”

“Okay, we’ll call them, and join you in ten minutes. Alright?”

Albus nodded.

“Don’t worry about it too much,” Ron said again. “He’s a grown man. He might have nipped off to do all sorts of things. If he’s at home when you get back, just floo call. Did you leave a note about where you were?”

Albus shook his head.

“There you are, then,” Ron said. “Neither did he. It could be nothing.”

But none of them believed that.

They were all at Grimmauld Place fifteen minutes later, except for Teddy, who was working the night shift.

“But it doesn’t matter,” Victoire said, to Ron, “he was with me.”

“No, I mean in case he saw Harry in the night, or first thing,” Ron said.

“He didn’t,” Victoire said easily. “He was with me all the time.”

“Well, you can’t know if he went to the loo in the night – ”

Hermione coughed.

“What?” Ron turned to look at her.

“I think Victoire is telling you they shared Teddy’s room, yes?” Hermione asked her niece.

“Of course,” Victoire was unconcerned.

Ron hated the blush that crept up his cheeks. And feeling an idiot. It was obviously the French influence, being so easy talking about sex, he thought. He didn’t know how he’d feel when Rose started bringing men home. Were parents supposed to allow their children to sleep together? Even if it helped their magic? Which he wasn’t so convinced about now, although he wasn’t complaining about things being back on track with Hermione, either. Of course, they’d done it before they were married, but there was a lot of sneaking about up all the winding stairs in the Burrow. Added to the excitement, really, that sense of naughtiness and fear of being caught. There was no way Rose could sneak anyone into her room at home, with the layout of the house. He’d have to know, and consent. He hadn’t really thought about Harry facing such decisions before he’d had to. Of course, Teddy was much older, and Harry had boys first. But then, as Teddy was much older, had he been having girls to stay over for years? At Harry’s?

Damn, he’d have to talk to Harry about that later.

“Right,” Ron said. “Okay, well, we’ll get hold of him later if we need to. Let’s just get some facts. It could be that there’s nothing wrong at all, but let’s just go over who last saw Harry. Now, Albus said you all saw him when you went up to bed?”

“He showed us our rooms,” Molly agreed. “I didn’t see him after that.”

“Did anyone see him after that?” Ron asked. “Either last night or this morning?”

Scorpius and Andy looked at each other.

“We did,” Scorpius said. Then thought. “Actually, did you see him, Andy? Really see him?”

“I heard him. But I had my back to the door,” he agreed.

“Did he say anything important?” Albus asked. “Where he was going? Anything?”

“No, nothing like that,” Scorpius said, his cheeks turning pink.

Ron looked at him. “Tell us exactly what he said, as best you remember it. It might be more important than you know.”

“It wasn’t,” Scorpius said.

“Look, I know this seems silly, but honestly, little things might matter. And you’re wasting time here. It doesn’t matter if you don’t remember the exact words – ”

“He said,” Scorpius said tightly, “’Shit! Sorry! Wrong door!’”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Er, what?” Ron said. “Can you give us some context? What door was he talking about?”

“Oh Merlin,” Albus said, “he used the wrong door? From the bathroom?”

“What? No, he wasn’t in the bathroom.”

“He came in from the corridor?” Albus’ eyebrows drew together.

Andy nodded.

“Into where?” Ron asked. “Why was it the wrong door?”

“Dad knew we were having lots of people to stay, so he moved into Mum’s room last night,” Albus said. “And put Scorpius and Andy into his room.”

“You mean we turfed him out of his bed?” Andy said in embarrassment. “And then - ”

“He said he was moving back in,” Scorpius interrupted.

“Yeah, but he’s slept in the other room for years,” James said. “I can see why he’d get the wrong door. But why was he in the corridor?”

“I think he might have just had a shower,” Molly offered tentatively.

They all looked at her.

“There was a T-shirt and boxers on the floor in the bathroom, and a wet towel,” she said, embarrassed.

“Why would he shower down there?” Albus wondered. “He had his own bathroom.”

“Was the T-shirt white?” Scorpius asked.

“Yes,” Molly nodded.

“That’s what he was wearing,” Scorpius confirmed, “so he hadn’t had a shower when he came in. His hair wasn’t wet either,” he added, thinking about it.

“What time was this?” Ron asked.

Scorpius and Andy looked at each other. “Around eight?” Andy said, and Scorpius nodded.

“And you didn’t see him again?”

“No, and we looked around for him,” Andy said.

Ron’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

Scorpius’ hands clenched together. “He caught us in an – embarrassing – moment. We wanted to apologise.”

“Embarrassing?”

Hermione kicked him under the table.

“Oh!” Ron’s flush returned full force. “Right. Okay.”

James mumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?” Ron was on him like a snake.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing is nothing, James. What did you say?” Ron demanded.

“It was nothing,” James said mulishly.

“He said, ‘It serves him right,’” Molly, who was sitting next to James, repeated. “What does that mean?”

James sighed. “Thanks for that, Molly. I’ll remember that little favour.” He turned back to Ron. “Look, Dad and I had an argument last night – ”

“You did? Is that why you slammed out of the house?” Albus stared at his brother.

“I didn’t slam out of the house,” James snarled.

“Suit yourself,” Albus shrugged disbelievingly. “What did you and Dad argue about? Maybe it’s important, James,” he urged, when he could see his brother’s reluctance. “What served him right? Not Mum dying?”

“Of course not Mum dying!” James snapped. “Where the hell did that come from? Look, I argued with him about you putting those two into the same room. You were going to put them into the green room. Dad shouted at me. I – I might have said something about Mum…. He was scary, his magic started swirling around him. So if he walked in on them and had a shock, it served him bloody well right. Alright?”

“Merlin’s knickers, you must have had a bad day at work to be in such a foul mood,” Albus said angrily. “Here I am worried sick about Dad and you – ”

“You think I’m not worried?” James screeched. “I can’t believe you didn’t call me earlier!”

“I didn’t realise earlier, twat!”

“Your father’s magic rose?” Hermione interrupted. “You could feel it?”

James turned to her, glad of the chance to get himself under control. “Yes.”

“And have you felt it before?”

He shook his head.

“Nothing broke, though, right?” Ron said.

They all turned to stare at him.

“Forget I said that,” Ron said. “Right, let’s just get this timeline straight. You were all here last evening, and after we went, Harry and Albus had a conversation with Mitty, yes?”

Albus nodded.

“What about?” James interrupted.

“Mitty let in the murderers. And she’s having a sprog.”

The revelation caused a riot around the table.

“We’ll come back to that,” Ron said quickly. “Let’s just get this timeline. Every minute we’re wasting is a minute where we don’t know what’s happening to Harry,” he added, which shut everyone up very effectively. “What time, Albus?”

Between about 12.30 and 1.30, I’d say.”

“I went up to see Dad at about 2.15,” James volunteered, finally realising the seriousness of the situation. “I suppose we argued for five, ten minutes. Something like that. Dad shouted after me to walk home; told me I needed to clear my head. I think he probably wanted to make sure I didn’t floo or apparate,” he added, as realisation dawned.

“Sensible. Anyone see him after that? Before eight when the boys saw him?”

Everyone shook their heads.

“So why did he open the door from the corridor? Why was he out there?” Ron mused.

“Oh!” Hermione said suddenly. “I picked up a blanket and mug and cake plate from the sitting room this morning. Do you think maybe he couldn’t sleep in Ginny’s room and went down for a snack and a kip on the sofa?”

“There was a smear on his T-shirt,” Scorpius said. “Could have been chocolate cake.”

“Well, that all makes sense,” Ron said, with some relief. “He’d only had a few hours sleep; no wonder he opened his own door rather than the other room. So now we need to know what happened after eight. No, after he’d showered. He was supposed to come and see me and Mitty’s boyfriend’s owner, neither of which he did. Did he tell anyone else of any other plans?”

Everyone shook their heads.

“And you say you looked everywhere for him?” He turned back to Scorpius and Andy. “What rooms did you look in? And what time did you go?”

“We looked in the downstairs rooms – parlour, sitting room, library, then we went down to the kitchen. The house elf was there, and she said Harry was out, so we left.”

“I saw her in the kitchen around ten,” Hermione said. “She said Harry was seeing her fiance’s owner. She’d got engaged that morning, she said.”

“Dad told her to go and tell Dinky this morning,” Albus confirmed, “and he told her he’d try and sort out for Dinky to come and live with us. That was why he was going to see Thomas Wilkes.”

“But he never got there,” Ron said. He paused. “And Mitty was out of the house this morning. We need to ask her what time she went. She was back cooking breakfast by – what time would you say, boys?”

“Hold on,” Andy said, sitting forward, an urgent look on his face. “If the elf wasn’t here, who answered the doorbell?”

“What doorbell?” Scorpius looked at his lover.

“The doorbell rang while you were in the shower.” He looked around. “Didn’t anyone else hear it?”

“I was out to the world,” Rose said.

“Me too,” Molly said. “Rose had to bully me out of bed at half eleven.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Fred said. “Sorry.”

“You can’t hear the doorbell on the top floor,” Albus explained. “Mum rigged it. There was a spell of Muggles playing pranks by ringing it late at night when we were kids, and it used to wake us up. There’s no way you can get down fast enough anyway, so we never bothered to change it. Hardly anyone comes to the door.”

“Right, I’m just going to check.”

Everyone began to stand up.

“No, wait here,” Ron ordered. “I need to check for spells.”

Five minutes later he returned.

“Apparition spells, a whole cluster. And this.” He dropped a sock onto the table. “I think Harry was leaving us a message.”

There was a moment of silent shock.

“Oh my god, he’s been taken! And it’s been all day,” Rose had her hands over her face.

“Ministry or Kingsley?” Hermione said to Ron.

He hesitated a moment. “Kingsley.”

“That’s what I thought,” she nodded.

She swung round. “Albus, James, what’s Kingsley’s floo address?”

The brothers looked at each other.

“We don’t know,” they said, realising the fact.

“You could owl,” Fred suggested.

“Takes too long and I think he’s got them blocked,” Ron said. He looked at Hermione. “We ought to get Snape too. You know what I’m thinking?”

“There before you, love. You do Shacklebolt, I’ll do Snape. That ought to guarantee they’ll both get the message, wherever they are.”

Hermione pulled out her wand. Her brain was frantic with worry. It threw her back to the old days, to have to perform when fear was eating at her. She shut her eyes, breathed deeply, and thought of the previous night. “Expecto Patronum!”

An otter leapt from her wand. Quickly, she gave it instructions and sent it on its way. Next to her, a misty Jack Russell terrier gave a yip! before sitting obediently at Ron’s feet, tongue lolling from its mouth, as Ron gave it its orders. In a moment, it had bounded across the room and gone.

Ron and Hermione looked up to see all the children staring at them in amazement.

“What the hell were they?” Fred asked.

“Patronus messengers,” Hermione said.

“Nothing can stop them, and they’re fast,” Ron said.

“I’ve never seen anything like them before,” Rose looked excited.

“They’re difficult,” Ron said. “Even when you’ve got the knack.”

“When did you learn to do that? Did they teach you that at Hogwarts in your day?” Scorpius asked.

Hermione laughed. “Harry taught us.”

“Dad did?” James queried.

“Dumbledore’s Army,” Ron said. “Taught a load of us.”

“But – you were kids then, weren’t you?” Albus frowned.

“Fifteen. Harry was fifteen.” He turned to Hermione. “He learnt that spell when he was thirteen. Can you believe it? I’ve never really thought how amazing that was! We all just expected him to be able to do anything, because he was Harry Potter. And he usually bloody did.”

“I thought a Patronus charm was for getting rid of Dementors,” Andy said.

“It is,” Hermione agreed. “Lethifolds too, but they’re brilliant for carrying messages. The Order of the Phoenix used them.”

They heard the flare of the floo in the parlour.

The next moment, Snape and Shacklebolt strode in.

“You called?”

“It’s Harry,” Ron said. “He’s been taken.”

Chapter Text

Harry stumbled as they landed, knocking into the Auror holding his arm, who stepped on Harry’s foot as he righted them both.

“Ow! Shit!” Harry yelped.

“Mind your tongue,” snapped the man, his grip on Harry’s bicep tightening painfully.

Harry glanced down at his naked foot, expecting to see blood. Fortunately there was none, but he sure as hell would have a whopper of a bruise there.

He shivered. It was cold. Had he ever been less prepared for anything? He had no socks or shoes, no robes. No –

“Wand,” snapped the Auror, holding his hand out.

“I haven’t got it,” Harry said, instantly relieved that he’d been stupid enough not to have it on him when he’d answered the door.

“What idiot answers the door without a wand?” scoffed one of the others, reflecting his thoughts.

“One who’s disturbed in the shower and is half-dressed?” Harry said sarcastically.

“Don’t you take that tone with me,” the Auror responded.

“Search him,” Felton said. He’d let Harry’s arm go the minute they’d arrived, and had been having a word with the officer on duty at the desk.

“Where the bloody hell d’you think I’m hiding my wand?” Harry argued. “Hey! You bastards!”

One of the Aurors had flicked a spell at him, and Harry found himself butt-naked.

The Aurors walked round him, as if he was some exhibit in a gallery.

“For fuck’s sake!” Harry snapped.

Auror Franklin was standing directly in front of him, her gaze tracking slowly down his body.

He stuck his hands over his bits, mortified.

“Alright, alright, you’ve seen I haven’t got it! Give me my damn clothes back!”

“Search him, Hencliffe,” Felton said.

The Auror who had broken the news of his wife’s death to him pulled him over to the counter. Harry stood with his back to it, glaring into faces which stared disdainfully back at him. How had he fallen into this hell?

The duty officer was handing something to Hencliffe. Harry turned his head to see the man pulling on thin gloves. His heart literally leapt in his chest, and his balls scurried up into his guts.

“What the – ”

“Open your mouth,” the Auror said emotionlessly, grabbing hold of his chin and yanking it down.

Harry could not believe it.

His jaw was released.

“Stand with your legs apart and arms stretched out.”

Harry did so, feeling like the sketch by Da Vinci of the man in a circle. He’d got a circle of his own, with the duty officer and counter behind and the Aurors in front. Well, let them look at his tackle! He had nothing to be ashamed of.

Bastards.

Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of the officer handing something to Hencliffe.

“Name?” the officer asked him.

Harry half-turned round to answer, not wanting to put his back to the horde. “Potter. Harry Potter,” he said.

As if they didn’t know that.

The man was filling out a long curlng form.

“Address?” Harry could hear a slight tremor in the man’s voice.

“12, Grimmauld Place, London. Do I have to be fucking naked to answer these questions?”

He felt a shove on his back. His hands were slapped onto the counter; a leg kicked his ankles apart. A hand gripped his shoulder.

“You have to be naked to be searched, prisoner,” Hencliffe snarled in his ear, and the next moment, Harry felt his arse invaded.

“Fucking hell!” he yelled. “Get your fucking – what the – you think I keep my wand up my fucking arse?” Tears sprang into his eyes.

The Auror had removed his finger. Harry whipped round so that his back was to the counter. His legs were shaking. He could feel his magic rising in a tide. He knew instantly he needed to control it, to hide it.

Hencliffe peeled off the thin glove with obvious distaste, letting everyone see the hint of faecal matter smeared into the lube on it. Harry wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

“What else did you expect to find up my arse?” he went on the offensive. “You think I shit gold and diamonds?”

One of the younger Aurors sniggered. Felton’s stare cut off the noise instantly. The young man straightened, standing firmly to attention, eyes ahead.

“Date of birth?” the duty officer said. Harry could hear him trying to keep his tone flat.

“31st of July, 1980. The date’s still a national holiday, when I last looked,” Harry sneered.

“Marital status?”

Harry’s jaw dropped.

The duty officer looked up, his expression impatient. Realisation dawned. “I’ll put down widower,” he said, hastily.

It was like a bizarre nightmare.

Forty minutes later he found himself in a cell, wearing a rough grey prisoner’s robe.

“Fenton, I want to see my solicitor, Hermione Weasley,” he demanded of the Head Auror. Requests to send a message to his family had been ignored completely.

“You will address me as Sir, Prisoner 987429,” Fenton said. He slammed the door shut, and watched as three Aurors locked it and cast extra wards. Then he raised his head to meet Harry’s furious gaze. “I wouldn’t think about making any more complaints, if I were you,” he said coldly, and strode away.

Harry sank down onto the bed. The room was identical to the one he’d seen Malfoy in, containing a narrow iron-framed bed with a thin mattress and a thinner blanket, a table and chair, fixed to the floor, and a toilet and basin in the corner. Identical, except that everything was open to view through the railings that made up one wall.

His legs felt shaky and his bowels felt funny. He’d never had a finger up his arse and he wondered if it normally made you feel like you needed the loo, or whether that was the remnants of the lube which felt all slick and squicky as he moved. More likely fear, he thought with self mockery.

His tummy rumbled. He didn’t hold out much hope for being given a nice hearty breakfast.

Well, he had gone without food for extended periods at the Dursleys, where his prison had been smaller and without facilities at all.

He could endure.

Twenty four hours later, he found his confidence shaken. Before, when he’d been a boy locked away under the stairs, he’d had no hope, no expectation of anyone releasing him, or of kindness from the Dursleys.

This time, he’d found himself counting out the time: how long it would be before anyone would realise he’d gone, who would realise first, what they might do to find him. His brain played out a dozen different scenarios.

He wished he hadn’t shouted at James.

He couldn’t regret what he’d said to him, but he shouldn’t have let it escalate into a shouting match. And he felt such a failure that it had even been an issue.

What if he was never found, and the last thing James had of him was a bloody argument?

He couldn’t let himself think that.

With nothing else to do, and having gone over timescales again and again, his mind wandered to the events just before he left. He’d been locking them away, trying not to think about what had happened.

That he’d had Scorpius Malfoy’s image in his head when he’d come.

Maybe it was the fact that he’d argued with James about them, and then he’d worried about it before sleeping that had made that happen. That would be logical, wouldn’t it?

But he couldn’t deny that the sight of the two men had been stunning. Shocking, yes. But...scorching! Which was awful, because he was twice their age. They went to school with his children! He ought to be disgusted with himself. He was disgusted with himself, and yet….the gossip magazines always featured the hottest young things, didn’t they? Beautiful young witches and wizards. It was natural to admire beauty, wasn’t it? And Scorpius Malfoy had a beautiful body, there was no denying that. How could such mutual delight and lithe bodies be anything but a pleasure to look at? Who could fail to enjoy having their cock sucked, whoever was doing it? Harry hadn’t experienced it for years, but he certainly hadn’t forgotten how brilliant it was.

Harry shifted on the bed. The movement made him aware of his arse: it was as if he could still feel that bastard’s finger up it. It had hurt like fucking buggery. He snorted to himself. Bloody appropriate choice of words! But – did Scorpius and Andy do that? Did Snape and Kingsley? And a cock was a mile bigger than a finger. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could enjoy it.

He’d stick with being straight, thank you very much.

When no-one had come by lunch-time on the second day, his spirits plummeted, and he began revising his thoughts. The Aurors would have told his family that he’d been taken into custody, wouldn’t they? That he’d been charged with murdering Ginny? They’d be so shocked, so hurt. He was furious. Please heaven, it had been kept out of the papers.

By late afternoon, he began to worry.

They wouldn’t believe the charges, would they?

He was sitting on the toilet the next morning, exceptionally glad for the coverage provided by the robe, when he heard footsteps clumping along the corridor, and the jingle of keys. In a split-second decision on whether to be seen wiping his arse or covered sitting on the loo, he remained where he was.

A minute later, he was staring into the face of the warder he’d complained about, the one who’d been on duty and offered him some ‘time alone’ with Malfoy.

The man he’d punched.

Shit.

“Sitting pretty, are we, Prisoner?” the man sneered.

Harry said nothing.

“You will stand to attention, Prisoner!” he barked.

Harry had a moment of deliberation. Calmly, he wiped his arse, stood up, washed his hands and flushed the loo, then walked over to stand in front of the furious-looking warder.

“Oh, we’ll wipe that smile off your face,” the man said angrily.

“I don’t believe I was smiling,” Harry retorted, “having very little to smile about, given that I’m here despite my innocence, and denied access to my solicitor.”

“Oh, Mr High and Bloody Mighty! Think you’re so different to everyone else, don’t you? You need taking down a peg or two, that’s what you need.”

“I need to see my solicitor, is what I need and what I am being deprived of, despite my legal rights – ”

“Legal rights?” the man chuckled. “No-one down in this section has legal rights. Dangerous criminals is what we house down here. Maximum security. Nobody bloody knows you’re here, so don’t even think of making demands on me, matey. Down here, you do what I say, when I say it, understand?”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Think you’re funny do you?” the man snarled. “Oh, you’ll learn. You’ll learn soon enough. When I arrive, you stand to attention. If you’ve shit hanging out your arse, I don’t bloody care. You stand to attention, right here. You shut up, and you stand up. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” Harry said.

“Lunch is suspended for your cheek,” the man said, and stormed away.

Harry stared after the horrid little man.

To be truthful, given the state he’d seen Malfoy in, he was surprised that he hadn’t been subjected to the sort of beatings Malfoy had suffered, but there had been no Aurors invading his cell. There didn’t appear to be any other prisoners within sight or earshot. It had been totally quiet.

It hadn’t occurred to him that the solitude was supposed to be unsettling him.

Now, he could not believe that being deprived of lunch was going to be the limit of his punishment.

Harry felt a lot better that the warder had let slip that no-one knew where he was. At least it gave him hope that his family and friends hadn’t abandoned him because they believed him guilty, and he had confidence that they would find him.

In the night, Harry woke, sweating. His stomach was wracked with appalling cramps.

He spent the next several hours on the toilet, but with his body vomiting and evacuating at the same time, the area around the lavatory was disgusting. In the early stages, when he’d had time between the cramps, he’d banged on the bars, calling for a bucket.

No one came.

He’d never felt so ill in his life.

At breakfast time, the warder appeared. Harry was sitting on the toilet, slumped and retching.

“I thought I told you to stand to attention when I came,” the warder barked.

Harry raised his head disbelievingly.

The man stared at him.

Slowly, Harry rose to his feet. He staggered over to the bars.

“Fucking hell, you stink,” the warder held his nose.

“I’ve run out of toilet paper, and I need a bucket,” Harry said.

“You’ve had your week’s ration of paper, and we don’t allow excess furniture,” the warder smiled.

“For fuck’s sake, I’ve got a tummy bug,” Harry yelled, doubling over as the cramps hit again. He turned and dashed to the loo.

“I’ll allow you a clean up.”

“Thanks,” Harry bit out, his head propped with one hand as the watery stools splashed from his body into the bowl.

He was almost blasted from the toilet as he was hit with the force of a high-powered hose. The blasting water churned up the vomit lying puddled on the floor, splashing it up his robes and around the cell. He fell off the toilet as the freezing spray hit him square in the chest.

It went on interminably.

Harry lay on the floor, unable to do anything. His body hadn’t stopped shitting.

He fell asleep there.

There was no lunch, and he couldn’t have eaten it anyway.

He slept through the afternoon, lying on the floor. The sound of the door clanking woke him. It was a different warder, who just shoved a plate of food in and scurried away.

Harry couldn’t eat, but he knew he needed to drink. Carefully, he knelt on all fours and staggered over to the sink. The tin mug had been blasted across the room. He fetched it. His body felt absolutely appalling. He couldn’t believe that 24 hours of sickness could be so draining. No water came from the tap.

He made his way across to the bars, and started banging the cup on them.

No-one came.

By morning, Harry was seriously thirsty, and shivering. Everything in the room had been soaked by the blasting water, including his clothes and the bed. But at least his stomach cramps had died down.

When his breakfast was pushed through the bars, he told the night-man that there was no water. The man shrugged, but brought him a bottle. Harry thanked him.

He ate the cold porridge, and drank half the water.

When the warder showed up, Harry came and stood at the railings.

“Your manners are improving, I see. I thought they would.”

“There’s no water in the tap,” Harry said.

The warder glanced down. “You’ve been given bottled water: what’s the problem?”

Harry glared.

“Ah, you need a wash. I thought you still stank.”

Two minutes later, Harry was hosed again.

That afternoon, the cramps started again.

By the evening, lying in faeces and vomit, Harry appreciated that the warder had found a very effective way to retaliate. There’d be no broken bones, but his dignity had been stripped from him, and he was in agony.

Many hours later, Harry realised, through the blur that his thoughts had become, that perhaps the warder’s intention was not just to humiliate but to actually kill him. He was pretty sure that although the poison had started in the food, it was now in the water. Harry would dehydrate to death if he didn’t drink, and dehydrate to death if he did. He was so cold that his teeth clacked. His robes were covered in vomit and shit. The warder had caught Harry dipping his mug into the toilet bowl to try and get water untainted with poison: consequently the water to the cistern had been cut off as well. Harry was surrounded by the stink and stick of his own body waste. Sucking on his robe eased the dryness of his mouth a little, but the dawning realisation came that he would soon be dead, and it was absurd to think that somewhere above him, ordinary people were wandering about in the Ministry. Somewhere up above, Ron worked. Was he out somewhere else looking for Harry? Had his own department deceived him?

What he needed, he thought, his mind wandering, was one of Snape’s bezoars.

Harry smiled, remembering Snape’s first ever lecture.

He remembered saving Ron with a bezoar.

Why hadn’t he always kept one in his pocket?

He stretched out his arm along the stone floor. His body was spasming with the cold. He thought of Snape, and the warm Spanish sunlight. He tried closing his eyes, and remembering what it felt like on his skin, whilst he was toasty and snug in the hammock. Kingsley was bending over Snape, and they were kissing. He smiled, glad that they had found such happiness. He wished Snape knew where he was, and was bringing him a bezoar and some Spanish sun.

He looked along the line of his hand, and with his mind filled with the thought, pushed. The heavy anti-magic wards felt like a tight corset around him, pushing in as he pushed out, but in the palm of his hand, he felt the magic forming. He looked at it, his mind dizzy and vague, and told himself that he needed that bezoar, and he needed Snape.

He wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light. It was so cold that his breath was forming little puffs of smoke. But there, in his hand, the smoke looked like a miniature stag. He smiled at it, and told it to go and fetch Snape, and a bezoar, and sunshine.

Chapter Text

“He’s a prime suspect,” Snape said.

“What the fuck? Dad?” Albus leapt to his feet.

“What the bloody hell are you saying?” James too was standing, fists clenched, the two boys a united front.

“Please,” Kingsley said, in his calming tones. “Severus is not saying your father killed your mother – ”

“Good, because I’ll knock his teeth out – ” James interrupted.

“Do stop this posturing,” Snape said cuttingly, “and face facts.”

“He’s right,” Hermione put in.

“Mione!” James said, in the voice of one betrayed.

“No one here thinks Harry did any such thing,” Hermione said gently, “but the fact is, in by far the majority of cases, when a woman has been killed, her husband is the murderer. With Malfoy –Draco - cleared, he’s the obvious suspect.”

“But Dad wouldn’t kill Mum! He wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

“I’m sorry to shake you out of your cosy world view, but your father has a record of violence – ” Snape started.

“What?”

“Albus,” Ron said patiently, “he killed Voldemort.”

“But that’s different!”

“It is, but it shows him capable of it,” Hermione sighed.

“Not to mention all the others.” Ron rubbed the back of his neck.

“What others?” Scorpius asked.

Hermione and Ron glanced at each other. Hermione took over. “Well, lots of people thought Harry was responsible for the death of a boy called Cedric Diggory. It was Voldemort of course, but at the time no-one believed him. If they really are holding Harry, they’ll bring it up. And then there was what happened with Professor Quirrell, and the troll, and Vincent Crabbe died whilst he was there – well, so were we, but anything and everything will be used against him if they want to argue that he’s capable of murder. And it all says he is. Well, he is. He had to be,” Hermione finished.

“Uncle Harry?” Molly said, sounding strangled.

“We all did things back then. Your grandmother killed Bellatrix Lestrange,” Ron said sharply. “It was war.”

“Grandma?” Fred gasped.

“For Merlin’s sake, they must teach you bloody history at school!”

“No one mentioned Grandma killing anyone!”

“Well, they should have,” Shacklebolt said. “Molly Weasley took out one of the most dangerous and sadistic Death Eaters single-handed, in a duel in front of dozens of people. She was magnificent. You do know she was awarded the Order of Merlin?”

It was obvious they didn’t know.

Scorpius sat there, wishing he could shrink into the background. He knew the name of Bellatrix Lestrange, of course. She had been his grandmother’s sister. As if it wasn’t bad enough that his grandfather had been Voldemort’s right hand man. His father had only mentioned her once though, when Scorpius had been about ten and looking at the family tree, and said it was a nice name. His father had said grimly, “She was completely mad. Mad, sadistic and powerful. If I ever get like that, Scorpius, kill me at once. I can’t hear her name without shuddering.”

Scorpius wondered once again if he should be there. This morning, he’d thought they’d have to stop coming because they’d embarrassed Mr Potter, abused his hospitality. James obviously didn’t want him there. Now, it was a much bigger issue. His father’s freedom had led to Mr Potter’s loss of it. If Harry hadn’t got his father set free, this would never have happened. Not that his father didn’t deserve to be free, but what else could James and Albus be thinking?

He shifted on his seat.

Shacklebolt turned to look at him. “Was there something you wanted to say, Scorpius?”

“I – I wondered if people might feel better if I wasn’t here,” he said. He was aware of James turning so that Scorpius couldn’t see his face, though Albus, at least, was looking at him with puzzlement. As was Kingsley. “If Mr Potter hadn’t got my father his freedom, he wouldn’t be in this position,” he explained.

There was a hubbub of outcry.

“You can’t think that!”

“Of course we want you here!”

“Dad got your father out because it was the right thing to do,” Albus said. “Your father was innocent. That’s all there is to it. Don’t be such a dick.”

Scorpius snorted. He wished he’d known Albus better in school: the guy was funny, no nonsense. Kind.

“Ron?” Hermione said.

“What?” Ron flashed a quick look at Scorpius, and away again. “Oh, nothing.”

“Spit it out, Mr Weasley,” Snape sighed. “We’ll waste time if you pussy-foot around. I’m sure Scorpius can bear whatever insult you’re thinking of throwing,” he looked across at the boy.

The mocking words bolstered Scorpius. Which was what Severus had intended, he had no doubt.

“I was just wondering if Malfoy – Draco,” he looked across at Scorpius, “could have done some sort of double bluff. But then I discounted it.”

“Yes, the thought had occurred to me too,” Snape agreed.

Ron looked as if he’d been given a pat on the back rather than an anticipated put-down.

“Fleetingly,” Snape qualified. “I have the utmost confidence in my invention. What we saw as a result of the Veritaserox investigation was undoubtedly real.”

“And my father loved her,” Scorpius put in. “And he’s an honourable man.”

Ron looked away, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Scorpius stood up. “Look, I know you and Dad have history. But my father was willing to die – and willing to leave me, to honour a promise, to honour your sister – ” He found his voice escalating, and bit his words off, furious with himself. He’d never meant to let anyone know how much it had hurt that his father had been willing to abandon him, knowing himself to be innocent.

Andy stood up beside him. Scorpius started pushing his way through to the door.

Albus blocked his path. “We know your Dad’s honourable,” he said. “He wrote to our Dad, after the Veritaserox. To tell him that he’d keep his promise. The only reason he found that difficult,” he went on, “was you. He begged Dad to keep his promise to look after you when he was gone. Which meant when Dad had visited him in prison, what had mattered to him was you, getting Dad to make that promise to care for you. Don’t think it was easy for him to even think of leaving you, Scorp.”

Scorpius swallowed. “I can look after myself,” he said, evading the real issue.

“Your Dad knew that,” Hermione said. “He said it in the letter.”

“You’ve all read Dad’s letter?” Scorpius said disbelievingly.

“Dad showed it to James and Lily and me. Kingsley, Severus, Ron and Hermione were there, because it was about the Veritaserox and what to do. Dad wanted us to know why the evidence had to be shown, even though – well, people say things about Mum,” he said bluntly.

“You – he – ”

“We all agreed to it,” James said, joining in at last. He looked to Ron. “Look, Ron’s an Auror; it’s his job to be suspicious. Don’t give him shit about that: we’ve got to question everything. Now either bugger off, or sit down and get over your little hissy fit.”

There was a tense silence in the room at James’ rudeness.

“As if bowing to the pressure of it, he snapped, “Can we get on? I’m worried sick about Dad, and we’re wasting time.”

It wasn’t an apology, but it was an excuse, at least.

Kingsley took up the reins. “We do need to get a move on, but we don’t want to miss anything. So, let’s sum up: what have we got so far?”

“Right,” Ron said, as if Kingsley was his commanding officer and he was a junior reporting. “Firstly, Harry hasn’t been seen since around eight this morning. It looks like he’s been abducted. But we can’t be 100% sure that he hasn’t gone somewhere of his own will. Yes, yes, I know,” he said, seeing the protests “there’s the ring on the door, the apparition evidence and the sock. I’m 90% sure that he’s been taken. But if we report him as a missing person when he’s gone off somewhere on a bit of an investigation on his own we’ll look right twats, not to mention, Harry’ll likely go bananas at us himself. And the fact is, they won’t do anything about a missing adult for twenty four hours, at least. Not unless there’s a history of suicidal intentions, which, unless anyone can tell me otherwise, has never entered Harry’s head.” He looked around, but no-one disputed that. “I think, that if we haven’t heard from him by the morning, then we report him missing. But there’s lots we can consider in the meantime. Firstly, if he has been abducted, who’s done it? If he’d been arrested, as Prof – Master Snape is suggesting, we would’ve heard. Every suspect has the right to contact their lawyer: he would have got a message straight through to Hermione. And it would have been all over the radio and the evening editions. “

“And Dad would have been in touch,” Scorpius interrupted.

“Exactly. As everyone knows, work hasn’t been letting me get involved, but I’ve had my ear to the ground, and I haven’t seen any indication that Harry was being considered as a suspect.” Ron paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. “That, actually, might be worrying, because, as Master Snape said, he should have been.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “Anyway, I’ll go into work in a minute and check that out. If he hasn’t been arrested, then he’s been taken. So who would want to do that? It’s a very, very long shot, but it may be nothing to do with Ginny’s death, or Ginny’s death might just have catapulted him into the public eye again and stirred up old hatreds. I’ll get my team to check out every bloody ex-Death Eater, just in case. But if it’s this new group – we’re looking to you for leads, Kingsley.”

“I know this might sound silly,” Andy said, in the voice of one expecting to be smacked down.

“Nothing is silly,” Shacklebolt said.

Snape humphed beside him.

Hermione snorted, hearing it.

Shacklebolt deliberately ignored them. “Any thoughts are always good,” he encouraged.

“I wondered whether someone might have kidnapped him. For a ransom.”

“Why would they do that now?” Victoire asked.

“I – I don’t mean to be rude,” he said, looking at the Potter men, “but your Mum must have earnt a lot as a quidditch professional, mustn’t she? I mean, I don’t know anything about your family finances, but - well, he must be rich now, mustn’t he?”

“I don’t think Mum’s death would have made much difference to things,” James said carefully. “If a ransom was the reason, anyone could have kidnapped us as kids. It would have been a damn sight easier.”

“Not with the security spells your Dad put all over you,” Ron said.

“What? What spells?” Albus asked.

“Location-monitoring spells, anti-apparition spells – you name it.”

“I don’t remember any of that!”

“No, well, you wouldn’t. Your parents are –were - bugger it, you know what I mean,” Ron said. “They were both amazing spell-casters. Just because your Mum played quidditch, didn’t mean she didn’t have other talents, you know,” he said, seeing James’ mouth opening. “You should have seen her in the DA! Anyway, the spells were just until you went to Hogwarts, and you’d got your own wand.”

“Don’t all kids have that?” Fred asked. “I remember having to argue with Dad to have mine lifted.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Yeah, well, it was George got us all to do them,” Ron said. “They aren’t common, actually. It’s just, some of the Death Eaters were coming out of Azkaban, so there was that threat, and then – well, your Dad’s business had been very profitable. George did worry about you being kidnapped, after he’d watched some Muggle film.”

“Blimey,” Albus pulled a face. “Talk about learning something new every day.”

“It’s an interesting point,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “The ransom idea,” she clarified.

“You see some merit in it?” Snape asked, surprised.

“No,” Hermione shook her head.

