The train swayed gently as it moved through the verdant countryside. It was a beautiful late-
May day, with a cloudless periwinkle-blue sky, and not a plant anywhere in sight that wasn’t
green or blooming. It seemed a shame, Harry thought, to waste a day like this by going into
grimy London. He would have liked to lounge about on the grass by the lake during lunch,
perhaps getting some sun, lazily watching the ripples on the water made by the giant squid. That
was his idea of how to spend a gorgeous spring day.
Harry leaned back in his seat, watching the scenery rush by. Hermione was sleeping with her
head on his thigh, and he played idly with her curls. Her hair was getting longer and threatening
to be rather on the bushy side again. After he’d gotten his hair cut by Parvati, she’d also been
getting Parvati to cut her hair when necessary, but she recently stopped. Parvati wouldn’t tell
Hermione why. The short-curls-style seemed to be the only way to combat the bushiness
without impregnating her hair with gooey gel, as she had for the Yule Ball.
Harry combed her lengthening curls through his fingers. He’d never minded her bushy hair,
truthfully. He like that she mostly didn’t care much about how she looked at all and still
managed to look wonderful all the same. The only real vanity he’d detected was when she’d let
Madam Pomfrey go on shrinking her teeth after the spell Malfoy had been aiming at Harry hit
her instead and started making her resemble a walrus on steroids. On the other hand, he knew it
was also quite inconvenient and painful to have orthodontia, so perhaps it wasn’t really vanity
that had led her to do it.
She shifted slightly and mumbled something in her sleep. Harry smiled down at her. He’d
forgotten how nice it was to watch her sleep. He also was glad that they could be as physically
comfortable with each other as they wanted (within reason) now that others knew about them.
He could sit like this, her head on his leg, while one of his hands played with her hair and the
other rubbed her back gently. They could sit in the common room, Hermione in an armchair,
reciting potions ingredients from memory or the different uses of St. John’s wort for Herbology,
while Harry checked to see if she’d gotten everything right, leaning against the front of her chair,
giving her a foot rub.
He wasn’t clear about whether anyone knew about the extent of their physical relationship
(although there had only been the two times). Once he thought he saw George and Angelina
giving them a knowing look. He knew about them, Harry thought. They probably recognized
the signs, he reckoned.
The train was going through a tunnel. Harry looked up and met Ron’s eye. He was sitting in the
seat opposite Harry and Hermione, nearest the window. Draco Malfoy was nearest the door to
the compartment and Ginny was between them. Ron had tried to get between her and Malfoy
when they’d boarded, but he wasn’t fast enough. Ginny was asleep too; she leaned against
Malfoy’s chest, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her. They’d all gotten up quite early,
two o’clock, in order to board the two-thirty local to King’s Cross Station. The express only
ran on September first, the last day of summer term, and to get students to and from home for
the Christmas and Easter holidays. Anyone in the wizarding world who needed to get to
London (or points in between) in the morning, but who couldn’t Apparate, or who was traveling
with someone who couldn’t, such as small children, needed to get the early train. It made a
number of stops, so that the trip to London took seven hours instead of six, as on the express.
For some people, the ride was even longer, if they boarded before Hogwarts, way up by the
northern coast. Harry found out there was even a wizarding ferry one could take from the end
of the train line to the Orkneys.
Harry was feeling tired at first, leaning back and closing his eyes while Hermione stretched out
on the seat, but by dawn, he’d rested enough, he felt. He anxiously watched the large variety of
witches and wizards who boarded and disembarked from the train. He’d had the opportunity to
see more of the wizarding world at the ceilidh, and the year before, at the Quidditch World
Cup, and now he was seeing still more. Families traveling together, witches and wizards going to
visit relatives. And soon they would arrive in London and go to the Ministry of Magic itself.
Harry had no idea what the Ministry would look like.
“Ron,” he said quietly, so as not to disturb Ginny or Hermione. Ron didn’t answer him, although
he seemed to be looking right at Harry. “Ron?” he said again. When he abruptly moved his
eyes up to Harry’s, he realized that Ron had been watching Hermione sleep.
“Oh, Harry. What?”
“Has your dad ever taken you to work?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Normally he Apparates, so I couldn’t have gone with him that way.
And dad said the fireplaces at the Ministry aren’t on the floo network for security reasons, so
that isn’t an option. Although they are used for communication--just not transportation.”
“Well, it’s in London, right?”
“Right.”
“So couldn’t you just go by floo powder to Diagon Alley, they go from there to the Ministry?”
Ron looked thoughtful. “Well, for that matter, it isn’t like we live on the other side of the country
from London....I think he just didn’t want to take any of us...”
“Yeah, well, who would want a pack of Weasleys running around the Ministry?” Malfoy
sneered. “Apart from Ginny, of course.”
“Keep it up, Malfoy. That’s the way to get accepted by my family. Just keep up the insults.
Real smart.”
Harry thought about why Mr. Weasley might not want his children wandering around the
Ministry, but he couldn’t think of anything. Every time a question about the wizarding world was
answered for him, it seemed he had several more to take its place.
“You ever been there?” Harry asked Malfoy, who looked surprised at being addressed by
Harry. He shook his head dumbly.
“No, Potter. My father--well, let’s just say he may have had Ministry business at times, but he
certainly never wanted me there for it. He knows a lot of high-ranking people, but...”
Harry frowned. He remembered Malfoy bragging that his dad knew all of the big movers and
shakers at the Ministry. Would they try to get him off? Or perhaps they were running scared
now, hoping they weren’t associated with him in any way so they wouldn’t also be under
suspicion. If his own son was any indication, Lucius Malfoy didn’t exactly inspire selfless acts of
loyalty. “You reckon he was seeing people who work for the Ministry who’re Death Eaters?”
Malfoy shrugged. “Who knows? Could be he was just threatening or blackmailing someone to
get them to do something he wanted. I overheard some things at home when I was younger, but
it was usually luck. He never actually let me in on something big he was up to until after he took
me to get--you know.”
The Dark Mark. Harry nodded. Ron looked at him. “Has--has Ginny seen it?” he asked
quietly. Malfoy shook his head.
“Have I seen what?” Ginny mumbled sleepily, starting to sit up and stretch.
“Um, nothing,” Harry said quickly. Malfoy drew his lips into a line, looking like he didn’t want
Harry’s help.
“Are we there yet?” Ginny asked, yawning.
Ron looked out of the window. “No idea. How long’s it been, Harry?”
Harry checked his watch. “It’s nine. Dumbledore said seven hours on the train, so it’ll be
another half hour.”
Dumbledore and Moody were riding in another compartment. The headmaster had given the
former Auror permission to cancel his classes for the day. Harry wondered for how many years
Moody had wanted to get the goods on Lucius Malfoy. He would most certainly not want to
miss the trial where Malfoy’s own son would be testifying against him.
They sat quietly for the rest of the trip, Hermione still sleeping on Harry’s lap. Ginny had taken
Ron’s hand in her right and Malfoy’s in her left and grasped them firmly, clearly trying to send
some of her strength into them. This day would be hardest for the two of them. Harry wasn’t
sure what he would be asked, but surely it couldn’t be as bad for him.
