The three of them turned their eyes toward the center of the courtroom.

At its heart stood three armchairs. The armrests on each were wound with chains, coiled left and right in loose loops. The moment Fudge’s voice fell silent, the padlocks on those chains rose into the air as one and hung there, swaying in a small, serpentine motion, as though tasting the air.

Beside him, Harry heard Hermione let out another soft whimper, but he didn’t look back. He walked forward with steps that felt weighted, as though the stone floor were reluctant to let him go, his mind still caught on the cold indifference both Professor Dumbledore and Professor Watson had shown from the moment the doors opened.

Small comfort, then that when the three of them finally sat down in those dark armchairs, the chains did nothing more than rattle. They did not bind. The padlocks remained hanging, swaying, waiting.

From where they sat, the three of them faced the front bench directly. Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Watson remained deep in whatever quiet exchange had absorbed them from the beginning.

Both Hermione and Ron looked toward them with the wide, imploring eyes of people hoping to be thrown a rope, but the two men kept talking.

Dumbledore glanced briefly up at the Dementor hovering overhead, then turned toward Bryan. Bryan merely blinked and gave a slow, unreadable shake of his head.

Harry abandoned any hope of drawing guidance from either professor. He raised his eyes to the raised platform, to the Minister of Magic himself.

Cornelius Fudge was a large, heavy man who ordinarily gave the impression of someone comfortable. He was typically fond of his puce-tinged bowler hat—though today he wore none.

Harry could find no trace in that face of the warm, avuncular smile the Minister had worn two years ago, the night Harry had accidentally Inflated Aunt Marge. What remained now was nothing but an unsettling, glacial severity.

Madam Amelia Bones, who had been arguing with Fudge only moments before, sat at his side. Behind her monocle, the shadows sharpened her expression into something equally forbidding.

Fudge exchanged a glance with someone lurking in the shadows—and that figure stepped forward into the light.

Harry stared in disbelief. The Auror advancing on him, wand in hand, was Dawlish—the very man who had tried to take him from the Dursleys’ house. His head was still wrapped in thick bandages. He moved behind the three stone chairs, taking a position at Harry’s back like a guard over prisoners, then directed a look of undisguised hatred toward Bryan at the front.

For the first time since the iron doors had opened, Bryan turned his gaze toward Harry’s side of the room—but his violet eyes passed over Harry entirely, settling on Dawlish with cool detachment before shifting, unhurried, to Fudge on the high tribunal.

“Then, let us begin—”

Fudge’s voice rang out like a bell. His gaze swept across the assembled members of the Wizengamot.

“Trial of the twentieth of July. The matter before us concerns Harry James Potter, Ronald Bilius Weasley, and Hermione Jean Granger, charged with violations of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. The Ministry further contends that the conduct of Harry James Potter was of a particularly grave nature, directly resulting in the death of a Muggle.”

The words fell into the courtroom one by one, each of them heavier than the last.

Fudge leaned forward slightly, and the shadow that fell across the seats in front of him grew dark and jagged.

“Interrogators: Minister for Magic Cornelius Oswald Fudge. Director of Magical Law Enforcement Amelia Susan Bones. Senior Undersecretary to the Minister Dolores Jane Umbridge.

Witness for the defense: Bryan Amos Watson.”

To the astonished relief of the three students, Bryan rose to his feet. He walked with slow strides toward the three chairs at the center of the room, ignoring the flash of concealed alarm that crossed Dawlish’s face, and came to stand beside Hermione on the left.

Throughout the Wizengamot, members leaned toward one another in murmured conference, exchanging pointed looks in his direction. Others glanced toward Dumbledore, who sat serenely at the front, expression composed.

Bryan paid none of them any attention. His eyes held nothing but Fudge’s face, and Fudge’s face was reddening.

“Very well—”

Fudge drew a long breath through his nose, and forced the words out through teeth that were not quite clenched but were working in that direction.

“Then we shall proceed. The charges.”

He produced a roll of parchment from within his robes with a flourish. He adjusted his spectacles, smoothed the parchment, and read.

“The Ministry charges all three defendants with violations of Article Thirteen of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy and of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. Furthermore, Harry James Potter is charged with conduct of a particularly serious nature, directly resulting in the death of a Muggle.”

He looked up from the parchment. His eyes moved across the three bewildered faces in the chairs before him.

“To the charges as brought by the Ministry—do you have anything to say in your defense?”

‘Defense.’

Harry felt a surge of something almost absurd.

Even now—even here, in the formal opening of a full Wizengamot hearing—the Ministry had not told them what, specifically, they were supposed to have done.

