“Meeting in five, sir,” Cooper said affirmatively, calling from the door. Harry did not look up. He did not wish to behold the frosty expression on the man’s face. His own memories plagued him enough as matters stood; he didn’t need the accusatory glares of his fellows. He preferred to keep his eyes glued to the inoffensive pattern in the wood of his desk.
Expressions of contempt were easier to manage than the unchecked gloating of his other coworkers. Actually, Harry thought grimly, I think I can handle it. I got used to the treatment in school. No amount of experience, on the other hand, could properly arm him against the faces of loathsome disappointment of those who considered him the greatest traitor of all history, magical and otherwise. He could not stand meeting the gaze of those who once shook his hand in the street and thanked him. Those wizards of a lost generation… the incapacitated men and women deprived of their last hope. Yes, he decided. It’s the heartbreak I can’t bear. Every day felt like Judgment Day. In his darkest moments, Harry found himself picturing himself in hell, toiling among the others deserving of condemnation. Or was he in purgatory? Despite the bleakness of his situation, he was surviving.
Cooper knocked again. Harry scrambled to gather the necessary papers in a futile attempt to hide the fact that he had been brooding rather than preparing himself. Cooper poked his head around the door. “Minister?”
“Yes, I’m ready,” Harry said impatiently. He slid the stack of papers into the crook of his arm and followed the older man out of the office. Harry wondered vaguely if his assistant had pictured working for an eighteen-year-old antichrist when he had applied for a Ministry position ten years before. Of course not, he answered his own question. That was another lifetime.
As they walked, Harry attempted to straighten the documents he carried, eyes fixed on the back of Cooper’s head. Meetings. He hated them. Conducting official gatherings always filled him with deep frustration. All he did was relay Voldemort’s instructions. Playing Minister was truly pointless, but the Dark Lord had commanded him to act as his mouthpiece. It was a clever but cruel method to keep the population in check, and Harry could not help but begrudgingly admire its effectiveness. As Minister, he had essentially been stripped of his own voice, and consequently his ability to obey his conscience had evaporated. In response, most would-be resisters found themselves at a loss. Once they had treated him as a rallying point; now they regarded him as a dictator. Never had Harry felt less like a leader than the day he had assumed office.
Harry preferred not to dwell on the tragedy of his position. If he suffered, so be it. He had chosen the only avenue presented him, and he refused to regret having done as much.
At last Cooper rounded the final corner. Harry was grateful for the absence of trips between floors; confinement in the lift with his inferiors was one of the more unpleasant aspects of his day.
The conference room was full, the department heads waiting nonchalantly around the table. They gradually lapsed into silence as Harry placed himself at the head. They did not seem bothered by his presence, and yes”Harry glanced around”they all bore gloating expressions. There was no avoiding the irritation in this room, Harry reminded himself. The men and women around him were the victors. His cause had failed, had lost.
Harry had been bracing himself mentally for this meeting; it was one of those unpleasant formal sessions with the complete set of department assholes. As those in attendance adjusted their papers and turned to face him, Harry cleared his throat.
A dozen smirks greeted his eyes. Bellatrix leaned back in her chair, ripping up a piece of parchment. Umbridge sat heavily in her chair, her little hands folded on top of a bulging file marked “Justice.” Blaise looked aloof as he regarded Harry from his place at the far end of the table, but then that was to be expected.
Harry sighed internally. “Good afternoon,” he began dully. “The Dark Lord would like to express his pleasure with your efforts to restore order. His primary objective for today’s meeting is to discuss his thoughts on how deserving wizards can obtain pardons.”
Several people around the table nodded in appreciation.
“The plan caters to the younger witches and wizards,” Harry said, “but all who are willing to submit themselves will be given a chance.”
“Humph,” said Bellatrix, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Too generous.”
“The Dark Lord considers assimilation one of the top priorities for those of noble descent,” Harry continued. “That is why he will be encouraging marriages and procreation in pureblood families. Young adults will be expected to rise to the occasion within a year. Those already married should produce a child to show their allegiance. Those too old may volunteer to serve the Dark Lord in some other fashion. In fact, he expects all loyal servants to show their support through service in some form.”