As they pulled into King’s Cross Station, Harry gently woke Hermione. She sat up groggily, as
Ginny had. She smiled at Harry and kissed him on the cheek. He tried to smile back but all he
could manage was a sort of grim worried look. Dumbledore appeared at the door to their
compartment wordlessly, Moody behind him. They followed the professors unquestioningly,
none of them having the least idea what to expect, except for Harry, who had at least seen the
trials in Dumbledore’s Pensieve.
They went through the barrier to come out in the Muggle part of the station in pairs, except for
Moody, who went last. Moody and Dumbledore had not bothered with Muggle clothes, but
wore traveling cloaks that didn’t look too outlandish and disguised their robes well. Harry, Ron
and Malfoy were all wearing black trousers with neat button-down shirts, Harry’s in black,
Ron’s in maroon and Malfoy’s in white linen. The girls wore the simple dresses they’d used for
the ceilidh, Hermione’s bottle green, Ginny’s black. They all carried bags with their black
Hogwarts robes, so they’d be properly attired for wizard court.
They proceeded to the King’s Cross/St. Pancras tube station; Harry was surprised that they
didn’t attract more attention. He kept waiting for people to start staring and pointing, as though
they could recognize witches and wizards even in Muggle clothes, but the Muggles they saw
passed without noticing them, their gazes directed ahead at goals Harry and the others could not
see or imagine. Dumbledore gave each of them some Muggle money for the fare. Ron and
Malfoy stared at theirs. Ginny didn’t bat an eye, but Harry recalled that she was taking Muggle
Studies. They waited quietly on the platform, morning commuters still bustling around them.
When the train came labeled BRIXTON, they boarded.
The stations passed, and Harry gazed listlessly out the window. Euston. Warren Street. Oxford
Circus. Green Park....
Hermione grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the open door. “Come on, Harry. Didn’t you
hear Dumbledore say we’re switching trains here? We have to go from the Victoria Line to the
Jubilee Line.” He stumbled after her, just missing being mashed by the closing doors. They
walked to the Jubilee Line, and when the train finally came, they had to stand.
There was what looked like several dozen American students, around thirteen to sixteen years
in age, crammed onto their car, one of their teachers lecturing to them loudly and non-stop
about the history of the tube. She was about thirty and had that air of a slightly desperate single
woman who was wondering how she’d gotten trapped in the life she was in. Her light brown
hair was escaping from a sloppy French twist barely held in place by a large plastic clip, she
paused every sentence or so to put eyedrops in her eyes (it mostly ran down her face, making
her look as if she’d been crying) and her clothes seemed chosen to help her blend in with her
students, who were all affecting a grunge look with lots of muddy-colored plaid shirts hanging
on either anorexic or overweight frames. Only her didactic tone identified her as a teacher, and
one who was alien to their culture, for that matter. Harry had quickly pegged her accent as
some kind of Southern American strain, having seen a number of American films, whereas the
students’ voices he heard sounded flat and nasal, and sometimes a little sing-song.
“I think they’re from Minnesota or Wisconsin,” Hermione whispered to Harry. He nodded.
“Not the teacher, though,” he whispered back. “She’s Southern.”
Hermione agreed, but didn’t have an idea about a specific Southern state any more than he did.
Harry noticed Ron, Ginny and Malfoy glancing with interest at the American students. Not only
were they Muggles, they came from a different country. The three of them looked like they
thought anything might happen, riding the tube with such aliens.
“Now everybody stay together as we disembark from the train,” she drawled to her students.
Her small voice carried surprisingly well, but Harry noticed that most of the students completely
ignored her, carrying on animated conversations with each other about musical groups and wholiked-
who, like normal teenagers. Normal, Harry thought. What was normal?
“We,” she went on, “will be getting off,” many giggles from the students, and Malfoy, “at
Westminster, home of Parliament. Parliament consists of two houses. What are the two houses?
Anybody? Anybody? Anybody?” Harry’s heart had leapt into his throat. Westminster. He
hadn’t realized that switching trains put them on the same line as Westminster.
The students continued to ignore their teacher. “The House of--” she prompted them, drawing
out the “of” until it almost sounded like she was singing it. “Commons,” she finally said, also
drawing that out, as though she would be willing to give someone partial credit for the answer
even after she had started to pronounce the word. “And the House of--anybody? Anybody?”
She looked round at the oblivious, chattering, walking hormone bombs. “The House of Lords,”
she said loudly, trying to drown out twenty different conversations and failing. “Now, the notion
of a majority whip and minority whip in our government comes from the British Parliament. Can
anybody tell me which party is in the majority and which in the minority right now?” She looked
round at them again. They obviously didn’t care a bit about British government. Harry
remembered his days in school before going to Hogwarts. In his opinion, British children didn’t
care, either. “Anybody? Anybody? Does anybody know who the Prime Minister is? Anybody?
Anybody?”
She was getting to be so pathetic Harry felt it was painful to watch now. Then the train began to
slow down, and with a jerk, it stopped and the teacher had to shift gears and become a sort of
shrill border collie, herding the students out of the train, making sure no one was left behind.
As the dozens of bodies shuffled toward the door in Doc Maartens and holey canvas basketball
shoes, Dumbledore nodded at the five of them and said simply, “Come on.” Harry swallowed.
They were getting off at Westminster too.
Harry and the others passed through the doors onto the platform. The American teacher and
her students were moving toward the stairs, having passed through the turnstiles. She was yelling
directions and periodically quizzing them about British government. As the noise from their large
party receded (they could hear repetitions of “Anybody? Anybody?” growing softer and softer)
Harry looked around. There was the sign saying WESTMINSTER, just like in his dream. There
was what looked like new tile on the ceiling and walls, and there--
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione breathed. He nodded, walking toward it. He started to put his hand out
to touch it, then pulled back. He swallowed painfully, remembering the people who had died
there. Others were daily remembering them too; the spot had turned into a small shrine. There
were flowers, some rather old now; photographs of people who had been killed, many of them
children. The thing that broke his heart was the stuffed rabbit someone had left. Hermione
picked it up, looking at it, tears in her eyes, before she replaced it.
Harry leaned closer to the wall and saw that there was what looked like paint applied over the
tiles, and it appeared that the green legend POTTER was applied on top of the paint. “The paint
is new,” growled Moody. “But then, so’s the tile. They’ve tried everything. New tile, new paint,
everything but taking the wall down completely, and every time, that reappears, like--well, like
magic.”
So, Harry thought, it wasn’t that the Muggles hadn’t tried to eradicate it. Voldemort had seen to
it that the green POTTER would continue to reassert itself no matter what.
“Well,” he whispered, “why don’t they just take the wall down, then?”
“We don’t want them to,” Dumbledore said softly. “Every time it’s suggested, we subtly get
everyone involved to forget about it.”
Harry frowned at him. “Why?” Dumbledore seemed to ignore him. “Now,” he said, looking
around the platform. There weren’t many people who had come to take the next train yet. “Ron
and Ginny, you go first. Just walk toward the wall at a normal pace. Don’t slow down, and
don’t tense up. We’ll shield you. Go on.”