Snape waited for her to explain.

“It’s just I’m trying to get a handle on the bigger picture,” Hermione continued. “What would be the advantage to anyone of killing Ginny? Of setting up Draco? Of kidnapping Harry? They’ve got to be linked. But I can’t see it,” she said in frustration. “And Harry’s somewhere and I’m getting more and more worried.” Her eyes darted to the boys. “I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to say that.”

Shacklebolt stood up. “I think we’ve done almost everything we can here. We’ll report him missing in the morning if we don’t turn anything up. In the meantime, we can do more than the MLE anyway. I’ll see what I can find out, you do the same, Ron. Boys, I suggest you check with anyone you know, anyone you can think off who Harry might have gone to visit. I know you won’t want to worry her, but you need to speak to Lily. And check with the other members of the group. Scorpius, can you contact your father? He must have lots of informants: see if he can dig anything up.”

“What if he puts it in The Prophet?” Molly asked.

“Ask him not to for the moment, please,” Kingsley looked to Scorpius.

“I will.”

“Isn’t his ownership of The Prophetgoing to be a conflict of interest?” Victoire asked.

“The media is a valuable tool,” Snape said. “We can use it or be abused by it. Draco owning it can only be in our favour in the long term.”

“What can I do?” Hermione asked.

Kingsley looked around the room. “Things are escalating. These youngsters are going to need - defences.”

There was a sudden hush in the room.

“They need teaching. The Patronus charm for starters, for communicating. Draw up a list of what you think they need to know. We’ll need to work on this immediately.” He looked around at everyone. “There’s something big brewing. I know it’s scary, but try not to be too worried. We meet tomorrow, here, 7pm. If anyone has any urgent information in the meantime, contact Hermione.” He looked to the Potter brothers, who both looked annoyed. “James, I know you’re Head of the Potter family in your father’s absence, and it should be you, but you need to learn the Patronus charm first.”

James opened his mouth to protest.

“Your father’s life may depend on it,” Shacklebolt said seriously.

There was no answer to that.

The younger ones had all left.

Hermione was asking the boys if they’d like her to stay the night, when Kingsley came over.

“Can I interrupt? I’ve got a couple more things we ought to do, if that’s OK?”

“Of course,” Hermione said, at the same time as Albus said, “Sure.”

“We need to search the house. Just to be absolutely positive Harry hasn’t left any clues. If we all walk around together, you’ll know if anything is unexpected, out of place. And if you’ll forgive us for intruding, Ron and I might pick something up. The Auror training does give you the odd useful skill.”

“I’ll wait in the library, then,” Hermione said easily.

“Actually, Hermione, I was going to ask you to just go over things with the house-elf. I gather from comments earlier that she seems happy to talk to you?”

“I was thinking before that we could ask her to join us, but then I thought it might be too nerve-wracking for her, sitting with a load of wizards and witches,“ Hermione said. “But actually, it might be a good idea to ask her to come around the house.”

“Why’s that?” Ron asked, voicing the thoughts of the others, judging by their faces.

“Because she can tell you whether she’s done anything in any of the rooms today. With all the kids staying over, I’d be very surprised if she hasn’t been whipping round tidying everything up. And she’ll feel safer doing that: it’s her territory, her work.”

“Good points,” Kingsley said warmly.

“Is it alright to disturb her?” Albus asked. “You know, with the baby and everything?”

“Well, that’s why I think it’s better this way,” Hermione said. “And being pregnant doesn’t mean you’re incapable. But tell her she must go to bed straight after, and get a good night’s rest. She’s had a stressful day.”

Half an hour later, they had searched outside, by wandlight, both in front of the house using disillusionment spells, and in the back garden, gone through all the living areas, and were making their way through the bedrooms.

“This is Potter’s room?” Snape said, not bothering to hide his surprise.

The room looked remarkably bare. There was no clutter. Without asking for permission, he strode over to the wardrobe, and threw open the door. He was immensely relieved to find clothes hanging within it. For a moment, he’d wondered if Potter had done a runner.

Which would have been a very worrying thing.

He rifled through, roughly.

“What’re you looking for?” Ron asked, coming to stand beside him.

“Anything unusual,” Snape said.

He breathed in deeply. Cleaning spells and the aroma of robes that had been worn and just thrust back in, assaulted his senses. The whiff of trainers. He twitched his nose disdainfully. How could anyone put smelly trainers in with their clothes?

He shut the door and looked again at the room.

There was a large, surprisingly modern bed. There were no posts or curtains, just smooth pale wood. The other furniture was pale wood too, two large low sets of drawers either side of the bed, rather than nightstands. The bed faced the windows. Outside, by the light of the Muggle street-lamps, he could see the branches of a tree, a living shadow against the world beyond.

There was a chair by the window, and a small writing table.

Every surface was empty.

Shacklebolt too was running some spells, while the boys, Hermione and the elf, stood by the door.

Snape wandered over and opened the top drawer of one of the chests. Potter’s underwear. He favoured black. Snape put his hand in and ran it underneath.

“He’s gonna be pissed to know you’ve been fiddling with his pants,” Albus commented.

It was Shacklebolt who turned round. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it’s intrusive. I’m afraid it inevitably is in these sort of circumstances. Anything?” he asked Snape, going over to the other side and doing the same.

They went through all the drawers.

“Nothing,” Shacklebolt said.

“What’s so odd about that?” James asked.

“What’s in your bedside drawers?” Shacklebolt turned the question around.

James opened his mouth and shut it again, a blush starting to form.

“Exactly,” Ron grinned. “Everyone has private things in their bedside drawers. Condoms, get-it-up potion, headache potion, tissues, toy-uh, broken bits of comb that they’ve never cleared out,” he swiftly changed the word he’d been about to say. “Fluff, pens, coins -.”

“Cannon’s programmes,” Hermione mumbled under her breath.

The boys next to her grinned.

“He probably put it all away because he set up camp next door,” Albus said. “He didn’t know who’d be in here. It’ll be in his secret drawers.”

“His secret drawers?” Kingsley asked.

Albus shrugged. “We all have secret drawers, for our private things. Dad created the wizard space.”

“Do you know what he’s got hidden in here? I don’t mean the actual items, just where he might have spaces.”

“There’s extra space in his wardrobe,” James volunteered. “He keeps his old school trunk in it. I saw him getting it out when we were kids, to show us what quidditch gloves used to look like in the old days. And I suppose he must have usual bedside stuff in his bedside table, but I’ve never seen him opening any magic drawer in it. I don’t bother with all the locking and unlocking to keep my broken combs in,” he said, looking with a smirk at Ron, “but Dad probably does. I don’t suppose he’d want you poking in it, even if you could open it.”

“I won’t worry about that for now,” Kingsley agreed. “Just getting a feel for whether things feel right or not.”

Snape looked at the bed. How had Harry felt, coming in to his own room and seeing Scorpius and Andy? What exactly had they been doing? He cast a small detection spell. There were no spells for lubrication or stretching registering, so it was unlikely that he’d caught them doing anything much. In which case, he was quite surprised that Harry had been as startled as Scorpius had suggested. He’d become aware that Harry was watching, that time at home when he’d kissed Kingsley in the courtyard. Potter’s behaviour afterwards didn’t seem to have altered at all. Potter almost seemed as asexual as his comment in the court implied. Perhaps that was the wrong word; Potter had three children after all. He himself had spent long periods without sex. It was not impossible; you did get used to it. Thank God, life had changed. He glanced across at Kingsley.

As if sensing his regard, Kingsley looked back across the expanse of Harry Potter’s bed, raising an eyebrow.

“Have you done anything in here, Mitty?” Hermione asked.

“Mitty is changing the bed, again, and cleaning the bathroom,” the elf said, pleased to be helping, “but Mitty is not knowing if Master Harry is coming back into this bedroom, or not, so I is leaving the other room, just tidying the bedclothes in it.”

Ron walked across and opened the bathroom door. “All tidy,” he agreed. “You can get to the other room through here.”

They heard the sound of him opening the other door.

“You go that way, Severus, I’ll come in from the hallway, just in case anything odd strikes us,” Kingsley said.

Ron’s shout had them all running.

In the other bedroom, on the bedside table, was Harry’s wand.

“He’s been taken then,” Ron said, as if only believing it for the first time. “Shit! Shit!”

“You haven’t moved anything, Mitty? Only the bedclothes?” Kingsley asked, as he looked around the room, casting spells as he went.

“Nothing, Sirs,” the elf shook her head. “I is leaving Master Harry’s wand exactly as it is.”

“Has he ever left it on the side before?” Severus asked.

The elf looked puzzled. “Sometimes Master is leaving it on the side in the other room,” she said. “Sometimes he is leaving it beside the shower. Sometimes he is leaving it on the side in the kitchen - ”

“When he goes out of the house?” Hermione asked sharply. “Mitty, has he ever left the wand when he’s gone out of the house?”

The elf nodded, much to their amazement. “But only when he is going into the garden to look in the woodshed,” she added.

“He’s never gone off the property without it before?”

“Not that Mitty is knowing,” the elf looked worried.

“That’s alright, Mitty, thank you,” Hermione said.

They looked through the other rooms in a cursory fashion: the finding of the wand had dampened everyone’s spirits.

Kingsley and Snape took their leave as James put in a floo call to Hogwarts. It was very late. He was not sure who would answer the floo. Headmaster Peter Brown had slowly pulled the school into the modern world by its bootstraps; one of his improvements had been the appointment of administrative staff, including a bursar and a secretary. In the daytime, the secretary, Adrian Donnelly, fielded all the floo calls, but James assumed he wouldn’t be in the school office at this time of night. He’d arrived after James had left, so he was doubly reluctant to disturb a stranger’s Saturday evening. He was quite relieved to see a familiar face on the other side of the fire.

“Mrs Banton! I’m so sorry to disturb your evening. It’s James Potter,” he added quickly.

“Of course I know who you are, young man! Now, what can have got you making floo calls at this time of night? Not drunk, are you?” she asked suspiciously.

“No, of course not!”

“No ‘of course’ about it,” she said. “The whole of the Falcons team tried to floo in one night after they’d had a rather good post-match celebration. Thought they’d race their broomsticks around the corridors, they did. I soon put a stop to that!”

“Oh dear,” James said sympathetically. “The thing is, I was wondering if I could see my sister. It’s important.”

Mrs Banton looked at a watch she wore pinned to her robe front. “Her dorm’s all settled down for the night at this time, Mr Potter.”

“I – I know. But – ”

“It’s important. Yes, I gather that. You’d better tell me.”

“The thing is – well, Dad’s not there, is he? He hasn’t been there today?”

He saw her eyes narrow. “I don’t think so. I’ll just check the visitors’ log.”

James waited on the hearth. Mrs Banton, he noted, had a tapestry cushion to kneel on, which was the most sensible idea he’d ever seen.

“No, he’s not been here today. Last visit was when your mother died,” she said, without mincing words.

“Right,” James said slowly.

“Is he – missing?”

“Er, well. That’s hard to say. We just wondered if he might have called to see Lily.”

“No, definitely not, I’m afraid.”

James braced himself. “I could really do with seeing her, just to check whether he sent her an owl or anything.”

“I can check that for you. Hold on a moment, please.”

James transfigured a knut into a cushion while he waited.

“No, your father hasn’t sent any owls today. The last one was on Thursday.”

“How do you know that?” he asked, brows furrowing.

“Oh, all post is registered,” she said.

“It is?”

“The Headmaster is always concerned with the safety of our students,” she said.

“And that means all post is - registered?” James repeated, shocked.

“All posts in and out, all visits. I can assure you, your father hasn’t been here, Mr Potter.”

“Well, I - thanks for your help, Mrs Banton. The thing is, I really ought to tell Lily -”

Mrs Banton looked at him assessingly. “I really can’t allow a whole dorm to be woken up,” she said apologetically. “But – if you don’t mind waiting yet again?”

“No problem.”

James didn’t know whether he was frustrated or relieved that he didn’t have to tell Lily yet. It could all be alright. Couldn’t it?

“I’ve just checked the schedules for the dorm,” she said, “and two of the girls sharing with your sister are up early for quidditch practice. If you have no news, you can call me again at 6.30am: I’ll fetch your sister for you then. I honestly don’t think there is any reason to upset your sister at this time of night, do you, Mr Potter?”

James didn’t think there was anything else to be said. He thanked Mrs Banton, and pulled away.

He found that Albus had seen everyone off by the time he’d finished, even Hermione.

They spent an hour making floo calls, to no avail.

Finally, there was nothing else to do.

“Shall I stay here?” James asked, uncertainly. “I would,” he went on, without waiting for an answer, “but what if Dad tries to contact me at my flat? I know it’s unlikely – ”

“No, that’s a good point.” Albus said. “Just in case.”

James shoved his hands in his pockets, reluctant to leave.

“I feel so bloody useless!” he burst out, after a moment.

“Yeah,” Albus agreed. “I’m gonna camp down by the floo tonight,” he said after a moment.

“Good thinking. I’ll do the same. We’ve got good help, Albus.”

“Yeah. Dad’s got good friends.”

There was another moment of lurking.

“Dad’s not going to try my floo, is he?” James said. “If he has the chance, he’ll try here. Or Ron and Mione’s.”

“That’s much more likely,” Albus agreed cautiously.

“Fetch my duvet too, then, I’ll bunk down here with you,” James said.

Over the years, they’d had their moments of sibling rivalry and frustration with each other, but as Albus took the stairs two at a time to collect the bedding, and James transfigured chairs into beds by the floo, both felt a huge sense of relief to have his brother at his side.

Chapter Text

It was 4am when Ron was woken by tapping at the window.

He leapt out of bed, quickly alert. Hermione grunted beside him.

“What is it?” she asked, suddenly rousing.

Ron’s search at the Ministry the previous evening, checking through the Auror records of arrested suspects, and even a trip to the holding cells, had elicited no information. Rather than wait till the next meeting, he’d sent a Patronus messenger through to Kingsley.

He opened the window and took the message from the Ministry owl, giving it a treat from the pot that he kept on the windowsill. The owl flew straight off, so obviously hadn’t been told to wait for a reply.

Ron read the note.

“I’ve got to go. There’s been a sighting of Nott senior and Thorfinn Rowle in Ireland.”

Both had served twenty years in Azkaban, and after living apparently peacefully, had suddenly disappeared, within days of each other, three months ago. It was the most important case currently, for Ron’s department, and every sighting had been followed up, but by the time they’d arrived, there’d been no trace of the missing wizards.

“Do you think they’re connected to Harry’s disappearance?” Hermione asked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

“I hadn’t even thought of that,” Ron said. “It’s not likely, is it? Or is it? No need to get up,” he added, pulling his battle robes out of the wardrobe. He glanced at them, and added an extra Impervius spell: he’d had one or two trips to Ireland before. The rain might make the countryside beautiful, but it was a bugger if you were out watching and waiting in it.

“Send Scruff to let me know you’re OK,” Hermione said. “I don’t trust anything right now.”

Scruff was the name she’d called Ron’s Patronus in a moment of teasing.

“I will,” Ron kissed her on the cheek and was gone.

“How long have they been missing?” the girl asked, chewing gum as she spoke.

It was nearly nine o’clock, and the Ministry had been almost deserted when James and Albus had arrived three quarters of an hour earlier. The duty wizard had shepherded them into a waiting room, where they’d been kept waiting. James had gone out to see if they’d been forgotten, and got a very brusque response.

Sunday morning was obviously a bad time to need help.

“Twenty four hours,” James said. He’d tried to tell the girl what had happened, but she’d just slapped her form down on the desk, and said she’d ask the questions.

“Child, is it?” she asked. “What age?”

“Adult,” James said. “I did mention it was my father. ”

“Had a heavy night,” she said, as if that explained everything. “Over at Wandlight . Ever been there?”

“Yes,” James said, through gritted teeth.

“Thought your face was familiar. Must’ve seen you around. I go most Saturday nights – ”

“Look, interesting as your social life must be to you,” Albus interrupted, leaning forward, “we’re trying to report a missing person here.”

“Yeah, your Dad. I’ve ticked the boxes, see?” She turned the form round as if they ought to admire her ticking skills.

“Well, what’s going to be done?” Albus demanded.

“Nothin’ I shouldn’t think,” she said, sucking a strand of hair across her lips. “Grown up, i’n’t he? It’s the weekend. Probably off having a good time too. Why don’t you go round the corner: there’s an excellent café, does a great weekend fry-up. If you wait twenty minutes, I’ll join you. I’ve been here half an hour, time for a tea-break, innit?” she winked conspiratorially at them.

“Delectable as your company may be,” Albus said, with a sarcasm that he knew would go right over her head, “we’d like you to finish filling in that form, so that SOMEONE WILL BLOODY DO SOMETHING ABOUT OUR DAD!”

“’Ere, mate, keep yer hat on. I don’t have to put up wiv people shoutin’ at me, y’know.”

“Can we just get that form filled in?” James said, glancing across warningly at Albus. “We’re really worried about our Dad. Our friend’s an Auror and he says that there’s signs of a cluster of apparitions outside our door. And Dad left his sock. And his wand.”

“Socks and wand?” she said. “You tryin’ to be funny, mate?”

James and Albus exchanged another glance of shared frustration.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” James leant forward, “I’m trying to give you the facts, and let you know why we’re concerned.”

“You’re concerned that your Dad left ‘is socks lyin’ around? Get an ‘ouse-elf, that’ll soon sort that out.” She chuckled at her own joke.

“The sock was left outside the front door. Where the apparitions happened,” James said patiently. “Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”

“Never ‘eard of someone apparatin’ and leaving their socks behind ‘em. It’s usually a foot, or som’at,” she shook her head, still smiling.

“He didn’t apparate, he didn’t have his wand,” Albus bit out. “We think he was taken.”

“Y’know,” that doesn’t really happen with adult wizards,” she said. “Kids sometimes, if the parents are having a marital, custody stuff, y’know?” She seemed to think. “Where’s yer Mum? Split going on there, is there? Perhaps he’s gone to see her: lost track o’time with a good bit of make-up s – makin’ up,” she amended quickly, realising perhaps, that she was actually about to express something inappropriate.

“Our mother is dead,” James said, “so I think we can rule out the ‘make-up sex’ scenario, thanks for that.”

“Oops?”

“Look – ” James rubbed his hand through his hair.

“Maybe he’s feeling a bit down then,” she said brightly, and then followed along her thought trail. “You don’t think he’s gone to top himself, do ya?”

“Have you had any training at all?” snapped Albus.

“Yeah, I ‘ave,” the girl said, “and what you don’t realise is how many missing person calls we get, and then they turn up the next day. It’s always the weekend, it is, someone buggers off for a good time and then comes creeping back on the Sunday night or Monday morning. And we’ve wasted hours of my time writin’ out these bleedin’ forms. So why doncha get a bit of perspective, mate, let your Dad enjoy hisself, and if he’s not back tomorrow, we can try this again?”

Albus leant over the desk. “I’ve got plenty of perspective, Suzi,” he said, reading off her lopsided name badge. “And this is what I’m seeing. My mother’s just been murdered. Her killers are still on the loose. And MY FATHER IS FUCKING MISSING, WITHOUT HIS WAND. So would you please, do your bloody job, which my sodding taxes are paying for, and take down the details, so that someone can start bloody DOING SOMETHING!”

Suzi leant back in her chair, still chewing her gum. “Keep your damn hair on,” she said mildly. She picked up her quill. “Look, I’m sorry to hear about yer Mum. We’ll fill in this form, yeah, but I’ll be honest wiv yer, they ain’t gonna do anyfink until tomorrow. Only two duty officers on this weekend, and they’ve already gone out on a kid wot’s disappeared when his magic went wild. No-one’s got any idea where he’s gone, and ‘e’s only eight. No chance of him getting’ hisself back wivout a wand. Spontaneous magic’s a bugger, innit?”

She duly filled in the forms.

When they named their father, she said, “’E should be able to manage alright, doncha think? Topped that Dark Lord guy, didn’t he?”

“He’s not got his wand,” James repeated.

“You found that, did you? Near where you think he disappeared?”

“He left it in his bedroom.”

She shook her head, as if to suggest what could one expect if one wandered around without one’s wand.

They gave the rest of the details.

“Right,” she said. “Well, I’ll pass this on. Someone’ll be in touch. Stay by the floo, yeah? Sorry about yer Mum, she was a great player. ‘Ad her pic on me wall when I was a kid.”

She stood up, picking up the paperwork. The boys headed to the door. James opened it politely for her.

“Well,” she said, walking rather closer to James than was necessary. She paused, reaching out a finger with a scarlet-tipped nail, and stroked him under the chin. “You surely are a gentleman.” She turned to Albus. “Ever thought of anger management lessons?” she added, and sauntered out of the room.

Hermione woke early. After a quick breakfast, she fire-called James and Albus, hating to wipe the hope from their faces, but giving them a quick update. James reported that Lily now knew; that she was upset; that she’d been persuaded to stay at Hogwarts for the moment. Hermione wondered how she would ever manage to sit her exams.

She offered to accompany the boys to the Ministry, to report Harry missing, but they said they’d be ok. She called Draco; he’d already got the news from Scorpius and promised to do all he could.

She contacted George and Neville and as many friends as she could: the boys seemed to have already got round most of them the night before.

By late morning, she felt she’d achieved nothing at all apart from a lot of talking. She made herself some coffee, and settled down to write a list of spells that would be useful for the younger generation. Each word on the parchment reminded her of the situations for which they’d needed to learn them previously. She didn’t want her own children to have the fear and worries that had surrounded her teenage years, but it looked like all she could do was arm them to deal with them.

She hated that there was nothing that she could do to find Harry.

On top of that, she was due in court the next day. The case had only started the previous week, having been put off once, at her request, because of Ginny’s death. There was no way that the judge would allow further delays, especially now that it had started. She really needed to do some work on it.

She felt absolutely torn. How come it had been so much easier when they were kids? It had seemed such a momentous decision to walk away from her last year at Hogwarts at the time, and yet, no one else, apart from Harry and Ron, had depended on her. If she didn’t see this case through, Lucy West could end up in Azkaban. She’d never survive.

And frankly, there was nothing she could do to find Harry, was there? Kingsley and Ron had already tried various versions of ‘point-me’ spells the previous night, with no effect. Although, she could look up if there was any way to track someone using DNA – hairs from Harry’s comb, for example.

She floo-ed off to the library at the Ministry, to do some research.

Ron was wet, cold and fed up. They’d spent two days staking out a farmhouse in the back of beyond in rural Wicklow, watching an obviously wizarding family coming and going, with no evidence apart from the fact that they seemed to be bringing in an excessive amount of provisions for the number of people in the house. When the woman had taken the children out one day, Ron had disguised himself and knocked on the door. It was always one of the exciting parts, walking into danger, but he’d turned up nothing more than an illegal still making wizarding poteen. He’d checked out the premises thoroughly and there wasn’t a whisker of a hint of other wizards having been using the place. Just as they were about to go, another owl arrived telling him Rowle and Nott had been sighted near the Giant’s Causeway.

They apparated to the wild northern coast, lashed now by the sea wind rather than the soft rain of the south. The Giant’s Causeway was a phenomenon imbued with history and legend, and a hidden wizarding community had existed on the headland nearby for hundreds of years. Posing as wizarding tourists, Ron and Jemima booked in to the local inn, while Hugh, accompanied by David, who’d been on his team for several years, booked into a local bed and breakfast.

They quickly heard that there had been unknown wizards performing strange rites down on the basalt columns two nights earlier. Ron cursed that the information had taken so long to get to them.

He and his team transfigured their outfits to Muggle clothing, waterproof jackets, hiking boots and rucksacks, and headed down the winding path to the stones. None of them had ever been there before.

“This place must raise a lot of magical power,” Hugh said, looking around. “I wonder what the hell they were up to.”

As Suzi had predicted, it was twenty four hours before anyone from the department called on James and Albus. Even then, they weren’t Aurors, as they had expected, given that they feared that ex-Death Eaters or some of the new people were responsible. Instead, they were from a unit called CLAM, which their card showed stood for Customer Liaison and Management, which immediately set their backs up. The men listened, but were very dismissive of the idea of ex-Death Eaters having kidnapped their father, disbelieving that any new group even existed, let alone had taken him, and seemed much more inclined to take the same view as Suzi had done, that Mr Potter might be suicidal.

They did a cursory check of the house: the traces of apparition outside had disappeared in the forty eight hours that had elapsed. They picked up Harry’s worn and weathered wand, and seeming to think that it looked somewhat wanting, asked if he had another. They asked if Harry had a place where he usually went to when he was sad. Had they checked their mother’s grave? Having told the men that there wasn’t one, the two shook their heads, as if that was a bad indication, asked where Harry’s parents were buried, and said they’d check it out, to not worry too much, and that they’d be in touch.

They left the boys feeling furious, frustrated and miserable.

George came round, and joined them for lunch. The story of CLAM’s visit poured out of them.

“You don’t think Dad would have done anything, do you?” Albus asked, as they sat at the kitchen table.

Mitty was on her chair at the cooker, stirring a large pan of soup. At least the smell was delicious.

“Don’t be daft,” George said, smiling a thanks to Mitty as she passed him a bowlful.

“He’d never have done something like that after that argument with me, would he?”James said. “I mean, to kill himself after I’d upset him? If he’d done that, he would have known I would be absolutely gutted. Permanently. I feel guilty as shit anyway.”

“You’re right, even if Dad had been suicidal – which he wasn’t - that argument would have stopped him. Dad would never have let you have that worry.”

“He called after me to walk – he was even worried about me splinching. He wouldn’t have done that and then hurt us by topping himself the next day.”

“Exactly. Don’t sweat it,” Albus said.

“Not to mention the doorbell, apparitions and sock. He was taken,” George said firmly. “Just wish we could bloody do something to find him. At least with the Death Eaters, we knew who some of them were, we had some locations they used, and of course, we had Snape.”

“We could do with a spy with this new lot,” Albus said, “except how can you even start when you’ve no idea who the enemy is? And,” he paused.

“What?” James said, round a mouthful of soup.

“Well, I was just thinking, we don’t really know if they’re an enemy. I mean, we don’t even know what they stand for. Not clearly. It would be bigoted of us to be against something without knowing exactly what it stood for.”

“Interesting points,” George said, glad that the need to comment on spy activity had passed.

“And talking of being bigoted, what exactly was your problem with Scorp and Andy?” Albus said pointedly to his brother.

“Look, they’re alright normally, they behave in company –”

“They behave in company?”

“Come on, you know what I mean! No one wants to see guys kissing in public.”

“I’m not keen on seeing you all over one of your girls either, slobbering on the sofa, but I don’t care what the hell you do in your bedroom.”

“George, back me up on this! It’s not the same, is it?” James turned to his uncle. “Bill agrees with me!”

George tore off a hunk from the loaf in the middle of the table, and dipped it in his soup. “I can’t answer for Bill,” he shrugged, “but,” he popped the bread into his mouth and chewed.

The boys grinned, waiting.

“Look, Angelina’s Mum’s sister, Daphne, married a Muggle. A white Muggle.”

“Yeah?” James said. “And?”

“Angelina says people used to treat Auntie Daphne like shit.”

“They knew she was a witch?”

“No.”

“Then what?” James said, confused.

“She was black.”

“What?” Albus said.

George shrugged. “Muggles back then found what they called ‘mixed marriages’ offensive. When one person was white and the other black.”

“But that’s crazy! What the hell difference does the colour of your skin make?”

“None at all. It’s just prejudice,” George said pointedly.

“That’s what I don’t get,” Albus said after a minute. “I mean, I know the wizarding world looks down on gay people, but Dad’s always gone on about having an open mind.”

“Well, that’s because his relatives treated him like shit,” George said. “Absolutely hated wizards. He knows what it’s like to be on the wrong end of irrational hatred.”

“Yeah, well,” James said, getting up with a loud clatter of his chair. “I’m not Dad. And maybe I have got an open mind. Maybe I’ve looked at it openly and decided I damn well don’t like it!” And he stormed across the room. “I’m going looking for Dad,” he snapped, and moments later, they heard the floo flaring.

“I’m sorry,” Albus said, in embarrassment.

“I expect he needed to let off steam one way or another,” George said easily, standing up and taking his dishes to the sink. “I don’t remember Bill being like that years ago, though. Being savaged by Greyback changed him. Well, the war changed us all,” he said, heavily. “Where’s James gone?”

“We wrote a list yesterday of places to go looking. Not that we’ve much hope of Dad being at any of them, but we need to do something. We’re taking turns, one going off, one staying in the house, so Dad or anyone can contact us.”

Mitty set a washing spell to work, and then came over. “Master Albus? “she said, anxiously.

“What is it, MItty? Thank you for the lovely soup, by the way.”

The elf blushed and bobbed. “Mitty is doing her best with the manky vegetables, and making soup, but we is not having much food to -”

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t think of food. I’ll make some owl orders. Do you know what we need?”

“I’ll leave you to it,” George grinned, gripping Albus briefly on the shoulder in solidarity as he stepped past.

Severus could see that James and Albus Potter were wilting at the evening meeting on Monday night. He had a few words with Kingsley, when Hermione took the younger generation off to practice new spells, then stood quietly in the doorway for several minutes, assessing the young people and their teacher.

He headed over to the boys whilst they were practicing their Patronus charms in the training room, which had been converted for spellcraft practice.

“Gentlemen, I wonder if I might have a word.”

“Sure,” Albus said. “I’m useless at this.”

“The happy thought bit is impossible,” James growled in frustration.

“It is very difficult to master under pressure,” Snape agreed.

They headed away from the other young people back into the kitchen. The other adults had already left.

“I want to work on an experimental potion that might help trace your father.”

“That sounds great!”

Snape held up his hand. “When I say experimental, I mean exactly that. If I had something that I thought would work, I would have brewed it and used it by now.”

“So – what does that mean, exactly?” Albus asked.

“It means that I want to try something new, with very little chance of success,” Snape said bluntly.

“Because we haven’t anything else,” James surmised.

“As you say,” Snape inclined his head.

“So, do you need something from us? Our blood, or something?”

“That might be a variation I will try at a later stage,” Snape said. “For the present, I need some of your father’s hair, or toenail clippings – something of that sort.”

“We can check his comb,” Albus nodded. “Or his pillow.”

“I will also need his wand.”

Severus was very pleased to see James stiffen.

“You can’t seriously expect us to give you Dad’s wand,” he said.

“I have to agree with him on that one,” Albus said, resting his rear on the kitchen table. “You’ll have the potential for Polyjuice Potion, and his wand. I’m sorry, but we’d be daft to give it to you! I know Dad trusts you, but we don’t know you very much at all, and everything I’ve read about you – I know you fought on Dad’s side on the quiet, but – well, you’ve a history of being somewhat sneaky.”

Severus’ eyes gleamed. “I’m very heartened to see you being so cautious,” he said. “What I’m proposing, therefore, is something of an imposition, but seems the logical way around the matter. The potion takes thirty hours to brew. I suggest that I stay here. You are perfectly welcome to supervise every minute of the process. You can monitor all the ingredients.”

“That would be alright, I suppose,” James said cautiously. “What do you need Dad’s wand for?”

“I’ll stir the potion with it for a small portion of the process.”

“Won’t that damage the wand?” Albus asked.

“Not if the potion is sufficiently cooled,” Severus said.

“One of us could be with him whilst the other is out,” James said to Albus. “We haven’t got a lab: can you brew in the kitchen?”

“I can,” Snape said. “But that brings me to my other point. I think you’re wasting your efforts going out searching for your father.”

“I know it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” James bit out, “but what the hell else are we supposed to do?”

“There will be long periods of inactivity during the brewing,” Severus said, ignoring the temper. “Mrs Weasley is teaching some useful spells, but it strikes me that you need to learn some – more.”

“More?” James queried.

“Your mother has been killed and your father taken. Forgive my bluntness, but it seems to me that your lives might also be in danger. You need some – stronger – spells in your armoury.”

“And you’d be willing to teach us?” James queried.

Severus could see the interest in his eyes, firing his face up, washing out the pallor of his skin.

“I would.”

“Are you talking about dark spells?” Albus asked.

“Who taught you defence?” Severus raised his eyebrows. “Surely you know that spells are neither dark nor light. It is the intent that shapes them.”

“But – we could – hurt or injure someone with these spells?”

“Yes.” Severus let that sink in, watching the boy’s reactions. James was obviously feeling out for blood, Albus more cautious. “Of course, you could kill someone with a simple household spell, if you chose. It’s worth considering how to make best use of what is already familiar to you. A simple alohamora charm, perfectly timed, can be very effective, for example. The freezing charms you use on your cool cupboards can be fatal.”

“What would Dad think?” Albus bit a finger nail.

“Your father ran Dumbledore’s Army, did he not? A secret organisation within Hogwarts to teach students the spells that they needed to protect themselves and fight. He may have already taught you any number of useful spells, for all I know.”

James shook his head.

“I think he didn’t want us to have to cope with the sort of thing he did,” Albus said.

“Commendable, but unfortunate,” Severus commented. “It is up to you.”

“I’m in,” James said at once.

“Yeah, me too,” Albus agreed. “I can’t stand this – this – uselessness.”

“Very well. If you will be kind enough to allow me to start tonight, we can get the process in motion. I have all I need with me.”

“You’d planned this?”

“I’d every intention of asking you, yes. I believe in being prepared. If you had said no, I would have returned home. Now, let us get started. Setting up the base is a minimal task, but it needs ten hours to reach the correct viscosity. I suggest an early night once it is made: tomorrow will be busy.”

On Tuesday morning, as agreed with Draco, The Prophet ran Harry Potter: Kidnapped? as its front page feature. That night, Draco reported that hundreds of people had owled in with sightings, which he had passed on to the CLAM team. He handed a list over to Kingsley as well.

“I have to say, CLAM were furious that we’d run the article,” he said. “Apparently, having leads makes their job very difficult.”

“They really aren’t taking this seriously, are they?” Teddy said. “Why not? ”

“To be fair,” Hermione said, “people do go missing all the time. Same goes for Muggles. They’ll look for missing kids, but adults are a different matter, really. And with wizards it’s worse – I mean, they can apparate anywhere. And you can see their reasoning. Harry could have gone off to grieve, or anything. Bereavement is a known reason that causes people to go off for a bit.”

“They might complain about the press, then,” George said, “but given how well known Harry’s face is, even now, the publicity should do their job for them, shouldn’t it?”

“If he’s out in the open,” Snape said. “But I don’t think any of us believe that Harry has just ‘wandered off’ for a bit of ‘alone time’. He is being kept somewhere, against his will. If he is alive.”

“Professor!” Neville Longbottom protested.

“How can you say that in front of –” Angelina burst out angrily.

Albus held up his hand. “He’s only saying the truth,” he said. “We’re all – scared – that – that - but we can’t pretend that that might not be the case.”

“I believe if they wanted to kill him they would have done so by now,” Kingsley said. He looked around the table. “And they would have made a big thing of delivering his body. And taking credit.”

Silence.

“So we can assume Dad’s alive,” James said at last. “But we’re no further on than we were. We know absolutely bloody nothing! What if – what if – I mean, look at what they did to Mum. They could be torturing him!”

Another, horrified silence.

“If he’s hidden away, how are we ever going to find him?” Rose asked.

“We’re working on it,” Kingsley said, “but we’re not there yet. I’m sorry.”

The next morning, several things happened all at once.

Ron almost had a heart attack when he was awoken by a wand poking into his jugular.

“Shhsh!”

He kept perfectly still.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the voice whispered. “I’m an Auror.”

Ron did not feel reassured.

“I don’t know if I can trust your team,” the voice continued.

“I trust them,” Ron bit out. Carefully.

“Yeah? I don’t know who to trust any more.”

Ron’s eyes moved to the side, trying to get a look at the man. His hand moved infinitesimally towards his wand.

“I can feel that, you know,” the man said. He knelt back on his haunches, allowing Ron access. “You’ll feel better with it in your hand.”

“You do know how pervy that sounds,” Ron asked, sitting up and reaching for it. He slithered out of his sleeping bag and stood up. He’d been on duty all night, and had only had a couple of hours sleep. Nothing excused being caught so easily, though. “My team?” he asked sharply.

“One’s just moved away up the road. I’ve been waiting for him to head off. I’ve not hurt any of them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Ron nodded, relieved. It was gloomy in the deserted cottage that they had used as their base for the last thirty six hours, but a beam of light shone through a hole in the cracked glass of the small window. It was enough for Ron to get an idea of the man facing him. He noted the open stance, the fact that the man allowed himself to be seen.