Umbridge sneezed loudly, causing the person next to her to jump slightly. “Of course,” she said in a simpering tone. “And I expect as leaders, we ought to set the example for the impressionable masses.”
“The Dark Lord wishes his supporters to comply with his plan as a token of loyalty,” Harry went on, ignoring his former professor.
“Including the marriage and everything?” Blaise asked in a silken voice.
Harry eyed him curiously. Who could Blaise be possibly interested in other than his reflection? “Yes,” he said cautiously.
Bellatrix smacked the table. “An excellent plan,” she said in a carrying voice. “The pureblood genes shall flourish. No longer will they be tainted by the filth of worthless Mudbloods!”
“Or half-breeds!” Umbridge cried.
Harry sighed. He gestured to Cooper. “Let us adjourn.”
After lunch, Harry retreated to his office to spend some time alone. It was absurd that he could possibly desire more time alone with his thoughts, but the alternative was far more undesirable. He gazed around the room. At least the paintings were mostly vacant.
A knock at the door interrupted Harry’s moment of silence. “Yes?” he called.
Cooper entered quietly. “Important development,” he stated, jaw set. “Longbottom in Communications is suspected of illegal contact with Mudbloods.”
Harry’s heart sank. Those reports were the last he wanted to hear, because the moment they reached his ears, he was responsible for seeing them taken care of.
“Watch him,” he said finally. “We’ll need to build a solid case against him.”
“Yes, sir,” Cooper replied. “And Corner, his associate?”
“Conduct a low profile inquiry,” Harry directed. “If he’s involved, too, it should become clear soon enough.”
“Yes, sir,” Cooper said. He did not leave.
Harry sensed his hesitation. He knew what the man was waiting for: a sign, an indirect order, a smile, anything. Harry could not give Cooper what he hoped for. Though his mind searched tirelessly for a loophole, he had none. Internally, he scanned his options incessantly, grasping at straws, desperate to find a way to get a message out or to inhibit his master’s designs… but such draining frustrations merely left him with an unpleasant headache.
“You may go,” Harry said in a low voice.
Cooper resumed his usual hardened expression and departed.
Unbreakable meant unbreakable.
Harry’s sense of uselessness had pervaded since the day of his inception as puppet-Minister. He had spoken to the wizarding population, his subjects, in a scripted address. As Voldemort’s words had poured forth from his lips, dripping with bile, Harry had battled with himself internally, seeking a nonexistent solution, a way to deliver a message of rebellion to his listeners, but none came.
None ever would. At the end of the day, he was a wandless mass of blood, bones, and flesh, with a core slowly rotting from the inside out. It did not matter that Harry was the master of the Elder Wand, for he had a master of his own who kept the wand for himself. Harry was lucky to get to cast a spell for a special occasion. The Dark Lord preferred not to share his wand.
He was useless. He could do nothing to stay Voldemort’s hand, though the fire of his resolve to protect and save his fellows survived. As each day continued the assault on his deadened spirit, however, his faith slipped away. Nothing would change. Voldemort couldn’t kill them, so the killing was truly at a standstill. In Harry’s lowest moods, he even caught himself thinking they were better off this way.
* * * * *
Harry watched them go, his body utterly devoid of life. The people with enough luck to walk away”at least for the time being”drifted into the castle. Harry pictured them shuffling towards the fireplaces, heads bowed in submission and hands cupped to receive their dose of floo powder. Like souls in purgatory, Harry thought, recalling a painting his overbearing Aunt had once shown him. “Now this is art!” she had said with a sniff. “Sinners where they belong.”
Death Eaters queued for orders, which Voldemort gave directly; Harry’s only use was to act as the Dark Lord’s outward face. Voldemort’s supporters split into teams as Harry watched. The majority went to parcel off the shell-shocked wizards who would soon find themselves excommunicated from the magic world. At King’s Cross, Harry could imagine how they would be shoved onto the Muggle Platform, the gate sealed behind them. Those Death Eaters who would not participate in this process headed toward the group of Undesirables. These Voldemort wanted to deal with personally.
Harry waited for a lull in Voldemort’s commentary to his second-in-command. He had made his choice for a reason, and he intended to see it through. “What now?” he questioned, standing at his master’s shoulder.