So they did. Harry watched them walk toward the POTTER on the wall, just as if they were
approaching a doorway. Then--they disappeared. Draco Malfoy went next. Then Harry and
Hermione. He stared at it. POTTER. He walked purposefully toward it, the horrifying, sickly
green of the magical substance growing closer and closer. Then--he could no longer see it. He
looked around at the odd corridor where Ron and Ginny and Malfoy already stood. In a
moment, Dumbledore and Moody had come through and were standing with them.
Overhead and on both sides was terra cotta-colored brick. Large red-orange tiles covered the
floor. It was like being in a large sewer pipe with a flat bottom. After arriving in the corridor,
Dumbledore and Moody turned to the left and they followed. They walked what seemed a long
way from the entry point, which Harry thought, did not look particularly distinctive on this side.
So, he thought, this is really why Voldemort attacked the Westminster station. He wasn’t
attacking the Muggle government; this is where the Ministry of Magic is located--and he
marked the entrance with POTTER.
“Thirty-seven,” Dumbledore said suddenly, and Harry realized that the reason it seemed he’d
been walking looking at his feet was because that was precisely what he was doing. He’d been
counting his paces. Dumbledore now raised his wand and Harry noticed that there was a slight
indentation in one brick, which was the one Dumbledore tapped now with his wand. Suddenly,
an archway appeared, and they followed Dumbledore and Moody through it. Dumbledore
turned to Harry. “It’s been a while since I’ve come this way, so I’m relieved that I remember
how. It’s about ten-twenty. We should be in place by ten-forty-five. The trial begins at eleven.
Best to put your robes on now.”
They opened their bags and extracted their Hogwarts robes, pulling them on, buttoning,
adjusting. Harry, Hermione and Malfoy wore their silver prefects’ badges. Moody and
Dumbledore removed their traveling cloaks. Dumbledore gestured to them and led them down a
corridor identical to the first one. After a few minutes, it suddenly opened out into a large
circular space, maybe twenty feet in diameter, with numerous doorways around the perimeter. It
took Harry a moment to realize that the people on the other sides of the doorways didn’t look
right. They looked, he thought, as though they were images on a television screen. He watched
a witch in deep green robes directing a pile of papers through the air with her wand. She moved
from left to right, framed in a doorway labeled IUMO on the lintel. When she disappeared to
the right of the doorjamb, it seemed that she should have reappeared in the doorway that was a
mere six inches or so to its right. However, an imposing sandy-haired wizard in deep sapphire
robes who sported rather prominent horns on his head moved toward the witch, such that Harry
thought he would collide with her. His doorway’s lintel was labeled CEC. He too disappeared,
and did not reappear in the IUMO doorway although it appeared that he should.
“That,” Moody rumbled, nodding at the doorway where the witch had been, “was Mafalda
Hopkirk. Improper Use of Magic Office. The horned freak was Gilbert Wimple. Committee on
Experimental Charms.”
Harry found himself spinning around, gazing at doorways labeled DMGS, DIMC, DRCMC,
DMT. Dumbledore and Moody went on explaining the various abbreviations were Department
of Magical Games and Sports (Harry thought he saw Ludo Bagman pass by the open doorway
briefly), Department of International Magical Cooperation, Department for the Regulation and
Control of Magical Creatures (he saw both Cedric Diggory’s dad and the eerie Macnair, who
had almost executed Buckbeak, pass by this doorway) and Dumbledore brightly called out,
“Cheers, Basil!” to the harried-looked wizard working for the Department of Magical
Transportation whom Harry remembered from the Quidditch World Cup. He still looked
harried, bustling by the doorway carrying a box of what looked like rubbish. Harry assumed it
was actually full of Portkeys.
They also saw the doorways for the Goblin Liaison Office, the Accidental Magic Reversal
Squad and the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, where Mr. Weasley and Percy worked.
Harry puzzled over the strange appearance of the doorways. The people walking past them
appeared suddenly, then disappeared just as suddenly, exactly the same as people on a
television or cinema screen appearing and then disappearing from one side to the other.
Dumbledore saw his perplexed look. “Oh, they’re not really here, Harry.”
Now Harry was really confused. “What?”
Dumbledore smiled. “These are portals. Walking through these doorways, you are
automatically taken to the actual location of the office on the other side. The portals are all really
here, but the offices are spread out over the entire London Underground system.”
“The Underground?”
“Old tube stations,” Moody growled. “The Muggle War Office used them as military offices
during World War II. Most of the ones they were in had already fallen into disuse. Made good
air-raid shelters, too. We were mighty tight over here in the original Ministry offices. After the
war, we made a deal with the Muggle Prime Minister to take over the old Underground Offices.
They can’t be accessed by Muggles anymore; you can only get to them if you can Apparate or
know how to get into here from Westminster Station. Except for that damn Aldwych Station...”
Dumbledore sighed. “Yes. Aldwych. That used to be where we had all the registries. Animagi,
werewolves, vampires, all that sort of thing. But there have been so many film crews down in
the station proper lately, we’ve had to move the registries out of there. The film producers like
the station for period dramas especially. It’s very nicely preserved, looks the same as it did in
1910 or so. The registries are sharing space now with the Goblin Liaison Office, and neither
Cuthbert Mockridge nor the goblins are particularly thrilled about that. But we risked all sorts of
problems with werewolves and vampires bothering film crews while trying to enter through
Aldwych Station--we had to allow that originally, since most of them are not witches or
wizards, and so cannot Apparate, and we didn’t necessarily want them to know about
Westminster and these other portals.”
“So,” Hermione said, nodding at the portals, “can they see us?”
“Oh, yes,” Dumbledore told her. “But I expect they’ve learned to tune out what they see
through the portal. It is very convenient, though, to be able to walk through here to get from,
say, the Department of Magical Transportation to the Improper Use of Magic Office, especially
if you’re with a person being charged. Apparating is impractical at such a time. These offices
tend to have a good bit of overlap; the DMT fines anyone who Apparates without a license, and
usually the lack of license goes along with offenses such as Apparating in front of Muggles, a
charge issued from the IUMO. As such, they often have to call in the Accidental Magic
Reversal Squad as well, so as to make the Muggles forget a witch or wizard suddenly appearing
on their kitchen table, or what have you.”
Harry remembered getting a letter from the Improper Use of Magic Office the summer before
he began second year. When the witch passed by the doorway again, he instinctively ducked
behind Ron, so she wouldn’t see him. With his forehead scar, she would know who he was
right away if she decided not to ignore the people standing in the middle of all the portals. Ron
looked over his shoulder and laughed down at him.
“What are you doing, Harry?” He peered out from behind Ron, to check that she’d gone. He
smiled feebly up at Ron, then felt himself redden. Ginny, Malfoy and Hermione were also
looking at him strangely.
Two of the portals were not like the others. One did not show an office with people bustling
about; it was just a black rectangle, with no sign. The other didn’t look like a portal at all. It was
another rounded corridor, brick all around, like the passage from which they’d emerged.