“I’m Filius Stubbington,” he said. “You don’t know me.”

“No. New, are you?”

“Couple of years.”

“Nice to have a chit-chat, but why are you here?” Ron asked. They had a small primus stove set on the old wooden sink drainer in the corner, and he headed across, lifted the kettle to check whether it was full enough, lit the gas and put it on.

“Harry Potter.”

Ron turned around sharply. “What about him?”

“You’re his friend, right?”

“Always have been, always will be.”

“Then why aren’t you looking for him?”

“Who the hell are you to question me?” Ron swore. Because he’d been asking himself pretty much the same thing.

Stubbington didn’t say anything.

“Two ex-Death Eaters sighted. We’d been looking for them for ages. No sign of them in the south where we were sent first. Then there were other sightings up here, reports of a covered third person; I was going to head back, but it could be Harry, couldn’t it? Somebody’s got him. There’s been magic performed down on The Causeway. It’s the full moon in two days: a prime time for some rituals. With no other information, what the hell else could I be doing?”

“Searching closer to home.”

“What do you know?” Ron strode across the floor, about to grab the man when he realised that he wasn’t making any defence: his wand was held loosely in his hand.

He slowed. “What do you know?” he asked again, his tone much more reasonable.

“I heard an Auror laughing about the report in the paper yesterday. Said what idiots people were, with all the sightings everywhere. When he was under everybody’s noses.”

“Fucking Merlin! What do you think he meant?”

“I assumed he meant in the Ministry. I checked the records – ”

“I’d done that already –”

“There was nothing, I agree,” Stubbington nodded. He looked at Ron. “I don’t believe it.”

Ron sat down. The single chair wobbled and squeaked. He rubbed his hands on his knees.

“If the Ministry has Harry…and they’ve been hiding it…I’ve been an Auror for more than half my life. Has it all been a bloody waste?” He stood up. “What’s your role in this, Stubbington? Why do you care?”

“I’ve only met Mr Potter once, when he came to see Mr Malfoy. He seems a good man. But more to the point, no-one should be held without record, without legal representation. We’re Aurors.”

Ron strode to the door. “We bloody well are. You’ve no idea where in the Ministry he is?”

“I did happen to just check down in the cells. He wasn’t there.”

“I know someone who might have an idea,” Ron said. He held the door knob in his hand. “You’re going back to the Ministry?”

Stubbington nodded. “I did five apparition hops to get here. I don’t think anyone suspects me. Yet.”

“Ye gods. What have we come to?” Ron shook his head. He looked up, and slapped Stubbington on the arm. “Thanks, mate.” He eyed him carefully. “We’ll talk again.”

Ten minutes later, Ron was back in Grimmauld Place. The kitchen was empty, and he headed through to the training room. Snape whirled, wand extended, as did James, who he was apparently duelling with.

“Ron! Have you news?” Albus demanded.

“Maybe. Snape, can you get Kingsley? Harry might be hidden in the Ministry: if anyone knows any secret places it’ll be him.”

At that moment, a fist-sized stag almost fell through the wall. It lumbered over to Snape.

As silence fell, it pawed the ground, and gasped, in Harry’s voice, “Snape…bezoar…sunshine,” and then collapsed onto its front knees, and dissolved.

Chapter Text

“Morning, Steven,” Ron said breezily as they strode up to the security desk at the Ministry. “Just bringing some old friends through.”

Steven Wainwright nearly fell off of his stool. “Minister Shacklebolt!”

“Nice to see you again,” Kingsley shook the man’s hand briefly. “You know Master Snape, of course.”

“Of course,” Wainwright said, eyeing his old Professor with apprehension.

Snape did not extend his hand. “Mr Wainwright,” he inclined his head.

The expected demeanour seemed to calm the man.

“I’m afraid I’ll need to check your wands,” he said apologetically.

“Of course,” Kingsley agreed, handing his over without fuss.

In a few moments, all had been dealt with and they walked through the golden gates. Ron could feel the buzz of attention as people recognised his companions.

“Not that one,” Kingsley said, taking hold of his arm, as Ron headed towards a lift that was just opening.

Moments later they were all in the end lift, sliding the cage door shut before anyone else could enter.

Kingsley made a small gesture with his wand over the control panel, and to Ron’s amazement, several extra buttons appeared. Kingsley pressed one.

The lift shot back and down, and shortly after, they found themselves opening the gate onto a dimly lit passage.

All of them had their wands at the ready, creeping stealthily forward.

They rounded the corner to find two guards, one with his feet up on the desk, playing a card game. Their chairs clattered as they leapt to their feet.

Ron strolled forward, Auror robes swirling, wand concealed. “Stand easy, we’ve just come to have a word with the prisoner,” he said, in commanding but relaxed tones.

Snape and Kingsley also had their wands held down at their sides, covered by the folds of their robes.

The guards looked at the men, and then at each other.

“You aren’t on our list of registered visitors,” one said.

“Really?” Ron sounded surprised. “Let’s see that list.” He held out his hand.

Again, the men looked at each other. “I don’t know who you are –” one began.

“That’s easy,” Kingsley said. “I’m Kingsley Shacklebolt -”

“Formerly Minister for Magic,” Ron inserted.

“Potions Master Severus Snape,” Kingsley indicated the forbidding form of his lover, “And Senior Auror Ron Weasley. Now, if you’d show us to Mr Potter – ”

“Mr Potter ain’t receivin’ visitors,” one of the guards said, belligerently. “We’ve got our orders –”

His words were cut off as Ron cast Petrificus Totalus. As the other reached for his wand, Kingsley did the same.

“He’s definitely here,” Ron said, his voice registering his shock. He removed the keys from the warder’s belt. “I can’t believe it.”

“We won’t have much time,” Kingsley urged him. “Using that lift button will have alerted the Minister.”

“You mean that Benningdean will have known that Harry was here?”

“Not necessarily,” Kingsley shook his head, as they strode along the corridor. “He might have been told this level was being cleaned out, used for storage…”

“Sounds dodgy to me,” Ron said, then thrust his arm across his face. “Fucking Merlin! What’s that smell? Do the sewers empty into this floor?”

The reason for the smell became apparent all too quickly.

“Dear God,” Ron whispered.

Every cell they’d walked past had been empty. Except this one. A body lay face down on the floor.

There was no way to know whether it was alive or dead.

Only one thing was certain.

It was Harry.

Ron’s hands shook as he fumbled the key into the lock.

“There are phenomenal wards,” Snape said, assessing the cell with his wand.

“How the hell did he manage to send a Patronus?” Kingsley wondered. “No wand, and with magic-prevention wards?”

“Desperation,” Ron said, grittily.

After they had spent half a minute trying to unravel the wards, Ron said, “Bugger this! Will there be any repercussions to using force, Kingsley?”

“No idea,” Kingsley said. “I’ll shield us, you two blast.”

“Don’t go for the door, go for the side,” Snape suggested. “Here. I suggest a melting spell to burn through the steel.”

Within moments, they were climbing through. The smell of hot metal was a refreshing counterpoint to the stench of the cell.

Ron dropped to the floor beside Harry, hesitating only for a moment at the vile fluids in which his friend was lying, and gently rolled him over.

“He’s dead,” he croaked. “Cold. We’re too late.”

Snape had knelt on the other side. One hand went to Harry’s jugular.

“There’s a pulse. Erratic.” His hand cupped Harry’s face, uncaring of the vomit that was crusted across it, turning it towards him.

“Are you sure?” Ron gulped.

“Yes. Hold him steady, Ron.”

Snape tried to cast a diagnostic spell. Nothing happened.

“The anti-magic wards,” Kingsley said. He was prowling around the room.

“We need to get him out of here,” Snape said. “Get me some water, Kingsley. I want to get this bezoar into him first.”

Kingsley strode back to the basin and turned on the tap.

Nothing.

He took another look at the disgusting toilet, and pushed the flush.

Nothing.

“They’ve cut off the water.”

“Bastards! With him like this?” Ron snapped.

“There’s bottled,” Kingsley picked up a bottle from the far side of the cell. It was almost empty.

“Let me see that,” Snape held out a hand.

A moment later, having sniffed it, he screwed the bottle shut and put it into his robes. “It’s poisoned,” he said grimly. “That’s why he asked for the bezoar.”

“Fucking hell!”

“Let’s get him out of here,” Kingsley said.

Ron put his hands underneath Harry, and scooped up the limp body. “He’s completely soaking,” he said, as he stood and adjusted the weight against him.

“The bed too, and there’s puddles in the corners. He’s been hosed down and just left. The whole cell,” Kingsley said. “If the poison didn’t kill him, hypothermia would have.”

“He’s close enough,” Snape said quietly. “I don’t think we’ve any time to waste.”

They had barely walked three paces down the corridor when round the corner came a phalanx of Aurors. At the head, was Benningdean and Felton.

“We need to treat him first, argue after,” Snape said quickly to Ron. “He will die if we prevaricate.”

Ron nodded.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Benningdean snapped.

The Aurors all had their wands out.

“Getting this man to a place where he can be treated,” Ron said, continuing to walk forward.

“What in Hades is that smell?” The Minister held his hand in front of his face.

“The smell of a prisoner with severe diarrhoea and vomiting in a cell without any clean water,” Snape answered bluntly. “Pray summon your mediwizard at once.”

“We don’t give special treatment to celebrities,” Felton said curtly.

“Is that so? I am assuming, Minister, that you don’t endorse killing prisoners without trial?” Kingsley stepped out of the shadows.

There were gasps.

“Minister Shacklebolt?” Benningdean spoke.

“I am Kingsley Shacklebolt. May I suggest we delay the pleasantries until you have sent for medical assistance for Mr Potter?”

“Mr - Harry Potter?” There was no mistaking the Minister’s shock, or the way he turned to Felton, or the slight movement that Felton made, as if he was steeling himself.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Ron said through gritted teeth, “Harry might weigh several stone less since you locked him up and poisoned him, but I am still holding a grown man here,” and he made to push through them.

“Poison?” Benningean said sharply.

“Nonsense! This is just an escape ploy,” Felton said abruptly, stepping in front of Ron. “He’s been arrested on suspicion of murdering his wife. Your sister, I believe, Auror Weasley.”

Ron stepped to the side, deliberately bumping into Felton. Harry’s robe, soaking wet and contaminated with vomit and diarrhoea, if Ron was any judge, just happened to slap against the man. Felton recoiled in disgust. Ron carefully laid Harry on the floor.

“What the hell are you doing, Auror?” Felton demanded.

“He’ll be dead if he doesn’t get help soon.” Ron looked around. “Master Snape?” he said in an entirely different tone. He glanced at their audience. “Take a look in the cell, and tell me if that’s how we keep prisoners. If that’s what we’ve come to, you can have my resignation now, Minister.”

Snape had hunched down beside Harry and cast his wand over him. Then he slapped Harry’s face.

“What are you doing?” Benningdean screeched.

Harry’s head had just rolled to the side.

Snape repeated the movement. “Potter!” he barked.

Harry’s eyelids fluttered.

“Wake up this minute!” Snape ordered.

A small noise emitted from Harry’s throat, then he cramped inwards. Ron, who’d been kneeling beside him, supporting his upper body, almost dropped him.

The next moment, Harry turned his head to the side and retched.

Benningdean and Felton leapt back, but only a tiny dribble came forth.

“It’s more blood than anything,” Ron said grimly.

Benningdean turned to one of his men, and said, “Go and fetch a mediwizard at once,” and then strode past them towards the cell.

“Potter,” Snape prompted quietly.

Harry’s head wobbled.

“I’ve got you,” Ron said.

Harry laid his head back. “Ron?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Ron gripped him tighter.

“Can’t see prop’ly. Thought…Snape…”

“I’m here,” Snape said. He took hold of Harry’s wrist, as if feeling for a pulse.

“Dream?” Harry asked. His tongue roved his lips. It was swollen. His lip split under the movement, a dot of blood blooming.

The rustle of Aurors around them was ignored.

“Nightmare, more like,” Ron retorted. “Who’s got some water on them?” he demanded, looking at his fellow Aurors. There was a moment’s silence, and then one passed over a canteen from within his robes.

“Take a swig,” Ron demanded. The Auror bristled, but did so.

“Thanks,” Ron nodded, taking the container. “Standard issue? Order yourself a new one, this’ll be nasty after.” He handed it to Snape.

“Potter, I need you to swallow this bezoar,” Snape said, taking hold of Harry’s chin and turning his face towards him.

“Dry,” Harry mumbled. “Bezoar. Stopper on death. Stop me up….”

“You’re rambling, Potter,” Snape said. “Have a sip of water.”

Harry turned his head away. Snape took a sniff into the canteen, and a sip. “If it’s going to kill you, it’ll get us both,” he said. “Now.”

Ron hoisted Harry, who took a sip, then another, and another.

Harry licked his lips again, as if the taste of his blood helped him hold onto reality. It was unsuccessful: his eyelids slid down, and his head slipped to the side.

“Potter! Wake up this instant!” Snape gripped his chin, forcing Harry to look at him.

The eyes flickered. “S-Snape?”

“Indeed. Now, pay attention. “

He pressed something into Harry’s hand. The fingers instinctively clutched it, the fingertips feeling the shape.

“That’s it,” Snape said encouragingly. “It’s a bezoar. You need to swallow it. I know your throat is raw but it will help counteract the poison.”

“Like Ron,” Harry mumbled, his fingers slowly turning the bezoar in his palm.

“That’s it, mate,” Ron agreed. “You saved my life with one, yeah? Now, get it down you.”

Harry’s hand slowly came up to his face. He squinted at the bezoar, then slipped it between his lips. He tried to swallow, and retched again. The stone fell into his palm , in a pool of bloody water.

“Try doing it with a drink,” Ron said gently.

Harry tried again, with the same result. He flopped forward, consciousness slipping away.

“Potter! Listen to me!” Snape said firmly, raising his face in his hand once again.

Ron hoisted him back against him.

“That’s it, Ron,” he said, “hold him like that. Harry, I want you to relax. I’m going to push this down your throat. You’ll want to retch and it will hurt. I want you just to look at me all the time, alright?”

“Can’t see you,” Harry mumbled.

“His glasses are missing,” Ron said. He looked up at the Aurors that were still surrounding them, watching with awful fascination. Their wands were still out, but mostly held at their sides. Ron recognised Franklin and Hencliffe, who were on his sister’s case. There was Beecham and Dowling, who were always around Felton, like his private guard. The warders, who’d appeared briefly at the back of the group, had scuttled off. “Any of you bastards know where they are?”

“I’ll check in the cell,” Dowling said, and moved away.

“Worse than that,” Harry whispered.

“It can be a result of the poisoning,” Snape said quietly. “We can sort that out. Look at my outline, feel my hand on your neck, squeeze my arm if it’ll help. Relax your throat, Harry.” He slipped one hand behind Harry’s neck, tipping his head back. “I’m going to give you a little bit of water. Hold it in your mouth, swallow when I say. Alright?”

A tiny smile quirked Harry’s lip. “Jus’ brilliant,” he agreed.

Snape’s lip turned a fraction in response. “You will be. Here’s the water, take a sip. Right, here we go.” He slipped his fingers into Potter’s mouth, and pushed the bezoar. “Swallow.”

Snape felt Harry’s fingers scrabbling against his thigh, his throat convulsing, as he fought the urge to gag.

“Easy,” he said gently, his other hand on the back of Potter’s neck tightening a little. As Potter craned his neck into the pressure, he pushed the bezoar again. “Swallow,” he repeated, face almost against Potter’s. The green eyes were wild. He could feel the fight rising in him. “Trust me,” he said, and could feel the warmth of his breath bouncing back at him from Potter’s skin. Something seemed to release in Potter; as he started to swallow, Snape pushed, Harry swallowed again, wincing. Snape withdrew his fingers, stroking them down Harry’s throat, gently, gently.

“Well done,” he said, pulling back from the strange intimacy. “Drink a little more, it will ease the pain in your throat a little.”

Harry was lying back against Ron, soft panting breaths coming from him.

“That’s it,” Ron said gently, a hand stroking Harry’s forearm. “Well done, mate.” He held the canteen to Harry’s mouth.

Harry’s hand was shaking as he steadied the can, taking a small sip. His body tensed, as if expecting it to come straight back up, then relaxed back as it seemed to hold.

Ron looked up. “So, any chance we can move him to a bed now? Or are you all just enjoying the view?”

In the cell, Kingsley stood beside Benningdean. Two more Aurors – Kingsley supposed they were Benningdean’s guards – stood in the doorway. Felton stood just outside in the corridor, where he could see Harry, Ron and Snape, as well as listen to Shacklebolt and Benningdean.

Kingsley just waited. He needed to know what sort of man Benningdean was.

The Minister seemed to pull himself together, and then stepped carefully across to the bed, avoiding as best as he could the worst excesses on the floor. He fingered the blanket, and pressed the mattress. It squelched. He went across to the toilet and basin, giving a cursory glance. The lack of water in the toilet bowl was unmissable. It was impossible to say whether the stench there was created entirely by Harry’s ill health, or was the foul fumes arising from the sewers due to the lack of water in the U-bend. The man pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and tried to turn on the tap.

“The Auror carrying him said he was poisoned,” he said, turning to Kingsley.

“There was a single bottle of water when we entered the cell – no other available water, as you can see,” Kingsley responded. “Potions Master Snape will be analysing the contents, but his preliminary inspection – not to mention the state of Mr Potter - leads us to believe that it is poisoned.”

“When was he arrested?”

“Mr Potter’s family has never been informed that he had been arrested. They reported him missing – to the MLE – on Sunday morning. I’ve been assisting his sons in looking for him. The papers had reported him missing on Monday. At no point has any information ever been given that he was being held here under arrest.”

There were noises in the corridor, and Kingsley turned to see Felton disappearing from view.

“Thank you, Mr Shacklebolt, for your clear summary,” Benningdean said. “I’ll look into what has happened here.”

“Thank you,” Kingsley inclined his head.

They headed out to investigate, to find that the mediwizard had arrived.

“Ramsay, perhaps we could leave the mediwizard to his work and go and discuss this upstairs,” Benningdean said, coming up beside his colleague.

The mediwizard looked up, face serious. “I need to take him to St Mungo’s – ”

“No,” Felton said abruptly.

Everyone stared at him.

“This man is very ill,” the mediwizard said. “I need to – ”

“Whatever you need to do, you’ll do it here,” Felton said unequivocally. “He is a dangerous suspect. I will not allow him to put other patients at risk at the hospital. This department will not be blamed –”

“We’re talking about Harry Potter,” Kingsley said mildly. “As far as I remember, he saved our world. When did he become this huge security risk?”

“When he murdered his wife in cold blood and rigged the blame onto an innocent man,” Felton responded.

There was silence.

“Allegedly,” Snape said. “Or is innocent until proven guilty still an alien concept in Wizarding Britain?”

“Well, I can’t treat him on the floor,” the mediwizard protested. “This is quite ridiculous!”

“You can use the cell behind you,” Felton said.

“Do all the cells on this floor have magic-dampening wards?” Snape asked.

“Yes,” Felton said uncompromisingly. “There is no way that I am going to have Harry Potter in a cell without magical warding.”

“How on earth do you expect me to carry out my duties without magic?” the mediwizard blustered.

“Improvise,” Felton snapped, and turned to Benningdean. “Let’s go to my office, shall we?”

“I’ll join you,” Kingsley said. He glanced at Snape, who stood up gracefully.

“I’ll remain here for the moment,” Snape said.

“That’s not necessary – ” Felton started.

“Oh, I think it is,” Snape said, and turned his back on them, moving into the cell, and going to check very obviously whether there was water in the pipes.

Ron once again lifted Harry, and carried him to the bed.

Benningdean, Felton and Kingsley swept off, followed by all except the mediwizard, Dowling and Beecham.

The mediwizard sent Beecham off to get a long list of equipment that he needed, muttering all the while at the absurdity of expecting him to work without magic, especially when the patient was so ill. Harry had lapsed into unconsciousness again.

The mediwizard was horrified at the thought of removing Harry’s clothes without magic, of having to touch them or him in his filthy state.

Snape looked over at Ron, who began to undo the buttons of Harry’s prison robe himself.

The mediwizard rifled through the bag he had brought with him, and extracted two potions.

“What are those?” Snape demanded.

“His temperature is too low, and he’s dehydrated.” Mediwizard Thompson said superciliously. “I can’t warm him with magic, but a dose of Liquid Heat and Rehydration Elixir – ”

“Will kill him,” Snape growled.

Ron looked up.

“I don’t know who you think you are – ”

“You obviously haven’t a clue,” Ron said, straightening and crossing his arms.

“I beg your pardon? Are you both preventing me from treating my patient?” Thompson looked outraged.

“Liquid Heat will not only destroy the bezoar that Mr Potter has ingested – a bezoar that you have already been informed he has consumed within the last thirty minutes – but will cause a reaction with said bezoar which will eat through his stomach,” Snape said.

Thompson looked confused. “I don’t know why you would think that –”

“Perhaps because I’ve read Parsimmon’s Practical Guide to Usage and Contra-Indications of Medicinal Potions?” Snape sneered. “A text that is required reading for all first year trainee mediwizards, and yet seems to have slipped your notice.”

“I don’t know who you think you are!” the man blustered.

Snape ignored him and moved over to Harry. He and Ron made short work of the rest of the buttons between them.

“He’s Potions Master Severus Snape,” Ron said, over Harry’s shoulder. “Order of Merlin, First Class, creator of –”

“Thank you, Ron,” Snape cut in, “I think you’ve cleared my credentials sufficiently.”

“You realise I get paid an absolute pittance for being on call to these prisoners?” Thompson complained.

“So it’s alright that you’re rubbish?” Ron snapped. “The people in the holding cells here are all innocent until trial proves otherwise, you know.”

“Let’s be honest, Auror, they wouldn’t be here if they weren’t guilty, now would they?” the man said smugly.

Ron had to bite back his fury, because it was mingled with guilt: how often had he thought much the same? If they’d arrested someone, then surely they were guilty?

But here was Harry, and Snape too had probably been held in the cells here.

Harry’s robe was now open. He was naked underneath. Ron took a breath.

“Lift him,” Snape said, and Ron turned Harry to the side while Snape pulled the robe away. Snape put a blanket over him quickly.

“Well, I suppose you have no objection to me using a Rehydration Elixir,” Thompson said, without a hint of regret about the fatal use of the warming potion that he had been proposing.

“I have every objection,” Snape straightened. “What equipment have you ordered? I assumed you had sent for a Muggle drip.”

“A – a Muggle – well I never! And what could be wrong with –?”

“There are magic dampening wards on this cell.”

At the blank look on the man’s face, Snape prompted, “Without magic to draw fluid to the patient, how do you suppose rehydration will occur?”

Thompson opened and shut his mouth.

“No, I thought you had no idea. The potion will attract all the fluid in the patient’s body, Mediwizard. It will come into his stomach from his cells, and from his blood. Coronary failure and massive organ damage will ensue. The patient will die. Well done.”

“There’s no need to take that tone with me - !”

“There’s every reason. It’s years since I encountered such incompetence. I do not believe that you can have passed your Potions’ OWL, let alone NEWT. Now, do you know how to set up a Muggle drip or not?”

“Of course I know – ”

“Then go away, get what you need, and return as soon as you may. I will hold you accountable should anything happen to Mr Potter.”

Amidst further blustering, the man left.

“Jesus, he’s an idiot,” Ron said. “But we do need to get Harry warm. We need a fire – ” He strode over to Dowling with some orders, and Snape added his own.

Shortly after, they had a brazier in the cell, heating up with a smokeless fuel, and a bucket of hot water and washcloths and towels.

Snape peeled back the blanket, leaving Harry’s lower half covered, and Ron began to wash him down, Snape drying him as he went.

“Can you slip a clean towel under him whilst I turn him?” Snape asked.

“I’ll turn, you slip it in,” Ron said.

They worked as a team, moving on to wash Harry’s back.

Harry remained unconscious.

“Is this normal?” Ron whispered. “How can he sleep through this?”

“He’s very ill,” Snape said. He covered Harry’s back with a towel, then peeled the blanket from his lower regions.

Ron took a deep breath, then almost gagged on the smell.

Snape glanced up at him. “Why don’t you try and clean some of the vomit from his hair, whilst I deal with this?”

“You shouldn’t have to – ”

“It is a task neither of us would wish,” Snape agreed. “I think he might find it easier to have someone less familiar with him deal with this, rather than his best friend.”

“Right,” Ron nodded, relieved. He took up a flannel and tried to ease some of the mess from Harry’s hair.

Snape took up his flannel and methodically cleaned Harry’s legs, rinsing the cloth and then wiping over the curves of Harry’s arse. Ron’s intake of breath as Snape moved Harry’s legs apart was audible.

“I’m sorry, it’s essential,” he looked up at Ron, before wiping the clean flannel very gently down the crack.

Harry stirred, and Ron jumped.

“Alright, there mate?” He bent down to Harry’s level.

“Hurts,” Harry said, drawing his legs together.

Ron found his hand and gripped it. “Yeah, I bet,” Ron said. “Must be worse than the antidote to U-No-Poo. My arse was on fire for a week after the twins had tested those two on me. It hurts just remembering it.”

A smile vied with a frown of pain on Harry’s face.

“If you would just part your legs, Mr Potter, I will be done in a trice,” Snape said soothingly. “I have some healing salve that will ease the pain a little, and will not be affected by the magical dampening.”

Harry’s eyes tried to flutter open.

“Just let him do it,” Ron said.

“Cold,” Harry whispered.

“Yeah, we’ll wrap you up nice and warm and clean in a mo,” Ron said. “Open up, now, mate.”

Harry opened his mouth.

“You’re really not with it, are you?” Ron tried to smile. “Legs, you twit.”

Harry moved his legs. Snape did what was needed in a couple of moments. Harry bit his lip, which dripped blood onto the towel.

“Can you turn over?” Ron asked. “We can give you a flannel to finish yourself off.”

Snape had moved across the room, tipping the bucket contents down the toilet, and rinsing the flannel under the tap. He refilled the bucket, took it out of the cell, applied a heat spell and an anti-bacterial charm to both water and flannel, and returned.

Dowling’s cheeks were bright red as he stood with his back to the cell.

Snape handed Harry the flannel. He wrapped his hands round it, as if to enjoy the heat.

“Can you wash yourself, Mr Potter?” He leant over Harry.

Harry slowly lifted the flannel and started to wipe his face.

“I’ve done there,” Ron protested. “It’s for your bits, ‘cos I don’t fancy touching you down there, mate, and I’m sure Snape’s not interested either. Come on, get it done, and you can get back to sleep.”

It was obvious that Harry was barely conscious, but his hand slipped under the towel and moved around.

“Feel like I’m wanking in public,” Harry said, eyes shut.

“Yeah, well, don’t go getting ideas on that score,” Ron said, turning bright red.

Harry snorted, and his hand came out of the cover, flannel dangling. “Too tired,” he said, and the flannel fell from his hand as he once again slipped into unconsciousness.

Snape quickly folded the towel, covering Harry’s groin but exposing his legs, and washed and dried him.

“A clean blanket,” he said, and they whipped out the dirty one from underneath and slid in a new one.

Ron suddenly stripped off his robe and pulled off his shirt.

Snape had wrapped a blanket around Harry, but he now lifted Harry up so that they could slip the body-warmed garment over his head. It reached down Harry’s thighs, giving him some pretence of modesty. Then they re-wrapped him in blankets.

“Well done,” Snape said.

Ron looked washed out, but relieved. “How long before he’s better?”

Snape looked at him carefully. “He is still very ill. And he is very dehydrated. Unfortunately, the poison has had time to take hold. He will have to eliminate the assimilated toxins from his body. There is likely to be more diarrhoea, and fever. I cannot give him any pain potions.”

“Oh god. I thought he’d be alright now.” Ron was pale.

“The Muggle rehydration should help.”

“That tosser will probably kill him,” Ron bit out.

“I’ll stay with him, do not fear on that score,” Snape said. “We can establish a rota, if need be. I cannot see them refusing us, given this shambles. The Minister has to think of what the press could do with this. Trust Kingsley to sort it out.”

“What can I do now?” Ron asked, as he put his Auror robe back on.

“You ought to go and tell the boys,” Snape suggested. “They need to know that he’s alive.”

“And accused of murdering their mother,” Ron said, as the reality of it hit him.

“We know he’s innocent,” Snape said gently.

“They don’t trust me,” Ron said, thinking things through. “I knew nothing about this. I didn’t even know they had cells down here. I didn’t know they could hold someone without the arrest registering – ”

“There is much to think of,” Snape agreed, “but go and let everyone know that at least he’s been found.”

Ron nodded, and was gone.

Chapter Text

Kingsley Shacklebolt watched with interest as Benningdean and Felton faced off. It was funny, really, because he’d been in both of their positions. Benningdean had moved the meeting to his own office, not conceding territory to Felton. He would have done the same.

Benningdean had softened the tone a little by calling for tea. They all sat there, holding saucers awkwardly and cups that had lilac flowers on and were too small for their large hands.

“So, Ramsay,” Benningdean said, “care to tell me why we have Harry Potter practically dead in the dungeon?”

Kingsley just avoided snorting into his tea. It seemed the Minister had a way with words. Not that there was anything to laugh about, given the condition Harry was in.

“I decided that the high security cells were the most appropriate place for him,” Felton said unapologetically.

“Really?”

“Yes, Sir. He killed Voldemort, didn’t he? And he survived the killing curse twice. He can’t be normal. I wasn’t prepared to risk placing him in the regular holding cells.”

“Are you telling me you have concerns about the security of our cells?”

“No Sir, not in the usual way. But for Harry Potter, I regard the magical-dampening as essential.”

“I don’t quite see – ”

“Mr Potter manipulates space in his work. We couldn’t risk his skills being used to allow his escape –”

“Surely without his wand –”

Felton shook his head. “We’ve been observing Mr Potter for some time. We have every reason to believe that he’s able to use wandless magic. He answered the door without his wand, for Merlin’s sake! How many wizards do that?”

“Then I appreciate your reasons for placing him in those cells, but we still have some problems.”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Firstly, Mr Potter’s arrest. It appears that his family and solicitor weren’t informed, and more than that, that the family reported him missing and weren’t told that he was here. Secondly, there is the condition Mr Potter is in, and the condition of his cell.”

“I agree, I’m very concerned about those aspects,” Felton said.

Interesting, Kingsley thought.

“I was present when Mr Potter was brought in and witnessed the paperwork being completed by the warder on duty,” Felton continued. “Unfortunately, as you know, I’ve been to a conference in Canada, and it seems in my absence that the normal routines have been - delayed.”

Benningdean leant forward. “Are you trying to tell me that your staff are incompetent?”

“No – ”

“Then what?”

Felton shifted a little. “I will need to investigate what has happened. I only returned to work this morning and haven’t had time –”

“Make time.”

“Yes, Sir. As for the condition Mr Potter appeared to be in –”

“Appeared?”

“I’ll wait for the report from the Mediwizard, if you don’t mind, Sir. Prisoners have been known to pull a fast one –”

“You have had your yearly medical, Felton?”

“Sir?”

“Your eyes and ears and nose are functioning properly? Mr Potter and the cell were – plastered – in human – well, I don’t need to be explicit. Are you saying that wasn’t the case? Or that Mr Potter poisoned himself?”

Felton’s mouth opened and shut.

“Precisely. A man arrested unexpectedly on his doorstep, if what you’re saying is correct, was able to take a poison into prison, or somehow get hold of one, and chose to use it ‘to pull a fast one’. I’m not quite following your logic.”

Felton brushed a hand over his face. “I’ll need to talk to some people, but it’s possible that one of the warders may have done it.”

“It seems inevitable that the warders either did it or were complicit, certainly,” Benningdean said. “Someone turned the water off too.”

“Potter put in an official complaint about the treatment of Draco Malfoy,” Felton said. “I can’t say for sure, but it could be that the warder responsible may have – got his own back.”

Benningdean leant back in his chair. “I’m not an idiot, Felton. This is looking very bad for your department. Potter’s lawyer will inevitably put in a complaint. And it’s bound to be Mrs Weasley, who is one of the best legal minds in the country. The whole Ministry is going to come under fire for this. I’m assuming that you had very good grounds for making the arrest?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Benningdean continued to look at him.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Felton glanced at Kingsley. “Meaning no personal offence, Mr Shacklebolt, but you mentioned that you were helping the family. Obviously, it would not be appropriate to discuss the matter in front of you.”

“I presume the grounds for arrest are on the official documents, which are, of course, a public record,” Kingsley said. “Not that they have been recorded, because I’m sure CLAM would have checked and told the family where their father was, even if the arresting officers failed to do so.”

The two men sized each other up.

“I’m just wondering,” Felton said, “how you came to know where Potter was, given the – oversight – with his paperwork.”

“As you said yourself,” Kingsley drawled, “I really don’t think it would be – appropriate – to discuss that in front of you.”

Felton stood up. “Unless you need me for anything else, Sir, I’ll start looking into this matter at once.”

“What are your plans as regards Harry?” Kingsley asked. “I presume you’re going to refuse bail, as you won’t even allow him to move to a standard holding cell?”

“There is never a question of bail in a murder case, you know that.”

Kingsley inclined his head. “I understand that. However, the conditions in which we found Mr Potter are unacceptable.”

“I don’t think your views are of particular relevance – ”

The Minister coughed loudly. “I think we can find a –happy understanding – gentlemen, can’t we? Head Auror Felton obviously feels he has good grounds for keeping Mr Potter in custody. I too was shocked at what I saw, and I’m sure you were too, Ramsay,” he added diplomatically. “I appreciate your reasons for ruling out the usual holding cells: nevertheless, Mr Potter is obviously seriously ill, and must have medical attention. We need to ensure that the warders who are in charge of him are not – holding grudges, shall we say.”

“I’d like someone to be with him 24 hours a day,” Kingsley said.

“That’s not possible –” Felton began.

“Nobody can use magic in his cell,” Benningdean said.

“We accept that,” Kingsley agreed.

“Minister! Making concessions – ”

“If Mr Potter dies, Felton, I will hold you personally responsible,” Benningdean said sharply. “Someone has obviously tried to kill him, whilst in custody. I am seriously having doubts about your own department at this point, so don’t push me. Mr Shacklebolt, let me be blunt. If we concede to his having – company – in the cell, will the family hold off from going to the press?”

Kinsgsley looked shrewdly at the man, trying to work out exactly what he wanted to gain. “Mr Potter will be allowed medical help, unrestricted access to his lawyer, food provided by us, and a companion to ensure his protection at all times. If these simple requests are acceptable, then I think it likely that the family will hold off going to the press - unless Mr Potter’s condition deteriorates.”

“Done.” Benningdean looked across at Felton. “See to it. And I await your report on this shambles within twenty four hours.”

Felton left the room, with a curt nod at the Minister and at Shacklebolt, barely able to contain his fury.

Benningdean looked across at Kingsley. “Might I ask how you come to be involved in this?”

“I fought in the war with Harry Potter.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

Kingsley laughed. “It doesn’t.”

“More tea?”

“I wouldn’t say no,” Kingsley said. “Perhaps you could arrange to have some sent down to Master Snape, as well. A biscuit or two wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Of course.” Benningdean summoned an elf and gave instructions.

“Master Snape assisted Potter in his defence of Malfoy,” Benningdean fished.

“He did, yes.”

Benningdean rubbed his nose. “Is everyone as tight as a jarvey’s arse? Once upon a time, I felt I had my finger on the pulse.”

Kingsley laughed. “What do you want to know?”

“You and Master Snape and Potter have been friends all these years?”

“We’ve only just made contact with Harry recently. Nevertheless, I have every faith in him. He’s a good man. I’m astonished that your Aurors believe they can pin his wife’s murder on him.”

“Felton is usually very thorough,” Benningdean said meditatively. “I’m as surprised by the turn of events as you are.”

“You weren’t briefed, I take it?” Kingsley said delicately.

Benningdean looked at him sharply. “I take it you were, if you had – controversial – cases?”

“It was after the war. I’d gone from being Head Auror to being Minister. I suspect I insisted on knowing what was going on. And a lot of well-known wizards were brought to trial: I had a daily report.”