Voldemort looked at him and released a high, cold laugh. “So ready to do my bidding!” he marveled. “I intend to dispose of my enemies, naturally.” He reached for the wand in Harry’s hand.
Harry sensed a constricted feeling in his chest. “No,” he said through gritted teeth. “You said you’d let them live.”
Voldemort sighed but did not lower his arm. “Now, now, Harry. Surely you understand. I promised not to hurt your beloved, but I made no such promise about your comrades. Besides, these wizards have defied me categorically. They have sought to undo me for decades. I cannot allow them to continue, whereas I am confident that the younger, more impressionable lot can adapt with time.”
Harry shook his head angrily.
Voldemort looked displeased. “Come now, Harry. I require the wand.”
Harry only gripped it more tightly, though he began to feel an uncomfortable pang in his heart, as though it were threatening to merely stop beating at any moment.
“I will not tolerate much more of this,” Voldemort warned. “Recall that I only need to give the order, and you will obey me or face death.”
Harry took a breath. There was nothing he could do. He stared at the wand in his hand, a terrible feeling consuming him: hatred. He fixed his eyes on the Elder Wand, observing its shape, its color, its length. The Deathstick indeed. It was his wand, but since he belonged to Voldemort, it was his master’s wand, too. How odd it was to think that they had begun with mysteriously connected wands, only to end up sharing the same wand… the Wand of Destiny.
“I no longer desire you to hold the wand,” Voldemort said decisively. “Return it to me.”
Harry begrudgingly stuck out his arm, like a frustrated child. He wondered that Voldemort had allowed him to hold a wand at all. He supposed it was simply so he could accomplish things without using his own hands.
Voldemort accepted the wand and stalked across the grass to the newly formed line of remaining prisoners. Arthur Weasley stood at the head. Elder Wand in hand, Voldemort looked quite at ease. Harry followed him worriedly.
“Ah,” Voldemort said smugly. “A long line of defiance stands before me. At last, the pathetic remnants of the Order of the Phoenix shall perish.”
Bellatrix materialized at the Dark Lord’s side. Her eyes shone with a manic glee. She asked in a crisp voice, “Shall I make them kneel?”
“Yes,” Voldemort murmured. Arthur fell swiftly to his knees, as if kicked from behind.
Silently, Voldemort raised the Elder Wand. Harry looked on in horror.
“Avada Kedavra!”
With a blinding force, the spell burst from the Elder Wand, but instead of cutting through Arthur’s chest, it ricocheted off his body and flew backwards into the sky. Everyone within range dodged its path, throwing themselves heavily to the ground.
Harry was the first to roll to his feet and assess the situation. Arthur had been knocked down, but he was otherwise unharmed; the person behind him helped him awkwardly to his feet, where he stood, breathing in great gulps as if his lungs had opened for the first time.
Voldemort, furious at having fallen to the ground twice in one night, violently repelled any attempt to help him to his feet. Harry watched him rise in an uncoordinated stumble. Before he could restrain himself, Harry let out a delirious shout of laughter.
“SILENCE!” Voldemort shrieked. Harry obeyed instantly. “Why are you laughing?”
His reply permitted, Harry said loudly, “You can’t hurt them, remember? They’re under a protection stronger than any oath.”
Voldemort growled angrily, his eyes ablaze. Realizing his hands were tied, he turned on his heel and stormed away. “Escort them to Azkaban,” he screamed as he departed.
Harry turned urgently to Arthur. “I’m sorry”I had no choice””
Arthur nodded curtly. “I understand,” he said quietly, trying for a smile as Death Eaters swooping in to pull the prisoners away.
Feeling magically reassured that his rash decision had not been in vain, Harry watched them go. Their hands bound behind them, they fell into a line. Once again, Harry was reminded of the old painting of sinners in purgatory. He supposed such a description was not far from the truth. There they were, villains readying to meet their doom. To picture it, Harry had only to adjust his view of what heaven must be, for he knew he would be there soon: a Death Eater’s paradise, complete with angels swathed in black robes and serpentine tattoos on their forearms.
The Dunnest Smoke of Hell by Scarlet Crystal
Chapter Notes: "When our actions do not,
Our fears do make us traitors."
--Macbeth