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The gargoyle stepped aside without Harry needing to provide a password, which should have been his first clue that this wasn't going to be a routine meeting. Harry climbed the spiral staircase with the sort of mild curiosity that came from two years of irregular summons to the headmaster's office, expecting to find Dumbledore alone with perhaps a cup of tea and whatever mysterious project currently occupied his attention.
Instead, Harry walked into what appeared to be an impromptu political gathering that no one had bothered to invite him to properly.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk with his characteristic calm, though Harry noticed the headmaster's blue eyes held a sharper focus than usual. Minister Fudge was sitting there trying to stand tall like a peacock, nervously rotating his lime-green bowler hat between his hands like a prayer wheel. His round face bore the expression of someone who wasn't entirely certain why he was there but was determined to look ministerial about it.
Lucius Malfoy occupied one of the chairs with the sort of casual elegance that suggested he owned not just the furniture but possibly the entire castle. His snake-headed cane rested against his knee, and his pale gray eyes surveyed the room as if it were beneath him to be here.
Most unexpectedly, a house-elf cowered in the corner near Fawkes's perch. The creature wore what appeared to be a filthy tea towel and looked about as comfortable as a mermaid in the desert. Something about him seemed familiar—hadn't there been a house-elf at the Tonks house back in August? The one who'd appeared out of nowhere to warn him about dangers at Hogwarts? Ohhh, right...Dobby.
"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore said with genuine warmth. "Thank you for joining us. I believe you're acquainted with everyone present, though I suspect the circumstances of our gathering may come as something of a surprise."
Harry's gaze swept the assembled group again, noting the way Lucius watched him with calculating interest and how the house-elf seemed to be practically vibrating with nervous energy.
"Professor Dumbledore," Harry acknowledged with a slight nod, then turned to the others. "Minister Fudge. Mr. Malfoy."
He deliberately didn't acknowledge the house-elf, partly because he wasn't sure of the proper protocol and partly because the creature looked ready to collapse from terror if directly addressed.
"Harry Potter!" Fudge exclaimed with the sort of forced enthusiasm politicians deployed when they encountered celebrities they weren't sure how to handle. "Splendid to see you, my boy! Though I must say, your recent... endeavors have been quite remarkable. International contracts at twelve years old—most irregular!"
"I've found that irregular circumstances often require irregular solutions, Minister," Harry replied diplomatically. "Though I wasn't aware my business arrangements were a matter of Ministry concern."
"Everything involving young British wizards is potentially a Ministry concern," Lucius interjected smoothly. "Particularly when those wizards demonstrate such... precocious independence in matters of international significance."
The words were polite enough, but Harry heard the underlying implication clearly: who was really controlling a twelve-year-old's business dealings? It was the sort of assumption adults always made when children achieved something they considered impossible.
"How thoughtful of you to take such interest in my welfare, Mr. Malfoy," Harry said with the sort of innocent sincerity that could cut glass. "Though I've found that independence tends to develop naturally when one's survival depends on thinking for oneself. Much like it did when your master tried to kill me as a baby, I suppose."
The effect was immediate. Fudge's jovial expression faltered, Lucius's grip tightened almost imperceptibly on his cane, and even the house-elf seemed to shrink further into the corner.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean by that," Lucius replied.
"Of course not," Harry agreed pleasantly. "Though I imagine Tom Riddle's diary could have provided some interesting insights into such matters, if it hadn't been destroyed along with the memory fragment hiding inside it."
"Tom Riddle?" Fudge interrupted, his confusion evident. "I'm afraid I don't recognize that name. Should I?"
Harry turned to look at the Minister with what might have been surprise if he hadn't already learned to expect such gaps in Fudge's knowledge. "Tom Riddle was a student here approximately fifty years ago, Minister. Head Boy, winner of the Award for Special Services to the School. Quite accomplished, according to the records."
"I fail to see how a former student—even a distinguished one—relates to our current situation," Fudge said with the sort of bureaucratic dismissiveness that suggested he wanted to move past topics that confused him.
"The connection becomes clearer when you realize that Tom Marvolo Riddle eventually became Lord Voldemort," Harry explained with the patience of someone addressing a particularly slow first-year.
The reaction was everything Harry could have hoped for. Fudge went pale enough to match his bowler hat, the article in question slipping from his nerveless fingers to land on the carpet with a muffled thud. Even Lucius seemed to stiffen, though he recovered his composure.
"Vol-?" Fudge stammered, his voice rising slightly. "But that's... that can't be... You-Know-Who was..."
"A terrorist who spent years murdering innocent people before being stopped by a one-year-old?" Harry supplied helpfully. "Yes, I'm familiar with the general outline. Though apparently he was so ashamed of his birth name that he created an anagram to hide behind. Tom Marvolo Riddle rearranged spells 'I am Lord Voldemort.' Rather theatrical, really."
Dumbledore's eyes definitely held a twinkle now, though his expression remained appropriately grave. "Indeed, Harry has identified the connection correctly. The diary that possessed Miss Weasley contained a preserved memory of Tom Riddle from his student years. Such artifacts are both extraordinarily rare and extraordinarily dangerous."
"Most concerning," Harry agreed, his tone thoughtful as his gaze drifted toward Lucius. "One has to wonder how such a personal item—the sort of thing someone might keep as a treasured memento of their school days—could have found its way into the possession of an eleven-year-old girl."