Charges had been named. A dead Muggle had been cited. The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy had been invoked. But the actual act, the thing that had allegedly been done—this had not been provided.

Harry did not know what he was being asked to defend himself against, and the confusion on his face was genuine enough that it was apparently legible: several Wizengamot members had quietly furrowed their brows and exchanged glances that suggested they had noticed the same gap in the proceedings.

Madam Bones shot a sharp, sideways glance at the parchment in Fudge’s hand. She adjusted her monocle with one finger, and for the moment said nothing. But she was watching.

“We don’t know.”

“We don’t know,” Ron said, his voice shaking badly. He looked up at the Minister, face white to the lips. “We don’t know what we’re supposed to have done.”

“Then what you are saying,” Fudge replied, his tone cold and deliberate, “is that the three of you refuse to admit to the charges?”

That framing raised immediate murmurs throughout the chamber.

Ding—

The sound cut through the swell of voices.

It was not Cornelius Fudge who called them to order.

The hand Bryan had rested on the arm of Hermione’s chair lifted, and with one extended finger, he flicked sharply at the head of a rising chain. The crisp, clear ring cut cleanly through the swell of noise.

Several steps away, Dawlish immediately jerked his wand up, body stiff, watching Bryan with open wariness.

“I believe many here have already noticed—” Bryan said, his tone entirely mild, “—that the Minister himself is attempting to use deliberately vague language to attach baseless charges to three innocent students.”

“Oh—baseless charges?” Umbridge rose from her seat behind Fudge, her simpering smile fixed in place, her two round eyes staring coldly at Bryan. “I do hope I’ve misunderstood you, Professor Watson. Because it rather sounds as though you’re suggesting that the Ministry is fabricating a case against these three students.”

Bryan stepped clear of Hermione’s chair, moving forward until he stood directly before all three students, between them and the full tiered tribunal.

Though his manner remained perfectly composed, the effect on the Wizengamot was immediately visible. Several members seated directly in his eyeline quietly shifted back in their seats. More than one glanced toward the back of Dumbledore’s silver head, as though confirming the existence of an anchor for reassurance.

“I would think—” Bryan did not spare Umbridge a glance. His eyes stayed fixed on Fudge’s grim face as he stared back at him. “—that the witches and wizards of the Wizengamot alike would expect the Ministry’s prosecution of Harry James Potter, Ronald Bilius Weasley, and Hermione Jean Granger to rest on genuine evidence.”

“The Ministry has evidence, Watson. Of course it does.” There was something triumphant in Fudge’s booming voice.

He had never expected to secure a conviction through sheer confusion alone. He was simply staring Watson down—waiting for him, or Dumbledore, to raise an objection and hand him his opening.

“The defendants—”

After casting a contemptuous sneer in Watson’s direction, Fudge’s expression hardened abruptly into something authoritative and immovable.

“Do you three admit that on the twenty-seventh of January of this year, you made purchases at Honeydukes Sweetshop in the village of Hogsmeade?”

‘What?’

‘What does Honeydukes have to do with any of this?’

The chamber erupted in murmurs. At the front, Dumbledore, who had been sitting with his head bowed in thought, gave the faintest crease of his brow.

The dazed expressions on all three students’ faces went blank with incomprehension. Harry and Ron looked genuinely lost. Hermione was working hard at something in her memory.

“Do the defendants admit to this or not?” Fudge’s voice pushed forward, filling the gap before the confusion could develop into something he didn’t want.

Harry answered without thinking. “I’m sorry—I don’t remember clearly… Honeydukes—” He drew a breath. “We’ve been there many times—almost every time Hogsmeade visits were open to students. But we can’t remember specifically which—”

“Can’t remember?” Fudge gave a cold laugh. He looked at Watson with open provocation. “I have evidence that will settle the matter. Dawlish—”

Behind Harry’s chair, Dawlish straightened at once, a flush rising instantly to his cheeks.

Under the gaze of the entire chamber, he sprinted from the courtroom at full speed, and two minutes later returned breathless—followed by a broad-shouldered, heavyset man who was completely bald.

Clatter—

Benches scraped. Members of the jury rose from their seats and craned their necks to look at the man who had just entered. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at the Ministry’s so-called witness in equal astonishment.

“The witness’s identity?” Madam Bones asked gravely.

“I—ah—esteemed members of the Wizengamot, the—the Minister, and—and—”

The sweating, bald man was trembling where he stood beside Bryan. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Bryan Watson. He couldn’t look at the composed, watchful face of Albus Dumbledore either. He simply hunched his neck down into his shoulders.

“My name is Ambrosius Flume—proprietor of Honeydukes Sweetshop, in the village of Hogsmeade.”

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