Robes settled. Wands sheated. The orbs above the chamber steadied to a cold white. Frank Longbottom lifted a hand and the murmur died. The clerk touched his quill to the parchment strip and the tip began to move on its own.
Gawain Robards stepped to the rail with a folder under one arm. He did not look for comfort in the benches. He set the folder down, opened to the first page, and began.
"Entry to Privet Drive was made with warrant and under disguise," he recited from memory, cadence flat. "Ground floor. Lounge to the right. Dining room to the rear. Kitchen to the back garden. Cupboard under the stairs, locked from the outside." He lifted a small brass latch in a cloth bag and let it clink on the wood. "This was on the door."
Several lords flinched at the faint sound. Others did not blink. Corvus watched the tiny latch silently.
Robards kept the line moving. "Contents of the cupboard included a child's blanket, a plastic cup, two broken toys, and a list of chores written in block letters. Measurements inside show a space one meter by two. No window. No vent. We recovered photographs from a neighbor. In three Polaroids the cupboard door is visible behind the boy on Christmas mornings." He turned a page. "Medical notes from the school nurse detail bruising, series of fractured bones from age six at age twelve, and signs of malnutrition. Two Legilimens, under oath and under supervision, viewed memories from Petunia Dursley, Vernon Dursley, and Marjorie Dursley. The images align with the physical evidence."
He paused long enough for the quill to catch up, then placed three sealed vials on the rail. Memories swirled like smoke.
"Summary," Robards concluded. "The child was confined, beaten, starved, and forced into labor that far exceeded chores. The abuse was known to Arabella Figg, whose reports were sent monthly to Albus Dumbledore. Copies written based of Arabella Figgs' memories are attached. Timeline begins after a month from the night after Samhain in nineteen eighty one and continues until August of this year."
Silence lapped at the stones. A few Progressives looked toward Dumbledore's empty bench and then away. Traditionalists sat very straight. Neutrals watched the vials as if they might bite.
Chief Curse Breaker Whitfoot came forward next with a leather tube of rubbings and a square of chalk. A pair of warding gloves covered his hands. He drew a circle on the rail, then a second circle within it, then a line of ancient runes between.
"Blood ward anchored to a willing sacrifice," he explained, voice low, diction clear. "In this instance the sacrifice of Lily Potter. The anchor was set through the sister's blood. The boy completes the loop each time he crosses the threshold. Magic flows from child to ward to the house and to all inhabitants." He tapped the inner circle. "The result is a shell that rejects hostile magic linked to the killer of the mother. It is elegant work, but misapplied."
He set a rune stone on the chalk line. The stone warmed and glowed a weak red.
"The draw is constant," Whitfoot went on. "The ward pulls from the boy in sleep and in waking. Output rises with fear. Over years the drain risks collapse of the core. Squibbing becomes a real possibility." He let that hang. "By any honest reading, the child was used as a battery to protect his abusers. That is not what Lily Potter died for."
A hiss ran the benches. Not the showy gasp of politics, but something older. Greengrass folded his hands and stared at the chalk like it was a grave. Abbott's jaw worked once and set. Even Lucius Malfoy gave a tight nod that looked more like a flinch.
In Wizarding World children are called the gifts of Mother Magic. Wards are raised for them. Oaths are sworn for them. Any monster who harms a magical child marks himself beyond the pale. That truth hung over the room like frost.
Frank broke the quiet with the hammer light tap of his gavel. "Chief Curse Breaker, your recommendation."
"Dismantle on site," Whitfoot answered. "Catalog every glyph. Record the origin mark. Identify who keyed the anchor and when. Then lift the lattice and cart it to the Department for study. We can do it without further drain on the boy. I will need six curse breakers and an hour."
"Granted," Frank returned. He turned to the clerk. "Record an order to break the ward and investigate purpose and author."
Arcturus leaned back in the Minister's chair, eyes half lidded, mind very awake. He could still hear Corvus in his study. "Do you know what a Horcrux is?" Voice quiet over tea, The Hufflepuff's Cup, Slytnerin's Locket. How many more he muttered to himself. The old wolf watched the benches now and counted forearms. Some hands twitched where a brand once lived. Four lords around Rosier sat very still and very free of that stain. Good. That leverage would buy real laws.
Across the aisle, a few of the still marked shifted, fingers caught on cuffs, as if the skin itched. Corvus had one hand on his knee, the other on the box that now held a small sleeping bird. The egg sized chick inside breathed in soft puffs of phoenix fire. The chamber's heat had not reached it. His thoughts moved elsewhere. The ward would come down by dusk. The records would show what he already knew. Tom Riddle's body broke, his soul did not. The Ministry would have to let that thought in soon. Better they learn it with ink and chalk than with screams in a street.
Frank raised his voice to carry. "Director Bones, your office will supervise the dismantling. The court further directs an accounting of the reason for these wards and the authority used to erect them after fallen of the enemy."
Amelia inclined her head once. "Teams will be ready." There was steel under the calm.
"Then we are adjourned for today," Frank finished after getting a silent nod from Arcturus. "The session will continue tomorrow for sentencing in the related matters and for the Director's preliminary report."
Seals snapped shut. Robes rose in slow waves as the benches emptied.
That night the orders moved like broom lines across the country. At Privet Drive the chalk circles bloomed under Whitfoot's hand. Lines were copied, arithmancy taken into account, the pulse measured and scotched. The house felt different when the last rune went dark. Lighter. Empty. A faint trace of the boy's magic drifted away and was gone.
Morning came with a slap of ink. Rita Skeeter's column rode the first edition, barbs gilded, flourishes sharp. Across the Isles, witches and wizards unfolded the paper over tea and toast. In kitchens and shops and atriums they read and went very quiet.