Harry remembered being told by Nymphadora that, according to Ronald Weasley, he had said that he saw Lucius Malfoy dropping the diary into Ginny's basket back in August when Harry went to buy books and he had seen Lockhart for the first time, but back then, Ronald hadn't paid much attention to it. Ron had told this to Dumbledore, and the Weasleys after Harry saved Ginny, and the diary was shown to the Weasleys by Dumbledore. Nymphadora had found out about it, so she told Harry as well. Harry figured Lucius was here to answer these charges by Dumbledore; that much was clear, but why was the Minister here?
"Dark artifacts change hands frequently in certain circles," Lucius replied with smooth deflection. "Often without the purchaser fully understanding their true nature or historical significance."
"How unfortunate," Harry said with apparent sympathy. "Though I suppose some artifacts carry more personal significance than others. A diary, for instance, seems like something one would keep for sentimental reasons. Particularly if it had belonged to someone they... admired."
"I'm certain I wouldn't have any specific knowledge about the provenance of such items," Lucius said, his slight smile never wavering. "My collection focuses on properly documented artifacts with legitimate historical value."
"Naturally," Harry replied. "Though it's remarkable how often dangerous objects surface at precisely the moment they can cause maximum disruption. Almost as if someone wanted to test how much damage an old memory could accomplish in the right circumstances."
In the corner, the house-elf made a strangled sound that might have been suppressed anguish. Harry glanced at him briefly—the creature appeared to be having some sort of internal crisis.
"Are you implying," Lucius asked with dangerous softness, "that someone deliberately orchestrated Miss Weasley's possession?"
"I'm not implying anything, Mr. Malfoy," Harry said with careful precision. "I'm simply observing that Tom Riddle seems to have inspired remarkable devotion in his followers. The sort of loyalty that might persist decades after his apparent defeat."
"Harry," Dumbledore interjected gently, though his tone carried a subtle warning, "perhaps we should focus on established facts rather than speculation."
"You're absolutely right, Professor," Harry agreed, though his eyes remained fixed on Lucius. "After all, without concrete evidence, we can only observe patterns and draw our own conclusions about what they might mean."
Fudge, who had been following the exchange with mounting bewilderment, finally managed to retrieve his fallen hat. "I confess I'm rather lost," he admitted with the sort of helpless honesty that would have been endearing if it weren't so concerning in a Minister of Magic. "Are we investigating the diary's destruction, or are we attempting to determine its origins?"
"Both serve important purposes, Minister," Dumbledore replied diplomatically. "While the immediate threat has been neutralized, understanding how such artifacts reach our students remains crucial for preventing future incidents."
"Quite sensible," Fudge nodded with evident relief at being back on familiar administrative ground. "Prevention is always preferable to crisis management, though I must say the entire affair sounds rather extraordinary."
"Extraordinary circumstances have a way of revealing uncomfortable truths," Harry observed quietly, his attention still focused on Lucius. "The question becomes whether we're prepared to acknowledge those truths when they prove... inconvenient."
The silence stretched on for several more moments before Lucius shifted in his chair, his pale eyes moving to examine the remnants of what had once been Tom Riddle's diary. The blackened, crumbling pieces lay scattered across a small table near Dumbledore's desk, looking more like the aftermath of a particularly aggressive bonfire than a once-powerful dark artifact.
"Is this all you wished to show me, Dumbledore?" Lucius asked with carefully controlled disdain, gesturing toward the destroyed remains with his snake-headed cane. "A pile of ash and leather scraps? I fail to see how this constitutes evidence of anything substantial."
"Indeed, not much remains," Dumbledore acknowledged with a slight nod, his fingers steepled as he regarded Lucius thoughtfully. "Though sometimes the absence of something can be as revealing as its presence. Tell me, Lucius, do you know of anyone who might have possessed such a diary? Someone who might have had... personal reasons for keeping a memento of Tom Riddle's school years?"
Lucius's expression didn't change, but Harry noticed the slight pause before he responded—just long enough to construct a plausible lie.
"Dark artifacts of that era change hands frequently among collectors," Lucius said smoothly. "There are several prominent families who maintain extensive collections of historical items. The Blacks, the Lestranges, even some foreign collectors have been known to acquire such pieces. Without more specific identifying characteristics, it would be impossible to determine the diary's immediate previous owner."
It was a masterful deflection, Harry had to admit. Lucius had managed to implicate half the prominent pureblood families in Britain while simultaneously providing himself with perfect cover. But the very thoroughness of his response felt like a confession to anyone paying attention.
Lucius's attention turned to Harry with renewed interest. "Though I must confess, I'm far more curious about how you managed to kill a basilisk, Mr. Potter. The official reports mention the Sword of Gryffindor, but I find myself... skeptical of that explanation."
Harry felt the familiar cold anger settle in his chest, the same feeling he'd experienced when facing Tom Riddle in the Chamber. "Do you, Mr. Malfoy? And why is that?"
"Well," Lucius said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "basilisks are among the most dangerous creatures in the magical world. Even experienced curse-breakers approach them with extreme caution. The idea that a twelve-year-old boy could face one in single combat and emerge victorious seems... improbable despite his achievements."
"How interesting," Harry replied, his voice taking on the sort of pleasant tone that Professor Snape would have recognized as dangerous. "Though I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that you'd find courage so difficult to believe in others."
Lucius's grip tightened on his cane. "I merely question the logistics of such an encounter."