Moody saw Harry looking at the dark doorway. “Unspeakables. Department of Mysteries.
They can get out, but no one else can go in. Except I’ve never actually seen anyone come out of
there...”
Dumbledore led them down the pipe-like brick corridor, which slanted subtly downward, and
after it turned a few times, Harry could no longer see the round room behind them with the
office portals. There were more than a few that Dumbledore hadn’t explained, but he didn’t
question the headmaster as they continued on their way. After a few minutes, the corridor came
to an end. They were confronted with a large bronze door with “MoM” in raised, ornately
intertwined pewter letters. Dumbledore said something Harry didn’t catch, and the door swung
toward them. They entered and found themselves in another corridor, rectilinear now rather than
rounded, looking remarkably like the corridors in the dungeons at Hogwarts. They all continued
to follow Dumbledore.
Upon turning a corner, they entered into what could only be called a mob. Witches and wizards
Harry had never seen before suddenly surrounded the seven of them, but most of them seemed
to be trying to talk to him and Malfoy. He caught snatches of questions about the trial, about
Lucius Malfoy, about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (which some of them could say
amazingly fast). Many of them had accents that did not sound at all British. Harry had never
considered that there was a foreign wizarding press, but obviously these were some
representatives. He’d also never considered foreign wizarding schools or wizarding communities
outside of Britain until the Triwizard Tournament and the Quidditch World Cup.
With a sweep of his hand, Dumbledore caused the mass of reporters to fall back. They were
able to pass unmolested now, and Harry catalogued in his mind how quickly and easily
Dumbledore was able to do the same sort of thing Voldemort did--magic without his wand--
when he wanted to. Dumbledore looked stern and unapproachable as he walked next to Harry
down the corridor. The reporters must have angered him a great deal, Harry thought, for him to
do that. He usually seemed to avoid making such displays.
They turned another corner and came to another large bronze door. A troll stood next to it. He
wasn’t a mountain troll; Harry wasn’t sure what kind of troll he was, but he was about Hagrid’s
height, with a troll’s long arms and vacant expression. He looked very, very strong. He must
have been a well-trained troll, Harry thought, for when Dumbledore nodded at him, he opened
the bronze door--it looked quite heavy--and they entered.
Harry gasped. They were in the room he’d seen in the Pensieve. They were standing at the top.
The serried rows of benches dropped off before them. It reminded Harry of a square funnel,
leading to the flat, open space in the center, where he saw the familiar chair with the chains
where Lucius Malfoy would sit to be tried. He swallowed, looking at that chair. He did not want
to see Lucius Malfoy again. He did not want to see those cruel eyes that did not reveal any
emotion at all. He did not want to hear the voice that casually said, “Almost forgot that,” after
putting the Cruciatus Curse on his best friend. Suddenly Harry felt an almost overwhelming
impulse to run, to turn and flee from this tribunal, to flee from the wizarding world in general. He
remembered the American students on the train. That’s what Dumbledore should have done, he
thought. He should have left me on some doorstep in America with a note saying my name was
John Smith. I could have grown up far away from here and lived as a Muggle and Voldemort
would have no idea where to find me and I would have no clue what it is like to feel responsible
for other people suffering and dying...
POTTER.
An ordinary life. Why did that seem so much to ask? He looked at Malfoy, who was visibly
shaking as he looked at the chair. He hadn’t had a choice about his life any more than Harry
had. He appeared to be taking a deep breath. He looked at Moody, of all people, who actually
smiled kindly at him and nodded in what was meant to be a reassuring fashion. Harry could not
help but smile a little. For all that he could see so much with that eye of his, Moody noticing
Malfoy’s Dark Mark through his robes didn’t tell the whole story. Clearly Moody was admitting
he’d been wrong about Draco Malfoy.
Harry turned to Dumbledore. “Where is this? Really? In relation to Muggle London?”
Dumbledore pointed down at the chair in the center of the room. “Directly above that chair,
about two-hundred feet or so, is the chair where the Muggle Prime Minister sits when
Parliament is in session.” Harry’s mouth hung open in shock. Dumbledore smiled. “Actually, it
may be over a few feet. But my point is, Harry, this chamber was here before this city was a
little Roman settlement called Londinium. This has been here for a very long time. Come.”
They stepped down the rows until they were only two levels above the flat center of the room.
Dumbledore indicated that they should sit, and they did, all in a row, with the headmaster to
their left and Moody to their right. Harry sat next to Dumbledore, with Hermione to his right.
Next to her, Ron glanced to his right, where Ginny sat holding Malfoy’s hand tightly. Then
Moody leaned in and spoke to Malfoy.
“One thing I should tell you before all this starts, Malfoy,” he said raspily. “My house. It’s been
many a year since I was in school--I finished in 1915--but I thought I should tell you what house
I was in. I’ve caught a slew of dark wizards, and I think the reason I have is that I can think like
them. Doesn’t mean I act like them. But I understand how their minds work, so I’m able to be
one step ahead of them. Understand what I’m saying?” Malfoy nodded.
“You were in Slytherin.”
Moody nodded. “Aye. And we’re the most cunning, the sneakiest, the hardest to catch lot of
bastards there is. That’s why I became an Auror. I always liked a challenge in school, and given
that most dark wizards have come from Slytherin, I knew I’d never be bored. Most of them
think of me as a traitor, of course.” Malfoy drew his lips into a line; he was already dealing with
this. “But you’re strong. You can beat them. If you can come up with a plan to catch your dad,
you can do damn near anything, I reckon.”
Malfoy nodded again, looking scared still, but now also oddly comforted. Harry remembered
Marcus Flint who’d been killed by his own father for refusing to be a Death Eater; he
remembered the girl with the impenetrable Scottish accent who’d had the nerve to ask him to
the ceilidh. Lastly, he thought of Snape. He’d once thought of everyone who’d been in Slytherin
as being completely irredeemable, and was enormously relieved that he’d been put in Gryffindor
after the Sorting Hat had briefly considered him for Slytherin. Now he found himself changing
his mind, willing to be open about considering the merits of being ambitious and clever.
Truthfully, he was less inclined to like Ravenclaws these days, especially considering Roger
Davies and Niamh Quirke and her gossipy friends. And Barty Crouch, Jr. had also been a
Ravenclaw. He saw a certain arrogance there, somehow; they projected a feeling of innate
superiority that grated on him. Except for Cho--she was all right. Maybe eventually, they’d even
be friends. He still felt just a bit smug about putting her together with Viktor Krum.
Moody leaned forward now and said to Dumbledore, “Who’s the Inquisitor?”
“Bean’s handling it.”
Moody nodded and sat back again. Harry frowned. “Who?” he said to Dumbledore.
“Eustace Bean,” was all the explanation Dumbledore gave.
The door behind them opened again and other witches and wizards began filling the room.
Harry watched the other spectators file in. He saw Remus Lupin enter and sit in the top row on
the left. He nodded at Harry and gave him a small smile, then hid his face behind a Daily
Prophet. He would not want to be recognized, Harry knew. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He looked up into the kind blue eyes of Arthur Weasley. Harry stood to face him, swallowing.