“I came into this for more political reasons; I’ve never been involved with the MLE,” he sighed. “To be honest, I’ve always felt that it was better for the Minister not to be involved.”

“Well, that’s understandable,” Kingsley said. “Things are different now – we were coming out of a war then. You’ve had experience in the Ministry, though?”

“Yes, I was involved in international trading standards – part of the Department of International Magical Co-operation, as you probably know. My background is business and finance.”

“Very useful, I’d say,” Kingsley nodded. “You speak other languages?”

“French, Spanish and Chinese.”

“Exceptionally useful,” Kingsley said. “Translation spells are a bugger, aren’t they?”

“Dire,” Benningdean laughed.

Kingsley took a decision.

“Minister,” he said formally, “perhaps I ought to clarify my position.”

“Yes?”

The tea arrived, along with biscuits and small sandwiches.

Kingsley ate three before continuing, but didn’t change his mind.

“I work for the European Wizarding Alliance.”

“Really? I’ve heard of them, of course.”

“Well, few have, but I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’d heard of the EWA before I became Minister, but then, I was dealing with other European nations quite a bit then.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“They’re interested in Mr Potter?”

“Actually. It was the death of Ginevra Potter that attracted our attention,” Kingsley said, with complete honesty, if some discombobulation.

“Really? Why?” Benningdean looked bemused.

“The Veritaserox evidence showed three men dressed in garb that we’ve seen before.”

There was no mistaking the seriousness of Kingsley’s tone.

“What is your role in this?” Benningdean got straight to the point.

“My team investigates new threats to the stability of the wizarding world.”

“And you think these people – ? ”

“We don’t know what they’re doing yet, or who they are, but their actions are certainly destabilizing things, quietly but steadily. And now they’re working in England.”

“Bugger. I could do without this!” Benningdean looked weary, rather than shocked.

“We all could,” Kingsley agreed sympathetically.

“You think Potter has been set up?”

“It’s looking like it. And Malfoy, for that matter.”

Benningdean got up and started pacing his room.

“I can’t just release Mr Potter. There are due processes…”

“Of course,” Kingsley said.

Benningdean looked mollified. “You think they’ve targeted Potter to decrease stability here? I appreciate his past actions, of course, but he is hardly a figure that I would have thought to be a first option.”

“I’m still feeling my way round this,” Kingsley said, “but so far this murder has affected the world of sport and entertainment, through Mrs Potter, the press and business, through Draco Malfoy, our – cultural history and heroes, through Mr Potter, and this latest – the treatment of Mr Potter – could destroy you, frankly.”

“Me?”

“Depends where the press assign the responsibility,” Kingsley said honestly, “but if it’s not you, it’s the MLE, probably both, and the bottom line is that the Ministry is going to be damaged.”

Benningdean stopped pacing, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Is that the real reason why you’re holding off on going to the press?”

“Partly,” Kingsley said, “although frankly, I’m utterly disgusted by what I saw down there. You deserve that the press has a field day about it. I’m trusting you to make sure that that sort of treatment of detainees never happens again.”

Benningdean nodded. “Agreed.”

Kingsley got up to go.

They shook hands.

As Kingsley reached the door, Benningdean asked, “Would you trust Felton?”

Kingsley turned and leant back against the door. He appreciated that it must have been difficult for the Minister to ask. But he, if anyone, understood the isolation of the Minister’s position. He answered frankly. “Difficult one, that. Obviously, he’s made a right mess of things. How long has he been in post?”

“Three or four years?”

“This shouldn’t have happened, then. On the other hand, if he was genuinely at a conference, things could have got out of hand in his absence. It doesn’t speak well of his leadership. He’s either incompetent, unlucky, or a bad egg. Who’s the Head of MLE?”

“Dorothy Atkins. Been in charge for eighteen months, two years. Popular.”

“Popular doesn’t mean anything,” Kingsley shook his head. “I would have expected her to oversee the matter in Felton’s absence, especially with a detainee of Harry’s calibre. Maybe that needs looking into.”

Benningdean nodded. “Thanks, I’m grateful for your opinion. You’re more generous than I would have been.”

“I’m not feeling generous, I’m feeling angry,” Kingsley said. “Fair treatment, fair trial.”

Benningdean nodded.

Harry could smell a fire. His eyes cracked open a little. He didn’t have his glasses on. Everything was blurred. He could tell, though, from the shifting patterns, that flames were flickering.

He felt too hot. Or did he feel cold? He could feel sweat dripping down his back. He shifted a little, conscious that his front was clammy too.

“Do you need anything?”

The voice was deep, familiar. Unthreatening. His brain was sluggish, unable to grasp who it was. He opened his eyes wider, but could see barely a dark shape….

“Sna-pe?” his voice broke mid-word.

“It sounds like you could do with some water. Hold on a moment.”

Harry wondered where they were. He was wrapped up in a bed. He was definitely too hot. He started pushing the covers back. A mug was held to his lips. He remembered he shouldn’t drink. He couldn’t remember why –

“It’s clean,” Snape said quietly. “This water is clean, Harry.”

He was so thirsty. His mouth felt thick and furry. His breath must be foul. He ran his tongue around it slowly. He could taste vomit.

The shape loomed over him, and he felt a hand under his shoulders, lifting him. It was solid, and comforting. The mug prodded his lip.

“Snape?” he said again.

“Who else?”

Harry drank.

“Not too much,” the voice warned.

Harry allowed the hand to lower him back on the bed. He appeared to have pillows.

Instantly, his guts convulsed.

“You poisoned me!” he gasped, fumbling to get out of the bed. Restraints of some sort seemed to be getting in his way, yanking on his arm.

“No. Toilet?”

Harry nodded.

A strong arm steered him over to the lavatory bowl. He only just made it in time. Sweat poured off him as he sat there, elbows resting on shaky knees.

A hand behind him pushed the flush after a moment or two, washing away some of the foul smell.

Water!

He felt Snape squatting in front of him.

“It’s going to take a few more bouts to clear the poison from your system,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry that I can’t do anything to ease your discomfort, but you have ingested a bezoar, and we do now have clean water.”

“I’m still in prison,” Harry said.

“Yes. How much can you see?”

“Your shape, just. Has someone smashed my glasses?”

Harry felt them being poked into his hand, and put them on. It wasn’t a great improvement. Fear swelled in him.

“The blindness is as a result of the poisoning; it should get better,” Snape said.

Harry found his voice ridiculously soothing.

He reached round, to see what was dragging at his arm, and realised that he wasn’t manacled. But – he lifted his hand in front of his eyes, and could just make out the needle inserted in the back. “A drip?”

“Yes, the cell is warded against magic, and we needed to get fluids into you.”

“Did you do it?” Harry asked in wonder.

“No. A mediwizard has been.”

“You don’t think much of him,” Harry said, judging from the tone of Snape’s voice.

“Correct. But I think you’ll be alright now. One of us will be with you at all times, do not fear.”

“They think I murdered Ginny.”

“So I gather. Hermione has the matter in hand. They failed to put out notice of your arrest, and even failed to tell your children when they reported you missing. Kingsley has had words with the Minister.”

“I’ve caused you a lot of trouble,” Harry said.

Snape snorted. “Brings back the old days.”

Harry started to smile, but his stomach convulsed again. Shivering set in. A moment or two later, a blanket was thrown over his shoulders.

“It is horrid, I know, but the sooner it’s all out of your system, the better.”

“I can’t believe I’m shitting in front of you,” Harry bit out, as his stomach cramped and clenched.

A hand landed on his shoulder. “Do not let it trouble you. We all have to go.”

“Not in front of others!”

“Do you want me to go? I’m reluctant to leave you: you may pass out again.”

“Got a book or something you can read? And I’m really sorry about the smell.”

Snape laughed. “I’ve made worse potions. Just.”

Time passed. Harry seemed to be in a half-world, staggering from the bed to the loo and back again. Snape was quietly there in the background.

Finally, he slept.

When he woke, he was surprised to find Albus, rather than Snape, in the chair by the bed. To his relief, once he’d grabbed his glasses, he could actually see his son.

“Alright, Dad?” Albus hovered.

Harry took stock. Things seemed quiet in the stomach department.

“Might be,” he said cautiously.

He sat up, and was surprised to feel the room swimming.

Albus was beside him, supporting him at once.

“Ooh-er. Sorry about that,” Harry said, world still reeling.

“Severus said that you ought to eat something, if you could.”

“Severus?”

“He told us to call him that. He’s been staying over for a couple of days. Brewing a potion to help us find you. And helping us learn stuff.”

“I think you’re right, I need to eat before I hear all that.”

“You do,” Snape said, entering the cell.

Albus looked round and grinned at the Potions Master. “Told you I wouldn’t kill him.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“He’s been like a mother hen,” Albus teased, much to Harry’s amazement. “He’s been stuck by your side for the last eighteen hours. Kingsley – well, all of us -insisted that he go home and get a couple of hours’ sleep.”

“I’m so sorry – ” Harry said, and didn’t know whether to be mortified or pleased. Shocked, certainly.

“I don’t need much sleep,” Snape dismissed his efforts. “And I was able to catch up with my reading. Your son seems to have done a good job in my absence.”

“Haven’t done anything at all, he’s been fast asleep till the moment before you arrived,” Albus admitted cheerfully.

Snape took something out of the cell, cast a spell under the eye of yet another Auror, and returned. It appeared to be a flask of something. Severus poured it out.

“Gran’s chicken broth,” Albus said. “Apparently you need something very light for your stomach.”

Harry drank the soup with pleasure, and found himself exhausted at the end, his hand starting to shake.

“That is probably enough,” Snape said. “Don’t force it. You may find it starts you cramping again –”

“Oh no…” Harry moaned.

“But the worst should be through your system. I take it your sight has returned?”

“Yeah, thank god for that,” Harry said.

“Did you go blind?” Albus asked in amazement. He obviously hadn’t known.

“A temporary effect of one of the ingredients in the poison,” Snape said. “I don’t expect the poisoner had any idea that would occur.”

“Do they know who did it?” Harry whispered, lying back against his pillows.

“Sole responsibility falls on one of the warders, apparently. I gather you pissed him off in regard to Draco.”

“Yup. Wasn’t sure if he was acting alone or on orders,” Harry looked hard at Snape.

“It appears that he is taking the full brunt of the recriminations,” Snape said, sitting down. “He has been dismissed. Given his liking for revenge, you will need to look out when you come out of here, or if he was set up, then I suspect someone else in the organisation will be getting their just deserts.”

Harry was quiet. “Do we know what their case is against me? You know I wouldn’t hurt – ” he started saying to Albus, who interrupted at once.

“Don’t be daft, Dad! I don’t know what they can be thinking, but according to Mione, they don’t need to tell us in advance of the trial exactly what evidence they think they have.”

Harry looked at Snape. “You said before that they’d suspect me, if Draco was innocent.”

“The husband is the usual culprit,” Snape said. “That was all I was saying.”

Harry nodded. After a moment, he turned to look at Albus. “How’re James and Lily?”

“James has gone into work today – I think they were getting a bit shirty with him missing so much time, as if he can help it! He was here before he went in, and he’ll be along after.”

“Good,” Harry said. “You – did you tell Lily?”

“Of course we did! It was all over the papers – how could we not? Anyway, she’s fine.”

“She’s not been here?”

“The Headmaster isn’t very keen on her missing any more school, what with the NEWTS coming up, but she says she’s coming this weekend – ”

“He’s right, she needs to concentrate on her work. God, her year’s been really messed up – ” Harry ran a shaky hand over his face.

“Potter, every year of your education was messed up, and yet you haven’t done so badly,” Snape said.

Harry looked at him. Snape looked very tall and very distinguished in his robes. “Yeah, here I am, in prison accused of murder,” he quipped.

Albus snorted.

Snape’s lips twitched. “I must admit, I was rather thinking of your earlier achievements – ”

“Voldemort?” Harry said disdainfully.

“That too. I was thinking of running your own business, and bringing up three children who appear to have a modicum of good sense and manners,” Snape said, glancing at Albus.

“Good lord, what have you done to earn Snape’s approval?” Harry gawked.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Snape murmured.

Albus grinned, unbothered.

Harry couldn’t believe the easy manner between the two of them.

Ramsey Felton sat facing Dorothy Atkins. She was his superior, as Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Department, but as she had no experience in the practicalities of Auror work, she had pretty much left him to his own devices since she joined MLE getting on for two years earlier. Her background was in law, and she had prosecuted many cases for the Wizengamot before her appointment. She was highly regarded by the other division heads – he suspected that Daltry, who was in charge of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, had a crush on her – from all he’d seen of her, she was fair, and could be witty and amusing when she chose to be.

“Well, Ramsey, this is the biggest balls-up I’ve seen in this department, and that, frankly, is saying something. I’d always thought you were a safe pair of hands,” she said, her voice tinged with a disappointment that she made sound personal. The threat – that she could no longer think him trustworthy – hung in the air. She was a woman famed in court for being good with words. Everything she said was nuanced.

“I’ve interviewed the warders under Veritaserum. As I thought, Peters, who if you remember, we reprimanded after Mr Potter put in that complaint, was responsible for poisoning firstly Mr Potter’s food, and then his water. He cut off the water supply too, after he found Potter trying to get fresh water from the toilet. Khan didn’t actually do anything, but didn’t stop it either: his daughter is married to Peters’ son, and he didn’t want to cause any ‘family trouble’, as he put it. I intend to dismiss them both, if you’ll approve it.”

“Is that all?”

“Sorry?”

“Why are you not considering prosecution?” She sat forward and studied him. “You put him up to it.”

“No!”

“No?”

Felton was sweating. He could feel it, clammy, under his arms.

“You did something,” she said, shrewdly. She sat back. “You’d better tell me. Unless I have a good reason, I’ll over-ride you on this. I won’t accept this sort of behaviour from our staff.”

Felton gritted his teeth.

The moment stretched.

“Right.” She leant forward once again, her elbows on the desk, fingers steepling. “This changes things. I think you know that I can no longer trust you after this. We’ll have to work out what’s best for the future of the department.”

Felton weighed up losing his job with the possibility that she might decide to prosecute him too. He decided to put his side.

“I may have given him a little leeway. I specifically said no broken bones or visible damage, which I thought he’d take to mean that I didn’t think it would hurt if he was a little mean with privileges. I was trying to give the warders a little bit of support! It’s not the best of jobs, stuck down in the bowels of the Ministry day in and day out. How the hell was I to imagine that he’d poison him?”

“And you deliberately didn’t submit the paperwork, so that no-one could interfere.”

“I said it was okay to hold it back till Monday morning! It was the weekend!”

“You’re being disingenuous. Potter has family, and he’s high profile. It didn’t occur to you that it would be essential to do everything by the book? I hope to bloody hell that you’ve got a good case against him, Felton!”

“We have.”

“I want all the paperwork on my desk within the hour. Have you talked to the Wizengamot Administration Service about a court date?”

“Not yet.”

“You’ll need to make sure he’s in perfect health before the case. I’m not having him appearing in The Prophet looking like he’s been badly treated. The Minister is furious, and I’ve taken the shit for you on this one. Don’t let me down again, Felton.”

“No, Ma’am.” He left the room, heading down to his office, and ignoring his secretary, shut the door and then kicked his filing cabinet.

For Harry, the next forty eight hours passed in a trail of visitors. He seemed to have someone with him all the time. At first, he was in and out of sleep, but in a surprisingly short time, he felt considerably better, and was out of his bed and up.

It was then that he found it exhausting to have so many people dropping in.

Not that any of them had been unwelcome, but his head was buzzing with thoughts and not everyone was like Snape, able to sit and read and just be, without expecting him to be talking all the time.

Snape was with him on Saturday evening, quietly reading a book. He had brought several in for Harry, who’d been surprised how relaxing it was to just get lost in someone else’s world for a couple of hours. It was late, and he saw Snape looking at his watch.

“Is someone else coming?” he asked.

“James.”

“Why don’t you go now and tell him not to, would you?”

Snape looked across at him assessingly. “Had enough of us all?”

“I’m just going to go to sleep. If they murder me in my bed, we’ll know who to blame.”

Snape looked thoughtful. “Walsingham is on, I believe. He seems trustworthy.”

“Yeah, he was alright in school too. Been okay here. Frankly, I don’t think any of them would dare harm me now that everyone knows where I am.”

“And you’re feeling alright?”

“Just tired. What happens with that bezoar, by the way? Is it still in my stomach? Protecting me?”

“If it were so easy, anyone at risk would just swallow one and be done with it,” Snape answered.

“So. I’ve passed it, then, or something?”

“It will be slowly dissolving in your stomach, so it will still have some protection. They’ve usually completely dissolved within a week, depending on the initial size.”

“Okay. I wondered,” Harry said.

Snape got up, closing his book. “Neville will be along in the morning.”

Harry reached out his hand, closing it over Snape’s wrist to get him to look at him.

“I don’t need people all the time now,” he said. “I’ll be alright.”

“I’ll tell him not to come?”

“If you would.”

Snape swung his cloak over his shoulders. “You don’t get on?”

“Yeah, we do, but I saw him yesterday. There’s only so much conversation you can dig up, isn’t there, however much you like a person?”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, I don’t mean you,” Harry said, with a grin.

Snape raised an eyebrow.

“You’re happy to read. And let me read, or think. You’re surprisingly restful, Snape,” Harry said, a hint of surprise in his voice, as if realising it for the first time.

“And you need rest?”

“Sort of. All this coming and going – everyone’s very kind – but – I mean, my brain’s - ”

“Struggling? What’s new?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Two cells to rub together and it’s hard work for them to do even that. ” Harry took Snape’s ribbing with a slight smile, and was pleased to see Snape’s lips curl in response. He added seriously, “I need time to think. I can’t do it with all of them in and out, lovely though it is - ”

“You don’t have to do the whole gratitude thing, this is me you’re talking to,” Snape said.

“Well, I am grateful – I’m more grateful to you than anyone else,” Harry added, “and I haven’t even said thank you –”

“Stop right there.”

Harry snorted. “Thank you. I mean it. And I won’t say another word. But tell them to leave off the rota, or whatever’s going on, will you?”

“Albus and James will still come. And Molly wants to check how her meals are suiting you.”

“Can’t sort out Molly Weasley? Join the gang,” Harry grinned.

Snape walked over to the door. “I will drop by tomorrow evening.” He held up his hand. “If you don’t want company, I won’t stay. But you might want someone to bounce your thoughts off of, assuming you have had any. And I might suggest you see Hermione again, while it’s the weekend. She will have to go into work on Monday, and clear her other cases to take yours, and it may not be as easy as she would wish.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his face turning serious. “Would you ask her – ”

“She was due to come anyway. I’ll tell the others to go and enjoy themselves. The weather has been very pleasant this weekend.”

“It has?” Harry said wistfully.

Snape looked at him, thinking of Harry’s patronus, and its strange request for him, the bezoar and sunshine. He would ask about that another day. “It has. Sleep well now,” and he was gone.

Harry shut the book in front of him and thought of Hermione. And Ron. Both had been in several times to see him. Hermione had been horribly apologetic that she had continued to work on her case, but Ron had said how she’d been researching, and teaching the kids in the evenings. Harry had nodded and consoled her: it must be an impossible task, after all, to find someone missing. Ron had regaled him with the misery of Ireland, how he’d hoped it might lead to a clue to his whereabouts as well as the arrest of the wizards who’d absconded. He’d made vague hints that Harry couldn’t decipher – Ron thought the conversations in the cell were likely to be monitored, making frank discussions difficult.

Harry understood that they had both needed to do what they did. He did, really. And yet…it hurt a bit, thinking of them going on with their normal lives whilst he was effectively kidnapped. He knew, logically, that there was nothing else they could do, that finding him was like looking for a needle in a haystack. That he would have hated it if Hermione’s client had ended up incarcerated. And yet….

He went through his night time ablutions – he only had cold water, but he did have water and a towel. It was the first time without someone in the cell with him, although there was still an Auror outside, who had thankfully turned his back.

Tucked under his blankets five minutes later, with the cell lit only from the light in the corridor, he put his hands behind his head and started thinking of the various conversations that he had had over the last couple of days.

The boys had been regular visitors, of course, although he had told Albus that he too should get back to work. The goblins had been more willing to accept Albus’ absence, on the simple basis that they didn’t pay him if he didn’t come in, but Albus agreed that with more time off needed when Harry’s trial came up, he ought to show in the meantime that he was indeed a dedicated employee - though as he said to his father, he wasn’t feeling that dedicated at the moment.

Harry didn’t want him to be spending his days lurking around a prison cell either.

As for Lily, she’d written to him as soon as she’d heard from the boys that he was alive. He’d written back and told her not to visit, that he’d write every day instead.

James had come in for the second time on Friday, waving a letter in his hand, from the Headmaster at Hogwarts.

Harry reached over to the table, and re-read the letter, squinting in the dim light:

Dear Mr (James) Potter

I am writing to you as the de facto head of the Potter household, given your father’s current situation.

Lily has requested leave this weekend to visit her father in the holding cells at the Ministry.

I have considered this matter very gravely, and taken advice from her Head of House and the Board of Governors.

As you know, Lily is in her final year and will shortly be facing the rigours of her NEWTS. She was expected to do very well, but her teachers report that the unfortunate events of this year have affected her marks. This was perhaps inevitable, but I am very anxious that this further situation not be allowed to damage her future prospects.

Lily feels that as it is the weekend, such a visit will not interfere with her studies. However, I feel that a visit to what is, in effect, a prison, and seeing her father incarcerated, cannot but affect her state of mind and her ability to concentrate on her studies. Furthermore, she is due to play this weekend in an inter-house quidditch match, and her absence would sorely let down her team-mates. Whilst I am sure they would endeavour to be understanding, your father’s arrest has been something of an embarrassment to the school, and her absence can only provoke further comment. I feel she would benefit from the exercise and team spirit by participating in the match.

I would therefore like your support for the school’s decision to refuse Lily permission to visit her father.

Yours sincerely

Peter Brown

Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

James had been absolutely outraged by the letter, and completely taken aback when Harry had said, “He’s right.”

“Dad!” his son had expostulated. “He’s called you an embarrassment! You! And to deny Lily – ”

“Well, it is an embarrassment to have one of your pupils’ parents arrested for murder. And he’s right about it affecting Lily: this year is hard enough for her. It’d be terrible if she didn’t get the results she needs to get into the University in Paris: she’ll be gutted. And anyway, she’d be much better off playing quidditch than stuck in the gloom in here.”

Harry hated the cells. It was weird, because he’d spent years in the cupboard under the stairs at the Dursley’s, which was a far smaller space than his current accommodation. And yet…he hadn’t seen natural light for over a week. It itched at him, making him tense. He wondered if he would ever see it again.

What case did they have against him? Snape had said that the husband was the usual suspect, but what evidence did they have? They’d need evidence, wouldn’t they?

Hermione had gone through possible scenarios, writing them down so that they couldn’t be overheard. She’d asked for his alibi – where was he at the time of the murder?

It brought it all into suddenly sharp focus – he had been so disbelieving at being arrested that the fact that he was actually going to be tried for Ginny’s murder hadn’t really registered. It still seemed unreal. How could anyone think that he would murder her? Did they think he was one of the three attackers? Who did they think he’d roped in to assist? Or did they suppose that he’d paid someone to do it? The whole idea was unbelievable. And once again, he was coming up against the ridiculous system of justice. Until the trial, he would have no idea of the grounds on which the Aurors had based the warrant for his arrest. No wonder Hermione had declined to become a school governor when she’d been asked – she’d been spending years whittling her way through a whole series of amendments to the justice system. Unfortunately, none that would be of much help to him.

He slept fitfully, and woke on his own. Albus came in around eleven, and he was surprised how long the time stretched out when he was alone.

They played a game of chess, though neither were particularly good at it, and it was strange to see the pieces standing stationary and solid, instead of thwacking their opponents to pieces. Just before one, Molly Weasley arrived, bearing food.

“And this needs to be eaten now,” she said, “while it’s still hot.”

“Yes, Mum,” Harry teased, though he was profoundly glad that the Weasleys had stood by him.

“Go on with you,” she said, laying the table with a checked tablecloth and a napkin. “No need not to do it properly,” she commented, as she sniffed at the plastic cutlery that he was forced to use.

Strange what things from the Muggle world that wizards had accepted, Harry thought. Who would ever have supposed that plastic cutlery would feature?

“Aren’t you going to the football this afternoon with Fred and Teddy?” Molly asked Albus.

“I don’t need to go yet – ”

“I’d forgotten all about the match!” Harry said. “You weren’t going to miss it for me, were you? Don’t be daft, Albus! I want to hear all about it when you next come! But you go out with the boys afterwards – I don’t want to see you till tomorrow, alright? And no missing work.”

Albus grinned. “Are you sure, Dad? I don’t mind –”

“Well I do,” Harry said, “those tickets are like gold dust. Go and enjoy.”

Albus gave his Dad a kiss and was on his way with a smile.

“Thanks for that, Molly,” Harry said. “I’d completely forgotten about the match.”

“I don’t understand this football at all, but the boys seem to like it,” Molly said. “Can you believe it, The Prophet even has a section on it nowadays? Eat up now: I brought you something a bit more wholesome today, and some crumble and custard for pudding. I know you like it.”

“I do,” Harry agreed. “Thank you so much – ”

“None of that,” Molly said, sitting in the other seat.

“Have you eaten?” Harry said, looking at her as he was about to dive into the stewed beef and vegetables filling his plate.

“I’ll have some later, dear,” Molly said.

Harry pushed the plate into the middle. “Want to share? I’m sure it’s delicious, but it’s a bit too much for me, Molly: my stomach’s still a bit delicate.”

“Should I have brought something else?” she said worriedly.

“It looks great. I just need to restrain myself from having too much. Dig in,” he urged.

Molly hesitated, and then picked up a fork. They ate in silence for a while. Harry didn’t have much room for the pudding, but said he’d be glad to eat it for his tea later.

“Well, I brought you some sandwiches for that,” Molly said, indicating her basket.

“You’re an absolute darling, Molly. Thank you,” Harry said with a smile.

“Tush.” Molly packed away the dishes and got out a flask of tea.

“You don’t have to get back to Arthur? Not that your company isn’t wonderful –” Harry said awkwardly.

“Bill and Charlie are home today. I think they’re planning on calling by later.”

“It would be lovely to see them, but people really don’t need to feel they have to come by,” Harry said, as tactfully as he could.

“Don’t you even think that people don’t want to come,” Molly said.

They sat sipping tea. Molly seemed in no hurry to leave. Harry realised that she was fidgeting a bit. His heart sank. Was there something dreadful she was going to say to him about what had happened?

“Is something on your mind, Molly?” he asked.

“What? I mean pardon?” Molly said, blushing.

“You’ve been twiddling your rings for the last five minutes,” Harry said gently. “It’s not like you to beat about the bush if you have something to say. What is it?”

Molly was bright red. “Well, there was something I was wondering about asking you, but I really shouldn’t – I mean, it isn’t really appropriate, and –”

“Just ask,” Harry reached out and touched her hand.

Molly fidgeted again, not looking at him, and Harry wondered what on earth was bothering her.

“I wanted to ask you about sex!” she burst out at last.

Harry reeled back. “What?”

“You said,” Molly quietened her voice, having seen the Auror spin round to look at them, and then grimace in horror, “that you and Ginny – that you didn’t – that there wasn’t anyone else – ”

“There wasn’t,” Harry said firmly. “I never cheated on Ginny, I promise.”

Molly twiddled some more. “I don’t understand then,” she said, raising confused eyes to him, before glancing down again.

“What don’t you understand? I didn’t want anyone else –”

Harry cut off because Molly was shaking her head.

“About the magic,” she whispered, leaning forward. “How come your magic isn’t affected?”

“That’s just an old wives’ tale,” Harry said, realising that probably wasn’t the best phrase to use the minute it was out of his mouth. “People believe it without any evidence. It isn’t true.”

“It is,” Molly said firmly.

“No –”

Harry looked carefully at Molly, trying to think why she was so convinced.

Why she’d brought it up.

“Are – are you having trouble with your magic?” he asked. He fumbled, thinking. Fortunately, Molly started speaking again.

“Since Arthur’s stroke. We – he – he can’t, you see,” she said, red-faced again. “Of course, his magic is all wonky with the stroke, it’s probably best that it’s diminishing, but how am I supposed to cope without my magic?” Her voice had risen, causing the Auror to look round again, and then decide that it might be time to wander down the corridor.

Harry’s mind was whirling. “You’re having problems with your magic?”

Molly nodded.

“Have you talked to anyone about it?”

“I don’t want to upset Arthur. It’s not his fault he can’t…”

“Oh Molly,” Harry said sympathetically, taking hold of her hands. She gripped his tight. “Tell me when you first noticed it, and what’s giving you problems.”

Molly poured her heart out.

Harry tried to make sense of it. “You really ought to see a Mediwitch,” he said at last.

“I can’t do that! I’d have to tell Arthur or the children if I wanted to go out, and Teddy might see me at St Mungo’s –”

Harry suddenly realised how Arthur’s illness had led to Molly almost being a prisoner in her own home. She’d only been able to visit him because her sons were there with Arthur.

He got up and walked over to the railings. The Auror came stomping back to stand in front of him.

“Can I have a word with the warder, please?” Harry asked politely.

Harry had seen that Stephen Walsingham was on duty again, and soon he came up to see what Harry wanted.

“I’ve got a pain in my chest,” Harry said, holding his hand to it. “Could you owl Susan Bones – she’s Susan Boniface now – and ask her if she can come at once?”

Walsingham looked him over. “I should call our duty Mediwizard – ”

“We both know he’s rubbish,” Harry interrupted. “Please?”

Walsingham nodded. “Better lie down then. Is Mrs Weasley going to keep an eye on you?”

“Yup,” Harry said.

He went and laid on the bed.

“What are you up to, young man?” Molly demanded, pulling up the chair to sit beside him.

“Being an idiot, probably. Don’t kill me, Molly.”

Fifteen minutes later, Susan Bones appeared.

“Harry?” she said, coming over to the bed with a worried look on her face. “The note said you had chest pains?”

“Not really,” Harry replied. “I’m really sorry to have tricked you,” he whispered, “but can you just take Molly into the corridor, where you can use magic, or go into the ladies together on your way out, and do a scan on her? She says she’s been losing her magic since Arthur’s stroke.”

Susan looked hard at the red-faced matriarch.

“I haven’t had sex in years and I haven’t lost any power,” Harry added quietly.

“If you think I can just do a scan in the corridor and diagnose –” Susan began crossly.

Harry reached out and took her hand. “She doesn’t want to hurt Arthur, and she barely gets out of the house, and can’t do it without having to tell everyone where she is. Please, Susan.”

“You’ve got more cheek than a prize pig,” she said to Harry. She leant over and started undoing his buttons, whipping out her stethoscope.

“Hey!”

“Hey yourself,” she said. “I’ll have to check you over – the Muggle way – now I’m here. If you died a sudden death and it came to court – ”

“I think I’ve nearly done that bit already,” Harry commented, but submitted to the investigation.

“Hmm,” she said, after listening to his heart, prodding his stomach and taking his blood pressure.

“Is there something wrong?” Mrs Weasley asked worriedly.

“Dyspepsia,” Susan said.

“Oh dear! That sounds serious! “

Susan leant forward. “Often mistaken for a heart attack,” she said to Harry. His eyes widened. “Commonly known as indigestion,” she added.

Harry grinned, and sat up as she made some notes.

The witches left shortly after, Molly thanking and berating him in equal measure, and Susan telling him that if there was anything she could do, he only had to ask, but if he could give her a bit of notice it would make her life a bit easier. Although she had been quite pleased to leave the lancing of a series of curse-engorged boils that she had been about to undertake to another mediwizard.

That afternoon, Draco Malfoy had appeared. He looked a bit green about the gills coming into the cell, as if they might not let him out again.

“You didn’t have to come,” Harry said, getting to his feet. He wasn’t sure whether to shake Draco’s hand, or what, and ended up sort of lurking, instead. He was relieved to see that Draco seemed just as awkward.

“I can’t understand why they’ve arrested you after the memory was shown,” Draco said, sitting down in the chair that Harry had waved him to.

Draco fingered the tablecloth that Molly had left behind inadvertently.

“Better conditions than I had,” he said.

“At least you had water,” Harry retorted. “And weren’t poisoned. Molly came by with lunch today and left this.”

“I heard about that,” Malfoy said. He looked at Harry. “You still look a bit frail.”

“About a thousand percent better than I did earlier in the week,” Harry shrugged. “Death by diarrhoea is not a good way to go.”

Malfoy’s nose twitched in disgust.

Harry grinned.

“Shacklebolt said not to put it in the paper,” he questioned. “Surely it would get the public on your side if they knew how poorly you’d been treated.”

Harry’s head tilted as he studied Malfoy. “I trust him. Don’t you?”

“Yes, but it’s hard to see how silence is in your interest. All I’ve put in is that you’ve been arrested. I couldn’t ignore the story, but I’ve tried to keep it low-key.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m not after your thanks – Merlin, Harry, I owe you my bloody life!”

“I don’t know what to say. I’m safe now, which I wasn’t before; I have access to Hermione, and any other visitors, and my own food – ”

“A person ought to be safe in prison anyway, and have access to their lawyer, and healthy food and some visiting rights.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed.

“We could run an article about holding conditions in the Ministry without specific reference to you – ”

“I trust Kingsley,” Harry said again, “but in general, I agree, there’re things that need to be addressed on a permanent basis. If you print something, run it by him first.”

Draco nodded. “So, any idea when your trial is?”

“Nope. Probably when they think I look well enough not to show them up.”

Draco snorted.

Harry looked at him. “How are you holding up, Draco?” he asked gently.

“I can’t believe you’re asking me that! You were her husband –”

“And you were the wicked lover. But you did love her. I know that.”

Draco rubbed a hand over his face.

“Day by day,” he said quietly. “Life feels – pointless.”

“You have Scorpius –”

“I don’t think he’s forgiven me for being willing to leave him.” He shook his head, and rubbed his hands on his knees. “This’ll make you laugh,” he said, evidently trying to change the tone. “Father seems to have a new lease on life – he’s been flitting off to the continent willy-nilly, and he looks a hundred times better than I’ve seen him in years. I think he must have found a Spanish senorita, or a French mademoiselle.” He gave a tight smile. “I hope she’s older than me – can you imagine if he was gallivanting with some teenager?”

Harry knew why Lucius was traipsing round Europe, and hoped he was having some success. He was surprised that Malfoy hadn’t mentioned the shop. “Does it bother you? That he might marry again?”

“Hell, no. He can do what he bloody well likes. We don’t see each other,” he added. “He’s going in to business, too, apparently. Bought a shop in Italy. Managed, of course,” he smirked. “Spent all his life telling me that Malfoy’s didn’t ‘do’ trade. I heard rumours that he’s thinking of renting out one of the Paris properties. I don’t believe that one, he’s always liked that house.”

Interesting, thought Harry. Buying a shop in Italy was good – made his introduction into the commercial world not quite so surprising.

“Maybe he needs the money,” Harry said.

“I don’t know what for. Enough about my father. Can I do anything for you, Harry? For the family?”

It was profoundly weird, this almost-camaraderie between them. He’d tried to get used to Malfoy before, when he thought that he’d become step-father to his kids, but the very reason that would no longer happen seemed to have brought them closer together.

He shook his head. “Thanks, but there’s nothing.”

Draco stood up. “Well, owl me if you change your mind. And let your kids know they can ask me for anything.”

Harry stood too, and this time they shook hands.

That night, Snape appeared and handed Harry a new book.

“I haven’t finished the old one yet,” Harry said. “Thanks, though.”

“It’s a travel book, by Bill Bryson,” Snape said. “I thought you might like something about wandering the world outside, and with a bit of humour.”

“Thanks,” Harry said again. He flipped the volume over to read the back. Something was sticking out of the top of the book. Harry pulled it out.

“I thought a bookmark would prevent you damaging any more of the spines,” Snape said severely.

Harry looked at it.

It was a photo of Kingsley’s and Snape’s courtyard, with the hammock, and the vines, and bursting bougainvillea, and the hills in the background, and the whole of it bathed in golden sunshine.

Chapter Text

Snape scrubbed himself down under the spray of the shower. He always felt tainted after visiting the cells, as if they still held the memories of his own incarceration in them all those years ago. He knew it was ridiculous, but he needed to wash off the fear, the overwhelming dread, the guilt and the horror that echoed still from the walls of those dank dungeons.