"The logistics are quite simple, actually," Harry said, his green eyes never leaving Lucius's face. "When you're faced with a choice between standing your ground or running away like a coward, some people choose to fight. Though I understand that concept might be foreign to someone who spent the war hiding behind political donations and claims of being under the Imperius Curse."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Fudge made a small, strangled sound, while the house-elf in the corner appeared ready to faint entirely.
"You see, Mr. Malfoy," Harry continued with deadly calm, "just because I'm in Slytherin doesn't mean I lack courage. We Slytherins understand that sometimes the most cunning strategy is to face your enemies directly, rather than skulking in the shadows sending other people to do your dirty work. It's the difference between a serpent that strikes and one that merely hisses from the safety of its hole."
Lucius rose from his chair, but Harry could see the fury burning behind his carefully controlled expression. "I see your time in my House has taught you to be quite... articulate, Mr. Potter. Though perhaps you should remember that young snakes who hiss too loudly sometimes attract the attention of larger predators."
"And perhaps," Harry replied, not moving from his position, "certain predators should remember that they're no longer the apex hunters they once pretended to be. The world has a way of changing, Mr. Malfoy. Sometimes the prey grows teeth."
For a moment, the two faced each other across the office, the tension crackling like electricity between them. Then Lucius turned toward Dumbledore with a curt nod.
"I believe this meeting has run its course, Headmaster. If you have no further questions about artifacts I know nothing about, I shall take my leave."
"Of course, Lucius," Dumbledore said mildly, though his eyes never left the interaction between Harry and Lucius. "Thank you for your... assistance with our inquiries."
Lucius swept toward the door, his black robes billowing dramatically behind him. "Come, Dobby," he snapped at the house-elf, who immediately scurried after his master with obvious terror.
"Yes, well," Fudge said awkwardly, clearly desperate to escape the tension that had filled the room. "I should probably... Ministry business, you understand. Quite busy these days." He hurried after Lucius and his house-elf, leaving Harry alone with Dumbledore.
"An interesting exchange," Dumbledore observed quietly, his blue eyes twinkling with what might have been approval. "Though I suspect Mr. Malfoy will remember this conversation for quite some time."
"Good," Harry said simply. "Maybe next time he'll think twice before underestimating what a twelve-year-old can accomplish when properly motivated."
The moment Lucius swept toward the door with his dramatic exit, Harry's mind began racing. The elf had risked everything to try and warn him, and now Harry could see the terror in those tennis ball-sized eyes.
Harry couldn't let that happen.
Moving quickly, Harry stepped toward the table where the remains of Tom Riddle's diary lay scattered. Most of it was ash and charred leather, but there were still a few fragments that retained some semblance of their original form.
He gathered the largest pieces of the destroyed diary. With his wand already in his hand, Harry performed a quick Engorgement Charm he'd learned from watching Nymphadora practising her duelling.
"Engorgio Paginarum," he whispered, watching as several blank pages materialized between the charred leather covers, giving the destroyed artifact a more substantial appearance.
Without hesitation, Harry pulled off one of his socks—a perfectly ordinary black sock that Andromeda had knitted for him last Christmas—and slipped it between the newly created pages. The diary now looked like a salvageable book rather than a pile of magical debris.
"Mr. Malfoy," Harry called out as Lucius was walking down the stairs, reaching the gargoyles. "You're forgetting something."
Lucius turned, his pale eyes narrowing with suspicion. "I wasn't aware I had left anything behind, Potter."
Harry held up the reconstructed diary, its pages now concealing his hidden gift. "The diary, of course. What's left of it, anyway. I thought you might want to... dispose of it properly. After all, dark artifacts should be handled with appropriate care."
The suggestion was perfectly reasonable, even helpful. Lucius couldn't refuse without appearing suspicious, and his anger over Harry's earlier insults had clearly clouded his usual careful judgment.
"How... thoughtful," Lucius said through gritted teeth, snatching the diary from Harry's outstretched hand without bothering to examine it closely. His fury over being publicly humiliated by a twelve-year-old had made him careless.
"Dobby," Lucius snapped at the house-elf, who immediately cowered lower. "Take this rubbish and dispose of it immediately. Burn what can be burned, bury the rest. I don't want to see any trace of it again."
"Yes, Master Malfoy, sir," Dobby squeaked, accepting the diary with trembling hands. "Dobby will dispose of it right away, sir."
As Dobby's fingers closed around the reconstructed diary, the house-elf's eyes widened in shock. Harry watched as recognition dawned in those enormous eyes—Dobby had felt the sock hidden between the pages.
"Master has... Master has given Dobby...?" Dobby's voice was barely a whisper, his hands shaking as he opened the diary to reveal the black sock nestled between its pages.
"What are you babbling about?" Lucius demanded impatiently. "Just get rid of that thing!"
Dobby's face transformed as understanding flooded through him. His expression shifted from terror to wonder to absolute joy in the space of a heartbeat.
"Master has given Dobby clothing!" the house-elf shrieked, his voice rising to a pitch that made Fawkes ruffle his feathers in surprise. "Dobby has received a sock! Dobby is free!"
Lucius's face went from pale to absolutely ashen as he realized what had just happened. "What? No! I didn't give you anything, you miserable creature!"
"But Master handed Dobby the diary," Dobby explained with growing confidence, clutching the sock to his chest like a treasured gift. "And inside the diary was clothing! Master has freed Dobby!"
