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Made of Common Clay	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 10987 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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Chapter Fourteen—Who Am Crownless Now
Midnight sees Harry waiting patiently in the Atrium, trailing his hand in the water of the fountain. He doesn’t glance at the statue. It’ll only irritate him.
Now and then a witch or wizard walks past. Their eyes dart towards him and then away. Harry watches them in interest. He thinks they may be distractions, there to make sure that his meeting with the group’s emissary doesn’t stand out, and there are enough passersby that he thinks this particular conspiracy must be wider spread than he believed.
“Lord Potter.”
The voice is low and comes from the left. Harry bows his head a little as he catches sight of a long nose under a drooping hooded cloak. “Sender of the golden letter,” he says, and waits until he sees a nod. “Are we to speak here? Or somewhere else?”
“Somewhere else, of course. Walk with me.”
The voice is slightly deep, but otherwise under a charm, Harry knows, to keep it from sounding familiar. From the way the emissary’s body balances as they walk through the Atrium and towards one of the alcoves that hold the fireplaces, though, he’s fairly sure she’s a woman.
“There are many people who are waiting to welcome you,” she murmurs, as she reaches into her cloak and pulls out a handful of Floo powder. “I will go before you, to reassure you that we mean no harm. The address is King’s Palace.”
Harry looks up at the ceiling, as if absorbed in thoughtful silence, because otherwise he’ll snort so hard that he’ll probably blow the Floo powder out of the woman’s hand.
She doesn’t seem to notice, but then many of these people never do, in Harry’s experience. She does call out “King’s Palace!” in a low voice as she steps into the fire, so at least he’s pretty sure that part isn’t a trap.
For a moment, Harry weighs whether he wants to follow. He thought she would lead him to some secluded corner of the Ministry, not an entirely different place.
But then he shrugs. No matter how powerful this particular conspiracy thinks he is, he can be ninety percent sure that they’re still underestimating him. In practice, everyone has been, even criminals who’ve faced him several times, unless they’re Ron and Hermione.
He casts the powder in, speaks the words without breaking out in laughter—which is a real accomplishment--and then whirls out in the middle of a room that’s high and decorated in crimson and gold. At least it looks as if the crimson comes from the carpet and nodding bunches of roses in delicate porcelain vases, and the gold from cloth of gold in tapestries, not actual walls encrusted with the stuff. Harry glances around, taking notice of the ornamental pillars and the ones which aren’t ornamental, and the different decorations that enemies can throw.
“Lord Potter.”
This particular person has an unhooded face, but because they’re bowing in front of him, Harry can’t see it at first. He raises an eyebrow when she stands. “Lady Shafiq.”
“I hope you will forgive me for the necessary deception I must maintain in the Sun Chamber,” she says, and her hands wring together for a minute before she follows Harry’s gaze, grimaces a little, and stills them. “There is nothing I can do as long as I have to watch my back so closely, but I do support you. I go along with plans that might endanger you only in hope of a better tomorrow.”
“And you think I might bring this better tomorrow?” Harry moves his hand casually to the back of his neck. He concentrates all his power in his fingers, for a spell that he mastered windlessly a long time ago but hasn’t cast often lately. Inveniam veritatem, he mutters in his mind, focusing all his will on the words.
Unseen by Shafiq—he hopes—his fingers clench on the back of his neck and scratch as if at a hard itch, embedding the magic into the skin. At least, that’s what will happen if the spell works the way it’s supposed to.
“Of course. I think you are the only one powerful enough to make a king.”
The words are echoed a second later by a loud buzz in Harry’s ears, as if someone has stirred up a horsefly. He smiles a little as Shafiq takes his arm and escorts him into the next room, and she can assume it’s for her if she wants.
Lie. The spell that lets him hear lies seems to be functioning as it should.
Of course, Harry can’t be absolutely sure what she’s lying about. It could be his power, or it could be that she thinks someone else would make a better king, or that she doesn’t intend to make him a king at all. But not everyone here will make statements as ambiguous as her initial one, and that will let Harry figure more things out.
*
The room that Shafiq leads him into is a smaller copy of the one that he and his guide Flooed into. This one has delicate carvings on the stone walls instead of tapestries, though, and more sturdy pillars and fewer ornamental ones.
And it has a mirror embedded in the wall nearest the huge, roaring fireplace. Harry takes one look at it and feels the powerful, Dark enchantment moving in the back of it. This is like the Mirror of Erised, but probably worse. He averts his eyes from it.
“Lord Potter! What a joy to see you!”
This is a tall, florid man with a beaming face that Harry struggles to recognize. He manages to get away with bowing his head and murmuring something incomprehensible and appropriate, though. He honestly can’t remember if this man is part of the Sun Chamber and just one of the quieter Lords, or if he’s met him at some Ministry function.