Percy stood next to him, and behind them were Molly Weasley and Bill and Charlie.
“Hello, Harry. Good luck,” Mr. Weasley said to him. Harry couldn’t speak. Just those few
words were so moving to him. He kept his left hand on Harry’s shoulder, then extended his right
hand and Harry took it silently, with a gratitude in his eyes that he knew Mr. Weasley
understood. Harry felt that he was perhaps absolved of his part in the Ginny/Draco cover-up.
Percy shook his hand and then Mr. Weasley and Percy moved on to Ron and Ginny, after
greeting Hermione. Bill and Charlie each also wrung Harry’s hand, smiling encouragingly, before
they too moved down to the others. Then he looked up into Mrs. Weasley’s dark brown eyes,
glittering with tears. She nodded at him, then enfolded him in a forgiving embrace, making his
eyes water, finishing with a kiss on the cheek. She moved to Hermione then, doing the same,
and Harry could see how much this meant to her.
Harry looked over at Draco Malfoy and saw Mr. Weasley shaking his hand grimly, without a
smile. This was quite something from someone who previously would probably have preferred
to put hot needles in his eyes rather than contemplate a Malfoy touching his only daughter.
Harry watched Percy, Bill and Charlie, also not smiling, quickly take Malfoy’s hand. Finally,
Mrs. Weasley released Ginny from a tight hug, kissing her on the cheek, and turned to Malfoy.
She looked uncertainly at him, then suddenly, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek, turning
swiftly to join her husband and sons.
Malfoy touched his cheek briefly, then pulled his hand away with a guilty look on his face as he
caught his mother’s eye. She was sitting several rows lower than Remus Lupin, and was staring
daggers at him. Harry saw Malfoy swallow, then put his hands in his lap and look down at them.
Harry shuddered as Narcissa Malfoy then caught his eye. He remembered how the veela had
gone from being seductively beautiful women to frightening harpies, killing machines. He looked
away from Mrs. Malfoy. Oddly, at that moment, he was reminded of how frightening his own
mother had been during some of the episodes he and Hermione had seen in Snape’s Pensieve.
Why should I think of that now? he wondered.
He turned to look at Hermione. She was very pale. He knew she worried about the same thing
he did; would the testimony of others reveal their physical relationship? Would they themselves
have to reveal the secret? And would their testimony suffice to put Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban?
The door in the corner opened then, and twelve witches and wizards filed in and took their
places on the right-hand side of the room, several tiers below where the Weasleys were sitting.
Finally, the buzzing and chatting in the room died down and everyone seemed to be holding their
breaths as the corner door opened again and Lucius Malfoy was led in by two dementors. He
looked exhausted yet still defiant. He didn’t look at his son. Harry shuddered from being so
close to the dementors, but tried to focus, tried not to let them get to him. Lucius Malfoy was
taken to the chair with the chains, which turned gold and snaked up the sides of the chair,
encasing his arms and binding him there. The dementors left again, causing Harry to breath a
sigh of relief.
Silence reigned in the room. Harry saw that Narcissa Malfoy did not look at her son or
husband. Then Harry heard someone stepping down the levels, going toward the center of the
windowless, underground chamber. He turned his head and saw a large, dark-haired, middleaged
man with a barrel chest and piercing light blue eyes under heavy brows. He wore the
blackest black robes Harry had ever seen, and a matching wizard’s hat which did not wobble
an inch as he descended toward the prisoner.
The prisoner.
He remembered seeing Karkaroff in that same chair, bargaining for his freedom, then on the
rock at Dover, bargaining for his life. Neither setting had been particularly fair. As before in
Dumbledore’s Pensieve, Harry saw that Lucius Malfoy had no advocate to speak for him. He
remembered that Ludo Bagman had spoken for himself, and his popularity had given him his
freedom. Obviously, the concept of a fair trial in the wizarding world was still mired in a
millenia-old tradition of the assumption of the guilt of the accused. Perhaps it would not have
done Sirius much good to have a trial, he thought. He was glad that it probably meant that
Lucius Malfoy would be going to Azkaban, but he sincerely hoped that he was never down
there in that chair, without anyone to speak on his behalf...
“Lucius Malfoy!” came the booming voice of Eustace Bean. He sounded oddly like a bartender
from the East End of London--yet he was in charge here. Harry noticed Cornelius Fudge seated
just behind Narcissa Malfoy. Harry remembered at the World Cup how he had spoken of
Lucius Malfoy’s generosity to St. Mungo’s. Fudge looked nervous and unhappy all at once.
Could he override Bean if he chose? Harry did not know.
“You have been brought before the Council of Magical Law to answer to multiple charges,”
Bean continued. “First: Illegally training your son--an underage wizard--to Apparate. Second:
Taking your son to a gathering of dark wizards for the purpose of being initiated into their
number. Third: At said gathering of dark wizards, allowing your son to be placed under the
Cruciatus Curse. Fourth: Also at said gathering, witnessing the murder of one Igor Karkaroff,
and not divulging this to the proper authorities. Fifth through ninth: Attempting to coerce other
young people to become dark wizards, namely Penelope Clearwater,” Harry saw Percy cover
his mouth in distress, “Marcus Flint, Percy Weasley--a Ministry employee, mind you--Roger
Davies--current Head Boy at Hogwarts--and--Harry Potter.”
A gasp went up from the spectators and Harry felt dozens of eyes upon him. Bean had paused
for effect, and he seemed satisfied with the crowd’s reaction. A born showman, Harry thought.
He looked sideways at Dumbledore, who nodded almost imperceptibly and then turned to glare
around the room. The noise dissolved.
“Charges Ten through fifteen: conspiracy to commit murder. You ordered the murders of
Penelope Clearwater’s parents, Beryl and Reginald Clearwater, her grandfather, Wilmer
Clearwater, and--her ten-year-old brother, Jeremy Clearwater.” Another reaction from the
crowd, which Bean ignored. “You also ordered the murders of Aurelia Flint and Letitia
Carpenter.” Harry assumed Aurelia Flint was Marcus Flint’s mother, and the Carpenter woman
must have been the houseguest at the Flints’ that Sirius had mentioned.
“Charges Sixteen through nineteen,” Bean continued, “You placed three young girls, students at
Hogwarts, under the Imperius Curse, namely Kathryn Bell and Cho Chang--both prefects--and
Alicia Spinnet--current Head Girl. You also used a dangerous potion that acts like Imperius on
Hogwarts prefect Hermione Granger.
“Charges Twenty through Twenty-two,” Bean said. “Kidnapping and detaining Ronald
Weasley, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter against their will. And lastly, Charge Twentythree:
Placing the Cruciatus Curse on Ronald Weasley, son of Ministry employee Arthur
Weasley.”
Bean walked near Malfoy and peered briefly into his face before straightening up again. “Lucius
Malfoy! You have heard the twenty-three charges against you. What say you to these
charges?”
Harry looked at Lucius Malfoy, and was startled to see him looking back, directly at him. “I
say, I know something you don’t know,” he said softly.
“What’s that?” Bean said loudly. Now Malfoy looked at Bean.