"You've lost me my servant, Potter!" Lucius snarled, wheeling around to face Harry with murderous fury. His hand moved toward his wand, but before he could draw it, Harry stepped forward.
"I wouldn't," Harry said quietly. The words resonated with power, causing the very air to shimmer around him. "Dobby is under my protection now."
"Unlike your former master," Harry continued, his green eyes blazing with protective fury, "I don't abandon those who serve with honor. And unlike some people in this room, I understand the difference between loyalty earned and obedience forced."
Lucius took an involuntary step backward. For a moment, he seemed to see not a twelve-year-old boy but something far more dangerous—something that could destroy everything he had worked to rebuild since Voldemort's fall.
"This isn't over, Potter," Lucius hissed.
"No," Harry agreed calmly. "It isn't. But when it does end, Mr. Malfoy, remember that you chose your side when you put an innocent girl's life at risk for the sake of an old grudge. Some choices have consequences that last longer than you might expect."
Behind Harry, Dobby had begun to glow with his own magical energy—the pure, joyful light of a creature experiencing freedom for the first time in his life. "Harry Potter is greater than Dobby ever imagined!" the elf declared with fierce pride. "Harry Potter has set Dobby free!"
"And no one," Harry said with deadly certainty, his eyes never leaving Lucius's face, "will ever enslave him again."
Lucius seemed to realize that any attempt to reclaim his former servant would result in a magical confrontation in front of the Minister, and Dumbledore was surely paying close attention. With a final look of pure hatred, he walked away, his robes billowing behind him like the wings of some great, malevolent bird.
Minister Fudge, who had been watching the entire exchange with growing alarm, hurried after Lucius, clearly eager to escape the tension that had filled the office like toxic fog.
As their footsteps faded down the spiral staircase, Harry turned to find Dobby still clutching the sock, tears of joy streaming down the house-elf's weathered face.
"Thank you, Harry Potter, sir," Dobby whispered with overwhelming gratitude. "Dobby is free, and it is all because of Harry Potter's kindness and cleverness!"
"Welcome to freedom, Dobby," Harry said gently, his voice returning to its normal twelve-year-old tone. "I think you're going to like it."
From behind his desk, Dumbledore watched the scene with eyes that twinkled with unmistakable pride. "Quite impressive magic, Harry," he observed quietly. "Both the spell work and the strategic thinking. Your parents would be very proud."
The Wizengamot Chamber - Two Weeks After Dobby's Liberation
The ancient Wizengamot chamber stretched before Amelia Bones like a amphitheater carved from ambition and centuries of accumulated power. Tiered stone benches rose in concentric circles around the central speaking floor, each seat bearing the carved heraldic symbols of its occupying house or ministry position. The vaulted ceiling soared overhead, enchanted with constellations that shifted according to the political climate—today they swirled in patterns that suggested approaching storms.
Amelia stood at the speaker's podium, her monocle catching the light from floating torches that had burned continuously for over seven hundred years. Around her, the most powerful witches and wizards in magical Britain settled into their designated seats with the rustle of expensive robes and the subtle clink of ancient jewelry. The air hummed from so many influential practitioners gathered in one space, like standing inside a thundercloud moments before lightning struck.
Like addressing a pack of wolves while wearing a meat necklace, Amelia thought grimly, surveying the assembled faces. Half of them would sell their grandmothers for political advantage, and the other half already have. Only a few of them deserve to be here.
The twenty-eight Sacred Houses occupied the highest tier, their seats carved from different magical stones that reflected their family's historical contributions to wizarding society. The Black family seat sat conspicuously empty, its obsidian surface gleaming like a accusation against those who had supported the wrong side during the war. The Gaunt seat had been vacant even longer, its emerald throne cracked down the middle since the last confirmed heir had died in Azkaban decades ago.
Minister Fudge occupied the central ministerial throne, his lime-green bowler hat perched precariously on his round head as he shuffled through documents with the nervous energy of someone perpetually out of his depth. To his right, Dolores Umbridge sat rigidly upright in her senior undersecretary's chair, her pink cardigan a jarring note of false cheer against the chamber's austere grandeur. Her toad-like eyes surveyed the assembly with the calculating patience of a predator selecting prey.
The woman looks like she's planning a funeral and wondering who to invite, Amelia observed with distaste.
Lucius Malfoy commanded attention from his family's platinum-inlaid seat, his aristocratic features arranged in an expression of studied indifference that fooled absolutely no one. The silver serpent head of his walking stick caught the torchlight as he absently rotated it, the gesture somehow managing to be both elegant and vaguely threatening.
Arthur Weasley looked distinctly uncomfortable in the Weasley family seat, his shabby robes and honest face marking him as an outsider among the assembly's calculated magnificence. He fidgeted with a brass button that had clearly been repaired multiple times, his gentle nature making him seem like a lamb among lions.
At least there's one decent man in this den of vipers, Amelia thought with grudging relief.
Charles Greengrass occupied his family's jade-encrusted throne. At thirty-nine, he possessed the sort of classical handsomeness that suggested good breeding and careful magical enhancement, his pale blonde hair swept back from features that belonged on ancient Greek statues.
Horace Slughorn's elderly father, Marcus Slughorn, hunched in the Slughorn seat like an ancient tortoise, his eighty-one years evident in every careful movement. Despite his age, his eyes remained sharp as cut gems, watching the proceedings with the patient wisdom of someone who had survived eight decades of wizarding politics.