Luckily, Shafiq says, “Don’t be so exaggerated, Roland,” and that sparks Harry’s memory. Roland Tessanon, “head” of one of those families that claims relation of some sort to pure-bloods but doesn’t sit in the Sun Chamber. It was at the Ministry that Harry met him, arguing fervently against more rights for house-elves and werewolves.
Harry makes sure the dislike is out of his eyes when he straightens. And if Tessanon assumes his smile is at the welcome and not at the fantasies of killing the bastard that play through Harry’s head…again, he can assume that all he wants.
“Lord Potter knows that I’m sincere in my welcome.” Tessanon leans towards him and beams confidingly again. “We both want the Ministry to go down in a cloud of dust, don’t we?”
“We do,” says Harry, and it’s honest. So is Tessanon, since Harry’s spell isn’t buzzing at him. “But I don’t see how you can do that by making me king.”
“Of course you don’t! Not yet! But we’re going to tell you tonight!”
Lie. They’ll be telling him something, all right, but doubtless keeping their own secrets. Harry smiles back as politely as he can and accompanies them over to the large table that stretches along one wall. It’s laden with huge plates of almost every kind of food that Harry can recognize, bar the ones with obvious Muggle influences. There are delicate wedges carved from different-smelling cheese, roast venison and peacock and wild boar and quail, tottering ice sculptures with sauce of some kind poured on them, bread swimming in golden butter and warm brown honey, and drinks of all kinds. Harry’s sorry that it’s not the sort of gathering where he can trust himself with Firewhisky.
“Do eat, Lord Potter.” Tessanon picks up a plate and presses it into his hand. “This is in your honor.”
That much is true, although they’re probably trying to impress him by pointing out that they do have the money to pull off what they’re planning. Harry gives both Shafiq and Tessanon polite smiles and places a few delicate slices of meat and cheese on his plate.
Tessanon laughs. “A picky eater?”
“Oh, no,” Harry says. “Just polite. Not everyone is here yet, are they?”
“No, but they’re waiting for us in another room,” Shafiq says. “They all have their plates already.”
That is also true, apparently. Amazing. Harry allows himself to choose of the bread and the pudding with a more generous hand, since those foods tend to show the effects of poisonous potions more obviously. It helps him to focus on the food if he’s thinking about the ways they might try to control him and not how incredibly wasteful all this spending was. The things he and Hermione could have bought, the jobs they could have given Muggleborns and paid for…
Well, in the end the money of this group won’t be enough to save them.
Finally, when they obviously accept that Harry isn’t going to touch any of the drinks but a glass goblet of water, Shafiq and Tessanon urge him through the carved double doors into a shining, overflowing hall. Harry halts, staring at the crowded tables of people standing up to applaud him.
They include some of the people from the Sun Chamber, more Aurors than he thought possible, some wizards he’s fairly sure are Unspeakables without their masks, young witches barely out of Hogwarts, reporters, and a few shopkeepers from Diagon Alley. Harry bows cautiously to them. He thought it would just be people from the Sun Chamber and those related to them. That they’ve got people who don’t make as much money and have less reason to believe in blood purity following them…
Of course, that doesn’t mean they have Muggleborns. Harry cocks his head at Shafiq as she ushers him towards the gathering. “Is there anyone here like me? With a Muggleborn parent or Muggle grandparent?”
Shafiq’s mouth tightens, and she says, “I’m sure there must be someone.”
Lie. That makes Harry feel a little better. It is possible for poorer people to be as bigoted as the rich, after all, but it would be beyond surprising, into alarming, if they could have brought themselves to ignore their prejudice and start working with Muggleborns and half-bloods.
Harry shakes hands, and learns names, and smiles, and declaims, and pretends, and dances around the truth. Most of the people who speak to him have no intention of doing that.
“I’m so glad, Lord Potter.”
“I can’t wait until you’re king! It’s time that our world had a centralized government who isn’t the Ministry!”
“I know you had a Mu—a Muggleborn for a mother, but she must have done right to produce someone so strong! And you look a lot like a pure-blood Potter, anyway!”
Dismayingly, those are all true.
“I look forward to what you can do for pure-bloods under your reign. I’m sure that most of us have the same goals.”
“I’m willing to teach you everything I know about navigating the dangerous political waters, you know.”
“A strong king is what we need right now.”
More reassuringly, those are all lies.
Harry is finally able to take his place and eat. He casts with his wand under the table, and a few times, with the twitch of his fingers and a lash of wandless magic to make sure that the food is all clean. There’s one piece of venison that isn’t, although it appears to contain only a small amount of a potion related to the Calming Draught that is supposed to make someone relax and listen to “reasonable” suggestions. Harry still contrives to knock the venison to the floor in such a way that it looks like an accident.