“I know some things you don’t know. Quite a few things.” He looked at Harry again, and his
mouth began to twist in a very wicked fashion. Harry swallowed. He was getting a very bad
feeling about this.
Bean saw what Malfoy was trying to do, how he was trying to shake him up. He looked at
Malfoy shrewdly and said. “I’m sure you will have the opportunity to tell us many things as we
go through the charges one by one. The first four charges involve your son, so I will ask him to
elucidate for us. You may respond when he is done if you feel he has been in any way
inaccurate.” He turned to the row where they were sitting. “Draco Malfoy! Please stand.”
He swallowed and stood, and Harry remembered how composed he was most of the time
when he was in the circle at Dover. That’s right, just stand there like you have ice water in
your veins. Don’t let that old bastard who fathered you get the upper hand...
“Draco Malfoy!” Bean said again. “The first charge against your father is that of teaching you to
Apparate. When did this begin?”
He lifted his chin and looked at the Inquisitor. “Right after I returned home from school last
June.”
“Were you aware of the fact that your father was breaking the law by doing this?”
He paused for a moment before saying levelly, “Yes.”
“Why then did you comply?”
Draco Malfoy looked down, then at Ginny next to him, who gave a small nod. He looked up at
Bean again. “I complied because I had to. I always had to do whatever he said.”
Bean nodded and paced slowly in front of Lucius Malfoy’s chair. “Yes, yes, you were an
obedient son...”
“No. That’s not it.”
Bean looked up at him. “It’s not? You didn’t just go along with everything your father asked of
you to be a good, obedient son? Obedience for its own sake?”
He shook his head. “There would have been--consequences, should I have chosen to defy
him.”
Bean looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Consequences, you say. Punishment of some kind?
Loss of privileges? Going to bed with no tea?” Bean sounded glib.
“Torture.”
A low murmur rumbled through the room, and Lucius Malfoy began to glare at his son, as did
Narcissa Malfoy. He was airing the dirty laundry in public.
“Torture, you say. What sort of torture?”
“He would put the Passus Curse on me.”
“The Passus Curse? Is that all? It is painful, of course, but it is brief. Is that how he tortured
you, coerced you to do things you knew to be illegal?”
“It is brief if the person casting the spell wishes it to be. If it is repeated...well, I still bear the
marks.”
Bean looked slightly uncomfortable now. “Er, where are these--marks?”
“My arms.”
Bean looked relieved. “Would you mind showing the jury these--marks?”
He paused for a moment, then began to move. He unbuttoned his robes to his waist, then slid
them off his shoulders; he unbuttoned his shirt to the waist and then drew the fine linen fabric off
his shoulders, revealing his pale chest, but more importantly, his bruised upper arms. He kept his
forearms covered. The bruises were purplish-green and numerous on both arms. After the jury
had had a chance to see this, he pulled his shirt on again, buttoning it properly once more, then
replacing his robes and buttoning those as well. He continued to hold his head high, and Harry
thought that perhaps this wasn’t going so badly after all. It certainly couldn’t look good for
Lucius Malfoy to be torturing his own son to coerce him to do illegal things. Draco Malfoy was
underage--surely he wouldn’t be blamed.
Bean prepared to go on. “The second charge--”
“That’s not all,” Draco Malfoy interrupted him, still standing. Bean looked startled, then
malevolent. Harry made a mental note not to interrupt him while being questioned. Then he
remembered that Draco Malfoy had interrupted Voldemort himself during his initiation. He
certainly had nerve, Harry thought.
“That’s not all,” Bean echoed, almost without inflection.
“If I really displeased him, he put the Hara Kiri curse on me.”
“I am not familiar with that curse. What is it?”
Draco Malfoy sighed. “Something my father discovered while traveling. It comes from Japan. In
that country, it is the ritual of suicide that is performed--or was, rather, since it’s been illegal for
some time--when a person was in disgrace. The only honorable thing to do was to kill yourself,
in a very specific way. You were supposed to use a special knife made just for the purpose.
You used the knife to ritually disembowel yourself. When the Hara Kiri curse is placed on
someone, they believe that they are performing this ritual suicide on themselves, and feel all of
the pain and see all of the blood as if they really were doing it. It’s an Unforgivable Curse in
Japan. You can be executed for using it on a human being. They do not use dementors. But
there are no laws against it here.”
A loud buzz erupted as the spectators considered what kind of father would put such a curse on
his own son. Bean had a gleam in his eye and one corner of his mouth curled up. “So,” he said.
“You had ample reason for also acceding to your father in his wish to have you initiated into a
group of dark wizards. The second charge. And the third charge: being complicit in the
Cruciatus Curse being placed on another person, namely you, Draco Malfoy. And witnessing
the murder of Igor Karkaroff--which you also did not divulge,” Bean said to Draco Malfoy,
“but we have heard and seen evidence about why you did not.”
He stood straight and tall, his platinum hair almost blending in with his pale skin, and spoke
again. “It was not just any group of dark wizards, sir.”
Bean looked up at him, frowning. “How do you mean?”
Draco turned and looked at Harry, who nodded grimly at him. He turned back to Bean. “They
were Death Eaters summoned by--Voldemort.”
Now the noise rumbling through the room had gotten completely out of hand, and Harry was
impressed. He’d never heard Draco Malfoy say the name before, he’d only called him the Dark
Lord. Bean looked darkly at him, while Fudge stood and tried to quiet the crowd, but they
ignored him and the noise continued. Finally, Dumbledore stood and shot silver sparks into the
air with his wand, and used the commanding voice Harry had only heard from him a few times.
“Silence! Do you want to hear the truth or not?”
The chamber grew quiet. Dumbledore remained standing, as did Fudge, who was glaring back
at the headmaster. “We are here for the truth, yes!” the bowler-hatted wizard declared. “Not
fairy tales about You-Know-Who returning!”
Eustace Bean nodded. “Yes, Minister, I quite agree. Master Malfoy, please remember...”
“He’s telling the truth!” Harry had been unable to stop himself. He was on his feet now, trying
to steady his breathing. Every eye was on him, and Bean looked astonished. Harry swallowed,
then looked at Draco Malfoy, who glanced at him briefly, but did not look as though the
outburst were unwelcome.
“And you would know this because--?” Bean prompted him.
“I was there almost one year ago when Voldemort got his body back. He used my blood to do
it.”
The pandemonium in the chamber was deafening. Bean tried crying out, “I will clear the room!”
but it had no effect. Harry looked defiantly at Fudge, who was purple with rage. He had been
contradicted by Harry Potter. He had no doubt as to whom the wizarding world would believe.
Fudge sat again, as did Dumbledore.
When the noise had finally died away, Lucius Malfoy looked up at Eustace Bean and said
evenly, “I told you there were things you don’t know.” He had a nasty smile on his face and
looked up at Harry, who slowly sat next to Dumbledore again. Once more, the only people
standing were Draco Malfoy and the Inquisitor.
“Let us return to the second charge, and let us also hope that not all of the charges take so long
to explore. You say that this particular gathering of dark wizards was summoned by the Dark
Lord?”
“Yes.”
“When was it?”