Augusta Longbottom commanded the Longbottom seat, wearing a vulture-topped hat. Her weathered hands gripped her family's ceremonial staff with the strength of someone who had personally fought in two wars and buried too many friends along the way.
In the center of this grand chamber stood the Scales of Justice. It dominated the chamber's central airspace like a celestial constellation brought to earth. Forged from what appeared to be liquid starlight frozen into metal, the massive balance hung suspended thirty feet above the speaking floor without any visible means of support. Each golden plate measured twelve feet in diameter, their surfaces polished to mirror perfection that reflected not the faces of those below, but their deepest intentions.
The scales' crossbeam stretched twenty feet from end to end, carved from a single piece of what scholars believed to be crystallized phoenix song—a translucent golden substance that hummed like a song frozen in ice. Ancient runes spiraled along its length, their meaning lost to all but the most dedicated researchers, though their purpose remained abundantly clear in practice.
Delicate chains of interwoven silver and mithril connected the plates to the crossbeam, each link inscribed with microscopic symbols that seemed to shift and change when viewed directly. The chains themselves defied conventional physics, appearing gossamer-thin yet strong enough to support the weight of moral judgment itself.
The Scales had hung in their current position since the Wizengamot chamber's construction, though no historical record documented their installation. Ancient texts referenced their presence as if they had always existed, leading some scholars to theorize that the chamber itself had been built around this pre-existing magical artifact.
Legend suggested the Scales manifested during the first formal gathering of the United Kingdom's magical government, appearing as if summoned by the collective need for moral guidance in governance. More cynical historians proposed they were created by one of the medieval Wizengamot's more idealistic members, though no family claimed credit for their creation.
What remained indisputable was their continuous presence throughout every major political crisis in magical Britain's history. Ancient minutes described the Scales' behavior during the goblin rebellions, the werewolf registration debates, and the early discussions of the International Statute of Secrecy. They had witnessed the rise and fall of dozens of Ministers, the corruption of noble families, and the gradual erosion of the idealism that had once characterized wizarding governance.
Still as beautiful and damning as ever, Amelia thought as her gaze automatically lifted to the Scales. She had first seen them as a young law clerk, fresh from Hogwarts and burning with the conviction that justice could triumph over politics through proper legal procedures. The sight of the perfectly balanced scales had filled her with hope that magic itself would ensure fair governance.
Decades of experience had taught her to read the Scales' movements like a barometer of political honesty. She had watched them remain stubbornly tilted during debates where she knew the right answer but saw wrong decisions being made for expedient reasons. The artifact had become both inspiration and torment—a constant reminder of the gap between the justice they were meant to serve and the compromises they actually made.
Today they're barely moving, she observed grimly. Either everyone's being remarkably honest about their motivations, or we've sunk so far into routine political theater that even our corruption has become genuine conviction.
"Distinguished members of the Wizengamot," Amelia began, her voice carrying clearly through the chamber's acoustically perfect design, "we gather today to address a matter of critical importance to our Auror forces and our nation's security."
"Here we go," muttered Walden Macmillan from his family seat, his voice carrying just loud enough to be heard. "Another lecture about spending gold we don't have on equipment we don't need."
"The gentleman from House Macmillan will have his opportunity to speak when recognized," Amelia replied coolly, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. "Until then, perhaps he might consider the novel concept of listening."
A few chuckles rippled through the assembly, though whether they were directed at Macmillan's rudeness or Amelia's response remained diplomatically unclear.
"As this distinguished body is aware," she continued, "the implementation of Harry Potter's protective talismans has resulted in an unprecedented reduction in Auror casualties. Zero deaths in the past thirteen months, compared to nine fatalities in the previous year."
"Yes, yes, we've heard the statistics," interrupted Thorfinn Rowle, his scarred face bearing the permanent sneer of someone who had never met a problem he couldn't solve with violence. "But surely you're not suggesting we throw more gold at a child's trinkets?"
"I'm suggesting," Amelia replied with the patience of someone explaining arithmetic to particularly dense first-years, "that we invest in equipment that keeps our law enforcement officers alive. Mr. Potter has developed enhanced versions of his protective devices, incorporating ancient curse protections and improved coordination capabilities."
"Enhanced versions," Umbridge interjected sweetly, her sickly smile never wavering. "How convenient that young Mr. Potter continues to discover new ways to separate the Ministry from its resources."
The woman's voice could curdle fresh milk, Amelia thought with revulsion.
"The enhanced talismans offer protection against archaeological curses, improved environmental adaptation, and coordination features that allow Auror teams to function more effectively," Amelia explained, consulting her prepared notes. "The Italian Ministry has already placed substantial orders, recognizing the strategic value of this technology."
"Ah yes, the Italian contract," Lucius drawled from his elevated perch, his aristocratic voice dripping with disdain. "Forty thousand Galleons for a hundred baubles. One wonders what additional... considerations motivated such generosity."
"Are you suggesting impropriety in Mr. Potter's business dealings, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked with dangerous calm.
"I'm suggesting nothing," Lucius replied with the innocence of a newborn baby. "Merely observing that international contracts often involve... complexities beyond simple commercial transactions."
"Perhaps," Charles Greengrass interjected smoothly, "we might focus on the practical implications rather than speculating about diplomatic minutiae. The question before us is straightforward: do these enhanced talismans provide sufficient value to justify their cost?"
Finally, someone interested in facts rather than innuendo, Amelia thought gratefully.