He dried his hair and rubbed down his body, slinging a towel round his hips as he walked through into the bedroom. He’d heard Kingsley using the loo whilst he was in the shower, but Kingsley knew when he needed to be left alone, and hadn’t joined him under the water. Now his lover was sitting up in bed, reading glasses perched on his nose, thriller open in his lap.

It always amused him to see Kingsley peering at him over the frames. He’d thought that they’d both become less attractive as age took its hold, but Kingsley just looked incredible lying there, white sheets framing his rich skin, his belly still taut and muscled. Snape watched as his biceps bunched as he turned to put the book on the bedside table. The muscles down his ribs rippled in the glow of the lamps.

Kingsley lifted the sheet, and Severus dropped his towel, his body already responding, and slid into bed.

Much later, sweaty and sated, he was lying back getting his breath, when Kingsley propped himself up beside him on his elbow.

“You like him, don’t you?”

It took a lot of control to prevent his body from tensing. “Who?”

Kingsley laid his large hand flat on his chest. “You know who,” he said gently.

“Do you object to me visiting? I’ve spent far too much of my life saving him, and it’s become a habit –”

Kingsley’s palm stroked over Severus’ chest. Severus felt his nipple tightening in response, and swallowed.

“I don’t object to you visiting. I do object to you telling me you’re doing it because of some old habit. You hadn’t seen him for nearly thirty years, Severus! He’s not a boy any more.”

Snape was trying not to clutch the covers. “I know.”

“You find him attractive.”

Snape swung his eyes up to Kingsley’s. “I don’t think of him like that!”

Kingsley’s hand made another gentle swoop. “Liar.”

“Kingsley, where are you going with this?” Snape tried to sound haughty, which wasn’t easy given the position he was in.

“Just talking,” Kingsley said.

Snape turned over, wrapping the sheet round him as he went. “He’s well enough now. No need for me to –”

Kingsley hauled him back, driving past Snape’s resistance, and kissed him fiercely. After a moment’s hesitation, Snape kissed back, hard and aggressive.

“Now, let’s start again,” Kingsley said. “You like him. He’s a nice guy.”

Snape opened his mouth to interrupt, but Kingsley slapped a hand over it. “I like him,” he added.

Snape bit the edge of Kingsley’s hand, then gentled it with his tongue.

“Mmmm,” Kingsley responded. He slid his body closer to Snape’s, tight against his side. Snape could feel his renewed interest poking against him.

“You’re insatiable!”

“I like you riled and feisty.”

“I’m not riled.”

“You are. You’re over-thinking everything. You like Harry. I like Harry. No one’s committed a dreadful sin here.”

“I’d ask if you were getting bored with me, but evidence,” Snape rolled his hip so that his thigh brushed against Kingsley’s firming length, “is to the contrary.”

“I can’t imagine ever being bored with you, you cantankerous old fart,” Kingsley said, stretching down a hand and cupping Snape’s balls.

“So what was the point of this conversation?” Snape sucked in a deep breath, letting his legs drop further apart.

“Establishing facts.” Kingsley’s words were muffled as his mouth moved down Snape’s stomach.

“Here’s a fact,” Snape said. “He’s half our age, and straight as a quill.”

Kingsley had wriggled right down the bed, exposing Severus. The brush of cool air over his skin was deliciously erotic. Kingsley licked a stripe up one if his balls. “That’s two. Here’s two more,” he said. “He isn’t half our age, and how do you know?”

“He’s got three children! Aah, yes, just there!”

“And was unhappy in his marriage.”

The next couple of minutes were punctuated with sighs and groans. Eventually, Kingsley moved away to remove a hair from his teeth.

“So where are you going with this?” Snape asked, pulling himself up the bed a bit.

“Nowhere. Just saying, I wouldn’t be averse.” He lunged down, swallowing Snape’s cock, which he’d been ignoring, in one fell swoop.

“Fucking hell,” Snape groaned. “God! You’re so fucking good at – Kingsley!”

Kingsley proceeded to render Snape into a babbling state that would have been unthinkable to any who hadn’t witnessed it. As Snape’s orgasm drew near, he felt Kingsley reaching down, tugging on his own cock. The thought that his lover was so aroused just from what he was doing to him was more than enough to send him over into his second orgasm of the night.

They were both drifting off to sleep, Kingsley tucked up behind him, his hand held in Snape’s against his chest, when Snape asked, “Not averse to what?”

Kingsley snuggled in, untroubled. “Friendship. Sex. Love. Any or all. Don’t you think?”

Once again, Snape had his breath taken away with the ease with which Kingsley would approach the most outrageous ideas. They had never taken another lover into their bed, nor, as far as he knew, had either of them dallied with other lovers out of it. It was just like Kingsley to think that it would be easy to change things.

And yet….he could see Harry dozing in the hammock, and chopping veg in the kitchen, laughing.

He thought of Kingsley’s solid, muscular frame, his own long and lanky one, and Potter’s small, whippet-lean body.

“Perhaps,” he answered.

Chapter Text

Albus came bouncing in the next day.

“You won’t believe everything that’s going on, Dad!”

What’s happened?” Harry asked, pulling back from hugging his son.

“Gran’s in hospital, Grandad is going to stay with Ron and Hermione – Ron’s giving up work - ”

“What?”

“Yup, don’t worry, Gran’ll be alright – and – can you believe this? George is renting a property off Lucius Malfoy and giving him a cut of the sales! Lucius Malfoy! The whole family’s going bananas, asking if he should be in hospital instead of Gran!”

“Sit down, Albus, and start at the beginning,” Harry said, kicking out the chair for his son. “What’s the matter with Gran?”

“She’s got some rare disease,” Albus said. “I’ve never heard of it before. Hermione says it sounds a bit like osteoporosis – that bone-thinning thing that her mum has – except it’s the magic that gets thinner. Only affects older witches, apparently, and Gran is a bit young to have it. It was lucky they caught it while they can still treat it.”

“They can treat it?” Harry said with relief.

“Yeah, but it takes time because her magical core is really depleted and they have to do it really slowly, or her body might go into shock. So she has to stay in St Mungo’s for at least a month – Bill said she was going off her rocker until they calmed her down – and bloody hell, Dad! It was all coincidence that they even found out! She could have been a squib within six months, they say!”

“What happened?” Harry asked, wondering what had been said.

“Well, Gran bumped into Mrs Boniface – you know, Andy’s Mum, the Mediwitch – in the toilet after she’d brought you your lunch yesterday, and it all came out of that, somehow. I think Mrs Boniface said she looked a bit peaky, or something. Don’t you feel awful? None of us even noticed!”

“We’re just so used to Gran managing everything,” Harry parried.

“Yeah.” Albus looked meditative. “It’s really interesting stuff, the medical side. Never really thought about Mediwizardry before. I mean, I know Teddy’s a nurse, but he only ever tells us the crazy things that happen on the ward.”

Harry was surprised. He’d sensed Albus’ enthusiasm for working at Gringotts had waned, but they hadn’t discussed it, or any other career. “Not that bothered about Gringotts?” he fished.

“I suppose it wasn’t quite what I was expecting.” Albus shrugged, and made a face. “I don’t know what I expected really. It’s a bit dull,” he admitted.

“I expect Mediwizardry has its dull days,” Harry said. “Every job does, you know?”

“You enjoy yours.”

“Yeah, but I don’t really like the selling part.”

“You’ve got an assistant for that.”

“Well, I do now, but I didn’t have anyone at the beginning. Talking of which, have you heard from Janine?”

Albus nodded. “Last week, she floo-called when you didn’t turn up: we told her to keep the shop open, and deal with anyone’s queries. When she saw in the paper that you’d been arrested for murder, she came to see us.”

“Yes?” Harry said, then seeing the embarrassment on his son’s face, deduced, “She handed in her notice?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Dad. James got really cross with her –”

“No, it’s understandable. She only started a couple of months before all this happened, and apart from thinking her employer is a murderer, there’s nothing for her to do if I’m not producing work, apart from dealing with angry customers. Not fun for anyone. Let me scribble you a note – I should have done this anyway – so you can draw on my account. Can you pay her till the end of the month? “

“Okay, no problem. Though I don’t know where she lives.”

“It’s in the filing cabinet in the shop. You’ll have to break past my wards, but I expect you could manage it,” Harry said, eyes twinkling.

“Bloody hell, Dad, they’ll be rock solid, won’t they?”

“Use a bit of family magic,” Harry whispered, leaning forward.

Albus grinned. That meant his Dad had incorporated a blood ward, which would make it much easier for him, and practically impossible for anyone who wasn’t related. “What about the shop?”

“There’s not much I can do about it at the moment. Do you think you could ask Toby if he wouldn’t mind coming out of retirement for a couple of days? He’s brilliant with the customers, and several of them are repeat clients, so they’ll know him. He’ll do whatever’s needed. Tell him anyone who wants to cancel their order – that’s fine. I don’t take deposits, so no-one will be demanding their money back. ”

Albus nodded. “Okay.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get to work,” he said apologetically, and put the bag on the table. “Mitty made your food as Gran –”

“Oh my God, Mitty! I’d forgotten all about her! She must be beside herself.”

“Well, we’ve explained the situation to her and that you’ll sort it out when you come out. And we’ve been making sure that she gets plenty of sleep and eats properly.”

“Thanks, Albus,” Harry said. He ran his hands through his hair. “We need to sort something out, though. Do you think you or James could go and see Dinky’s owner? See if you can buy Dinky from him?”

“How much should we offer?” Albus asked dubiously.

“God, no idea,” Harry puffed out a breath. “Whatever it takes?”

“Really?”

“Well, if it’s utterly outrageous come back and talk to me, but otherwise, I trust your judgement.”

“Okay. I’ve really got to dash now. I’ll be back later, Dad,” and he gave him a peck on the cheek. “I want to tell you all about Ron, and George!” he called through the bars, as he was let out.

Harry wanted to hear all about them too.

As it happened, Hermione arrived early that afternoon.

“Mione!” Harry leapt up and hugged his friend. “How’s Molly?”

“She’s going to be fine, they say,” Hermione said. “Though I haven’t heard anything much since last night, to be fair. I’ve just sorted away my other work, had a quick floo call with Ron, and came straight to see you.”

“Thanks,” Harry smiled. “I’ve only heard bits – Albus came in on his way to work. Is Arthur really going to come and live with you?”

“Ron says he’s going to take a leave of absence and look after him,” Hermione said, reaching into her briefcase for some papers.

“And?”

“And what?” She opened up her notebook.

“Alright, don’t tell me. I just wondered how you felt about it, is all.”

Hermione smiled at him. “Actually, I think it’s a great idea.”

“Really?”

Hermione nodded. “He could do with a break,” she said. In her notebook, she wrote, He’s REALLY pissed off with work.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, I suppose so. But Arthur’s coming to you rather than the other way round?”

“I think he was horrified at the thought of being at the Burrow without Molly. And we have quite a few Muggle gadgets that he’s looking forward to tinkering with,” she smiled.

“How do you feel about it?” Harry asked.

“I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit I was a bit anxious. But hey! Ron might get some of the things he’s been meaning to do for ages done if he’s at home, so who knows, it might work out really well.” She lowered her voice and leant forward. “And at least I wasn’t the one expected to drop everything and stay home.”

“Is that because you’re defending me?”

She laughed. “I hadn’t really thought of that! You’re probably right. Talking of which, I’ve got a few questions written down here that I want you to look at.”

Later, James appeared after work, and was joined after a few minutes by Albus.

“So, what do you think?” Albus said, after they’d babbled on for five minutes. “Is George nuts, or what? Lucius Malfoy!”

“What was he like, Dad?” James asked. “I mean, I know he was in Azkaban for years, but he didn’t look that bad at the court. At Draco’s trial. Old fashioned and haughty, maybe, but not really scary. Is it a big thing that George is going into business with him? I mean, isn’t the idea that the ex-Death Eaters are integrated back into society? ‘Cos someone has to give them a chance if it’s really going to work.”

Harry was always being surprised by his children: it was one of the delights of having them, of course, although on the other hand, you could get some unpleasant ones too, as he had about James’ attitude to Scorpius. Funny that the Malfoy men were causing all of it. How odd was it that James could be so disparaging of Scorpius’ lifestyle, and yet show some sympathy towards Lucius? And how was he to answer? He had to actually help this thing along.

“What can I say?” he prevaricated. “To be honest, he was one of the most powerful and terrifying wizards I ever knew when I was a teenager. He had his finger in practically everything bad that happened to me. And – and to your Mum. But at the end, Voldemort didn’t trust him, and his wife Narcissa saved my life. I suppose he believed in something, and committed himself to it, and I was on the side that disagreed with him. We weren’t exactly going to be bosom buddies. From the other side’s point of view, he was doing a good job: until the end, he was really powerful in Voldemort’s Death Eaters. Who knows, maybe he was – trapped – by that Wizard’s promise thing that Kingsley was talking about, and only at the end tried to wiggle out of it a bit. ”

Harry took a breath. Both boys were looking at him raptly. Harry usually avoided talking about the war, about his past.

“So he doesn’t look like he did then?” James asked.

“No, it’s like he’s shrunk, or something. Maybe I just got taller,” Harry grinned.

“You can’t have been much shorter than you are now as a teenager, surely Dad?” Albus teased. “You’d have been mistaken for a dwarf.”

“Cheeky,” Harry cuffed his son. “I expect Professor Flitwick would have been most offended if people thought someone as scrawny as me was a dwarf.” He looked more serious. “I agree, James, if we want to reintegrate these people back into society, we have to make the first move, so I really applaud George for that. If he wasn’t known as rich and eccentric and as straight up as he is, he might come under a hell of a lot of flack. But George is also known as an astute businessman, and I guess people will see this as a really good business move. It’s not as if Malfoy is likely to be working on the shop floor! As it is, I’d say George was doing a good thing, but I’d also say, Lucius Malfoy is dangerous, and never, ever, forget it.”

“Funny to think that he would have been like, our step-grandfather, or something,” Albus grinned. “How weird is that? He might have been bringing us presents at Christmas –”

“No,” said Harry, because he couldn’t let that one go. “Draco didn’t invite him into his own home, and I was quite adamant that I didn’t want a scenario where he had any influence over you.”

The boys stared at him. “Blimey, Dad, that’s unlike you. You’re usually very forgiving.”

Harry shrugged. “He’s dangerous.”

“But why wouldn’t Draco let him visit?”

Harry wondered what to say. “He was away for most of Scorpius’ childhood: maybe he just felt that he wasn’t an appropriate influence.”

“Maybe he didn’t want his Dad to see that his son was a woofter,” James muttered.

Harry sucked in a breath. “You saw the letter Draco wrote about his son: he was completely and utterly proud of him. As I am mostly with you two, but you really get up my nose with this nastiness, James. Why have you got such a big thing against gay people? I don’t understand where it’s come from.”

James had on that truculent face that he’d often had as a child. That too got on Harry’s goat. The good thing about the last couple of days was how happy they’d all been together, how positive. He supposed it wasn’t normal life.

He almost snorted at the thought: no, being in prison and almost dying wasn’t in any way normal!

“I don’t know why you’re so unbothered,” James argued back. “It’s not acceptable in wizarding society.”

“It’s acceptable to me, and I’m a wizard,” Harry answered.

“But you’re not even gay!”

“Neither am I, and I don’t give a shit,” Albus said. “More women for the rest of us if the likes of Scorpius fancies blokes, isn’t there? I mean, it’s a double whammy - him and Andy both out of the market – that’s two women not getting snapped up.”

Harry laughed, and James gave a tiny grin. “I concede that that’s a good thing, but it still doesn’t make it right.”

“Well, I don’t really understand why you think it’s wrong,” Harry said. “Apart from the ‘wizarding society doesn’t like it’, what reasons have you got?”

James leant back in his chair, arms folded aggressively across his chest. “Gay people force themselves on you.”

Harry restrained his shock. “Has someone forced themselves on you?” he asked carefully.

“Of course not!”

“Do you know someone who’s been raped by another man?” Albus leaned forward, elbows on the table.

James looked flustered. “I don’t know any details! That’s just what I’ve heard, is all.”

“Who from?” Harry asked. “It sounds a bit of an unsubstantiated claim –”

“Yeah, well I trust him!”

Harry leant back. “This is from Bill again, I take it.”

“I like Bill!”

“Don’t be a dork, James,” Albus said in exasperation, “we all like Bill. What difference does that make?”

Footsteps could be heard in the corridor, and then the guard was opening the door for Snape.

“I apologise: I should have come later,” Snape said, realising that the conversation had stopped. “Would you prefer me to leave?”

“Not at all,” Harry began.

Walsingham was on duty again; he gave a small smile of acknowledgement, and tramped off down the corridor.

“We were in the middle of an argument: you can help us out on this one,” James invited, giving up his seat for Snape and going to sit on the bed.

“I will endeavour to do my best,” Snape answered.

“Just, Dad thinks Scorpius being a shirtlifter is perfectly normal, and okay, and I’m telling him it isn’t.”

Harry was horrified. At the same moment, he saw Albus glance quickly at Snape, look away, and start to speak.

“I’m sorry – ” Harry began, but Snape just shook his head.

“It’s a reasonable argument.”

“See!” James said gleefully.

“There are two parts to it,” Snape went on, folding his robe carefully over his knee. At their enquiring faces, he continued, “Whether it is normal, and whether it is okay. And of course, there’s the question of a person’s right to hold whatever opinion they choose.”

Harry’s mouth fell open as Snape continued, “Of course, it isn’t normal.”

“Yes!” hissed James, his arm pulling down in a victory move.

“If by ‘normal’ you mean usual, or typical. Most wizards, and witches are undeniably heterosexual: there can be no argument on that score. But what does that mean for how we act as a society? In terms of the population of the world, or the population of England, wizards and witches are not ‘normal’. They exist in a far tinier minority of the general population than homosexuals do.”

“Right,” Harry said. He looked at James. “Maybe you think it’s right that the Dursley’s treated me like shit because I was a wizard?”

“No, of course not!”

“Well, that’s the sort of argument you’re making, surely? That just because not everyone does it, it’s got to be wrong.”

“But homos are predators – ”

“I expect there’s the odd bad gay wizard, just like there’s the odd bad straight wizard,” Albus said. “You can’t judge everyone based on one person.”

“Well, Bill is pretty definite about it,” James said mulishly.

“Was Scorpius ever ‘a predator’, as you put it, at school?” Harry asked. “I thought he’d been with Andy for ages.”

“Well, yeah, but he’s young. You just can’t tell what he’ll be like as he gets older.”

“Any more than I can tell that you’re going to be a bigoted, ill-mannered twat,” Albus snapped.

“Hey!” James argued. “I can see why you think I’m bigoted, and I disagree, but where’s the ill-mannered bit coming in? I haven’t said anything in front of Scorpius. Much.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“I think,” Snape said, “Albus is alluding to the fact that you are making your feelings plain in front of me.”

“What?” James looked at Snape, then at his father and Albus.

“I’m sorry,” Albus began, looking at Snape.

“You have nothing to apologise for.”

“What?” James looked totally confused.

“I am homosexual,” Snape said simply.

Silence. Then:

“You can’t be!”

“Why ever not?” Harry said. “I’m sorry, Snape –”

“And you don’t need to apologise either,” Snape shook his head.

“But…but…you’ve stayed with us!”

“Perhaps I should be apologising to you. I didn’t realise you felt so strongly on the matter,” Snape said.

“But….but…” James’ brain was whirring. “But you live with Kingsley! Does he know?”

Albus laughed. “You’re a complete idiot, James! Kingsley’s his partner.”

“What? Don’t be daft! Just because two men live together doesn’t mean -”

“James,” Harry sighed.

“No,” James said, shaking his head. “I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” Harry asked.

“Kingsley was an Auror! Head Auror! Minister for Magic!”

“He was,” Snape said.

“But…but…”

“You do realise that it’s prejudice like this that made Kingsley and Snape leave? That this country lost such fantastic men for such a stupid reason?”

James got up and started pacing around the cell. It was rather too small to allow it to be an impressive activity. He turned to face Snape. “Is that why you left?”

“It’s certainly why Kingsley left, and why we didn’t come back,” Snape answered.

“But you’re back now.”

“Your father asked for my help,” Snape said. He picked a speck of lint from his sleeve. “Seeing Scorpius’ bravery made me feel that I had let him down – let down the many witches and wizards who are facing – unpleasantness - because of their perfectly natural inclinations. We both thought it was time to show our faces again.”

“But – you’ve never said anything.”

“We didn’t come back to preach, we came back to help – good lord, I almost said ‘make the world a better place’. Kill me now.”

Albus and Harry laughed, and even James cracked a grin.

“We are gay,” Snape went on. “We don’t plan on shoving it in anyone’s faces, but neither will we deny it.”

James rocked back and forward on his heels. He glanced up at Snape, and away again.

“If there is something you want to say, or ask, stop dithering and do it.”

“It’s different with you,” he said, chin jutting again. “I mean, no offence, but you’re older.”

“What?” Albus looked puzzled.

Harry sniggered. “I think my son is implying you’re over the hill, Snape.”

“If you’re thinking we don’t have sex, and therefore it’s alright, I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Snape said, face straight.

James turned bright red.

“You think it would be alright if they weren’t doing anything?” Harry asked, when his grin died down. “That reminds me of the Church of England back at the turn of the century.”

“A history lesson? From you, Potter? What is the world coming to?” Snape murmured.

“Historical context can be a very useful thing,” Harry said to him. “Hermione taught me that,” he added, causing Snape’s eyes to crease in amusement, much to Harry’s delight. “Anyway, the role of a father is to teach his kids about life. One of them, anyway,” he added. “What I was going to say was, the Church got its knickers in a twist about homosexuals, not just in the congregation, but there were vicars as well. So what with Christian charity and all that, they decided it was alright for them to be homosexuals, as long as they weren’t ‘practising’. They could live with another man, but not sleep with him – or if they did sleep with him, not actually do anything except sleep. I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous.”

James had his arms crossed over his chest. He shrugged. “I don’t have to like it.”

“Of course you don’t,” Harry said. “No one’s asking you to like it; just to accept that other people are different from you, and they have a right to do their thing too.”

James pulled a face.

Harry sighed.

“Potter, leave it,” Snape said.

“I’m sorry, but it just comes back to me thinking of how the Dursley’s treated me,” Harry said. “I can’t let it go. They hated me for being different. They hated all wizards. In some ways, that’s easier to understand, because in theory, wizards were a lot more dangerous to them than gay people are to you, James. Don’t let yourself be frightened of what you don’t know.”

“I’m not frightened!”

“Okay, wrong word,” Harry said. “Why don’t you ask Bill why he’s so averse? At least then there might be some reason to it.”

Snape shifted in his seat. Harry turned to look at him. “Do you know why Bill’s got a thing?”

“Bill has been fine with me, but it occurs to me that he too might not have realised that I am in a relationship with Kingsley. I can only speculate,” he said, tailing off.

“What?” Albus asked.

“I make Wolfsbane for many werewolves, and whilst appreciating that Bill did not become fully infected, it’s quite obvious that the assault he suffered has led to the development of some features of the condition.”

“Well, that’s true,” James said. “He told me his sense of smell is loads better, and his sight at night.”

“He’s really muscle-y too,” Albus commented. “Is that because of being bitten?”

“Very possibly,” Snape agreed.

“So? What are you saying?” James asked.

“It is only supposition,” Snape said. “Several werewolves have asked me for a potion to counteract the increase in libido they feel as the full moon approaches. They feel that it makes them behave in a manner that they would not have chosen to otherwise.”

“Are you saying that it turns them into quee- homosexuals?” James’ eyebrows were a fierce line.

“No. What they tell me is it makes them hyper-aware of anyone sexually, and they find it very difficult to control their own desires. More than one has made a witch pregnant, outside of their marriages, and one, in fact, tried to commit suicide because he was very much in love with his wife, and appalled that he had betrayed her. With her own mother.”

“Oh my god!”

“That’s awful,” Harry said. “Had he had a secret attraction for her?”

Snape shook his head. “He’d hated her guts for years. She couldn’t stand him either, and yet agreed that he hadn’t forced her. The wife was devastated. As a consequence of his confession, I started a research project, and found that werewolves – whilst still in their human form in the days running up to the full moon – excrete a pheromone. To cut a long story short, humans of either sex are likely to respond to it, and the werewolf himself finds it almost impossible to restrain his ardour.” He crossed his legs at the ankle. “Of course, I have no idea the exact effects the bite has had on Bill, but if he suffers from the production of the pheromone, it is quite possible that he has found himself in situations that he has regretted afterwards.”

“You think he might have had gay sex?” James shuddered.

“I have no idea. It’s possible that before he knew all the details of what he had to contend with and how to cope with his condition, he found himself in a situation where his pheromones attracted others of either sex. Judging from the comments from the men and women who I’ve spoken to, it would be torturous to attempt to control one’s urges in such a situation, however much out of the norm for their behaviour they might be.”

“And you’d end up blaming the other person,” Albus deduced.

“Well, that’s quite possible,” Snape said. “This is only supposition, as I said.”

“So, do all werewolves now take this suppressant?” Albus asked.

“Not at all,” Snape smiled.

“Why on earth not?” James demanded. “Surely they should be forced to –”

Snape held up his hand. “You may be surprised to hear that many werewolves are in stable and loving relationships. They have their condition under control, and they take their Wolfsbane. But the condition does take its toll on their bodies. They feel that there’s no way that they’re going to deprive themselves of one of the few advantages of the condition –”

“By taking advantage of strangers?” James exclaimed in disgust.

“By keeping themselves away from strangers, and devoting the pre-full moon window to an exceptionally passionate and thrilling period of sexual activity with their partners.”

“Blimey,” Albus said, wide-eyed. “Really?”

“Really,” Snape agreed.

“So do you think Bill and Fleur –?”

“I suspect Mrs Weasley’s heritage makes her an ideal companion for Bill,” Snape said, “given that Veelas too affect others by their pheromone output.”

“I think we should change the subject,” Harry said.

They all looked at him.

“This is an invasion of their privacy,” he explained. “If you can imagine asking Bill about this, James, that’s up to you, but I think – well, we know what it’s like having people talk about us behind our backs.”

The boys nodded in understanding.

“Yeah, fair enough,” Albus said. “It’s interesting, though,” he added. “Just – in principal, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry agreed, smiling at him.

“Now, one last thing before you go, boys. Snape, if you’ll forgive us for a moment, the boys and I just need to talk about Mitty; I mentioned this to Albus this morning.”

Snape reached into his bag and fetched out his book.

“James,” Harry continued, “would you go round and ask Mr Wilkes whether he would allow us to buy Dinky? I think you ought to go, as the next in line. Sorry, Albus – no offence, but it seems to matter to people.”

Snape made a sound. They all turned to look at him.

“You disagree?” Harry asked.

“I – I may be entirely wrong, and I hate to add to your troubles – ”

“Oh god, it must be bad if you’re beating about the bush.”

Snape’s lips twitched, but his face was serious when he went on: “Obviously I don’t know this gentleman, but it’s quite possible that he will refuse to sell his elf to you.”

“I can see it would be a huge inconvenience,” Harry admitted, “but how do we get round that?”

“You misunderstand me,” Snape said. “He might not consider you a fit person as an owner for his elf.” At the blank looks staring back at him, he added, in exasperated tones, “You’re on a murder charge, Potter!”

“Oh! Blimey, I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“But Dad’s innocent!” Albus exclaimed. “And when we prove that –”

“No, he’s right,” Harry said. He thought for a moment. “James, could you ask him for yourself? Mitty will have to come and live with you, for the meantime, but I expect you’d find her pretty handy – what?”

James seemed to be searching for words.

“I don’t think the baby is going to be too much trouble – ” Harry began.

“It’s not that. Well, it is,” James said, rubbing his hand round the back of his head. He looked up. “The thing is, Millie’s around a lot, and - well, she’s met Mitty when she came over to the house with me the other day, and she’s – well, it wouldn’t work.”

“But having a house elf would give you more time. And Mitty’s very discreet, if that’s what’s worrying her,” Harry said.

“I – the thing is, Dad, I think she’s a bit horrified by a house-elf pregnancy. And I don’t think she’s used to house-elves much. I wouldn’t be happy about them being around each other. We can think of another way around this, yeah?”

Thoughts of James being selfish flitted unwelcomed into Harry’s head, before he took stock of the last comments again. Maybe James was worried that his girlfriend wouldn’t treat Mitty properly. “Sure,” he said. “Yeah, we’ll think about that. So,” he rubbed his legs, “you know I’m going to ask you about Millie another time, don’t you? But you’d both better be getting off right now, get some food into you, see your friends, relax. Okay?”

He stood up. The boys did too, and soon they were hugging and they’d banged on the railings to get Walsingham to come to let them out.

Snape sat reading his book, having said a quiet goodbye.

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, and wandered around the cell.

“What is it?” Snape said at last, looking up.

Harry sat down on the end of the table.

“Snape, what if they find me guilty?”

Chapter Text

George looked around his new shop. The fittings were all in place, the shelves stacked. The marble floor gleamed dully. Tomorrow it would echo with the sounds of hundreds of feet.

Assuming all went well.

It was funny to think that it didn't really matter. It was the first time he’d opened a shop and felt so laid back. There was no buzz of nervous tension, no anxiety about whether he’d made the right decisions. It was weird.

Of course, he'd had hell from the family on going into business with Lucius Malfoy. He hadn't been to visit Harry yet, because he couldn't face fending off the apologies that he was sure Harry would try to make. Dammit, it wasn't as if Harry wasn't suffering enough! He could stand his bit of discomfort if it led to Ginny's murderers being caught. Whether Malfoy was the man to help he really didn't know. They'd put their faith in Harry in the war, and he just had to trust him to know what he was doing now. Just as Harry trusted him to know that Lucius was a slippery customer.

He glanced at his watch and headed along to the office. Malfoy was due to floo in.

Ron crawled into bed next to Hermione.

"You look absolutely exhausted," she said, turning towards him, her hand moving to rest against him.

“Don't know when I last felt so knackered," Ron agreed. "Probably when Hugo had that flu thing years ago."

"Poor thing," Hermione stroked gently down his chest.

Ron settled in to enjoy it. Although Hermione hadn't held out that long after the sex-magic confrontation, he'd been aware that she was still a bit withdrawn and hurt. He hadn't known how to make it up to her. She hadn't initiated things much, so although his first inclination had been to fall straight asleep, there was no way he was going to nod off when she was in this mood.

"Are you regretting it?"

"Having Dad here?"

"Mmmm."

"Well, no denying I'm flat out, but no, not really." He shifted. "I haven't thought about work once today. I can't remember a day without thinking about it for years."

"Is that a good thing?" Hermione leant forward and placed a kiss into the sensitive skin under his jaw.

Ron spread himself a bit to give her more access. He was glad he hadn't put on a t-shirt.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "I think it is."

"Good," Hermione said, and her hand slipped down into his boxers.

There wasn't much more conversation after that.

Harry decided that he wasn't ever going to sit on the Wizengamot again, if he was released after this case. His memories of being on trial as a teenager had risen up in his throat as he found himself bound in the chair in the centre of the court.

That time, whatever he'd thought of the man afterwards, Dumbledore had come to rescue him. This time, Hermione stood between him and death, or the Dementor's Kiss.

He'd told her last night, that if he was found guilty, he wanted her to ask for execution.

He could not have his children spending their lives knowing that their father lived as a dribbling wreck, locked away on that island prison.

If she didn't succeed, he had his own plans.

He hadn't really thought, when he'd sat as a juror, about the fact that the accused didn’t have any knowledge beforehand of the evidence to be laid against him, no chance to hunt out witnesses that might be able to refute the matter.

He wondered how many people he had condemned who were as innocent as he was.

He looked around the courtroom. Up in the gallery, Albus and James sat with Lily between them. Harry smiled at them, because he couldn’t raise his arms to wave back. There were lots of Weasleys, and Draco Malfoy, and Neville. Snape too sat in the row behind.

“Mr Potter," Harcourt said.

Harry could not believe that the smug prat was prosecuting him as well, but it appeared that the Wizengamot administration had decided that it was logical to use the same Judge, Prosecutor and members of the Wizengamot as had been present for the trial of Draco Malfoy, on the basis that they knew the case already.

Hermione had only found out when he had, on entering the court, and had made strong representations to the Judge already, on the basis that this was a fresh trial and should be started as such.

The Wizarding World took a different view, and Hermione had already ruffled a few feathers by suggesting that the Wizarding system was inferior to the Muggle one in this respect.

Harry was pretty sure, too, that many of the members of the Wizengamot would be unhappy at losing yet more of their own time by being forced back to yet another trial, when their period of service had already been completed.

It was not an auspicious start.

“Mr Potter,” Harcourt said again, with an exaggerated sigh.

“Yes?” Harry answered. There was no way that he was giving that bastard the satisfaction of calling him “Sir”.

Harcourt raised an eyebrow. “You have pleaded not guilty to the charges laid before the court,” Harcourt said. He looked around the room. “It is my duty to prove that Mr Potter did, in fact, kill his wife. That this wasn’t a crime of passion, a death that occurred in the heat of the moment, but that he deliberately, wilfully and consciously plotted to kill her, and that he carried out that deed without remorse, without a care for his children –”

“How dare you?” Harry bellowed, trying to rise from the chair. The chains clanked and rattled, startling in the hushed room.

“Oh, I dare, Mr Potter,” Harcourt said. “Just as you dared to murder your wife in cold blood, and then attempted to lay the blame for it on your rival to Mrs Potter’s affections –”.

The Prosecutor paused, as if hoping that Harry would again shout out, but Harry had got himself under control. That remark about the children had got to him, but it had been foolish to let Harcourt get under his skin. Hermione threw him a look of approval at his restraint.

“Your Honour,” Harcourt addressed the Judge, “I realise that the Wizengamot have already seen this evidence, but I would like the court to view again the Veritaserox evidence shown at the trial of Draco Malfoy, so that the exact nature, the violence, of the crime that we are dealing with is not underestimated or forgotten.”

Harry hung his head. So there was going to be no reprieve from seeing it after all. And it was obvious that this had been agreed before the trial, because the teleconverter was wheeled in once again. A man wearing the robes of a Potions’ Master stood beside the machine.

“You have all seen this evidence before,” Harcourt looked around the court, “and will therefore understand that the seal on the bottle of memories about to be poured into the machine is not the original seal applied by Master Snape, but the seal of our court Potions’ Master, who rebottled the memories for retention in our evidence store after the trial of Mr Malfoy. Master Davis, can you confirm that your seal is undamaged?”

Master Davis seemed to enjoy his court role, making a drama of the small task. “The seal is intact, Your Honour,” he said to the Judge with a bow.

The memories were poured into the machine, and once again played.

“I would ask you to pay particular attention,” Harcourt said loudly, as the three men arrived on the scene, “to the stature and behaviour of the smallest of the attackers.”

Harry’s heart seemed to jump in his chest. So this was their case? That he hadn’t just set it up, but had actually been there? Had actually killed Ginny? He swallowed the bile in his throat, and found himself watching the smallest figure closely.

He heard a gasp from the gallery as the first blow was struck, and then looked up, horrified, realising that it was Lily, watching this for the first time. He could see James putting his arm around her, but she didn’t turn away. He hadn’t known beforehand that Lily would be there. There’d been only twenty four hours’ notice of the trial, and Harry had written to her, telling her not to come, that he would see her afterward.

In the quiet of his cell, he had written further notes to all three children, and given them to Snape, who had arrived in the evening as he usually did. He’d been relieved that Snape had not tried to jolly him along, but had pocketed the notes without a word. It was only when Harry had tried to thank him for his help that Snape had told him to shut up and use his time for something more useful. Harry hadn’t had any idea what else he could do: he felt he’d tidied up everything he could; the boys and his friends had all been in and out all day, until he’d shoed them away, ostensibly to give him a little peace, in reality so that he could write his letters.

“Remember your lessons in fifth year when you irritated me so much?” Snape had said, his eyes full of the things he could not say for fear of being overheard. “Are you able to find the wherewithal to do the same? There is something I want to show you.”

