Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Fine, We'll Do It Our Way
“YOU’RE CHILDREN!” Mrs. Weasley screams, panting hard. She and Harry are facing off in the middle of the super-secret base everyone but Harry has known about for months.
After his whirlwind of a recuse, Harry only got to hug his godfather once before Mrs. Weasley was herding him out of the kitchen. Ron and Mione filled him in best as they could.
Apparently, Dumbledore is the leader of a resistance organization called the Order of The Phoenix, and Padfoot’s childhood home, Grimmauld Place, is their headquarters.
Harry has been imprisoned at the Dursely’s being starved for weeks while a group of useless adults bounced between spying on him and whining about how horrible all this war business is.
When any of the younger generations asked to be a part of the meetings they were either scoffed or cooed at. The adults won’t even let the Twins join and they are seventeen! It’s like everybody over twenty has forgotten about the last four years, namely Ron, Hermione, and Harry constantly saving the day every damn time.
Dumbledore left Harry to rot in his grief and misery, going as far as to ban his friends from writing to him and burning the letters when they tried.
He is so far past angry they’ll have to invent a new word for his rage.
The Order finished their meeting and the kiddies were finally allowed back in the kitchen. Harry tried again to get some information and was swiftly shut down. Then, when he asked for a copy of the Daily Prophet, Mrs. Weasley completely blew her lid. Shrieking about how he is "just a child" and "shouldn’t be concerned about grown-up business".
Ron and Hermione stand behind him as Harry glares at the Weasley mother, two solid pillars of support. Harry calmly rolls up his right sleeve to reveal the bite scar seared into his skin.
“This is where a basilisk bit me in my second year. The only reason I am not dead is because a phoenix cried on the wound,” Harry bites out scathingly, and Mrs. Weasley’s mouth snaps shut. Harry rolls up his left sleeve, revealing a jagged scar. “And this is where my parents’ betrayer dug a knife into my arm so my blood could be used in Voldemort’s resurrection. I was there when the Dark Lord was brought back to life. It was me who saw Cedric Diggory fall soundlessly to the ground, dead. It was Ron, Hermione, and me who stopped Voldemort in our first year. It was Hermione and me who saved Sirius from the dementors.”
“We haven’t been children for years, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry states, a bitter twist to his lips. Mrs. Weasley is clutching her chest, tears in her eyes. It pains him to hurt her so, but Harry hasn’t spoken a single word that isn’t true. “Locking us out of these meetings is only going to get us killed. If the last few years have proven anything, it’s that you may be able to keep us out of the war, but you can’t keep the war from us.”
Harry storms out of the kitchen after that, Hermione and Ron following close behind. The rage is still simmering behind his eyes as Harry throws open the door to the room he and Ron are sharing. Harry can feel his magic bubbling under his skin, itching to be let out. He paces the length of the room instead, muttering curses under his breath.
Ginny slips in right before Hermione closes the door and for a second Hermione and the two Weasleys watch Harry pace angrily around the room. The twins apperating in with a jarring pop efficiently breaks the growing tension and gains Harry’s attention. He spins to face the gathered crowd, fire in his eyes.
“You all know just as well as I do that we’ll be the ones facing the conflict at the end of the year,” Harry declares, not seeming to notice the raw magic sparking between his fingers.
Hermione and Ron share a wary glance; the last time they saw Harry lose control of his magic to this degree was the night after Pettigrew was revealed. Harry had bottled up his emotions to a dangerous extent and the magical fallout when he released them was explosive, to say the least.
“There isn’t a force on this earth that could keep Voldemort from screwing up my life in some way,” Harry exclaims, throwing his hands up in frustration.
A wave of aggravated magic slams into the ceiling with an almighty bang and a flood of dust particles cascades toward the ground. Harry freezes with his arms still pointed to the sky and slowly looks up. A sheepish smile flits across his face as soon as he sees the newly installed cracks speckled across the ceiling.
“Oops,” he murmurs, an embarrassed flush spreading down his neck. Ron clasps his shoulder comfortingly and pulls Harry over to one of the beds. The boys flop down, grinning at each other.
“I’m serious though,” Harry says a moment later, sobering quickly. He expertly ignores the twin’s snickering response of, ‘No, Sirius is downstairs.’
“If they don’t let us prepare, or at the very least understand the current dangers, we are going to get slaughtered.”
“I agree,” Hermione readily concurs, enjoying the way Harry’s head snaps up in shock. “I would have liked a bit more information during our third year. Figuring out Sirius was innocent would have been much easier if we knew he was Harry’s godfather.”
“A little assistance when the whole school thought you were the heir of Slytherin would have been appreciated,” Ron comments, slinging an arm over Harry’s shoulders.
“Perhaps some extra training to help you survive the bloody dragons wouldn’t have been remise,” Ginny points out, fierce protectiveness coloring her words.