"The cost-benefit analysis is compelling," she replied, grateful for the opportunity to return to solid ground. "Each enhanced talisman costs four hundred Galleons to produce, compared to potential savings of thousands in medical expenses, death benefits, and training replacement personnel."
"Four hundred Galleons!" squeaked Barnabas Cuffe from the press gallery. "That's more than most wizards earn in six months!"
"And how much," Amelia shot back, "is an Auror's life worth to his family? How do you quantify the value of a father returning home safely to his children?"
The chamber fell silent for a moment, but it wasn't long.
"Noble sentiments," Antonin Dolohov said coldly from his family seat, his hollow cheeks making him appear skeletal in the torchlight. "But the Ministry's resources aren't unlimited. We have schools to fund, infrastructure to maintain, international obligations to meet."
"All of which become considerably more expensive when our law enforcement capabilities are compromised," Amelia countered. "A dead Auror can't protect anything."
"Madam Bones raises valid points," Minister Fudge said unexpectedly, his voice carrying across the chamber with unusual authority. "However, we must balance immediate security needs against broader governmental responsibilities."
"The Ministry will authorize the purchase of one hundred enhanced talismans," Fudge continued, his tone suggesting this was a generous concession rather than basic equipment procurement. "This demonstrates our support for Mr. Potter's innovations while maintaining fiscal responsibility."
"One hundred?" Amelia repeated, struggling to keep disbelief from her voice. "Minister, we have over one thousand active Aurors, plus trainee programs, international cooperation initiatives—"
"One hundred," Fudge repeated firmly. "The Ministry has numerous departments requiring funding, Madam Bones. We cannot concentrate all our resources on a single area, regardless of its importance."
He's playing some angle, Amelia realized with growing unease. Fudge never makes decisive statements unless someone's pulling his strings.
"Of course," Umbridge added with false sweetness, "we must also consider the precedent of allowing minors to dictate Ministry policy. Young Mr. Potter may be talented, but surely experienced adults should determine our security protocols."
"Mr. Potter isn't dictating anything," Arthur Weasley said quietly, his honest voice cutting through the political rhetoric like clean steel. "He's offering solutions to problems that have plagued our law enforcement for decades. My son Bill works with curse-breakers in Egypt, and he says those he works with have already asked about Harry Potter's New Anti Curse Talismans."
"How touching," Lucius said with contempt. "The Weasley family's loyalty to their social betters is well-documented."
Arthur's face flushed red like his hair, making him look like a tomato, but before he could respond, Augusta Longbottom's voice cracked across the chamber like a whip.
"Loyalty to competence isn't servility, Malfoy. Some of us judge people by their achievements rather than their bloodlines. Potter's talismans have prevented more Auror deaths than all your political maneuvering combined." Her weathered fingers tightened around her ceremonial staff. "Though I suppose recognition of genuine merit would be difficult for someone who spent years as You-Know-Who's lapdog, only to claim the Imperius Curse the moment a baby made his master disappear."
The chamber fell into the sort of deadly silence that preceded either duels or political earthquakes. Above them, the Scales of Justice tilted dramatically, one plate rising toward the vaulted ceiling while the other plunged downward.
Lucius's aristocratic mask slipped for just a moment, revealing something cold and dangerous beneath the polished exterior. "Lady Longbottom's grief over her son's... condition... is understandable, but it hardly qualifies her to judge—"
"My son and daughter-in-law were tortured into madness by your friends," Augusta cut him off sharply. "The same friends you claimed never to know when the Aurors came calling. How convenient that the Imperius Curse only seemed to affect those wealthy enough to afford the best solicitors."
The old woman has claws made of adamantine, Amelia thought with fierce admiration, watching Lucius struggle to maintain his composure under Augusta's verbal assault.
"The point remains," Dolohov continued, apparently immune to social discomfort, "that Potter commands unprecedented influence for someone his age. These international contracts, these Ministry purchases—at what point does a child's success become a national security concern?"
"When that child starts threatening established power structures," muttered someone from the Avery section, though the speaker remained diplomatically anonymous.
Amelia felt her temper rising like mercury in a thermometer. "Are you gentlemen seriously suggesting that we should suppress innovation because it makes certain people uncomfortable? That we should endanger Auror lives to preserve your political convenience?"
"We're suggesting prudence," Umbridge replied with venomous sweetness. "Young Mr. Potter's rapid rise raises questions about oversight, about appropriate guidance, about ensuring that such... extraordinary capabilities serve the common good."
Translation: they want to control him, Amelia thought with crystal clarity. They're terrified of a twelve-year-old who can't be bought, threatened, or manipulated.
"The common good," she said carefully, "would be served by purchasing sufficient equipment to protect our law enforcement officers. One hundred talismans leave nine hundred of our Auror force without adequate protection."
"Perhaps," Fudge said with false magnanimity, "Madam Bones might present a more detailed proposal for future consideration. This initial purchase will allow us to evaluate the enhanced talismans' effectiveness before committing to larger expenditures."
He's stalling, Amelia realized. Buying time while someone else moves their pieces into position.
"Minister," she said, "may I ask what factors will influence your evaluation of the talismans' effectiveness? What benchmarks must they meet to justify expanded procurement?"
Fudge's expression became evasive, like a schoolboy caught without his homework. "Standard performance metrics, cost-benefit analysis, user feedback—the usual administrative criteria."
"Very well," she said aloud, recognizing that pushing harder would only reveal the weakness of her position. "The DMLE appreciates the Ministry's support, however limited."