“Christmas night, last year. My father and I Apparated to a spot on the cliffs at Dover where all
of the Death Eaters were being summoned. Voldemort was there, with his snake and
Wormtail.”
“Who is this ‘Wormtail’?”
He turned and looked at Harry again. “I think Potter should tell you about him. I don’t really
know much about him except that he’s the Death Eater who took care of Voldemort until he got
his body back.”
“Continue.”
And he told the hushed assembly of the appearance of Karkaroff, of Voldemort questioning
him. There threatened to be a riot again at the mention of Voldemort having an heir, but this time
Bean’s angry gaze was enough to quell the murmurs, and Draco Malfoy was able to continue
his recitation. He told of having the Cruciatus Curse put on him, of receiving the Dark Mark,
which Bean asked him to display to the jury. Tentatively, he pushed up the sleeve of his robes,
then unbuttoned his shirt cuff and pushed that out of the way as well. Harry watched the faces of
the jury members; some were impassive, others merely looking as though they wished to appear
so. Several were openly horrified, covering their mouths. Harry also watched the Weasleys.
Mrs. Weasley held her handkerchief over her mouth and her eyes shone wetly as she turned to
look at her husband, who seemed very grim. They knew now; they knew what it meant to be
Lucius Malfoy’s son.
He covered his arm again and continued, explaining that he did not wish to break the law by
using the Cruciatus Curse himself on Karkaroff, so he had volunteered to use the Hara Kiri,
although knowing how painful it was. He then described Snape’s arrival--and Harry was glad
that he had not told him that it was Snape, so he could not reveal that now--and the attempted
flight which resulted in Wormtail alerting Voldemort, and Voldemort killing Karkaroff.
Bean thanked him and bade him sit. They were only through the first four charges. He turned to
the prisoner and asked him whether anything his son had said was untrue. He looked into his
son’s eyes and said, “No. Every word is true.”
Bean looked shaken, as though he were wondering what Malfoy was playing at. “You do not
wish to refute anything?”
Malfoy looked up at the Inquisitor now. “I do not.”
He cleared his throat. “Very well. We shall move on to the next charges. Attempting to coerce
various witches and wizards to join the Death Eaters. Penelope Clearwater! Did you attempt to
recruit her?”
He smiled at Bean. “You have her suicide note, do you not? Doesn’t it say?”
Bean looked uncomfortable. “No. It does not. It’s, er, actually--” He turned and caught
Percy’s eye, and Harry noticed that Percy was turning as red as his hair. “It was addressed to
Percy Weasley.”
Bean nodded at Percy. “Please stand. You are Percy Weasley?”
Percy’s color had returned to normal again. He held himself erect. “Yes, sir.”
“And you were given this note after Miss Clearwater’s body was discovered?”
Percy’s eyes looked wet behind his glasses. “Yes,” he answered, his voice catching.
“What did the note say?”
Percy looked around the chamber, coloring once more. “It, er, said some rather personal
things...”
Bean smiled indulgently. “How old are you, Mr. Weasley?”
“Twenty.”
“As was Miss Clearwater, I understand. I think we can assume some of the--rather personal
things. You may leave those out. Was there anything in the note which was not--rather
personal?”
Percy nodded. “She said she would never do as they wished. She said they wanted to use her
to get to me, to get me to be a Death Eater, too. She said she didn’t know what else to do, and
she thought that by killing herself, she at least might protect her family, if not me as well. But--
but--it didn’t work...” Percy was crying openly now, tears flowing freely down his face, and
Harry saw that he hadn’t shaved that morning; he had a faint orange fuzz on his cheeks that was
now damp with his tears. Harry turned to Hermione, whose eyes were also glistening. He fought
the urge to put his arm around her and hold her tightly.
“If I may,” Lucius Malfoy said to Bean, with a casual tone that reminded Harry of his comment
after cursing Ron. “I had no idea that Miss Clearwater had killed herself, I only knew that she
did not report as ordered. As such, the plans were already in place to eliminate her family.”
The hubbub in the room grew again at the offhanded way he spoke of the Clearwaters. Bean
managed to silence the crowd with a wave of his hand this time. “So you admit that you ordered
the murders of Beryl, Reginald, Wilmer and Jeremy Clearwater?”
He smiled. “Of course. We couldn’t have any other recruits think suicide was a way out, could
we? They had to know that even though they were dead, we would still take retribution on their
families.”
Bean was looking angry now at the way Lucius Malfoy appeared to be so glib about his
situation. “Who actually carried out the murders?”
“Well, I thought about just not telling you, but they were so incompetent about the pub in
Hogsmeade, I don’t think they’ll be any great loss to the Dark Lord. Avery and Nott.”
Bean furrowed his brow. “They were given suspended sentences and fined for the Three
Broomsticks explosion and forced to pay the publican retribution.”
“Yes, and after that I gave them work that wouldn’t involve them being anywhere near that ex-
Auror with the magical eye,” he snarled, looking up at Moody, who glared back. “They proved
much more competent. I didn’t anticipate the trouble with the Flints, unfortunately. Titus Flint
was already a Death Eater, I assumed his son would come into the fold as a matter of course.
But he was so Quidditch-obsessed, he wanted no part of it. I understand there are witnesses to
his dad’s killing him? I certainly didn’t tell Titus to do that.”
“What about Aurelia Flint, and their houseguest, Letitia Carpenter?”
“Avery and Nott again. They didn’t know which was which, who was the mother and who was
the houseguest, so they just killed them both. Easier that way.”
Bean looked at Malfoy suspiciously again. Harry wondered what was going on. Why was he
giving up Avery and Nott? Why was he so easily admitting his involvement? Why wasn’t he
denying anything? Bean asked him about sending recruitment letters to Percy and Roger, and he
freely admitted this, saying that the Dark Lord had a bit of a weakness for Head Boys. He liked
their drive and ambition. Percy looked embarrassed by this--he liked to think these were good
qualities, and here he was being coveted by Voldemort because of them. He also confirmed that
they were no longer potential candidates; too much publicity. Then Bean mentioned recruiting
Harry.
“Yes, well, that one’s obvious, isn’t it?” he said cheerfully.
“Obvious?” Bean said, as though it were no such thing.
“Certainly. The triumph of the Dark Lord having Harry Potter for his servant...what could be
more satisfying for him?” He didn’t mention what Dumbledore had, Voldemort’s needing Harry
alive to draw on his power. Perhaps he didn’t know of this motivation.
“So,” Bean said again, full-voiced. “You do not deny any of these charges either?”
Malfoy smiled again. “Not a one.”
“Moving on!” he cried. “Charges Ten through fifteen: conspiracy to commit murder. You have
already admitted ordering the murders of the Clearwaters and Mrs. Flint and Miss Carpenter.
Are you expecting leniency for giving up the names of the murderers? Because I should remind
you that you are also charged with numerous counts of using Unforgivable Curses on human
beings.”
“If you like,” was all Malfoy said. Harry was genuinely puzzled. Why was he so cheerful and
unconcerned about spending the rest of his life in Azkaban? He caught his son’s eye and
furrowed his brow in a silent question. Sitting between Ginny and Moody, he raised his
eyebrows and shrugged. He was as baffled as Harry.