Surprised, Harry had sat opposite Snape. He hadn’t known whether he would be able to perform Legilimency in the magic dampened cell. On the other hand, he knew he had managed to send a Patronus, and if Snape were actively allowing the invasion, the effort ought to be minimal. He was nervous too about invading his privacy, but Snape had merely said, “There is but one thing I want you to see. Watch it several times, if you think it might be helpful. I only do this, because knowing this has been a comfort to me in my own life.”

Not knowing what to expect, Harry had wordlessly and wandlessly cast the spell. Nothing had happened, until he had pulled and pulled on his power, and then he was in.

A man stood in front of Voldemort. He was probably in his seventies, and he was a Death Eater. In front of them all, and there were many Death Eaters there, were a family of Muggles. The woman was screaming, and Harry thought that she must be deafening and terrifying the child she was holding against her shoulder, until the woman slipped onto her knees, and the girl slithered to the ground. She was dead. The other children were crying, holding onto her skirts, and the father had wet himself.

Harry couldn’t understand why Snape would choose this time to show him this memory.

“Wokingham, it’s your turn,” Voldemort said, and Harry’s stomach turned at the sound of that voice after all these years. “Which one would you like?”

Wokingham stepped forward. Harry didn’t recognise him, nor had he ever heard of him.

Harry could feel Snape’s fear as the events unfolded.

“My Lord, I do not understand the purpose of this,” Wokingham said. “These Muggles can be no threat to us.”

“Are you questioning my judgement?” Voldemort’s voice seemed almost gleeful.

“My Lord, as you know, I believe entirely in the superiority of wizards,” Wokingham said.

“Then you must understand that it is our duty to eradicate these vermin,” Voldemort responded.

“I’m sorry, My Lord, but I don’t see that we ought to allow them to affect us at all. If we kill them, it will only draw attention to us, and that, surely, is something that we’ve avoided throughout the centuries.”

“Sir, you seem to misunderstand what I am offering you. We,” and Voldemort looked around the group, “are not a debating society.”

There were sniggers.

“We all believe these Muggles are inferior, spineless creatures. Wizards have a duty to eliminate them, to prevent them breeding.”

“I must disagree,” Wokingham said. “They are inferior, and it is our duty to show mercy and pity to those less fortunate than ourselves –”

“As the Muggles showed me?” Voldemort screeched, and outside the memory, he could feel Snape’s hand closing briefly over his, as he jumped.

Wokingham looked around the group, and back at Voldemort. He straightened his shoulders. “I believe that I may have mistaken your philosophy. I will bid you good evening –”

“No one leaves without my permission!” Voldemort roared. “Did you not make a promise to me? Did you not?” And he applied his wand to the Dark Mark on his arm.

Wokingham gasped and fell to his knees, clasping his own arm in agony.

“Do you see now who you are dealing with?” Voldemort started walking towards him. “Do you reconsider these foolish ideas?”

“I do not,” hissed Wokingham, reaching for his wand.

“Accio! How dare you! How dare you draw your wand on me! Crucio!”

Voldemort cast the spell over and over. Harry watched in horror as it began to dawn on everyone, including Wokingham, that Voldemort was going to torture him to death. Behind him, the Muggle had quickly taken out a knife, and slit the throats of his two remaining children. There was a roar from the nearest Death Eater, who was sprayed with blood.

As Voldemort turned, distracted, Wokingham lifted his head from the floor, and cast a spell, wandlessly, on himself.

Snape’s memory seemed to pause.

Harry nudged it. He knew now what Snape was offering him. Snape repeated the last seconds several times, until Harry slowly withdrew.

“You never used it,” Harry said, voice wondering.

Snape swallowed, and looked away. “Knowing it gave me - courage,” he said, “to keep going when things seemed - .”

Harry nodded. There were things that people who had never fought a war would never understand. His teenage years had been full of fear, full of the horrors of Voldemort’s actions that were transmitted down the link they had shared. Harry had seen so many different reactions to Voldemort’s cruelties, and had feared in his heart whether he would have been able to be as brave as some of his victims had been.

Now, more than ever, he understood that death, as Dumbledore had once said, was ‘the next great adventure’ – hadn’t he met the man himself in that twilight after death? He didn’t fear it, but he did fear the effect on his family of being a soulless ghoul in Azkaban, and he would be forever grateful to Snape for sharing the means of avoiding that.

Ginny’s scream, in the teleconverter scene, seemed to mingle with Lily’s gasp in his mind. His head dropped, but he forced himself to look up again, to watch the small man in the image. He was vicious and determined. Did he seem in charge? There was no unnecessary communication between the men, just the spells: it was all thoroughly planned. Harry watched the man who he knew now to be Daniel Poulter, the wizard currently residing on the Janus Thickey Ward. At least, Harry assumed he was still there. The man was obviously much more uncertain about his actions, about the violence; it was only when he came over to Malfoy to perform the mind magic that implanted the false memories that he came into his own, casting with confidence and ease.

Harry found it impossible to feel any sympathy for him.

Soon, it was over. There was less sniffling in the court this time; Harry thought bitterly how easy it was to become accustomed to violence, to witnessing the worst side of humanity.

“I hope that has refreshed the details in everyone’s minds,” Harcourt said. “I would like now, Your Honour, for Master Davis to administer Veritaserum to Mr Potter. I understand that Mr Potter is able to shrug off the Imperiuscurse, and I understand that in such a case a double dose of the potion is the appropriate amount.”

Hermione was on her feet at once. “We object, Your Honour! Veritaserum is a dangerous drug – ”

“Do you deny that the defendant is able to withstand Imperio?” Anglehurst cut across her.

Hermione looked at Harry, who shrugged.

“Mr Potter, perhaps you could answer, as your Counsel appears unable to do so,” Anglehurst said in an irritated tone.

“As nobody has tried to put me under the Imperius for thirty years or so, I can’t really say,” Harry answered.

“But you were able to free yourself from the spell as a young man?” Harcourt asked sharply.

“I was,” Harry agreed.

Whispering hissed around the court.

Harry was surprised: had people really forgotten all the things that had been printed about him back then?

“Thank you,” said Harcourt sarcastically. “I think we can assume, then, that as a grown man you will have retained that capacity. Unless,” he coughed delicately, “you have found some decline in your magic over recent years?”

Puzzlement turned to anger: Harry could see that not a stone was going to be left unturned in the assassination of his character. For all the people that believed in the old witch’s tale, if Harry admitted that his magic had not been diminished it would be tantamount to admitting infidelity. Well, damn them to hell!

“I haven’t noticed a decline,” Harry answered.

“Indeed,” Harcourt said, his gaze sweeping over Harry. He turned to the Judge. “Then I think that an increased dose would be essential, Your Honour.”

Anglehurst turned to Master Davis. “Master Davis, your advice on this matter, please.”

“Doubling the dose is likely to cause the patient to suffer palpitations of the heart, sweating and tremors,” Master Davis said seriously. “It is an unpleasant experience. Vomiting is also a known outcome.”

Not more vomiting! Harry thought. He glanced up to the balcony, to see Snape’s reaction, but he couldn’t make out any expression. He thought Snape would probably object – wouldn’t he? – if the dose was likely to do him serious harm.

Hermione had stood up. “It is quite unreasonable to expect Mr Potter to suffer –”

“I have no objection to taking the dose,” Harry said clearly, cutting her off. It was ridiculous that she wasn’t near enough that he could discuss anything with her, and he hated to contradict her, but this was important. “I am completely innocent, and have no fear of the truth coming out.”

Murmurings of approval ran around the court. Hermione took her seat, her eyes flashing a brief look of acceptance at him.

“These ill-effects are not likely to cause lasting harm to the accused?” Anglehurst asked Davis.

“They should wear off within a couple of hours of the drug leaving the system,” Davis agreed cautiously, “but it is my duty to tell the court that the general feelings of nausea and ill-health experienced by the patient may make the accused appear - distracted – and perhaps less engaged, than one would expect.”

“Thank you, Master Davis, for your advice. Members of the Wizengamot, you are asked to take what you have heard into account. Please administer the potion now; I think we are all ready to proceed.”

The drops were placed on Harry’s tongue. Immediately, he felt the potion taking effect, as it sunk into his body, rushed through his veins, making his heart stutter and then pound in his chest, before it fired itself into his brain. He fought against the feeling, the control, the sweat literally pouring out of him.

“His body weight is quite low,” Davis said worriedly, “perhaps doubling the full adult dose was excessive…”

“Is this reaction...unexpected?” Anglehurst asked.

Through the fuzz of his head, Harry thought he could hear concern. He felt Hermione standing beside him. “Are you alright, Harry?”

“No,” he answered honestly.

“Can you tell us what is wrong?”

“My heart is beating too fast; my head is…wrong…, I’m boiling hot, my skin is cold, I think I need a shit – ” his eyes stared up at her, horrified.

“I think we can assume the potion is working,” Davis said, as sniggers broke out around the court.

“Do you need to go to the toilet now, Harry?” Hermione asked gently.

“N-no,” Harry said, mortified, but at least his stomach and guts seemed to be settling and allowed him to give a negative answer. Behind the fuzz of the drug, he felt appalled realisation dawn of how badly this could go, if Harcourt chose to try and humiliate him, which he probably would. He had wanted to have the drug, for everyone to know he was innocent, but now he tried to recall how he had thrown off the Imperius curse in the past. More sweat broke out.

“Mr Harcourt, if you would like to begin,” Anglehurst prompted.

“Thank you, Your Honour. I think one or two questions - just to confirm the drug really is working - are necessary.”

Harry’s heart began to thump even harder. The only way to test that it was working was to ask something that one wouldn’t otherwise wish to answer.

“Very well, Mr Harcourt. Keep it brief.”

“Yes, of course.” Harcourt turned towards him. “Mr Potter, perhaps you’d like to tell us what you think of Judge Anglehurst?”

“Prejudice!” Hermione leapt up. “The Prosecutor is attempting to prejudice the Judge against my client.”

“Only if he has a negative comment,” Anglehurst, said, with a slight smile. “I assure you, I am able to rise above the views of the accused in my duty to dispense justice within these courts. You may answer, Mr Potter.”

“I wouldn’t,” Harry said.

“You wouldn’t answer?” Anglehurst looked puzzled.

“I wouldn’t want to tell Mr Harcourt what I think.”

“I see I need to improve my phrasing,” Harcourt said, realising Harry had, in fact, answered his question. “And perhaps this will prevent Mrs Weasley of accusing me of trying to set the Judge against you. Mr Potter, do you have one secret thought about Mrs Weasley that you have never told her?”

Sweat broke out on Harry afresh. “Yes.” Oh God, no.

“Please tell the court what it is.”

“This is quite inappropriate –” Hermione was standing again.

“Mrs Weasley, is anything Mr Potter says likely to alienate you?” Harcourt asked.

“Of course not –”

“Then you must appreciate that this is a useful test of the effectiveness of the Veritaserum.”

Harry gave Hermione an apologetic look.

“Very well.” She sat down.

“Mr Potter, tell the court your secret thought about Mrs Weasley.”

“She has big nipples. Sorry, Hermione,” Harry gasped.

The court erupted in guffaws and whispers.

Hermione looked like she was forcing herself not to fold her arms over her breasts.

“I see,” Harcourt said. “And are you familiar with Mrs Weasley’s breasts?”

Harry looked confused, struggling to answer.

“Let me rephrase that. It is a rather intimate area of Mrs Weasley’s body. Are you in an intimate relationship with Mrs Weasley?”

“Your Honour –” Hermione was furious.

“I’ll allow it,” Anglehurst said. “A relationship between you could indeed have a bearing on the case.”

“Not like that,” Harry bit out in answer.

“Like what?” Harcourt asked.

“Are you saying you do have an intimate relationship with Mrs Weasley?”

“She’s my best friend,” Harry said.

“If I may ask a question?” Hermione asked haughtily.

“Go ahead,” Anglehurst waved an arm.

“Harry, has there ever, on any occasion, been any sexual behaviour between us?”

“No.”

A disappointed mumble went around the court.

“Have you ever, on any occasion, seen me naked?”

“No.”

Harcourt stood up, and at a nod from Anglehurst asked, his face smug, and copying Hermione’s mode of questioning, “Have you ever, on any occasion, had sexual fantasies about Mrs Weasley?”

“No,” Harry said, and could see the relief on Hermione’s face. He glanced up to the gallery, and could see Ron give him a slight thumbs up.

“Perhaps we could now move on?” Anglehurst suggested.

“If I may ask one more question, Your Honour?” Hermione asked, and at his nod, went on, “Harry, when did you see my nipples?”

“You were breast-feeding Rose. I thought they were big. I’d never seen your breasts before or since. I’d forgotten all about it until the question forced me to answer. I’m so sorry.”

“No problem at all, Harry. I’m sure many of the mothers here – and many husbands -– might agree that the changes to one’s body at the time can be rather - startling,” Hermione said, looking round the court with a modest smile.

Many of the witches were giving little nods and smiles of agreement, and one or two wizards as well. She had effectively diffused the situation.

“Let us get down to business,” Harcourt said, sweeping his robes around him, all formality once again. “Mr Potter, where were you on the afternoon of March 2nd this year? The afternoon in which your wife was found dead?”

“In my shop,” Harry said.

“I see. And can anyone corroborate your whereabouts?”

“Janine Newton. She’s – she was – my assistant.”

“Your Honour, I’d like to call Janine Newton.”

Janine had obviously been told she would be needed. She came into the court looking terrified. A chair was provided to Harry’s right. She glanced at Harry as she came across the floor, and looked as if she would faint, seeing him there in chains.

“Now, Miss Newton, you work for Mr Potter, is that correct?”

“Well, I did, but I’ve got a new job now,” she said, clutching her bag in her lap.

“You’ve left Mr Potter’s employ? But I understand that you hadn’t worked for him long?”

Janine went bright red. “I started working for Mr Potter in January,” she said. “I work for a baker’s now.”

“That’s quite a change, I imagine. But why would you leave so soon? Was Mr Potter not a good employer?”

“Oh, he was very kind!” Janine said.

“But you left him,” Harcourt prompted.

“Well,” she twisted on her seat. “It’s been a bit – difficult. What with Mrs Potter dying, and then – you know, Mr Potter being arrested. There hasn’t been much for me to do.”

“You sound a very conscientious young lady,” Harcourt said. “Now, can you tell me where you were on the afternoon of March 2nd this year?”

Janine looked blank. “Er-”

“It might prompt your memory if I say that that was the afternoon Mrs Potter was found dead.”

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry,” Janine was bright red and twisting her handbag strap. “I was at work.”

“In Mr Potter’s shop?”

“That’s right.”

“And could you tell us where Mr Potter was?”

“Oh yes, he was there too,” Janine smiled.

“I see. And just so the court has a clear picture, can you tell us what the shop is like? I’m sure most people here haven’t actually purchased any of Mr Potter’s rather expensive furniture,” he added, raising the odd snigger.

“The cost of Mr Potter’s furniture is not a matter for this court,” Anglehurst intervened. “Keep your comments to the point, Mr Harcourt.”

“Yes Sir,” Harcourt bowed. “If you could explain the layout of the shop, Miss Newton?”

“Well, there’s the shop, of course – you come into it off the street, and behind that is the workshop, and there’s a little kitchen and obviously, a loo,” she blushed, “and a yard outside where Mr Potter keeps his wood. Oh, and a little flat upstairs, but I don’t go up there.”

“That’s very helpful, thank you, Miss Newton. Would you agree that is an accurate description of your shop, Mr Potter?”

“Yes,” Harry said. It was a huge relief to have an easy question.

“Very good, we can all picture it, I’m sure. So now we just need to go back to the afternoon of March 2nd. You were both in the shop, were you, Miss Newton? Attending to customers, perhaps?”

“Oh, well, I was in the shop, of course, and there were three customers, I can give you the name of one, if you want, but the other couple were just browsing,” she said anxiously.

“These customers talked to Mr Potter, did they? Sought his advice, perhaps?”

“Well no, that’s what I’m there for. Mr Potter can’t be in the shop all the time – he has to make the pieces, doesn’t he?” she laughed nervously.

“Of course he does. So was he making ‘pieces’ that afternoon?”

“Yes, he was working on a trunk order.”

“I see. So he didn’t disturb himself to see the customers?”

“Oh no! The magic is very complicated – he can’t be disturbed when he’s doing the magic. When he’s doing the woodwork, that’s alright, he doesn’t mind leaving it – ”

“So was Mr Potter working on the magic that afternoon, or the woodwork?”

“On the magic.”

“Thank you for your nice, clear answers, Miss Newton. Now, just to clarify, Mr Potter’s customers didn’t see him, but I can see you’re a nice, helpful girl. I expect you took Mr Potter some tea, did you?”

“Oh no! Well, I would if he was woodworking, of course, and he makes me tea too, he’s very good, but I don’t disturb him when he’s doing spellwork.”

“I see. But you saw him? Is there, perhaps, a window between the shop and the workshop?”

“There is, but I didn’t see him, because he was doing the trunk.”

“I’m sorry, we’re all rather ignoramuses here. Could you explain why that would prevent you seeing Mr Potter?”

“Well, he was in it.”

“In the trunk?”

Janine nodded, and then realised she needed to speak, and added, “Yes.”

“He was lying in a trunk?”

“No, it’s a magical one,” Janine giggled. “He climbed in. He has a ladder.”

“I see,” Harcourt raised his eyebrows in a way that suggested he didn’t at all. “So, what time did Mr Potter go into the trunk?”

Janine thought. “After lunch, so I’d say about 1.15.”

“And when did you next see Mr Potter?”

“When the Aurors came, and I called him to come out.”

“And what time was that?”

“Just after five, I think. It was nearly time to go home, but I made them some tea.”

“I’m sure they appreciated it –”

“I don’t think they drank it,” Janine said honestly. “The pot was still full the next day.”

“Oh dear,” Harcourt commiserated. “So, can you confirm that between 1.15pm and just after 5pm, you didn’t see Mr Potter at all?”

Janine thought it over, and said, with an apologetic look at Harry, “No, I didn’t.”

“Thank you, Miss Newton. No further questions,” he added, looking at the Judge.

Hermione stood up. “If I may, Your Honour?”

“Go ahead, Mrs Weasley.”

“Miss Newton, thank you for your clear answers. I’m sure everyone here appreciates them. Could you tell me whether you saw Mr Potter leave the shop at any time during that period?”

“No, I didn’t,” she said, shaking her head.

“And did you have any reason to think that there was anything strange about Mr Potter’s behaviour that day?”

Janine thought about it. “Nothing at all. He was just like normal over lunch – he went and got us both a baked potato from Tweedles along the road, because he knew he’d have a long afternoon ahead without a break.”

“So there seemed nothing at all out of the ordinary about Mr Potter that day? No nervousness? Agitation?”

“No, nothing. It was just an ordinary day.”

“Thank you, Miss Newton,” Hermione sat down.

“One last question, Miss Newton, if I may,” Harcourt stood again.

Anglehurst signalled him on.

“You said Mr Potter was still in the trunk when the Aurors arrived, and you called him?”

“Yes?”

“You went into the workshop and looked into the trunk and asked him to come up?”

“Oh no! Mr Potter wears a headset when he’s in the trunk. For emergencies.”

“ A headset?”

“Yes, so I can talk to him from the shop. I’ve got a handset. Like a Muggle mobile phone. I can call him on it.”

“So you could, in fact, communicate with Mr Potter whilst he was in the trunk?”

“In an emergency. The Aurors said it was an emergency,” she added, looking worried again.

“Yes, it was,” Harcourt said. “You did the right thing. I’m just intrigued,” he drawled, “as to why Mr Potter should have been expecting an emergency that day.”

“Oh no,” Janine said. “It was really for if he had an emergency, like getting locked in the trunk or something.”

“You can hear Mr Potter on your – handset?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So did you hear anything on the handset that afternoon? Did Mr Potter contact you? Did you speak to him?”

“No, but – ”

“Thank you, that is all I needed to know,” Harcourt said, and sat down again.

“Miss Newton,” Hermione asked, “can you usually hear Mr Potter over the handset when he’s working?”

“I don’t know,” Janine said miserably. “It was the first trunk he’d done since I worked there, so it was the first time he’d used it.”

Hermione sat down again, and Harcourt looked ineffably smug as Janine left the court, and he stood up once again to question Harry.

“Mr Potter, do you have your apparition licence?”

“Yes,” Harry answered.

The time whilst Janine was being questioned had allowed Harry the chance to get used to the feeling of the drug in his system. The sweat had dried on him and he felt cold and shuddery, and his heart beat was erratic. He’d concentrated on the feeling in his head, the compulsion. He didn’t know if he could overcome it: he didn’t know if he’d need to. He hoped he would be able to answer everything truthfully, but having his alibi demolished was a horrid shock.

“And do you have wards on your house?”

“Yes.”

“Would you describe them as easily broken?”

“No.”

“And yet, according to you, three strangers were able to enter your house and kill your wife. Perhaps you dropped your wards to allow them in, Mr Potter?”

“No!”

“No? I put it to you, Mr Potter, that the three men were able to enter your house because you invited them in! That you, Mr Potter, were in fact, one of them.”

“No!”

“How would you explain their presence in your house? Are you going to tell us that your wife invited them in? I think she was rather - tied up – at the time,” Harcourt smirked.

“Objection!” Hermione slammed her hand on the desk, at the same time as Harry shouted, “How dare you!” Then he added, forced by the potion, “My elf let them in. Not Ginny.”

“Mrs Potter is dead: whoever the killer was, and whatever the circumstances, she was done a grievous ill: you will speak with respect of the dead, Mr Harcourt,” Anglehurst reprimanded the Prosecutor.

“A slip of the tongue,” Harcourt said, with a blatant pretence of humility. “My unreserved apologies to Mrs Potter’s family.” He turned to Harry. “Are you saying your house-elf acts without your instruction?”

“No, but – ”

“That he is allowed to let strangers into your house?”

“No, she –”

“You do realise that a house-elf who causes the death of a member of its family is automatically despatched?”

“No, I don’t know what you mean.” Harry was looking at Hermione, who had gone terribly pale.

“A house elf whose owner dies as a consequence of their actions is not a house elf worth its name,” Harcourt said.

“Mitty didn’t kill Ginny: you saw the men who did,” Harry said, but the sweat was starting to prick out all over him again.

“If you say your elf let the killers in, against your instructions…”

“She didn’t!”

“You gave permission?”

“No!”

“I’m sorry, Mr Potter, either you did or you did not –”

“Perhaps Mr Harcourt might allow Mr Potter the chance to explain,” Hermione said, “or perhaps he isn’t interested in the truth, merely scoring points against a man whose answers are constrained by the drug administered by this court. A drug Mr Potter agreed to take,” Hermione added, seeing Harcourt opening his mouth, “willingly, in the interests of being given the opportunity for the court to know that what he said was the truth.”

“Mrs Weasley has a point,” Anglehurst said. “However, it is neither here nor there. House-elves are not allowed to give testimony in our courts, and therefore any evidence that Mr Potter wishes to present, by way of his house-elf, has no place here. Unless, Mr Potter, you have other witnesses to the fact that your elf let the people who murdered Ginevra Potter into the house?”

“The killers would be witnesses,” Harry answered truthfully.

“Indeed, but as you are the only one standing accused, that does not help your defence,” the Judge noted. “Perhaps you would like to move on, Mr Harcourt?”

“As you wish, Your Honour,” Harcourt said obsequiously. “At this point, I would like to call Argent Dunhurst.”

A wizard dressed in a beige robe with the buttons slotted into the wrong holes, was ushered into the court. He appeared to be in his early thirties, with bushy brown hair and a beard arranged into three rather frizzy plaits. The court watched expectantly as he shifted around, trying to get comfortable on the hard witnesses’ chair.

Harry looked to Hermione, who shrugged. Harry waited to see what this stranger had to add to the proceedings.

It turned out the Argent Dunhurst had done a lot of work looking at the teleconverter image, and could say, with 99% accuracy, that the shortest man was exactly the same height and build as Harry.

“Having never heard of Mr Dunhurst’s work,” Hermione said, when it was her turn to speak, “I am not in a position to question his judgement, and as Mr Dunhurst has made clear that he is the only expert in his field, neither is anyone else, which of itself, I would regard as rather a dangerous thing.” She allowed that to sink in, rather taking the wind out of the sails of the rather self-satisfied little boffin. “Moreover, I would ask the court this: if Mr Potter had really wished to murder his wife in this fashion, would he not have used Polyjuice? I would not argue, that the figure in the teleconverter is, in fact, another wizard polyjuiced into Mr Potter, because had that been the case, I am sure the murderer would have quite deliberately taken off his mask. I would just ask, how many people in this courtroom are five feet seven inches tall, which is the same height as Mr Potter, and of a slender build?” She looked around the room. “I suspect, if we asked everyone here to line up beside Mr Potter, we might find two or three at least, more if we counted females.” She could see people looking at each other, and some nodding going on. “I hope you would agree that it would be inadvisable to place too much weight on such flimsy ‘science’.” And she sat down again.

Harry looked around. It was well done. There were not only a number of people in the room of a similar size, but wizards were almost pathologically allergic to the idea of science.

Dunhurst left, throwing an aggrieved look at Hermione, and Harcourt stood again.

“Learned counsel beside me is of course, wise to suggest caution, but nevertheless, I think we must all agree that Mr Potter is of a noticeably small stature, as was the third murderer, and there are, in fact, few wizards who are of short height. However, even fewer know the spell that was used on Mrs Potter. Sectumsempra, ladies and gentlemen! Have you heard of it? Have you ever used it? I am sure you have not. But Mr Potter here, has certainly used it before, haven’t you, Sir?”

“Yes,” Harry agreed.

“Tell us, Mr Potter, when you used the spell?”

Harry’s brain struggled to answer, until he forced some order on it. “The last time I used it was on Snape, Professor Snape,” he said, to gasps from the audience and glances into the gallery, then unable to hold back, “and on the Inferi, and on Malfoy.” He sucked in a breath. He could see that he had revealed a lot more than Harcourt had expected.

“Well, that certainly shows us a very nasty history,” the Prosecutor said. “However, we will stick to the first time you ever used that spell: tell us what happened, Mr Potter.”

Harry could feel the sweat trickling down his back. It seemed to stand out enormously from all the other sensations, all of them heightened by the Veritaserum. The courtroom felt like it was set in one of those fish-bowl mirrors, as if things in it swelled out of it and the edges faded into a multi-coloured jungle. He could hear whispers between the members of the Wizengamot as if they were in his ear. The magic of the cuffs restraining him seemed to smell, a cold, iron smell with sulphur and strangeness to it. The wards all around the court appeared almost visible, like they were flashing in and out of perception. He could feel the various glamours people were wearing; a witch on the second row was hiding a huge, hairy mole, and it felt like it leapt out at him, bulging into his consciousness.

No wonder Veritaserum induced nausea.

Once again, it was pressing at his mind, his tongue, and he had to force the words to try and take the shape he wanted. “I was fighting Malfoy.”

“Really? Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes.”

“And when was this, Mr Potter?”

“In sixth year at Hogwarts.”

“Are you telling us, Mr Potter, that when you were a school-boy, you cast a spell that was capable of killing a man?” Harcourt looked around the court, inviting others to share his astonishment.

“Yes,” Harry said.

The court erupted.

Hermione stood up. “I might point out to the court,” she said sharply, “that Mr Potter was a schoolboy when he cast the curse – on behalf of everyone here – that killed Voldemort.”

Into the hush that followed this statement, Harcourt said, “Indeed yes, Mrs Weasley. None of us need doubt that Mr Potter has killed before. What astonishes, is the fact that Mr Potter was, even before facing Voldemort, perfectly capable of throwing a mortal curse at a fellow pupil. And, by his own admission here today, at a teacher.” Harcourt shook his head in feigned incredulity.

Hermione’s face did not reveal her fury at having her defence of Harry twisted into a further nail in his coffin. “And yet,” she said, “I notice Master Snape and Mr Malfoy are here, in the gallery, in support of Mr Potter.”

Harcourt looked up at the gallery, and all eyes followed. “Hmm, that is what you may think, Mrs Weasley, but it occurs to me that perhaps they are here to see justice be done at last, to see Mr Potter finally being found accountable for the many crimes that he has committed.”

Draco stood, raising his hand to speak.

Anglehurst looked to him and shook his head. Instead, he turned to the Prosecutor. “Mr Harcourt, might I remind you that this court is not here to listen to assumption and tittle-tattle. Mr Potter is on trial today for the murder of Ginevra Weasley, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Of course, Your Honour,” Harcourt ceded smoothly. “I was merely drawing attention to Mr Potter’s capacity for violence, and to the fact that he is extremely familiar with the spell that killed his wife, a spell that appears to be a particular favourite of his.”

“Mr Potter has answered under Veritaserum,” Hermione said, standing up. “If I may just clarify?” She looked to Anglehurst, who nodded. “Harry, who was the last person you used Sectumsempra on?”

“Professor Snape. It didn’t work, he defended himself,” Harry answered honestly.

There were some sniggers in the court.

“I’m sure he did. We all know that you were operating under a mistaken belief about Professor Snape at that time, due to his excellent skill as a spy for the Light. Could you just remind us what year that was, Harry?”

“1997.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “I believe it is quite clear – Mr Potter having answered under Veritaserum – that he did not kill his wife. I move that the case against him be dismissed, Your Honour.”

Harcourt stood up. “I have further evidence against Mr Potter, Sir, that I believe it is essential for the court to hear. Moreover, Mr Potter has proved himself to be incredibly clever: I believe that he too could have arranged to have false memories implanted that have allowed him to answer as he has under Veritaserum, or have arranged for a third wizard, paid as the others were, who did the deed, to be of his stature purely to enable himself to refute this evidence.”

“Harcourt, you’re suggesting such a convoluted situation that I don’t know how you expect any of the Wizengamot to follow it: I certainly can’t,” Anglehurst said, to a tittering of amusement in the room. He looked hard at the Prosecutor. “I will allow you to continue, but the Wizengamot expects the highest standards of evidence, not speculation. Is that understood?”

“Yes indeed,” Harcourt said. He turned back to Harry. “Mr Potter, your wife was a very well loved sporting figure, indeed, a well loved public figure, was she not?”

“She was,” Harry agreed, relieved to be able to answer easily.

“I understand that the Holyhead Harpies – the team for which Mrs Potter played, just in case there is a member of the Wizengamot present who doesn’t follow our favourite sport,” Harcourt said, smiling round at the members watching him, “that the Harpies have arranged a Memorial Match in her honour, to be held every year.”

Harry hadn’t known that. But Harcourt hadn’t asked him a question, so he didn’t have to respond.

“I’m sure many fans will be mourning the sad loss of Ginny Potter from the sport for many years to come, don’t you agree, Mr Potter?”

“I expect so,” Harry said, his chest squeezing. It wasn’t a question he could really know the answer to, only make a supposition.

“And many fans must have been to visit her grave, I’m sure. But I haven’t seen anything in the press about that: I’m sure you’ve had an impressive tomb erected, Mr Potter, to allow fans to pay their respects. Perhaps you’d like to remind us where it is?”

So that’s where this was going. “There isn’t one,” Harry said.

“There isn’t one? Surely you must agree that Ginny Potter was a public figure? Or perhaps you were jealous of your wife’s fame, Mr Potter? Perhaps you’ve prevented her fans from mourning her as an act of spite –”

“Objection, Your Honour!” Hermione stormed.

“Indeed. Are you getting to any point at all, here, Mr Harcourt?”

“I am, Sir. Let me be direct, then. Mr Potter, where is your wife buried?”

“She isn’t,” Harry answered.

Whispers began to run around the court.

“No, Sir, she isn’t, is she? Because when you heard that Mr Malfoy’s trial was about to take place, you became fearful of what evidence would come to light. You asked for the case to be delayed, did you not?”

“Yes, but –”

“And demanded the return of your wife’s body?”

“Yes, because –”

“And access to your home? Where the murder took place?”

“Yes, we –”

“And then, without any permission from anyone, you performed the Full Traditional Rites, did you not?”

“Yes,” said Harry, giving up any attempt to make further explanations.

Harcourt looked around the court. “I’m sure some of you are aware of the form of the Full Traditional Rites, but they are very rarely used these days, which of course makes their use – rather – unusual, one could say, if one were being generous. Suspicious, others might think. In the Full Traditional Rites, Ladies and Gentlemen, the body is completely – gone. Is it not, Mr Potter?”

“It is,” Harry agreed. “The Aurors –”

“Just answer the questions, thank you,” Harcourt said. “And could you tell me where the Rite took place?”

“In Ginny’s bedroom.”

“And what happened to the bedroom? When you did the Rites?”

“It’s - cleansed,” Harry said.

“Cleansed,” Harcourt repeated. “Cleansed.” He looked around the court, then back at Harry. “Cleansed, as in every scrap of evidence was completely destroyed, just as your wife’s body was. How very convenient.”

Hermione was on her feet. “Mr Harcourt is implying that there was something odd, something devious and manipulative in Mr Potter’s request to bury his wife – ”

“But he didn’t bury his wife, Mrs Weasley,” Harcourt interjected smugly, “he Banished her.”

Hermione bit her tongue. “If I may question Mr Potter, Your Honour?”

“Perhaps you might even allow him to answer, Mrs Weasley,” Anglehurst assented, with a stern look at Harcourt.

“Yes, Your Honour,” Hermione gave him a small smile of thanks. “Harry,” she asked, “could you please tell the court whose idea it was to use the Full Traditional Rites?”

“Ginny’s parents,” Harry answered with relief.

Several people in the court whispered to each other.

“And why did they suggest using the Full Rites?”

“Because she’d died a violent death. The input of everyone she loved in the Full Rites would help her to move on.”

There were several older members of the Wizengamot nodding in agreement at this.

“And were the Rites done in a secretive manner, Harry? Just one or two people?”

“No,” Harry was shaking his head. “There was all Ginny’s family, and their partners, and children, and our friends, and all Ginny’s team mates, and – ”

“Several dozen people then,” Hermione said.

“Yes,” Harry agreed, with relief. He’d worried that he might have to name them all.

“And did a single person, at any point, suggest to you that the Rites might be inadvisable?”

“No,” Harry said. “A lot of people who were there – those people who loved her – told me they thought it was the very best way to say farewell.”

“Thank you, Harry, I’m sure it was.”

Harry looked around, and was relieved to see approval on many of the faces, especially amongst the older members.

“Now,” she continued, “let us just clear up another matter. Did you demand the return of Ginny’s body?”

“I asked if we could have it back if all the investigations were complete.”

“And who did you ask?”

“Aurors Franklin and Hencliffe.”

“These two Aurors were in charge of your wife’s case, were they not?”

“I think they were in charge,” Harry said, brow furrowing. “They came to tell me she was dead, and they came to tell me at the Burrow – Ginny’s parent’s house – about the trial.”

“Was that when you asked them if you could have your wife’s body? You didn’t go storming off to Auror Headquarters at the Ministry?”

“Yes and no.” Having got the answers out, Harry clarified, “Yes, I asked them then. I didn’t go to the Ministry.”

“And is that when you asked them to delay the trial? Can you tell us why you did that?”

“Yes. I asked because it seemed wrong to even think of that when Ginny was dead. Nothing could bring her back. It was more important for us – for her family, the children, all of us – to do what was right by her.”

“Thank you, Harry. No further questions at this point, Your Honour.”

“Master Davis?” Anglehurst said, seeing the Potions’ Master rising to his feet.

“I thought you might need to know that the Veritaserum will begin to wear off in approximately six minutes, Your Honour.”

“Thank you. May we administer a second dose today?”

Master Davis looked thoughtful. “I recommend that there is a break, Sir. If the subject has an empty stomach the side-effects can be more powerful, and dehydration is also an issue. I suggest a break of 90 minutes to eat and drink before I can administer a further dose.”

“Very well. I call a recess for 95 minutes.” He banged his gavel on the desk in front of him. Everyone except Harry rose as he stood to leave the court.

Hermione shot over to Harry, as the guards used their wands to unstrap him from the chair.

“How’re you holding up?” she asked, squatting down beside him.

“I’m dead,” he answered honestly.

Chapter Text

Harry was taken to a holding cell just behind the courtroom.

“Am I allowed to see my family?” he asked Hermione.

“Usually, yes,” she agreed. “I’ll check. Anyone else you want to see?”

Harry thought. “I don’t want it to get miserable for them,” he said. He looked at her openly. “I know you’re doing everything you can, and I wouldn’t want anyone else. But Harcourt’s doing a damn good job, isn’t he?”