"Limited but significant," Umbridge added with false cheer. "After all, we must demonstrate our confidence in British magical innovation. It would look quite poor if young Mr. Potter's own government failed to support his achievements."
There's the real reason, Amelia understood. They're not buying the talismans because they want them—they're buying them because not buying them would be politically embarrassing.
The realization settled in her stomach like cold lead. Fudge wasn't supporting Harry Potter's work; he was managing public relations while minimizing actual commitment. The purchase was large enough to generate positive headlines but small enough to avoid real expenditure or meaningful support.
Political theater, she thought with disgust. They're treating Auror safety like a photo opportunity.
"If there are no further questions," Fudge announced, "we shall put the matter to a vote. All in favor of authorizing the purchase of one hundred enhanced Potter talismans?"
Hands rose throughout the chamber with the sluggish reluctance of people voting for something they didn't want but couldn't oppose. The final tally was decisive if unenthusiastic: sixty-three in favor, twenty-eight opposed, fourteen abstentions.
"Motion carried," Fudge declared with satisfaction that seemed entirely disproportionate to what had been accomplished. "Madam Bones, please coordinate with the appropriate departments to arrange procurement."
As the Wizengamot began to disperse, members clustering in small groups to conduct the real business of politics, Amelia remained at the speaker's podium. She watched Lucius Malfoy glide toward the exit, his expression suggesting someone who had just completed a successful business transaction. Umbridge gathered her pink accessories with the satisfied air of someone whose agenda had advanced exactly as planned.
They got what they wanted, Amelia realized with growing unease. The question is: what exactly did they want, and what does it cost Harry Potter in the long run?
Charles Greengrass approached the podium as the chamber emptied, his handsome features arranged in an expression of diplomatic concern.
"Congratulations on your partial victory," he said quietly. "Though I suspect you recognize it for what it truly represents."
"And what would that be?" Amelia asked, though she already knew the answer.
"A tactical retreat disguised as strategic support," he replied with the bluntness of someone speaking out of genuine respect rather than political calculation. "They're giving you just enough to prevent accusations of neglect while ensuring you can't accomplish anything meaningful."
"Your assessment of the situation?" she asked, genuinely curious about his perspective.
"Potter represents change, and change terrifies people who profit from existing systems," Greengrass said with a smile that made him look even more handsome. "They can't attack him directly—his success is too visible, his public support too strong. So they'll support him just enough to claim credit while ensuring he never gains enough resources to truly transform anything."
Exactly what I feared, Amelia thought grimly.
"The irony," Greengrass continued, "is that their strategy will probably backfire. Potter's already proven he doesn't need their approval to succeed. International contracts, independent innovation, direct relationships with foreign governments—he's building influence outside their control."
"Which makes him dangerous to them," Amelia concluded.
"Extraordinarily dangerous," Greengrass agreed. "The question is whether they're intelligent enough to recognize it before they push him too far."
As she gathered her documents and prepared to leave the ancient chamber, Amelia found herself thinking about a certain twelve-year-old boy who commanded international respect, about political games played with Auror lives as stakes, and about the careful balance between supporting innovation and controlling it.
One hundred talismans, she thought as she climbed the stone steps toward the exit. Just enough to look supportive, not enough to matter. They think they're being clever.
But as she emerged into the Ministry's main atrium, Amelia couldn't shake the feeling that they had all just made a serious miscalculation about Harry Potter's patience, his resources, and his willingness to accept half-measures when people's lives hung in the balance.
The boy freed a house-elf and humiliated Lucius Malfoy on the same afternoon, she reminded herself. Somehow, I don't think he's going to be satisfied with token gestures and political theater.
Amelia had heard about it from an Auror, who had received the information from a niece of his, who in turn had heard it from Nymphadora Tonks in Hogwarts when she started boasting about it at the Hufflepuff table. From what she understood, Harry had played Mister Malfoy like a moron. Amelia reminded herself that Fudge and his pink toad had bought the Liquid Diamond and had wanted to sell it back to Mister Potter, the price being five times higher in hopes of gaining back all the money they gave Potter by buying his first edition of Talisman last year, but they hadn't accounted on the Hogwarts having a basilisk who could offer all the skin Mister Potter would ever need for his Second Talisman and Mister Potter himself had slained the beast, so by right of Conquest, Minister Fudge could not do anything about it. Still, what would Harry Potter do? She knew there was no way Mister Potter would let that slide; she was certain that he was already planning his payback.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters - End of Second Year
The familiar chaos of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters enveloped Harry like a warm embrace as he maneuvered his trunk through the crowd of departing students. The Hogwarts Express sat waiting, its scarlet engine gleaming, steam rising lazily from its chimney. After everything that had happened this year—the Chamber of Secrets, Dobby's liberation, the confrontation with Lucius Malfoy—the prospect of summer adventures felt like stepping from a dark room into brilliant daylight.
"I still can't believe you're actually going to Russia," Sebastian said, hefting his own trunk with obvious envy. "Most people would be content with France and Italy for one summer."
Harry grinned as Itisa made a meow sound towards the Slytherin friend. "When you receive invitations from three different magical governments, it would be rude to refuse."
"Just remember to pack extra warming charms," Sebastian added with a wicked grin that made several nearby girls turn their heads. "I hear Russian winters can freeze your balls clean off."