They both turned their attention back to Bean.
“Charges Sixteen through nineteen,” Bean continued, “Placing those three girls under the
Imperius Curse and using a potion that acts like Imperius on another girl. Once these girls were
all in your power, what did you order them to do?”
“To pursue Harry Potter romantically.” Another buzz, and Harry felt himself redden. “Although
my son informed me--and I think for once he wasn’t lying--that I needn’t have bothered as
Potter seems to have become Mr. Popularity at Hogwarts. But you have been misled; although
I ordered it, I didn’t personally put the girls under Imperius or administer the potion to Miss
Granger. Avery and Nott did those things. I only reinforced the Imperius on Miss Chang at the
Quidditch match at Hogwarts. So I humbly request that the charges against me of using the
Imperius Curse be reduced to that one instance.”
Bean nodded at a wizard Harry hadn’t noticed before, sitting on the bottom tier, rapidly taking
notes. This wizard nodded back at Bean and went on scribbling. Harry didn’t feel he would be
likely to stop being beet-red anytime soon. “What,” Bean continued, “was the purpose of
ordering the girls to do this?”
“To guarantee that he would have a girlfriend. He doesn’t think anything of that Muggle family
of his; we needed for there to be someone he would really care about if it became necessary
to--persuade him of the wisdom of serving the Dark Lord. He had best friends, it’s true, but
one of them is now--quite a bit more than a friend...”
Hermione was shaking, reaching out her hands blindly; Ron took one and Harry the other,
squeezing so that she could absorb their strength. She looked at each of them in turn, grateful,
while Harry was aware of the scratching quills of the reporters in the chamber. He had no idea
what to expect from them; he almost found himself missing Rita’s articles for their predictably
outrageous statements. Predictability was something. He wished he could see Hermione’s face
as she looked at Ron; over her head, he could see Ron’s expression as he gazed at her. He
looked as he had when she had thrown her arms around him after Harry and Malfoy had pulled
him from under the debris at the Three Broomsticks. Then he met Harry’s eye, and Harry
remembered the conversation he and Ron had had about Hermione without saying her name.
Ron had not been ready to risk his friendship with her, he’d said. Was he ready now? Harry
wondered. And there was the way he and Parvati had parted ways...
“Whether it worked is not pertinent to this inquiry, Mr. Malfoy,” Bean informed him, shutting
down that avenue of exploration, much to Harry’s relief. “And whether you used the Imperius
Curse once, twice or twenty times is also irrelevant.
“Charges Twenty through Twenty-two,” Bean continued. “Kidnapping and detaining three
people against their will. And, charge twenty-three, placing the Cruciatus Curse on Ronald
Weasley. Do you have any answer to these charges?”
Malfoy looked thoughtful. “Now that I think of it, you may have to add two more. I mean, once
we had them there, we were also considering recruiting young Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that.”
Harry didn’t get a good feeling from the way Malfoy was behaving. Volunteering that there
were charges to be added? What sane prisoner would ever do such a thing? Plus, he’d already
given up Avery and Nott for the six murders and using Imperius, and he’d revealed that Titus
Flint was not just a murderer on the run, but a Death Eater who was trying to coerce his son to
join also--as Lucius Malfoy had done with his son. Harry was beginning to regret having left
Sandy at Hogwarts. He had thought that it wouldn’t be good for anyone to hear her hissing
under his robes, and he didn’t want his being a Parselmouth to come up, but now he was
wishing he had some way to glimpse into the future, so he could tell what Lucius Malfoy was up
to.
“So,” Bean said, “When you say ‘we had them there,’ you mean you and your son.”
“And Wormtail.”
“Ah. There is that name again.”
He looked at Harry. “Ask Harry Potter.” Bean looked at Harry again; Draco Malfoy had said
as much. Then Lucius Malfoy looked around the room and his eyes lit on Lupin. Oh no, thought
Harry. “You can ask him, too. The werewolf they had teaching our children at Hogwarts two
years ago.”
Lupin drew his lips into a line and caught Harry’s eye. Sorry, Harry said silently to him. If there
were people in the wizarding world who didn’t know Remus Lupin was a werewolf, they would
know now. Bean looked up at him, considering the matter. “I may do just that. But right now I
am more interested in the final charge. Lucius Malfoy, you placed the Cruciatus Curse on
Ronald Weasley. That brings the number of unforgivable curses you cast to two. Do you have
anything to say? Do you deny that you put this curse on him?”
Malfoy smiled unevenly. “Why don’t you ask him? Or better still--why don’t you ask him
whether he put the Cruciatus Curse on his best friend, Harry Potter?”
The buzz started yet again. So that was Malfoy’s game, Harry thought. Get Ron strung up as
well. He knew he was stuck, they had too much on him; so he was trying to take Ron down
too, and maybe Harry and Lupin if it came out that they were protecting Sirius. Which would
also put Dumbledore and Snape in danger. Then he remembered that the Weasleys also knew
about Sirius, and Hermione knew, and the other operatives; Dumbledore’s entire covert
operation could come crashing down. Did Lucius Malfoy know about Sirius? he wondered.
Harry tried to remember whether he was in the crowd in Hogsmeade when Madam Rosmerta
noticed Sirius after his Polyjuice Potion had worn off; worse still, had he seen the fleeing black
dog and connected it to Sirius? Did he know that Sirius was an unregistered Animagus? And
how could Harry and Ron and the rest of them avoid revealing all that without lying to the
Inquisitor?
Ron looked at Harry and Hermione uncertainly, then down at Bean. “Very well,” Bean said.
“Ronald Weasley! Please stand.”
Ron stood slowly, and Bean looked momentarily alarmed at how tall he was. He’d trimmed his
beard neatly for the tribunal, but he still looked a bit young and frightened, despite his size and
the facial hair.
“You are Ronald Weasley, son of Ministry employee Arthur Weasley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please tell us what happened during the time leading up to Lucius Malfoy putting the Cruciatus
Curse on you.”
Ron was shaking. “Well,” he began with a waver in his voice. “I had been tied to a tree, but
Draco Malfoy convinced his dad to untie me. Before that, he pretended to tell me to put the
Cruciatus Curse on Harry, and I pretended to do so as a distraction, so he could stun his dad.”
Lucius Malfoy stopped being impassive now. He was livid; he screwed up his face and
screamed at Ron, “You didn’t fake that, Weasley! You couldn’t have, not after I cursed you,
and you’d heard about them,” he said, gesturing with his head at Harry and Hermione. “You
put the Cruciatus Curse on Harry Potter!”
Ron breathed through his nostrils, his chest heaving as though he’d gone running with Harry and
Hermione for the first time all over again. Harry could see how nervous he was.
“Ronald Weasley!” bellowed the Inquisitor, suddenly looking at Ron quite menacingly. The
Weasleys looked terrified; they hadn’t known about this. “Did you or did you not put the
Cruciatus Curse on Harry Potter?”
Ron bit his lip; when he spoke, his voice shook. “I--I wanted Mr. Malfoy to think