“He’s one of the best,” she agreed.

“Then I’ll see anyone who wants to come, as many as they’ll let in,” Harry said. “No, don’t feel this is your fault,” he added, seeing the look on his friend’s face. “You know it isn’t. It isn’t mine either, but someone is certainly playing a clever game here. I don’t think it’s Harcourt, he’s just doing his job, I can see that. Anyway, yeah, I’d love to see the kids. Make sure they bring some food with them, will you? I don’t want them being hungry.”

Hermione kissed him on the cheek and went out.

Harry asked the guard if he could use the loo, and by the time he returned, there was a large mug of hot tea and a plate of shepherds’ pie. Harry’s stomach felt pretty iffy, but bearing in mind Master Davis’ comments, he knew he ought to eat some. Although frankly, if he was going to die, which was seeming increasingly likely, it didn’t really matter. He took a sip of the tea instead, and found it surprisingly good.

Footsteps sounded outside and Harry waited patiently as the door was unlocked. The next moment he had a bundle of daughter in his arms. He held her tight, the red hair pressed against his face. It was so like holding Ginny had been in the early days, and he felt a lump rise in his throat. Would this be the last time he would hold his daughter? He looked up, and his sons were there too. He gestured them forward, and then they were all together, hugging.

Eventually, they broke apart. There was a second seat, so Lily sat down; Albus perched on the edge of the table, James stayed standing.

“You’re supposed to be at school,” Harry smiled at his daughter. He couldn’t be cross with her.

She tossed her hair, and that was like Ginny too. “Well, they didn’t want me to come, but of course I was going to be here,” she said.

Harry knew at once that there was more to that story than met the eye. “Do I dare ask how you got here?”

“Well, you know I’m rubbish at apparition,” she said, “and there wasn’t a chance of using the school floo, so I flew.”

“You flew? All the way? It’s hundreds of miles!”

“I know,” she grinned, “but it was great, Dad! And Hugo came with me, you needn’t worry, we looked after each other, and took breaks and everything.”

“Oh my god, does Hermione know? She’ll kill me, I won’t have to worry about the verdict at all!” he joked.

“Well, Ron knows,” Lily said, “but we arrived pretty late, Hermione was already here having a briefing with you. Anyway, Ron said he was really proud of us.”

“He would,” Harry grinned. “You’ll be serving detention till you leave for this.”

Lily looked a bit mutinous and said airily, “Let’s not worry about that! That Harcourt guy is a git, isn’t he? He’s hateful!”

“He’s good,” Albus said.

Harry looked up at his son. “Yes, he is,” he agreed. He rubbed his hands on his knees, and swallowed. He looked at his dinner, and felt his stomach rising in his mouth.

“No,” James said.

Harry looked up.

“Don’t say it. I can see you’re getting ready to tell us to look after each other, or some rubbish, in case he wins – they win. We’re not going there,” James said firmly.

“But –”

“No buts. You didn’t kill Mum, and they’re not going to pin it on you,” James said fiercely.

Harry didn’t know what to say. He felt choked to hear his son defending him, but the reality of the position he was in had hit home hard.

“I agree,” Lily said firmly. “You’ve already told them you didn’t kill Mum. I don’t know how the trial can still go on.”

“Harcourt’s going to do everything he can to make Dad look horrible,” Albus said. “And then I suppose he’s going to say you arranged some assassins.”

“I think you have to be a politician or something to be killed by an assassin,” Harry said.

“Contract killer, whatever,” Albus shrugged. “That’s where he’s going now. What defence has Mione got?”

“I’m sure she’s working on everything she can, adding to everything she’s already got, as we speak,” Harry said.

“I don’t understand why she isn’t up and shouting him down,” Lily said. “She can argue anyone to death, why is she not doing it?” She glanced round to make sure that Hermione wasn’t in the room.

“Hermione has saved my life more times than I like to think,” Harry said. “I’ve got complete confidence in her. The first part is supposed to be the Prosecution: when they’ve got their case all out, then she can really go to town. That’s what’s happened on the cases when I’ve been a member of the Wizengamot, anyway.”

“Oh. Well, that makes sense, I suppose,” Lily said, mollified. “Do you think it will be finished today?”

“I don’t know,” Harry shook his head. Did he want it to be finished? That depended on the outcome, of course. Would Ginny’s murderers ever be found, he wondered. All this time and effort spent pursuing the wrong people.

There were more footsteps in the corridor. Harry didn’t understand his disappointment when he saw only Ron, and Neville. There was no reason he should have expected to see Snape, was there? He smiled welcomingly at his friends.

“Tell the whole court about my wife’s tits, why don’t you?” Ron said, bracingly, by way of greeting. All the men laughed, and then Ron realised Lily was sitting there. “Breasts! Boobs! Ladies’ bits! Merlin no, you haven’t seen her ladies’ bits! Have you? I’m going to shut up now.”

“For which we can all be grateful,” Neville said. He looked at Lily, who blushed. “Professor Brown gave in, did he?” he asked. “I thought he was firmly against you coming.”

“My daughter did a runner,” Harry said, smiling at Lily. “Or rather a flyer.”

Neville’s brows rose.

“She flew all the way here,” he said. “Overnight.”

“I bundled Hugo back to school through the floo,” Ron said. “He came with her,” he added proudly, seeing Neville’s confusion.

“He’ll get detention and lose loads of house points,” Neville said. “Lily –”

“I don’t care,” she interrupted fiercely. “Can’t you be Uncle Neville rather than Professor Longbottom? I know I’ll be expelled. Let’s not worry about that now.”

“Expelled?” Harry exclaimed. “Don’t be silly, no-one would –” And then he saw Lily’s face. “Professor Brown said he’d expel you if you came?”

“You didn’t do your last year and you’ve done fine,” she retorted.

“Apart from the murder charge,” muttered Albus, grinning.

“Oh Lily! You shouldn’t have come,” Harry said, taking his daughter’s hand.

“No, I should have come. It was ridiculous to ban me from being at my father’s trial. Let’s not talk about it: we can sort it out later. You ought to eat some of that dinner, Dad.”

The time flew by, and then the warder was there telling his visitors they had to go if they wanted to get back into the court. There had been some laughs, though Harry could hardly remember what about. His head was aching, and he felt rather like he had flu, but he supposed that was the Veritaserum, and he’d been determined not to let it spoil the time with his children. Neville and Ron both gave him quick hugs, Ron patting him awkwardly on the back at the same time, and then his children were hugging him once again, not too much.

Not as if it was the last time.

Ten minutes later, after a few words with Hermione, Harry was locked down into the chair again, and the fresh dose of Veritaserum was burning through his system.

Harcourt got straight in. “Mr Potter, please tell the court how you felt when you heard that your wife wanted to marry Draco Malfoy, your old school rival?”

“I was relieved.”

“Relieved? That’s a rather odd reaction to knowing another man is – intimate - with one’s wife,” Harcourt suggested.

Harry shrugged. The Veritaserum seemed to be affecting him even more this time round; perhaps it was still built up in his system: but that wasn’t a direct question, so the compulsion just simmered.

“Could you explain why you were relieved?” Harcourt asked.

“She’d found someone proper,” Harry said, “and I didn’t have to feel guilty.”

“Proper? What was proper about Mr Malfoy? And what did you feel guilty about, Mr Potter?”

“One question at a time, Sir,” Master Davis said quickly.

“I’m sorry, what was proper about Mr Malfoy?” Harcourt asked.

“He – she – they wanted a relationship,” Harry said, sweating, trying to answer the question.

“Yes? Surely that was rather improper of Mr Malfoy and your wife?”

“No,” Harry said.

“You don’t think it was improper for them to have sex with each other? You must be very open-minded, Mr Potter.” Harcourt looked around the room, inviting others to share his amazement.

“I don’t think it was improper because they cared about each other.”

“Well, you are indeed very open-minded,” Harcourt said. He twiddled with his pages, and then looked up at Harry. “So, you approved of Mrs Potter sleeping with Mr Malfoy. Did she sleep with anyone you didn’t approve of?”

“Objection!” Hermione shouted, over the uproar in the court.

“Mr Harcourt – ” Anglehurst began.

“Yes,” Harry answered, forced by the drug. His eyes shot up to the gallery, looking apologetically at his children, whilst around them the court was abuzz with excitement.

Vultures, Harry thought. Just waiting to pick over the bones of a dead woman.

“And who would that be?” Harcourt asked.

“Is there a purpose to this line of questioning, Harcourt?”

“Daniel Robbins,” Harry said, naming a player for the Cannons. “Phillip Stubbins, Horst Jurgens.” Harry found himself able to not say, though it wanted to come out, that there were others, but he didn’t know their names. The truth serum forced him to tell actual fact, but maybe because he had answered, it gave him some leeway when there were unclear responses. He filed the idea away through the fug that swamped his thoughts.

Up in the gallery, the Quick Quotes Quills were flashing, and Harry could see one parchment being sent flying out of the room, the report ready to hit the evening press. He wished he hadn’t known the names, all three of them famous quidditch players, although the only one he regretted saying was Stubbins: he was married, and his wife, if she didn’t know already, would be hurt.

“I am just finding out, Your Honour,” Harcourt was saying, “if Mr Potter was angry with his wife. I imagine that you were very angry, weren’t you, Mr Potter?”

“Yes,” Harry said. It felt like something in his chest snapped. He had hardly dared even think of the anger that had eaten away at him at the beginning.

“All that infidelity. Did you lie awake, when your wife was away on tour, wondering who she was sleeping with?”

“Yes,” Harry gritted, at the same time as Hermione leapt up.

“Your Honour! Objection! The Prosecutor is harassing Mr Potter.”

Anglehurst looked around the court, at all the interested faces, at the children in the gallery, and lastly at Harry. “You’d better have a damn good reason for this line of questioning, Harcourt.”

Smoothing down a grin at the tacit permission to continue, Harcourt turned back to Harry. “You say you were relieved about her relationship with Malfoy. Were you never angry about that particular infidelity?”

“I was,” Harry said, biting his lip. “But then when it got serious –”

“You thought it better for her to be with one man than to act like a trollop.”

“Objection!” Hermione barked, whilst everyone turned to stare at the gallery, whispering.

Harry looked up as a huge noise echoed around the room, silencing the court for a moment. Ron stood there, hands gripping the railing, face furious. It sounded as if he had kicked the woodwork. Draco was white, his face showing nothing.

Harry was sweating again. Thankfully Harcourt had made a statement rather than a question. He felt pulled to tell the truth, to respond, but he could resist the urge.

“Objection sustained,” Anglehurst snapped. “You will moderate your language, Mr Harcourt. I will not have this court used to cast aspersions on the victim, which they are unable to answer.”

“My apologies, Sir,” Harcourt gave a small bow. “Let me rephrase that. Mr Potter, were you relieved that Mrs Potter had formed an attachment to Mr Malfoy because it meant she would not be dallying with other men?”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. Again, the rest of the truth was fighting to get out of his mouth. He held it back.

Harcourt had seen it. “And were there other reasons why you were relieved?”

Harry’s fists grasped the arms of the chair. “Yes.”

Harcourt looked steadily at him. “Please tell us the reasons you were relieved, Mr Potter.”

Harry struggled with the words. “He made her happy.”

“And you didn’t?”

He’d tried to get around saying it, but it came out anyway. “Not in bed.”

Harcourt stood looking at him. The court, after the first titters, was hushed, waiting for more.

“You said in the trial of Mr Malfoy, that you hadn’t slept with your wife for nine years. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

Harcourt picked up a quill and twirled it through his fingers. He stroked along the length. “Had you become…incapable, Mr Potter?” he said, letting the feather droop from his fingers.

More sniggers ran around the court. “Incapable of pleasing her, yes,” Harry gritted.

“You became physically incapable – ”

“Your Honour,” Hermione said in exasperation.

“This is important, Sir,” Harcourt said.

“Hmmf,” the Judge said, but waved him to continue.

“Mr Potter, please tell the court if you are physically incapable of having sex?”

“I am not,” Harry said, glaring.

“So, you chose not to have sex with your wife? To deprive her of the warmth and comfort of a loving relationship, to diminish her magic – ”

“Your Honour, there is no proof whatsoever that magic is diminished by lack of sexual contact,” Hermione interrupted. “Mr Harcourt is seeking to bias the Wizengamot using old wives’ tales to demolish Mr Potter’s character.”

“Objection sustained,” Anglehurst agreed.

“Your Honour,” Harcourt said, “it’s a widely accepted belief – ”

“Perhaps you would consider the wisdom of addressing such a belief to a judge who has been a widower for thirty five years, Mr Harcourt,” Anglehurst stared down the Prosecutor.

Harry watched the man’s mouth open and then snap shut quickly. He felt a smile forming and held it back. Around the court, many people were hiding grins behind their hands, others looking speculatively at the Judge.

Harcourt turned back to Harry. “Mr Potter: you did not have sex with your wife despite being capable of it. Is that correct?”

No,” Harry said.

“I’m sorry, I fail to understand you. Were you or were you not capable of having sex with your wife?”

Harry could see that Harcourt wasn’t going to let it go. He found the words to answer as best as he could. “As you saw in the teleconverter image,” he said, his heart beating faster and faster in response to the fact that he wasn’t immediately answering, “my wife liked things a little rough in the bedroom. After my experiences in the War, I was not able to satisfy that need.”

The noise in the courtroom rose. Harry looked up, braving the glare of disapproval he expected, but was surprised to see sympathy on some faces.

“I see. So you were relieved Mr Malfoy was able to see to your wife’s requirements?”

“Yes,” Harry agreed.

“So that you could follow your own interests elsewhere?”

Harry looked puzzled.

“Come, come, Mr Potter. Are you expecting us to believe that you haven’t had your own dalliances? That you haven’t trifled with other interests of your own? Perhaps I should warn you, Sir, that we have had you under watch since your wife’s death. Only days after her funeral, you took yourself to the Leaky Cauldron, and used their floo to go to an unknown destination, did you not, Mr Potter?”

“Too many questions!” Davis barked, sweeping across to put his hand on Harry’s sweating brow.

“I withdraw them,” Harcourt said.

He turned to cast his gaze around the room, addressing himself to the members of the Wizengamot. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I know that you might well feel that I have been harassing Mr Potter, a man known to you all as a hero, a saviour, a loving family man. Of course we don’t want to feel ill of him. He saved us all, didn’t he?” He glanced across at Harry. “He doesn’t look like a murderer, does he?” he said, inviting everyone to stare at Harry. “Even though we all know that he is a murderer,” he added. “Do not let that meek, shy exterior fool you.” He started wandering around the court. “I’m sure, like me, you felt that this case had nowhere to go this morning, when Mr Potter told us that he did not murder his wife. He is, after all, under Veritaserum, isn’t he? A double dose! How could he tell anything but the truth? But I have to tell you, that I have been trying cases in this court for twenty five years, Ladies and Gentlemen. I have seen many people under the influence of the truth serum. I’m sure some of you have witnessed it before too.” He looked around the court, where a number of the members were nodding. “I’m sure you noticed, as I did, that Mr Potter was reacting rather strangely. Usually, the eyes are glazed, and the answers come straight out, do they not? But what do we see with Mr Potter? Sometimes he hesitates. Sometimes he elaborates. Mr Potter was able to cast aside Imperio, one of the three Unforgivable curses, as a school-boy. And I can assure you, that Mr Potter is throwing off the effects of Veritaserum here in this courtroom.”

The court erupted.

Hermione was shouting, people in the gallery were yelling.

Anglehurst banged his gavel down, over and over. “I will not have this noise in my courtroom!” he bellowed. “Mr Harcourt, Mr Potter has answered all of your questions, many of them of a very personal nature. On what do you base your assertion?”

Harcourt bowed. “I have asked the intimate questions you have just heard to test my theory, Your Honour, and to demonstrate to the court that Mr Potter’s answers cannot be accepted as the truth. I do not deny that Mr Potter is feeling coerced by the potion. But I asked Mr Potter whether his wife slept with anyone he did not approve of.”

“And Mr Potter answered,” Hermione argued.

“Indeed, he gave us the names of three famous quidditch players. Any man is bound to disapprove of that, I am sure,” he said.

“What is your point, Harcourt?” Anglehurst asked.

“The point, Your Honour, is that Mr Potter failed to mention the seven other gentlemen with whom Mrs Potter had affairs.”

Roars of anger and disbelief echoed through the room. Harry looked down at his hands. He couldn’t face looking at Lily. And so much for trying to protect Ginny as much as he could.

Anglehurst was banging his gavel again.

“You have evidence, Mr Harcourt?”

“Oh yes, Your Honour.”

“Mr Potter, did you know your wife had had affairs with other men? Apart from the ones you mentioned?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

“And yet you managed not to mention it?”

“Yes.” At the gasp in the court, Harry continued, “I didn’t know their names, or how many. I couldn’t answer.”

“Mr Potter, surely it is true to say that you are not affected by Veritaserum as other men are?”

“I don’t know, I can’t know how it affects anyone else.”

“Mr Potter, are you compelled to tell the truth, or not?” asked Anglehurst.

“I am compelled to tell the truth,” Harry said.

“The whole truth?” Harcourt asked.

“Your Honour,” Hermione stood. “If Mr Potter were able to lie, surely he would have denied knowing that there were other men in his wife’s life? Mr Harcourt was the one who insisted on using Veritaserum. Because he does not like Mr Potter’s answers, because Mr Potter says that he did not kill his wife, Mr Harcourt is trying to create a situation where there is no way that Mr Potter can be perceived to be answering honestly.”

“It is my duty to the court,” Harcourt retorted, “to inform them, that my experience of witnessing the use of Veritaserum leads me to believe that Mr Potter has more control over his responses than should be the case. Mr Potter, as we all know, is a wizard of powers that we can only just imagine. This is the only wizard who has survived the Killing Curse. Not once, but twice. Mr Potter was brought up without a sprinkling of magical knowledge until he went to Hogwarts, at eleven. In that very first year, he became the youngest Seeker ever to play for a house team. He defeated a troll, and if the stories are correct, overcame a whole series of obstacles created by the most able wizards, set to deny access to the worst kind of robbers and thieves, to steal The Philosopher’s Stone. Mr Potter, are these facts correct?”

“Yes,” Harry answered, “but I had help.”

“He had help, Ladies and Gentlemen,” Harcourt looked around the court. “Of course, that would explain it.” There were some laughs at his dry comment. “And you were entered into the TriWizard Tournament, a famously rigorous series of tests that have led to the deaths of several participants, including one in the year in which you won it, Mr Potter. And you weren’t even of age, were you?”

“No,” Harry agreed.

“This is not an ordinary wizard, Ladies and Gentlemen. He may look small of stature, he may live amongst us as an ordinary man, but never forget that he isn’t.” He whipped round and demanded, “Is it true, Mr Potter, that you sent a Patronus charm from your cell here in the Ministry?”

They knew that? “Yes,” Harry said.

There was some muttering. Most wizards could not perform a Patronus charm.

“Without a wand?”

“Yes.”

“From a cell which had been dampened to prevent magic?”

The whole room was holding its breath.

“Yes,” Harry agreed.

There was silence, followed by whispering, people staring at Harry and looking away.

“If I may?” Hermione asked, tight-lipped. “Harry, why did you send that Patronus?”

“I knew I was dying.”

Another collective intake of breath. The journalists who had started folding their parchments ready to send off spread them open again, the Quills hovering at the ready.

“How did you come to be dying?”

“I was poisoned.”

There was uproar.

“Mr Potter,” Harcourt asked, “Are you saying that the Ministry tried to poison you?”

“It was the guard,” Harry said.

“Interesting as this flight of fantasy is,” Harcourt sneered, “here you are, looking hale and hearty and able to impose your will over Veritaserum, which I believe you to be doing now. Such a matter is irrelevant to the purpose of this trial, though I am sure that if Mr Potter wished to make a complaint – he hasn’t done, has he? – the Ministry will employ all their efforts into investigating the matter. What is important, is that Mr Potter does not deny performing incredibly complex magic in an environment where he shouldn’t be able to perform magic at all. This is a dangerous man before you. This is a man who is able to work around all the boundaries of normal magical restrictions. This is a man who, I think we can all agree, had every motive to want to kill his wife. She was repeatedly unfaithful to him, perhaps in an effort to get his attention. We can’t be sure of that. We do know that she certainly succeeded when she settled upon Mr Malfoy, her husband’s old enemy. Little did Mrs Potter know that instead of attracting her husband’s attention back to her, she had created a perfect situation for her own downfall. Mr Potter does not have an alibi, Ladies and Gentlemen. Nobody saw him on the afternoon of the murder. Mr Potter’s wards were not breached. Mr Potter employed his trademark spell, and then, as soon as Mr Malfoy had been set up, he destroyed every scrap of evidence, using his wife’s family and friends as unwitting collaborators to his Machiavellian scheme. This meek and mild man before you, honourable members of the Wizengamot, is not some weeping widower, but a calculated, violent and dangerous man.”

Hermione stood up. “Mr Harcourt has worked hard, hasn’t he, to tarnish Mr Potter in our eyes. He’s working so hard at it, Ladies and Gentlemen, because he has no evidence – not a single scrap of solid evidence - to convict Mr Potter. He’s hoping that by dirtying his name, by attempting to frighten you, you’ll convict Mr Potter, but I know that none of you are likely to be fooled by such tricks.

“Mr Potter was in his workshop when the Aurors came to tell him of his wife’s death. If you doubt that, Aurors Franklin and Hencliffe are in court, and we can ask them. Now, Mr Harcourt would argue that just because Mr Potter was there when they arrived, he could have managed to have returned to the trunk before their arrival. I won’t go into how difficult it would be to apparate into the confined space of a trunk without a splinter or two!” Hermione looked round, seeing nods of amusement. “And remember, our Auror force is highly trained. Did either of the Aurors find blood on Mr Potter? Evidence of cleaning spells? Guilt? Fear? I think we can assume they didn’t – after all, if that had been the case, you wouldn’t have sat here for the trial of Draco Malfoy, would you? And who was it who proved Draco Malfoy innocent? Harry Potter. Why, I ask you, would Mr Potter have gone to the lengths he did to prove a man innocent, if he himself was the murderer, and had wished to set up Mr Malfoy? Mr Harcourt is suggesting that Mr Potter is playing a complex game. He suggests that Mr Potter must have been one of the murderers, for how else could they have gained access to the house? I ask, how many of you have children? They all have friends they want to bring home, don’t they? How many of you have given your house elves the task of making judgements on who can enter your home? Mr Harcourt threatened Mr Potter with the death of his house elf, if he mentioned such an arrangement; Harry cares so much for Mitty, the elf in charge of his home, that he could not allow that. How can anyone think that Mr Potter would kill his own wife, when he does his all to protect every being in his household?

“Mr Harcourt has had the most enormous gall to call Harry Potter a murderer for killing Voldemort! Does he remember what Harry had to do to achieve that? Does he not remember that Harry gave up his own life in order to rid us of the horror that would have been existence under the Dark Lord’s reign? That the Wizarding World expected a child to do its dirty work? Don’t let us forget that Harry did exactly what we wanted of him. But has Mr Potter shown any signs of violent behaviour since? No, he hasn’t. He – ”

“Mrs Weasley, impassioned as your defence is, I do not think Mr Harcourt has yet asked all the questions for the Prosecution. You will have your time, Madam.”

“Yes, Your Honour, thank you,” Hermione said, sitting down.

The mood in the court had changed. Harry was glad that Hermione had spoken up for him: he knew she had been biding her time, but he understood Lily’s shock that so far, he seemed to have been under constant attack. He geared himself for more questions. He was astonishingly tired: he thought he had more or less recovered from the poisoning. Obviously not. The Veritaserum was pounding at the edges of his brain, making his stomach lurch. It was hard to concentrate.

“Mr Potter, of course I am grateful, as we all are, for your past endeavours. But I’m sure you would agree that one good action will not excuse future misdeeds. In the interests of clarity, perhaps you will tell the court why you went to the Leaky Cauldron and used their floo, rather than the rather more convenient option, one would have thought, of using your own?”

“I didn’t want my destination to be traced,” Harry felt the words pulled from him. His mind started panicking about what he could say about Snape and Kingsley.

“Really? That sounds as if you were going somewhere illegal, or illicit. Perhaps you were visiting a lover, Mr Potter?”

“I’m sorry, Your Honour, but Mr Harcourt seems fixated on Mr Potter’s sexual activities,” Hermione objected.

Anglehurst raised an eyebrow at Harcourt.

“Sir, it is well known that when a wife has been murdered, infidelity and sex are often close by.”

“I’ll allow this briefly, Harcourt, but I too am getting impatient,” the Judge warned.

Harry was sweating with the effort of waiting to respond.

“Do let the accused answer!” Davis demanded. “This delay is very unhealthy!”

“Please answer the question,” Harcourt said promptly.

“I was not,” Harry said. Whilst the Prosecutor, Hermione and the Judge had been talking, he had looked up to the gallery to see if Snape could give him any indication. He felt real relief to see him still there, but wasn’t able to glean anything from his face.

“Tell us where you went,” Harcourt asked.

Harry forced himself not to name the floo address. “I went to see Professor - Master Snape.”

“Ah. You’ve stayed with Master Snape too, have you not?”

So he was being watched all this time. “Yes, I was fortunate enough to be invited.”

“And you enjoyed staying with Severus Snape, ex Death Eater, and his homosexual lover, did you?”

Gasps of shock reverberated around the court-room. Many faces turned to look at Snape.

Harry was horrified that Snape should be outed like this. “Yes, I enjoyed myself very much,” he said with dignity. “I named my son after Severus Snape, who is a man I admire and respect, and who worked as a spy for many years to defeat Voldemort.”

“I bet you didn’t know he was queer when you named your son after him, did you?” Harcourt chuckled, giving a limp drop of his hand to illustrate ‘queer’.

“Actually, I did,” Harry said, cutting across the titters around the court.

“Really?” Harcourt turned towards him. “Perhaps we have been looking in the wrong direction. Is Master Snape your lover?”

“Objection!” Hermione shouted.

“He is not,” Harry said, before Anglehurst could respond.

“Are you homosexual, Mr Potter? Is that why you couldn’t satisfy your wife?”

“Objection!” Hermione’s chair screeched on the floor as she leapt out of her seat.

Harry found his mouth opening and closing. To his horror, he could feel his insides churning as he tried to formulate a response, and knew the feeling only came when the answer wasn’t known. But he had never had a relationship with a man! Then the thought of Scorpius and Andy in his bed came into his mind, and he felt the sweat pouring out of him.

“Are you, Mr Potter?” Harcourt went on.

Harry felt like he might pass out. Everything was swelling and receding in his field of vision. He had to find an answer. “I have never had a homosexual relationship,” he got out.

“No? Not even a kiss?” Harcourt badgered.

“No,” Harry said, relief filling him as he felt able to answer truthfully.

“And in your fantasies, Mr Potter? Who do you see then? Your wife? Mr Snape? Mr Shacklebolt?”

“This is utterly outrageous! Don’t answer, Harry!” Hermione was saying. “People’s fantasies are –”

“He’s had quite enough!” Davis said, waving a wand over Harry to check his vitals. “I had no idea he’d been poisoned, or I would never have permitted the use of -”

“I’m sorry, that question was too complicated, I expect. Let’s make this easy: who did you see in your last fantasy, Mr Potter?” Harcourt demanded.

Harry could not say Scorpius. He could not. He could not say that in front of his children. That he had wanked to the sight of two men young enough to be his sons. He could not…he felt bile rising in his throat, his head pounding as if it would explode, and all he could do was not say one word…

“Malfoy,” he gasped. He could hear the court erupting as he slid with relief into the blackness crowding the edges of his vision.

Chapter Text

Harry couldn’t bring himself to look at Hermione.

He was back in his warded cell, with a strong cup of tea steaming on the table in front of him. He picked it up and took a sip, surprised to find that his roiling stomach seemed to find it soothing.

He’d come round in the court to find Davis sticking drops of antidote onto his tongue, Hermione at his side, and the guards not knowing whether to release him from the restraints in the chair or not.

Davis was determined about his job at least, Harry thought. He had laid into the court clerk, making quite clear that he should have been forewarned about Harry’s poisoning, and refusing to administer any more Veritaserum for at least 48 hours. Given that Harry had promptly vomited as Davis was speaking, right over the floor of the courtroom, Anglehurst had decided to suspend proceedings for the day.

Harry had not been able to bring himself to look up into the gallery.

He could not bear to think what his children thought of him.

Hermione sighed, and put down her own cup. “We have to talk about this, Harry. I wouldn’t say anything, normally, but we have to construct some defence here.”

“You would,” he said.

Hermione frowned. “What?”

“Would say something.”

“Well of course I would!” she exploded, making Harry look up at last. “I should have guessed,” she said, shaking her head. “You always had a thing about Malfoy.”

“I did not!” Harry denied.

“You were always following him in sixth year,” Hermione argued.

“Mione, I slashed him in sixth year.”

“Well, there you are then!”

“What? Practically killing him was a sign of my repressed lust?”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “Wasn’t it?”

Harry shook his head. “Oh God, Mione, what am I going to do?” He buried his head in his hands. “I’m so ashamed.”

Harry felt her chair clatter closer and the next minute her arms were around him.

“Wizards are just old-fashioned; we both know there’s nothing wrong with being gay,” she said gently.

“It’s worse,” Harry whispered into her shoulder.

She sat back and looked at him. “Right. Well, you might be surprised, Harry, to know that I hear an awful lot of terrible stuff in this job. But it is my job to defend my clients, and I can’t do that without knowing what’s going on. So you’re going to tell me all about it, alright? However bad it is. And then we’ll work out what we’re going to do.”

This was Mione in work mode. Efficient and no-nonsense.

Harry nodded.

“First, I’m going to ask the guards to not let anyone disturb us. I know your kids will want to see you, but I’ll need to work on this, so the sooner I start the better. I’m sorry –”

“God, Hermione, I don’t want to see anybody! And I can’t imagine James hasn’t run screaming from the courtroom.”

“He’ll get over it –”

Harry shook his head. “He was homophobic to begin with. Anyway, there’s no time for getting over it, is there? I’ll be dead tomorrow. I’ve handed Harcourt my head on a plate.”

Harry had to hand it to Hermione. There was no pretence of placating him.

“You’d better tell me everything, and I’ll see what I can do with it,” Hermione said. “I’m just going to have a word with the warder.”

Harry went and used the loo whilst Hermione was out of the cell. He was ridiculously aware of the water as he washed his hands afterwards, feeling the cold flow of it over his skin. He washed his face, cleaning off the sweat, smelling the harsh prison soap. Soon these things would cease to exist for him. He hadn’t murdered Ginny, but he knew Harcourt had woven an excellent web, and he had added the last strands himself.

Hermione returned and sat down, getting out her notebook. “Right,” she said. “I expect all the monitoring spells are still in place, so we’ll do as before, right? I ask the questions, you write down the answers.” She slapped a couple of pens on the table.

Harry wondered if anyone had been there waiting to see him. Hermione hadn’t said anything. He didn’t have the courage to ask.

“So, let’s get down to basics. How long have you had a thing for Malfoy for?”

Never, Harry wrote.

“Harry, you answered under Veritaserum,” Hermione said. She looked at him. “You must have had. Why would you have said it otherwise?”

Harry just looked at her. This is so awful, he wrote at last.

“Have you had sex with him?” she asked in a whisper. Her eyes widened. “Not in his cell when –”

“NO!”

“Is he interested in you?” Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head.

“So…I don’t know what to ask here,” Hermione sucked the end of her Biro. “You’ve had fantasies about him, yeah?”

Harry shook his head again.

“But - ”

“Do you remember the day I was taken?” Harry asked. “We had the party the night before?”

Hermione nodded, watching him.

“I was supposed to be sleeping in Ginny’s room.”

“Okay,” Hermione prompted.

Because some of the kids stayed over. Harry’s hand shook as he wrote ‘kids’. God, he was vile.

“You fell asleep on the sofa though, didn’t you?” Hermione was catching on.

Harry nodded. And then I went upstairs and into the wrong room by mistake. Into my room.

Hermione wrote down, Scorpius and Andy told us you’d walked in on them.

“They did?” Harry looked at her in surprise.

It must have been a bit of a shock seeing them in bed together. Hermione looked at him sympathetically.

Harry looked at Hermione, and then wrote, Andy was giving Scorpius a blow-job.

Hermione’s hand flew over her mouth. “Oh, Harry!”

He looked at her, then wrote, I’d never seen anything like that before.

“I’ll say!” Hermione said, a smile beginning to play around her mouth. “It was hot, I take it?”

Harry blushed, then slowly nodded.

Hermione put her hand on his arm. “Harry, I expect I would’ve thought the same.” She looked at him, and wrote down Two beautiful young men. Enjoying themselves. Of course it was.

I feel terrible, Harry wrote.

“Did you say anything?”

“Apologised,” Harry answered. “Practically ran out of the door.”

“Okay, so you didn’t,” touch them? She wrote down the last bit.

“Of course not!” Harry exclaimed.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. But you had a fantasy about Scorpius. Not Draco at all, Hermione deduced.

Harry nodded miserably.

She put her hand on his arm again. “You’re beating yourself up about nothing –”

He’s the same age as Albus! Harry scribbled. It’s disgusting!

You twit, it would be worrying if it was Albus, but not just someone else his age, Hermione’s pen streaked across the page. He’s young and good looking. Pin- up magazines are full of beautiful young things, not old wrinklies. What’s not to like?

He’s a man? Harry raised an eyebrow at her.

“Well, there is that,” she grinned. “Well.”

I don’t think I’m gay, Harry wrote, and looked up for Hermione’s response.

Hermione studied him.

“Can you see it written in my face, or something?” Harry gave her a twisted smile.

“I think that’s something to come back to,” she said apologetically. “We need to work on your defence. So, let me just get this straight. Umm, the timeline.” She wrote down, You’ve had fantasies about Scorpius in here?

“You’re joking!” Harry said. “This is embarrassing,” he added, and wrote, I went to have a shower afterwards. And a - he looked at Hermione, and blushed, before continuing - a wank. I hadn’t done it since Ginny died. And I was having my regular, heterosexual fantasy when suddenly I was thinking about Scorpius. He kept scribbling. And when Harcourt asked me about the fantasy the girls didn’t even come to mind, weren’t dragging at me at all. Just Scorpius. And I couldn’t say that.

So you were able to over-ride the Veritaserum? Hermione wrote, looking at him with interest.

“I wish,” Harry said. At her confusion, he added, “Fractionally. Not that it helped me.”

“No,” Hermione agreed. “I think it would be best if you told the truth. Clarified it.”

“No.”

“But Harry, you must see – ”

“Of course I do,” Harry snapped. “But what my children think of me is already bad enough. I’m not having them think that. Know that. And –” he began to write again, I can’t have Scorpius thinking that this horrible old lech was perving on him.

“Harry, you can’t let them kill you because of your pride. It’s worse than Draco doing it for a promise.”

“Mione, this isn’t any reflection on you. But we’re not going to win, are we? They don’t know who killed Ginny. They aren’t looking for anyone else. They haven’t even mentioned Daniel Poulter and we know CAW went to see him. Didn’t they connect what happened to him with this case? Or are they just ignoring it? I don’t know if they’re incompetent or just determined to wipe out both of us. Ginny and me. Ginny and Draco. God knows. It’s ridiculous!” He brushed his hands through his hair, then looked back at Hermione, who looked stricken.

And suddenly, suddenly, Harry felt stricken too.

“I’m going to be dead – or worse than – tomorrow,” he said, his voice wondering. He reached across and grabbed Hermione’s hand. “I don’t want to die.”

“Well, don’t sound so surprised,” Hermione said, her voice thick, as if she was holding back tears.

“I think I am surprised,” Harry said. “When I was poisoned, I thought I was going to die. I didn’t feel like I’d got any control over it. And when I died to get rid of Voldemort…it just seemed inevitable. This – this feels wrong, Mione. I don’t want to leave the kids. Even if they hate me. I don’t want to leave things as they are. With the murderers going free, with whatever’s happening in the wizarding world. I –” and Harry found his thoughts had gone to Snape, and Kingsley, and the warmth of their home and their friendship. “Shit!” he said. “Shit!”