"Sebastian!" Anna hissed, her pale cheeks flushing pink as she glanced around at the scandalized expressions from nearby Hufflepuff girls.
"What?" Sebastian replied with mock innocence. "It's a legitimate meteorological concern!"
Hermione rolled her eyes while Daphne looked a little disappointed. "Your brother has the social graces of a mountain troll," Daphne observed.
"A charming mountain troll," Sebastian corrected cheerfully.
Harry chuckled, pulling his friends toward an empty compartment he'd spotted further down the train. "Actually, I've heard there's a place in Russia called the Frozen Heart of Magical Winter. Supposedly it's where they conduct their most advanced ice magic research."
"The Frozen Heart?" Anna looked up from settling into her seat, her violet eyes bright with curiosity. "I heard that was just a myth. Like the Crystal Caves of Romania or the Singing Stones of Ireland."
"Maybe," Harry replied, stowing his trunk in the overhead compartment. "Though after this year, I'm starting to think most 'myths' have more truth to them than people like to admit."
As the train began to move and the compartment filled with comfortable chatter about summer plans, Harry found himself sitting closer to Sebastian. The guilt he'd been carrying about his friend's mysterious project finally prompted him to lean over and speak quietly.
"Sebastian," he murmured, his voice barely audible over Anna and Hermione's animated discussion about Ancient Runes. "I wanted to apologize. About not helping you with that door in the secret chambers. I got so caught up in my own problems..."
Sebastian waved him off with a casual gesture. "Don't worry about it, mate. I actually managed to unlock the final door myself."
Harry blinked in surprise. "You did? When?"
"About a week ago," Sebastian replied, though he seemed oddly reluctant to elaborate. "Turns out it just needed the right combination of spells."
"Which spells?" Harry asked, genuinely curious about the magical solution.
"Oh, um..." Sebastian paused, his eyes darting away momentarily. "Finite Incantatem, Alohomora, and Revelio. Nothing too complex, really."
Harry frowned slightly. Those were fairly basic spells—hardly the sort of complex magic he'd expect to find guarding whatever secrets lay behind ancient chamber doors. But Sebastian had moved on to joining Anna's conversation about their summer reading lists, and Harry decided not to press the issue.
Probably just overthinking things, he told himself. Not everything has to be mysterious and dangerous.
Azkaban Prison
The dementors' chill permeated every stone of Azkaban's maximum security wing, where the most dangerous prisoners of magical Britain spent their days in perpetual twilight. In cell block seven, the sound of guards' laughter echoed off the damp walls—a rare occurrence in this place of eternal despair.
"Did you see old Macnair's face when they told him about the budget cuts?" Guard Williams chuckled. "Apparently they're reducing rations again."
"Good," replied Guard Henderson, leaning against the stone corridor wall. "These Death Eater scum deserve whatever they get."
From his cramped cell, the large black dog lifted his head slightly, his canine ears twitching at the conversation, but making sure to hide himself deep inside his cell so he wouldn't be noticed. In this form, he could endure the dementors' effects better than most, though the constant cold still seeped into his bones like liquid despair.
"Speaking of Death Eaters," Williams continued, his voice taking on a mocking tone, "did you hear the latest about Potter? Harry Potter?"
The dog's ears perked up immediately, every muscle in his canine body tensing with sudden attention.
"What about him?" Henderson asked with interest.
"Boy's gone and made himself some kind of international wizard," Williams laughed. "Forty thousand Galleon contracts with foreign governments, revolutionary magical innovations—the kid's barely thirteen and he's already doing more for the wizarding world than You-Know-Who ever managed to destroy."
From the cell three doors down, a low, dangerous sound echoed through the corridor—not quite human, but filled with such malevolent fury that even the guards paused in their conversation.
"Sounds like we upset Princess Bellatrix," Henderson said with vicious satisfaction. "What's wrong, Lestrange? Don't like hearing about how your precious Dark Lord got shown up by a baby who's now making him look like even more of a failure?"
The sound that emerged from Bellatrix Lestrange's cell was part scream, part howl of rage. When she spoke, her voice carried the sort of cold fury that could freeze hellfire itself.
"You pathetic, worthless worms," she hissed, each word dripping with venom that seemed to make the very air around her cell grow colder. "You dare speak that name in my presence? You dare suggest that some mewling child could surpass the greatest wizard who ever lived? When my Lord returns—and he will return—I will personally ensure that you die screaming his name in worship while I peel the skin from your bones."
The guards exchanged nervous glances, suddenly reminded that the woman behind those bars had tortured entire families to death without showing a flicker of remorse.
"Keep talking, Lestrange," Williams said, though his voice had lost some of its earlier bravado. "Your 'Lord' is dead, and Potter's out there proving every day that your whole cause was a joke."
As the guards moved away, still muttering about Death Eater delusions, the black dog in cell block seven slowly began to change. Bone stretched and reformed, fur receded, and within moments, Sirius Black sat in human form on the moldy straw of his prison floor.
His gray eyes, sunken from years of imprisonment, stared at the damp stone wall as memories flooded through him. A baby with impossibly green eyes and messy black hair, giggling as Sirius transformed from man to dog and back again. James's son, Lily's boy, the child he'd been meant to protect and had failed so catastrophically.
Sirius swallowed deeply, closed his eyes, and could see him again. James's Son. He was...was he happy? Sirius did not know, but one thought started forming on his head like someone had planted a seed in his brain and was slowly growing into a thought.
"Harry. I...I will find you."
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