“And maybe…” Fred begins, making an exaggerated thinking face.
“They could have…” George continues, stroking his chin obnoxiously.
“Oh, I don't know…” Fred says, peering searchingly into the great beyond.
“And keep in mind this is just a thought…” George cautions, grinning cheekily.
“But maybe the professors could have…” Fred chirps, resuming their original point.
“Not hidden the Philosopher's Stone…” George continues scathingly,
“In a bloody school!” The twins hiss the last bit together, finishing as one.
Harry takes a moment to marvel at the solemnity of their demeanor. It’s so rare for the twins to show the world anything other than their jovial masks, and Harry appreciates the honor he and the others have been granted. Hermione places a calming hand on the backs of their necks, smiling softly at the twins.
Harry is a little overwhelmed by the outpouring of support, but overall he’s mostly relieved he isn’t alone in his wrath. Something has got to change, and soon, or Harry won’t live to see his seventeenth birthday. An outcome everyone in the cramped bedroom wishes to avoid.
“Alright,” Harry says, springing to his feet. Hope is stirring in his chest for the first time all summer and he just can’t stay motionless at a time like this. “So the current management has to go. Thoughts?”
“First things first,” Hermione calls, quickly taking control of the conversation. “Your trial tomorrow morning.”
Oh, yeah. Harry thinks, sagging internally. That.
Sirius Black observes the youngsters with narrowed, calculating eyes. They are remarkably upbeat considering one of their own is about to attend a trial to determine whether he’ll be expelled and his wand snapped.
If a person were to discount the bags under their eyes that should really be labeled suitcases by their sheer size and bruise-like coloring, the kids appear downright cheerful. Sirius would even go as far as to say they look anticipatory, predatory in a sense.
Harry, Sirius’ amazing pup, is even grinning. He’s dressed in what Sirius recognizes as a pair of Regulus’s old dress robes, charmed to fit Harry. His hair is combed as neatly as possible with the Potter hair and his glasses are nowhere in sight. He hasn’t been running into furniture all morning so the kids must have done something to correct the Pup’s eyesight, temporarily or otherwise.
A gleaming silver knife is strapped to Harry’s chest and a wand holster peaks out beneath his shirt sleeve. A pair of dragonhide boots and some black muggle jeans complete the ensemble.
The pup strikes quite the intimidating figure. Magic is condensed around him like a physical presence. It shimmers in the air near Harry and all of the Order members are keeping a cautious distance. The children, on the other hand, exhibit no such apprehension. Primarily, Hermione and Ron. They touch and bustle around Harry like it’s their Merlin-given right.
“I expect you home in time for lunch, you understand?” Hermione is saying, demanding really. Ron and Harry exchange fond, exasperated smiles, but the pup nods his consensus anyways.
“Give 'em hell,” Ron orders, leaning forward to rest their foreheads together briefly. The twins take turns ruffling Harry’s hair and scampering away. Ginny punches Harry lightly on the arm and they share a grin.
“Time to go, Harry,” Arthur announces gravely, peering sadly at the boy.
The kids surround the pup, pulling him into a hurried bear hug. Harry is laughing as he escapes the embrace. He cheerfully salutes his friends and quickly follows Arthur out of the room.
The mood turns somber briefly as everyone stares after the departing duo, but Molly makes her presence known shortly after, and the kiddies scatter. Molly chases after them, hollering about chores and cleaning schedules.
Remus ambles over to Sirius, leaning casually next to the Azkaban escapee. Sirius glances over at him, catching the same amused, suspicious expression on the werewolf’s face that Sirius is positive marks on his own.
“You think they are planning something,” Remus states, not even having to ask.
“No doubt about it,” Sirius confirms, turning to face his old friend.
“Well, this should be interesting,” Remus comments and Sirius can’t help but agree.
Harry looks around keenly, eyes threatening to pop out of his head. The entrance hall, or the Atrium as Mr. Weasley quickly informs him, of the British Ministry of Magic is extremely grandiose. Arches made of red brick tower above him, dozens of active floos nestled beneath. Witches and wizards of all stature enter and exit the floos at a dizzying pace. Mr. Weasley brought him through the muggle entrance, so Harry has an exquisite hawk-eye view of the controlled chaos.
The vivid green floo fires flaring continuously around him cause shadows to dance across Harry’s skin as they push through the bustling crowd. Harry intentionally allowed his magic to flow more freely than he usually permits today and the charged, almost magnetic energy soon clears a path for him and Mr. Weasley. People take note of Harry’s electric presence and stop to gawk at him.
Harry keeps his head held high and his steady stride confident. Mr. Weasley strides directly to the wand clerk’s desk, quietly explaining the upcoming procedure to Harry on the way. The ocean of ministry officials and Aurors part, creating a tunnel of bodies for Harry and Mr. Weasley to walk through. Harry lets an assured swagger sweep into his steps, projecting a sense of morale he doesn’t truly possess.