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

“Snape got outed. And...” he glanced round, shutting up. “Oh god. I need to apologise. As if that means anything. ”

“I don’t think he’s too bothered –”

“Mione, of course he is! He’s stayed out of England all these years –”

“Well, if he is, he’s waiting to kill you, then.”

“Snape’s waiting? To see me?”

“He was, but I suggested he take Lily and Albus to get something to eat while I talked to you.”

“They came?” Harry swallowed. “James didn’t.”

“He may have gone to the loo, or something,” Hermione said, not looking at Harry.

Harry thought how awful it would be to die with his children hating him. He couldn’t believe how relieved he felt that Albus and Lily were there. What’s more, they were there in Snape’s company, which gave him a bit of hope that they weren’t going to be instantly judgemental.

What he hadn’t expected, when Hermione had hugged him and gone on her way, was Lily flying into his arms, saying, “Dad, I’m so sorry!”

He held her tight, as he had earlier, enjoying the forgiveness and trust and love in that embrace.

“What on earth have you to be sorry for?” he asked, pulling away after a moment.

“You never said anything! Ever! And it must have been awful, wanting Mr Malfoy when Mum had him.”

Harry laughed. It started and wouldn’t stop. He knew it was rather hysterical, but oh! Eventually, he embraced Lily again, gave Albus a quick hug whilst he wiped his eyes, and then they sat down.

“Right,” he said, still chuckling. “Let me put your mind at ease on that one. And I’m sorry if I’m destroying some romantic ideals here, Lils. I haven’t been pining over Malfoy. Not ever.”

“But - ?”

Harry looked at his children, and loved their kindness, their willingness to listen. He rubbed his chin. “Look,” he said, “you know sometimes you have weird dreams and don’t have any control about them?”

They nodded.

“Well, it was a bit like that. Not that I can believe I’m talking to you about this, and I really shouldn’t,” he said, looking at Lily.

“I’m grown up. Almost,” Lily grinned. “You were wanking, then, Dad?”

Harry choked.

“Well, he was asking you about it in court! For the whole world to know!”

“Well, they do say everybody does it,” Albus smirked.

“Right, well, I’m saying this once and that’s it,” Harry said.

Lily and Albus nodded, but they both still had mischievous smiles on their faces.

“I was having a fantasy about…well, about someone else entirely…of the female variety,” Harry blushed. “And then Malfoy just popped into my head for a couple of seconds, completely bizarrely, and there you go. And the drug makes you spill it. Now I’m as gay as a summer’s day, according to the wizarding world.”

“That’s it?” Albus asked.

Harry nodded. He was just praying that he’d get away with just saying ‘Malfoy’. He’d argued with Hermione, in the end, saying that although the court thinking it was Draco would add fuel to the fire, he didn’t think it would really help if he revealed it was Scorpius. They’d think he was a perv anyway, and more so for the object of his fantasy having been a boy. If it got out that Scorpius had been in his house, in his bed, they’d have a field day. And Harry would hardly be able to rely on Draco to keep the Prophet writers under control. Not when it was his son that Harry had thought of. Hermione reluctantly agreed to focus on other parts of the case against him.

“Well, that’s ridiculous!” Lily was furious.

“I know,” Harry shrugged. “I’m just glad you came to see me.”

“James is a dick,” Albus said, the fact that he wasn’t there somehow leaping out of Harry’s comment.

“I’ll tell him what you said. He’ll be sorry then,” Lily swished her hair.

“He’s entitled to feel angry,” Harry defended his son. “He’d made clear how he felt about homosexuality.”

“I wouldn’t care if you were anyway,” Lily said. “In some ways…” she stopped.

“What?” Harry prompted. “You can’t offend me, Lils.”

“In some ways it would make it easier to understand you breaking up with Mum,” she looked at him.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “But I can’t pretend that was the reason, Love. It just wasn’t to be between us.”

Lily nodded.

“What happens now?” Albus asked.

“Now, we go to court again tomorrow, Hermione does her bit for me, and we see what happens.”

Albus nodded, biting his lip.

“I know you don’t want me to say anything, but you’re all grown up, near enough,” Harry said quietly. “If the worst comes to the worst, you’ll all be fine. I want you to enjoy life, not spend it worrying about who did this.”

“We’re not going to leave you unavenged!”

“They’re not going to get you!”

Harry shook his head. “I hope not. But…I don’t want your lives coloured by vengeance. If you want to help sort out this organisation, that’s fine. But don’t waste your lives on revenge, please. I’ve been dead before,” he added. “It’s nothing to be scared of, you know? The only thing that matters to me is knowing you’re happy and safe. Go to Hermione and Ron if you need help. George.”

“Severus has been very good to us,” Albus said.

Harry nodded. “Hermione said he was waiting with you?”

“Yeah, but I think he didn’t want to intrude, so he’s gone.”

Harry tried not to notice the disappointment he felt. Snape had been his constant, quiet support whilst he’d been in the cells.

The next morning found Harry once again strapped in the chair, and Hermione was working steadily through her defence, crushing her way through Harcourt’s arguments. Harry could feel, though, that the mood of the court was against him. He felt the weight of their glances, the feeling that he knew well, of people believing the worst of him.

Up in the gallery, James sat, looking down on him too.

But he was there.

The court broke for lunch.

Harry found not Hermione, or his children, coming into the holding cell off the court, but Snape.

He felt a huge sense of relief.

“I’m so glad you came,” he said, standing and moving towards Snape. “I’m so sorry about you being outed –”

“Sit and eat,” Snape said, waving Harry back to the table in a no-nonsense manner.

Harry did as he was told.

Snape had taken out a small container and was tucking into what appeared to be a cheese and pickle sandwich himself. Harry’s lips quirked at the domesticity of it.

“I have no anxieties about that,” Snape said, after Harry had eaten several mouthfuls. “As I think I said before, I’ve kept quiet about my inclinations long enough.”

“Still,” Harry said. “I hadn’t expected that. I’m sorry I brought you in to all this.”

“It would have come via Kingsley’s work, had this not happened. Given your current predicament , it might seem you are the only one involved in what is happening in the world, but you know that you are not.”

Harry nodded, and ate a few more mouthfuls. The food tasted surprisingly good. “I’m reluctant to die, this time,” he admitted quietly.

“That is understandable,” Snape said. “You have more to live for.”

Harry nodded, relieved that there weren’t protestations.

“Before you ask, I will keep my eye on your youngsters, and am available to assist them should they ask for it.”

Harry felt tears welling, a tide rushing in, unwelcome. He swallowed, blinking hard. “Thank you,” he whispered.

They said nothing else, just sat and ate, drank a cup of tea, and then Snape went, quietly and gracefully, leaving Harry to use the facilities before returning to court.

As the members of the Wizengamot settled in their seats, and Hermione stood to start again, Anglehurst waved a hand at her to sit down.

Harry looked across at her, but Hermione shrugged, as confused, it seemed, as he was.

“I have a witness who would like to make a statement to the court,” the Judge said, creating a buzz of interest in the court-room.

Enough to stave off the urge for a post-prandial nap, Harry thought. He’d been guilty of an inclination to snooze when in those benches himself.

The clerk stood up, and announced, “The court calls Mr Lucius Malfoy.”

Harry stared at Hermione, but again, she shrugged. So she had no idea either. What was Lucius playing at? Was he using this opportunity to get his revenge? If Harry were dead, he would not be free, but perhaps he felt he would be able to manipulate James more easily. Harry steeled himself.

Lucius strolled in, looking every bit the aristocrat he had in the past. He had a fine and elegant robe on, not showy, just beautifully cut, and his hair was neatly dressed.

He sat himself with precision on the witness’s chair, and crossed his ankles, his hands resting on his cane.

“Mr Malfoy,” Anglehurst asked. “I received your request to divulge important information to this court barely a half hour ago. Perhaps you’d be good enough to enlighten us?”

“My apologies for disrupting proceedings,” Malfoy said languidly. “I am, at present, residing on the continent, and only just received yesterday’s edition of the papers.”

“Yes? And what you read there made you realise that you had information that was relevant to this court?”

“I believe so.”

“Might I suggest, Your Honour, that Mr Malfoy be given Veritaserum?” Harcourt asked. “He is, after all, an ex-convict.”

“I have paid my dues, Sir,” Malfoy said with his old asperity. “I have come, against my better judgement, and knowing the mockery it might lead to, because I believe the court is floundering under a misapprehension. I have a statement to give, if the court wishes to hear it, but I am here entirely voluntarily, and I will not take Veritaserum, nor will I answer any questions. It is up to the court to decide whether they wish to hear me, or not. I would certainly prefer it if you decline, but, since my incarceration and rehabilitation, it has been brought home to me that each citizen has a civic duty, and I am here only to fulfil it.”

Harry could see that everyone was intrigued. He was intrigued!

“I accept your offer to speak without Veritaserum,” Anglehurst said, “but it is more than likely that the court might like to ask you questions on your statement.”

“It is a statement of opinion only, Your Honour. Perhaps we can reach a compromise. I will answer if I am able. I have no desire to be badgered about events or anything about which I do not know the answer.”

“Very well,” Anglehurst nodded, giving Harcourt, who had sighed loudly and deliberately, a very impatient look.

“I just wish to clarify,” Malfoy said, in his clear tones, “that I am Lucius Malfoy, father of Draco Malfoy, who had been secretly engaged to wed Ginevra Potter, nee Weasley, and was then accused of her murder.”

“Did you know of the secret engagement?” Harcourt stood up and asked.

Malfoy looked to the Judge. “I hope I am to be allowed to finish my statement uninterrupted, Your Honour?”

“Hold your questions, Mr Harcourt,” the Judge ruled.

Harcourt bowed his head and sat down.

“I did know of the engagement,” Lucius said, nodding his head in acknowledgement towards Harcourt. “But that is neither here not there. I read the transcript of the trial this morning, and the various editorials written about it. Everyone seems to assume that Mr Potter was in love with my son. I believe this is a misunderstanding. Mr Potter is in love with me.”

The court went wild. Harry’s mouth had dropped open as he looked across the courtroom at Malfoy Senior, who appeared entirely unperturbed as he flicked a non-existent piece of lint from his robe.

“Are you telling us, Mr Malfoy, that you and Mr Potter are in – a relationship?” Anglehurst asked.

“Certainly not,” Lucius said with disdain. He looked over at Harry, distaste obvious on his face. “I have not, and never will, have an interest in members of my own sex. However, Mr Potter approached me some time ago – for the purpose, I believe, of improving relations between our families, as inevitably, his children would become linked to the Malfoy name, and suggested a business arrangement. Naturally, it was in my best interests, given that I wished to restore the damage that I had done to the family name, to accept an offer from such a notable person.”

“A business arrangement? Mr Potter’s business is furniture making, I believe?”

“That’s his day-to-day pleasure, I think. An amusement. Mr Potter is a major shareholder in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.”

The information had never been made public before. There was a lot of murmuring around the court. That privileged information instantly leant truth to Malfoy’s assertions of knowing Harry Potter well.

“Is that true, Mr Potter?” Anglehurst asked.

“It is,” Harry agreed.

“A shareholder through his wife, I assume,” Anglehurst commented, offhandedly.

“Oh no. I believe Mr Potter was instrumental in providing the finance for the business to set up originally,” Lucius said, looking over to Harry, who nodded in confirmation.

Well, Malfoy had been looking up his facts. Or George had told him, Harry thought.

“I see. And this contact – for business – led to….”

“Several meetings,” Lucius took the prompt. “Both at my house and his. On the last occasion, Mr Potter visited me at my Paris house, where, as you may have heard, I have leased the ground floor to the business. Mr Potter visited me in my private salon upstairs, however. I am afraid he made a proposition that made me lose my temper a little.” Lucius took a handkerchief from his pocket with a flourish, and dabbed his lip. “Later, a friend saw him leaving Le Lion d’Or with another man.” Lucius looked down.

“I’m sorry,” Anglehurst said, “I don’t quite follow.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t be aware. But in Paris…well, it’s no secret that the clientele …are inclined to people of the same sex,” Malfoy said, delicately.

“It’s a queers’ pick-up place?” Harcourt asked, feeling that he was safe to insert a question at last.

“I’ve never been there,” Malfoy said superciliously. “But I believe that is the general understanding, yes.”

Anglehurst turned to Harry. “You are not under Veritaserum, of course, Mr Potter. Nevertheless, I would like to hear your answers. Are you in a business arrangement with Mr Lucius Malfoy?”

Well, Malfoy’s explanation of events had been masterly, Harry thought. He’d muddled the timing, not said anything that was untrue, and painted a picture that Harry could grasp at. But Malfoy hated gay men – including his own grandson. Did he really think that Harry had been thinking about him? He doubted it. Malfoy was taking advantage of an opportunity. Would Harry be in his debt instead, if it paid off? Harry didn’t have time to think on it.

“Yes,” he answered.

“And you have visited him at his home - homes – in London and Paris?”

“Yes.”

“He has visited your home?”

“Yes.”

“You had an argument with him in Paris?”

“I wouldn’t call it an argument.”

“What would you call it, Mr Potter? A proposition?”

“….Y- yes.”

“And afterwards, you went to a gay bar?”

“It was a restaurant,” Harry corrected.

The court tittered.

“Thank you for that clarification, Mr Potter. Perhaps you could clarify something else. Yesterday, you admitted, under Veritaserum, to a fantasy involving Malfoy. Naturally, the court assumed that it was Mr Draco Malfoy. I am sure you are aware that your answer has an impact on this matter. Did your fantasy involve Mr Draco Malfoy, Mr Potter?”

Harry had found relief in answering truthfully, if minimally. Suddenly, he realised that he could lie. He could say that the fantasy involved Narcissa. It would take away all the stigma involved with the accusation that he was homosexual. And yet…Narcissa had saved his life. It would be dishonouring her to say it. Not to mention being a lie. He might get caught out in a lie, if they used Veritaserum on him again. If he lived that long. And…his fantasy had involved a man. He’d come hard, just on the thought of that lithe body…and if he denied that, if he used the name of an innocent woman, a dead woman, was he stamping on the rights of men like Snape and Kingsley, to have whatever fantasy they wanted?

“Mr Potter!”

Harry glanced at the gallery, where Draco still sat, much to his surprise. He was leaning over, looking pale and wan. And curious. He looked at Lucius, who raised an eyebrow at him. He looked away, as if embarrassed. “No,” he said.

“No, Mr Potter? Draco Malfoy was not the object of your…thoughts?”

“No, Your Honour,” Harry said clearly, and hung his head.

Anglehurst turned to Malfoy. “Thank you, Mr Malfoy, for taking the trouble to come and clear up this matter. You may step down.”

Lucius inclined his head, stood, and using very little pressure on his cane, swept out of the court.

Harry wondered whether he would survive long enough to need to worry about living down the ignominy of the world thinking he was infatuated with Lucius Malfoy.

Hermione spent the next three quarters of an hour demolishing the remainder of Harcourt’s arguments. To Harry’s surprise, Harcourt did not seem perturbed, but rather, sat there, stroking his cheek , as if he was biding his time. Nevertheless, rather than feeling that his guilt was a foregone conclusion, Harry began to have a little hope. It was a help to be undrugged, and to have his mind clear enough to follow everything.

An usher slipped in, and handed a note to Harcourt. It wasn’t unusual in the court, and yet it inevitably aroused curiosity.

“Members of the Wizengamot, there is no evidence,” Hermione said, “that Mr Potter was involved in the murder of his wife. Three men committed this dreadful crime. Where are the others? The prosecution is arguing that –”

“If I may, Your Honour?” Harcourt interrupted.

“Mrs Weasley was just closing, I believe,” Anglehurst said. “Is your interruption appropriate?”

“Your Honour, I have just had some important information.”

“Important or not, is it relevant to this trial, Mr Harcourt?”

“Of utmost importance, Sir.”

A murmur ran around the court-room. Harry wondered what on earth it was. Dread filled him, because Harcourt looked too smug by far.

“Whilst you were approached by Mr Lucius Malfoy during the recess, Your Honour, I was contacted by the MLE.”

“Yes?”

“They told me that they have the names of the two other suspects in this crime.”

Harry stared at Hermione as the court let go its inhibitions and burst into excited whisperings.

“Order!” Anglehurst barked, banging his gavel as the noise continued.

“I see. And will their arrests have a material affect on this trial?”

“Oh, yes, Your Honour. I’ve been awaiting further information. The note I just received says that one of the suspects, who is being interviewed here, has implicated Mr Potter.”

Once again, the sound rose to a roar.

“I will have order!” Anglehurst snapped, pounding several times.

As the room quieted, he said, “It seems we need to suspend this case until we have further information –”

Harcourt coughed. “The witness is apparently ready to give evidence, Sir.”

“Now?”

“Yes, Your Honour.”

“Then send for him,” Anglehurst ordered.

It was a quiet filled with anticipation, as they waited.

Nothing could have prepared Harry, however, when the doors crashed back and his apparent co-conspirator was brought in, chained and pale.

“No!” Harry shouted.

Hermione had stood up, her hands to her mouth.

There were cries from the gallery.

Silence fell as the man was magically bound to a chair, as Harry was.

“State your name for the court,” the clerk asked, in the bored voice of a man who had no interest in the answer.

The man swallowed, then raised his head, and said clearly, “Longbottom. Neville Longbottom.”

Chapter Text

Anglehurst, who’d been having a word with the court clerk, looked up and addressed Neville. “Mr Longbottom -”

“Professor.”

Harry, who’d been staring, disbelieving, at Neville, felt his eyebrows rising into his hairline.

“I’m sorry?” Anglehurst began.

“It’s Professor Longbottom,” Neville said authoritatively. “I am the Herbology Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

“I see. I understand, Professor, that you have admitted being one of the three men who murdered Mrs Ginevra Potter on the afternoon of March 2nd. I must make clear that this is not your trial: your fate will not be decided by the proceedings today. You are here purely as a witness, as I am informed that in your statement to the Aurors this afternoon, you named Mr Harry Potter as one of the other two attackers.”

“Thank you for the information,” Neville said.

Harry gawked at his astonishing calmness.

“Your last statement is correct,” Neville continued.

“Merlin, Neville, what have they done to you?” Harry whispered.

The previous day, Neville had come to support him, come to the cells, worried about Lily and exchanged easy banter with his children. Why was Neville doing this? Had he been drugged? Had he had mind-magic performed on him? Harry looked up into the balcony to see if he could see Snape, then across at Hermione. Both of them were staring intently at Neville.

“For the record, would you also name the third attacker?” Anglehurst asked.

“Yes,” Neville answered. “The third attacker was an old pupil of mine called Daniel Poulter. That is to say,” Neville corrected himself, “he was not in my classes, but he liked to help out in the greenhouses. There are precious roses in Greenhouse 3, you know.”

There was some sniggering in the court.

Something poked like a sharp stick into Harry’s brain. Neville loved his plants, but ever since the days of mimbulus mimbletonia, he’d kept his obsessions to himself. It wasn’t as if roses were particularly rare. He didn’t remember there being any roses in the greenhouses in his day –

“Indeed,” Anglehurst said. “I don’t think your plants are particularly relevant to Mr Potter’s guilt, Professor –” he looked sharply at Neville, “unless you were using plant extracts to drug or influence Mr Potter?”

“I care far too much about my plants to misuse them, Sir,” Neville responded with his head high and his eyes forward. “People don’t seem to appreciate that plants can be endangered species too – ”

“Yes, yes,” Anglehurst said testily. “Let us keep to the point, Professor. You say Mr Potter, Mr Poulter and yourself were the three men responsible for murdering Mrs Ginevra Potter. Is that correct?”

“That is precisely what I am saying, yes.”

“Can you explain to the court how this plan came to be hatched?”

“Yes, Sir. Harry came to see me when he discovered that Ginny was having an affair with Malfoy. It’s common knowledge that Malfoy was an utter bastard –”

“You will moderate your language, Professor,” snapped Anglehurst.

“My apologies,” Neville said.

Harry could see that he was sweating profusely. Was it a drug reaction?

“Malfoy treated both Harry and I appallingly at school. Harry is always terribly slow on the uptake,” Neville said sarcastically, turning to look at his old friend. He turned back, looking towards Hermione. “He relied totally on Hermione – Mrs Weasley, as she is now – to work everything out for him. He was never any good at reading between the lines or seeing what was under his nose.”

“And what was under his nose?”

Neville paused. “Oh, lots of things. He never realised that I loved Ginny, for starters.”

Harry could hear the gasps of many members of the Wizengamot, even as his own mouth dropped open.

“I don’t think it even entered his head to think of what was going on back at Hogwarts when he was away in seventh year. I think he has this glorified image of Hogwarts as safe and secure. Well, it wasn’t: he wasn’t there to share those dangers, and Gin and I were. We became very close. Lovers. He just whisked back in, all victorious, and expected to have her back. I have to say it for Gin, she always knew a good thing when she saw it: Harry put her into the top ranks of our society, but then he let her down, didn’t he, hiding away? Malfoy was able to offer her lots more. They all deserved what they got. I made Harry see they had to be punished. He just didn’t realise that he was going to be punished too.”

Harry’s jaw was hanging open, and he shut it with a snap. Where had all this come from? He could not believe this of Neville. Neville was lying, because he sure as hell hadn’t killed Ginny, which meant that Neville was lying about everything else. Apart from Daniel Poulter. Ron had eventually shown Mitty a picture of Poulter, and she’d confirmed that he was one of the wizards. Remembering that somehow soothed the fraction of uncertainty in Harry’s breast – the fear that he had had mind-magic worked on him, and that perhaps he had done it after all, without knowing. Because Mitty would have said that Neville was one of the other men, and anyway, if he was there, he’d just have walked in. So what was going on? What was Neville trying to say?

He kept an ear on the questioning whilst thinking back over what had been said so far. Neville said that he was an idiot, slow on the uptake, didn’t read between the lines. That was all true. Did that mean Neville was trying to tell him something?

He thought back, and suddenly it hit him. He could see Hermione sitting forward too, looking pale. She flashed a look at Harry, who nodded.

Various bits of Neville’s statements came back:

“…he liked to help out in the greenhouses. There are precious roses in Greenhouse 3, you know.”

Precious roses in Greenhouse 3. Precious Rose is in Greenhouse 3. Oh fucking Merlin!

“I care far too much about my plants to misuse them, Sir….people don’t seem to appreciate that plants can be endangered species too – ”

I care….plants can be endangered…. Rose was in danger. Harry had not a doubt about what was happening, now. He thought quickly back, trying to recall…

“I think he has this glorified image of Hogwarts as safe and secure.”

Oh god. Someone had Rose in Greenhouse 3, and forced Neville to come and do this. He must suspect someone here was listening, to make sure he incriminated Harry and himself. But he must be absolutely fearing for Rose that he was risking the hints that he was making. But – at Hogwarts? Why had Rose been at Hogwarts? Had she been taken there?

Harry couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so helpless. Would his death be enough to save Rose? Should he just let that happen? But what would happen then? Would other people’s children be used to force others to give in to these people? Did Neville know who was responsible? Why had Neville suddenly been brought into this? Was someone targeting everyone from their year? Was it nothing to do with this weird masked group? Was it someone from their year with a grudge? But why would they have left it so long?

His head was buzzing with all these thoughts, and he shoved them to the side. The only thing that mattered at this moment was getting Rose to safety. Was ensuring that she wasn’t endangered by anyone realising that they knew something was up.

Harry felt anxious even about looking up to the gallery, even though he regularly took glances up there. Seeing Lily, he felt almost faint with relief that she was here, and not at the school, a target for whoever had taken Ron and Hermione’s daughter. Whoever had done this knew them all well enough to know that although Neville didn’t have any children of his own, he was close to the Weasley’s. Enough to know that taking Rose would force him to do this.

Although anyone who knew Neville well would know that he would put almost anyone before himself.

“If I might ask a question, Your Honour?” Hermione stood, smoothing her hands down her skirt.

“Go ahead, Mrs Weasley.”

Hermione straightened up. She looked straight at Neville. “Neville, I’ve known you for many years.”

She paused. “Does your wife know what you did? Does she know that you’re here?”

What was Hermione asking him? It sounded horribly vindictive. People were tittering, Harry thought with disgust. He tried to – oh! Was she asking if Hannah was safe? Clever Mione!

“She doesn’t know,” Neville said gruffly. He looked up at Hermione. “She doesn’t know where I am. I was taken at Hogwarts. I expect someone in here will know if she’s still in the Leaky,” he asked, looking round.

So, two answers there. Hannah hadn’t been used as a hostage as well, as far as Neville knew. And he was taken – Neville didn’t say arrested – at Hogwarts.

“Had my lunch there, she served me,” someone called out. One of the reporters in the gallery.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, calling up to the man. She turned back to Neville, who looked immensely relieved, and yet still as pale as a sheet.

“You are absolutely certain, are you, Professor Longbottom, that you wish to tell this court that Harry murdered his wife?”

Neville looked straight back at her. Sweat stood out on his brow. “I am.”

“Thank you. That is all.”

Harcourt, Anglehurst and Harry all turned to look at her in surprise.

“You have nothing further for Mr – Professor Longbottom?” Anglehurst asked.

Hermione leant on the desk as if she was looking at her papers. She lifted her head. “If I may, Your Honour?” She indicated walking in front of her workspace.

Anglehurst waved her on.

Hermione walked over to Neville and stood in front of him. “There is only this,” she said, and hit him around the face with a resounding crack.

As people leapt to their feet left, right and centre, Harry watched as Hermione leant in, grabbing the front of Neville’s robes, trying to haul him towards her. He couldn’t hear what she said, but he was pretty sure he knew a ruse when he saw one. He saw Neville nod, and then Hermione let go and swept away as Aurors came rushing up, not quite certain what to do.

“I apologise, Your Honour, for allowing my feelings to overcome me. I have known both defendants for many years, and…”

“Your behaviour is inexcusable, Mrs Weasley,” Anglehurst cut across her.

“Yes, Your Honour. I appreciate that charges may be laid. Perhaps you would allow me to stand down?”

“I certainly wouldn’t dream of allowing you to continue. Please leave the court.”

Hermione, head down, rushed out.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

“Well, Mr Potter, a very thorough case has been made against you. Nevertheless, I cannot allow this case to come to its conclusion when you have no legal representation.” He banged his gavel on the table. “Court is dismissed until tomorrow,” he announced. “Mr Potter, you’d better find yourself a new counsel damn quick.” And he stood up and left.

Court attendants came over to remove the spells chaining Neville and Harry to their chairs. The doors of the court were open, and people began standing and making their way out, excited chatter filling the air at this latest development. Harry was pulled to his feet, as was Neville. They began to shuffle, in their shackles, towards the exit to the cells.

Suddenly, there was the most tremendous noise. Harry recoiled instantly, diving into a crouch. All around him, everyone was doing the same. Neville had thrown himself to the floor. There was an unearthly silence, and then screaming broke out. Harry twisted his head to see where it was coming from.

One of the witches in the front row was cowering down, peering over the edge of the hand-rail, yelling and pointing. Still crouched, Harry turned to see what she was looking at.

Neville was still lying flat out, face turned away.

An Auror leapt to the side, cursing, as something seeped across the floor and caught his feet.

Blood.

Dark red, rich blood.

Coming from underneath Neville’s still unmoving body.

Chapter Text

Panic broke out.

People were rushing for the exits. The nimble in the Wizengamot were jumping over the railings to access the doors from the courtroom floor.

Harry found himself jostled from every side, with Aurors rushing from everywhere, dragging him out towards the holding cells. Some people were trying to escape that way too. Harry was aware of Franklin and Hencliffe, some other Aurors whose faces he vaguely knew, Harcourt and the court clerk, a tall wizard who’d been staring at him from the front row. He nearly fell over as someone crashed into him from behind. More people were crowding, pressing him forward, as the onrush was stopped in its tracks by the barred entrance to the cells. He wondered if he would die from being crushed, rather than by execution, when suddenly he felt someone grab his wrist; fingers slipped down over his hand and then something was shoved into his palm. His fingers closed automatically, and the next second he felt the pull of a port-key, heard the shouts of those left behind, before he was hurtling through the constricting tube-like space.

He landed painfully on his hands and knees.

The crash of the chains around his wrists and ankles hitting the stone floor echoed around the chamber. Harry looked up, around.

He was alone.

His heartbeat sounded deafening in his ears.

Normally, he would have been chained to an Auror to move to the cells, but obviously, in the panic, they’d skipped that step.

So who had given him the port-key? He opened his hand. It was only a knut. Nothing to distinguish it.

He was in a cell, about ten feet square. The wire-encased light bulb high overhead suggested he was in a Muggle prison, apart from the fact that there was neither a window, nor a door.

He looked at the cuffs, and tried using wandless magic to take one off. With a grinding noise, it split apart and worked loose. Harry made short work of the other end, and the ones on his ankles, delighting in being able to use magic again at last. Fear and shock had made it swell in him, and it was a relief to let some of the energy go. He picked up one of the manacles with its attached chain. He could use magic, but, as the shot in the court-room showed, physical attack had its place too.

He didn’t know who had brought him here. He’d been surrounded mostly by Aurors, and given the treatment he’d had from the MLE, he didn’t hold out much hope that he’d been kidnapped by friends rather than foes. On the other hand, what was the point? Neville’s evidence was the final nail in his coffin, pretty much literally.

Dear Merlin, Neville! And Rose!

At least Hermione had got out before the shooting began. He hoped to god she’d got to Hogwarts. Had Ron, in the gallery, understood what was going on? Snape was there. He’d help them. God. He needed to be out of here.

Were his own family safe?

No one was safe.

Was Neville dead?

Why – why - had he been shot?

Hannah would be there in the Leaky, working away, not knowing that the most dreadful thing had just happened….

All the time Harry was thinking, he was walking around the cell, trying to find any weak spots.

Suddenly, he felt the shift of magic. A door appeared to the left of him.

On instinct, Harry threw a disarming spell at the person about to step through, and flung himself bodily at him, slinging the chain of the manacle around his neck and yanking the man in front of him, his back to Harry’s front, as a hostage and target in case there were others about to head through the door.

The man remained perfectly still. Harry was aware of the breadth of him, the muscles in his back bunching, readying for action. He pulled the chain tighter.

Harry could just see others over the height of his shoulder, past the dark skin of his neck and dangling ear-ring.

No hair.

“Harry.”

Half strangled as it was, he still recognised Kingsley’s voice. Patient, understanding, despite the pressure against his throat.

“Put them away.” Kingsley managed to make a whisper an order to the wizards and witches pointing their wands at them.

Even as he spoke, Harry was letting him go.

Kingsley turned round slowly, arms raised.

“I’m sorry –” Harry began, reaching down and picking up Kingsley’s wand. He handed it back.

“Damn good reactions,” Kingsley said approvingly. “Most people can’t do magic in here either. And I’m sorry for the delay: it has a ten-minute time lock. Come through.” He put a gentle hand on Harry’s back to lead him out of the cell. “Back to work!” he said briskly, and the witches and wizards in the outer room grinned. A couple nodded at Harry, and one gave him a thumbs up, then all got on with something else.

“Why did you take me out of there? Neville was shot – ”

“There’s nothing you could have done to help him,” Kingsley said, shaking his head. “My man on the ground had to make the decision –”

“Rose – ”

“Is safe and well.”

“No,” Harry said, grabbing hold of Kingsley’s arm.

“Harry.”

He swung round at the voice. A young witch had stepped out of a doorway to the side, holding out a cup of tea.

“Rose!”

Kingsley grabbed the cup as Harry hugged her. “Oh, thank Merlin! But – but – I was sure Neville was –”

“He was,” Kingsley said heavily.

“You’ve just been rescued?” Harry asked.

He realised how pale she was as she shook her head.

“It’s Hugo. We think.”

“Hugo? But Neville said ‘Rose is in Greenhouse 3’ –”

“I think it would have been a giveaway if he’d said ‘Hugo is in Greenhouse 3’,” Kingsley said with a shrug. “And anyway, Rose was here.”

Harry stopped dead. He looked from one to the other.

“I’m missing something here,” he said. “Rose was here? Already? And how did you know what was going on?”

“Rose is working for us, and Lucius Malfoy planted a bug made by George.”

Harry’s mouth opened and shut.

“You’re catching flies, Uncle Harry,” Rose said.

“You’re working for Kingsley? Since when?”

“A week?”

“My god. Do your parents know? Don’t answer. We’ll talk about that later,” he touched her arm briefly to take the sting out of his words. He looked at Kingsley. “What about Hugo? What’s being done? And N - Neville?” his voice quavered. “What can I do?”

Kingsley had led Harry into an area where several witches and wizards were listening to a large mouth on the wall, which was talking nineteen to the dozen, the shape of it changing as different voices came out of it.

“This is the other end of the bug Malfoy planted in the court-room. As you know, recording devices are not allowed in the gallery or Wizengamot, and there’s a time delay even on the Quick Quotes Quill statements before they’re allowed to go off for printing.”

Harry listened to the mayhem of noise.

“What’s happening?”

Kingsley put his arm on his shoulder. “Severus rushed down to help, but I’m afraid Longbottom was killed instantly.”

Harry wasn’t surprised. He’d seen the blood and it had been seeping across the floor at a hell of a rate. And yet, it was still a shock. Still unbelievable.

Everything was unbelievable.

Ginny was dead. Malfoy had been charged, and was now free. Harry was as near to being found guilty as made no odds. Though now he was an escaped prisoner, which was probably even worse. Neville had been killed. Something dreadful was happening to Hugo even within the protection of Hogwarts.

Nowhere was safe.

“They’re achieving it, aren’t they?” Harry said wonderingly.

At the look Rose and Kingsley gave him, he explained, “Destabilising our world. Wiping out ‘the old heroes’. Making the Ministry a mockery and Hogwarts unsafe. What’s next?” His face swung suddenly to Kingsley. ”Severus was the only other person to get an Order of Merlin First Class – I mean, I know Ron and Hermione did, as well as Neville and I, but attacking Hugo is the same as attacking Ron and Mione, isn’t it? They’ll go for Snape,” he said anxiously. “Where is he?”

“Severus can look after himself,” Kingsley began, but Harry cut him off.

“I thought I could too, and I sure as hell bet Neville never thought he’d ever be in the position of destroying his own reputation, hurting his wife and ending up dead by gunshot in a Ministry court-room.”

“Good point,” Kingsley nodded. He went over to a large map of Europe, which had several flashing dots of different colours on it.

“What’s that?”

“This one is Severus,” Kingsley said, touching one of the dots. “He’s at Hogwarts.”

Ron was blasting the gate when Snape apparated in. Hermione was shouting at the winged boar on the top of one of the posts; the other post was empty. Bill was waving his wand over the gates between Ron’s attacks. James and Albus were trying to cut a way through the hedging to one side.

“The gates are locked?” Snape stated the obvious.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “When we demanded entrance, the other winged boar took off. I don’t know what’s taking them so bloody long.”

“Since when has Hogwarts locked its gates as a matter of course?” Bill demanded. “They were always open in our day.”

“Don’t really know,” Albus said, as the last person to have been a pupil. “They were open if we had a Hogsmeade day. Didn’t really have any need to know at other times, did we?”

“They were shut when I was Headmaster,” Snape said. “That was because I was trying to stop it being an easy option for Death Eaters to just waltz in. They had to floo, and there was only one access point. Has anyone floo-ed through?” he asked, then snapped a quick sharp Latin phrase at the remaining boar.

Nothing happened.

“I thought the password would have changed, but it was worth a shot,” he explained.

“Two of my team should be up there,” Ron said, nodding towards the castle. “We just came straight here, but I saw Ed and Jemima as we were leaving the Ministry, and asked them to floo in. We came this way because we thought it would be quicker,” he said, through gritted teeth.

“Hugo is in Greenhouse 3?” Snape asked.

Hermione whipped round. “How did you know it wasn’t Rose?”

“Rose is no longer a student here, Hugo is,” Snape shrugged. “It seemed logical. I saw you speaking to Neville under cover of the slap: did he give you any further information?” he asked urgently.

“He said ‘Hugo’, ‘Petrificus Totalus’, and ‘Light-Blooming Devil’s Snare’. I take it there’s a variant that’s grown in a greenhouse?”

Snape nodded. “It was developed as a defence for the boundaries, but we never used it: it was too difficult to control. It’s vicious.”

“As soon as the Petrificus wears off it’ll attack him?” Albus asked, making the connections in Neville’s statement. He looked horrified.