The headline was shouting, the article that followed was the last nail on the coffin of a legend.
--
A TRIAL, A CURSE, AND A FALL FROM GRACE
by Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent
Dear readers, gather close. Yesterday the Wizengamot remembered what a heartbeat is for. It began with a rat and ended with a roar. In between we watched masks slip, tempers flare, and a venerable figure attempt murder in public view. You want the whole of it; you shall have it.
First, the rat. Lord of House Rosier, Heir to the House of Black, and to Hogwarts simply Professor Corvus Black, crossed the floor with a neat glass cage and a polite incline. Inside, a sleeping pet. Outside, lords and ladies who thought they had seen everything. The cage opened. A spell snapped. Fur became flesh. There on the tiles lay Peter Pettigrew, bruised, bloodied, and filthier than a sewer grate. Director Amelia Bones called for a chair. Your reporter will not dwell on the smell.
Veritaserum followed. Quills danced while the rat squealed. Pettigrew admitted he was the Potters' Secret Keeper. He confessed to betrayal that left an infant orphan. He named the night and the blast that killed twelve Muggles when he bit off his own finger and bolted down a drain to escape Sirius Black. He pointed, oh so helpfully to Lord Malfoy as the schoolboy who introduced him to You Know Who. He admitted he hid for years as a boy's pet. Yes, readers. A Weasley lap, a school trunk, and a tail that should never have left a cell. Parents of Gryffindors may pause here and breathe.
Then the matter of a wand. Not Pettigrew's. The wand responsible for far too many deaths, last raised at Godric's Hollow. Heir Black did not deny he recovered it from the traitor. Lord Elphias Doge puffed himself upright and proposed confiscation "for the good of the realm." How modern. The benches did not clap; the benches stared. Lord Rosier smiled one of those gentle smiles that never reach the eyes and asked if, while we are confiscating, DMLE should also search every close ally of Albus Dumbledore for undeclared Death Eaters. Six voice rose at once. "Seconded," from Lords Yaxley, Avery, Nott, Travers, Greengrass, and Abbott. Lesson delivered: law is not a toy.
Enter Unspeakable Croaker of the Department of Mysteries in a plain cloak plain and a plainer voice. Permission granted for Lord Rosier to tour that most secret floor of the Ministry. Within rules even Ministers cannot bend. A bargain for knowledge. In return, Heir Black placed the Dark Lord's wand in Director Bones's careful hands. A senior auror performed Prior Incantato. No translation required as the it was the spell plucked a Lily of the living. The chamber went very quiet.
Sentence followed for the rat. By wands: white for life, red for Kiss. Red ran long across the Traditionalists and into the Neutrals; white flickered in Progressive pockets. The count ended. At dawn, while you read this column, a certain Animagus will be making the acquaintance of a Dementor. Your reporter will not waste ink on a man who sold a child and blew up a street.
Now to the moment even portraits will tire of retelling. Director Bones turned a page and read charges that sting the eye: interference with a will, tampering with records, theft from a family vault, endangerment of a minor, abuse of office. She moved to place Albus Dumbledore under custody for questioning. The benches rustled. A few loyal souls rose and shouted. Frank Longbottom, seated as Chief Warlock for the case of Pettigrew found himself seated for another. He rapped once for order. Minister Arcturus Black did not raise his voice to restore the order.
Albus Dumbledore rose. He turned and raised his wand at Lord Rosier. Not words of calm, nor words of protest came out of his mouth. Green gathered at the tip of his wand, the kind of green that turns breath to silence. Your reporter's hand shook once and then steadied. We all watched death aimed at a young man in the full light of law.
Heir Black moved. Four shields flowered before the first gasp reached the ceiling. Visitors, Neutrals, Traditionalists, and the high dais itself. No bystander left open to a stray bolt except for Lord Malfoy. Heir Black stepped aside to avoid the curse; the Killing Curse hissed through and died on the bench shield behind him. A shield has stopped an unforgivable dear readers. Then a strike that would make a storm blush. A thick lash of lightning leapt from Lord Rosier's wand, kissed the floor, and ricocheted like a textbook diagram. It caught the Dumbledore square in the chest and lifted him like a curtain in a gale.
A blaze of gold erupted above Dumbledore mid air. A phoenix, answering habit more than hope. Lord Rosier did not blink. Unforgivable green met feather and fire. The great bird dropped and became a weak chick on the tiles, flame guttering. Dumbledore came down fast, invited kindly by a levitation charm with the speed of a racing broom. Face met floor. Bones protested audibly, especially teeth of the dark wizard. An Expelliarmus finished the impromptu duel.
Aurors poured in. Stunners flashed. A handful of Progressive lords learned benches are not shields. Doge went down with a squeak better left to mice. Marchbanks and Ogden joined him, eyes crossed. Minister Black made thunder with a Sonorus. The room obeyed.
What does it mean. Something simple we forgot. Law protects, and law bites. If a man can cast a Killing Curse in the very hall where law is made, then how safe are your children when a headmaster treats rules like suggestions. One man cast to kill. Another cast shields to protect. Choose your comfort.
For the record, Director Bones has begun the long walk of charges. Warrants fly. Cells fill. She will bring the full docket next session. Your reporter already has a queue at the office door and a fresh bottle of ink.
The last word belongs to the parents holding this paper over breakfast. For years you asked who stands between your child and the dark. Yesterday you saw it. Minister Black held the chamber steady. Heir Black covered the public first and himself second. Sleep a little easier, dear readers. The masks of the light are off. We have three members of House Black standing like monuments that we can rely upon.