For the plan the Weasley siblings, Hermione, and Harry hatched to succeed, he must shed the skin of that scared, overwhelmed child he has shown the wizarding world up to this point. No longer can he be the timid, meek Boy-Who-Lived who let the whole planet walk over him.
Harry has to embrace his proud heritage and sizable magical power. In the greater world of British magical politics, Harry is a major player. He simply never acknowledged that fact before now.
“Wand, please,” sighs the bored, overworked wand clerk manning the Ministry’s check-in desk. Mr. Weasley amicably hands over his apple wood wand, wiping his nervously sweating hands on his trousers.
Harry feels for the Weasley father, but it is mildly amusing that the man escorting him to his trial is more nervous than the actual defendant. The clerk passes the wand back to Mr. Weasley and holds out his hand imperiously for Harry’s wand, not even bothering to look up.
Harry remains where he is, waiting patiently. Eventually, the clerk looks up, annoyed glare dialed up to full effect. The clerk jerks dramatically when he registers Harry’s bright green eyes and the infamous lightning bolt scar. Harry smiles pleasantly at him, titling his head in a way that Ron swears makes the receiving party feel small and foolish.
“Oh! Uh-, Mr. Potter, sir,” the clerk stammers, staring at Harry with big eyes. Harry lets his smile grow, an edge of something vulturine framing his face. The clerk visibly gulps, his eyes darting around wildly in search of help that is not there to be found.
“Yes?” Harry drawls, dragging the word out mockingly.
“Can I scan your wand, um, please?” The clerk ventures unsurely, and Harry takes pity on him, softening his features.
“Of course,” Harry graciously allows, nimbly catching his wand as it slides out of his holster. Ginny discovered the wand holster tucked away in the same closet they found the robes Harry is currently wearing.
The clerk accepts Harry’s wand with a trembling hand and Harry is slightly bewildered the head tilt worked so well. Of course, the boy doesn't know his freed magic responded to his ire with the clerk and made his green eyes glow threateningly. Harry also didn’t notice the lightning cracking down his spine and racing up his arms, but the gathered audience certainly did.
Mr. Weasley is staring wonderly at Harry when the teenager turns away from the check-in desk, wand safely secured back in his borrowed holster, but Harry dismisses it. The Weasley patriarch is probably taken aback by Harry’s newfound assertive demeanor. After all, the Harry Potter of yesterday would have let the rude wand clerk pass him by timidly.
Mr. Weasley swiftly gathers himself and leads the way toward the lifts, the gathered crowd watching them depart with shocked gazes.
They manage to squeeze into the available lift right before it leaves. A black man dressed in rich, purple robes slips in at the last second, shoving his way through the constricted space to reach Mr. Weasley.
Harry recognizes him from what little he saw of the Order members, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Kingsley leans down and urgently whispers something in Mr. Weasley’s ear that has the man rapidly paling. Kingsley exits the lift on the next floor, pushing through the lift’s occupants once again.
“What was that about?” Harry asks Mr. Weasley softly.
“Your trial has been rescheduled and moved to a different floor,” Mr. Wealsey reveals, lips pursed in disapproval. A shock of anxiety races through Harry; a burst of cold freezing his veins.
“Why?” Harry demands, a familiar fury beginning to take over.
“I haven’t a clue,” Mr. Weasley admits, an angry flush coloring his cheeks. “We have to hurry, though. We were supposed to be there 5 minutes ago.”
Figures, Harry thinks morosely, Not even a criminal trial would go smoothly for the Great Harry Potter.
The lift travels on, and no matter how much anxious fidgeting Harry and Mr. Weasley indulge in, it still stops at each floor. A cool, monotone voice announces each arrival and by the time they reach the required floor, Harry is halfway into a panic attack.
Mr. Weasley rushes out of the lift into what the monotone voice declared is the Department of Mysteries. He ushers Harry quickly down the hallway, barely refraining from running.
The corridors are nothing like what Harry has seen of the Ministry before. There are no doors or windows. The walls are made of a green marble that shifts leisurely into purple in the low lighting. They are moving too fast for Harry to truly appreciate the architecture and before he’s actually prepared, they are standing before the assigned courtroom.
“Off you go,” Mr. Weasley says, guesting at the awaiting door looming in front of them.
“You’re not coming as well?” Harry demands, whisper-shouting. Mr. Weasley looks genuinely regretful, but he shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Well, that would have been nice to know before now. Any previous moment would have been sufficient.
No matter, there’s nothing to be done about it now.
Harry draws himself up to his full height, straightening his shoulders and plastering a confident smirk across his lips. He smothers the tremors jolting his hands and breathes deeply three times. After the third exhale, Harry opens his piercing green eyes, grasps the heavy door handle, and enters the courtroom.
Here we go, no turning back now.