“Do excuse me,” says Shafiq, whose elbow Harry has managed to jostle without appearing to jostle it, so that it was apparently her and not him who knocked the venison to the floor. “I am clumsy when I’m excited.”
Lie. Harry sits back with a bland smile. “Perhaps I could learn more about what everyone wants to accomplish here?”
“Of course,” Shafiq says, and turns around and nods. Most of the chattering people fall silent at once, and fix Harry with shining, staring eyes. Harry sips once more from his water glass before he puts it down. So Shafiq is some sort of leader here. That’s worth knowing.
“Lord Potter wishes to know what we want from him.” Shafiq turns her head slowly, so slowly that she looks like it’s balanced on gears. “Should we begin with the goals, or the factions, or individually?”
Goals. Factions. Harry sips some more water again after all, to mask the grin that wants to blossom across his face. So they’re already plotting against each other. Also good to know, so that he doesn’t have to worry about them presenting a united front against him.
No one speaks up at first, and Shafiq is just opening her mouth when Tessanon jumps in. “Well, if no one else is brave enough, I can say it.” He beams at Harry. “I was a Gryffindor at Hogwarts, you know.”
Once upon a time, Harry thinks dryly. But he makes his expression bland and polite as he nods to Tessanon. There are Gryffindors everywhere, in all sorts of disgraceful positions. Harry started getting used to it when he found out about Pettigrew.
“So.” Tessanon smooths his hands down the front of his robe. “We want complete separation from Muggles. Including Muggleborns.”
True enough, Harry thinks when he hears no buzz. He props his chin on his fist and smiles a little at Tessanon. “And what makes you think that I would want to help you with that, when my mother was Muggleborn?”
“You have to admit she was one in a million, though, Lord Potter,” says Tessanon as earnestly as though they’re friends. “Most of them aren’t as powerful and don’t have children like you. They might even go back to the Muggle world and breed with people without magic. We can’t have that.”
“You think them having children with Muggles weakens the Statute of Secrecy?” Harry asks. Tessanon’s words have been true so far. He wants to know what else they’ll reveal if he keeps asking questions.
“Not just that,” Shafiq says, and Harry turns to find her eyes shining with sincerity. “It weakens the bloodlines. It creates children who will probably go back to the Muggle world more often, since both their sets of grandparents are there. It creates Squibs.”
Harry’s spell tells him she really believes that, although of course it’s not true. Harry only nods. “And what else do you want?”
“We want the rule of the pure and the strong,” Shafiq says. She’s smiling more cautiously now, but there’s still that gleam in her eyes, and Harry isn’t about to forget what he saw. “You’re one of the strong, Lord Potter. Surely you can understand why we might desire the end of the weak’s domination?”
Harry smiles at her. “Give me an example,” he murmurs, “of the weak.”
It’s not Shafiq who responds, but a tall man with iron-hard features that Harry thinks is an unmasked Unspeakable. “The Ministry flunkies who do everything that the Minister tells them to,” he growls. “The ones who collect the bribes and don’t distribute them. You know the truth about the Ministry, Lord Potter, how it’s riddled with corruption. It’s time it fell.”
“And what do you want to replace it with?”
“The pure and the strong!”
That shout comes from several voices. Harry pretends to probe his ears, and is rewarded with anxious laughter. Yes, they really want him to come and do something for them. He conceals a sigh.
“You’re willing to accept Muggleborns among the strong if they’re powerful in magic?” he asks. He wants to know if he’s working with pure-blood bigotry of the usual kind or not.
That gets several different kinds of traded glances, and then Shafiq sniffs. “No. None of them have the right kind of blood. Half-bloods are as low as we’re willing to go. Or perhaps Muggleborns who have married other Muggleborns and lived in the wizarding world for generations. But there aren’t many of those,” she adds in satisfaction, as if driving a whole group of people away from your world is something to be proud of.
Harry looks at her with eyes that he hopes aren’t too malicious, since he does want to encourage them to confide in him. “What will happen to the Muggleborns who already know about the wizarding world and live here?”
“Hopefully they can be encouraged to see the truth and leave for their own good.”
“But if not?”
“Then mass Memory Charms. And if not…” Shafiq shrugs. “They can fall with the Ministry.” She leans forwards confidingly. “I understand that you like and work with them, Lord Potter. But remember that they were among the ones who would have sent you out to defeat a Dark Lord all by yourself.”
And the pure-bloods were the ones behind the white masks, which is somehow better. But Shafiq’s words haven’t been lies for a while now. Harry just has one more question to ask.
“Do you think I can be a good king?”
“You are magically powerful and recognized. That’s what we need in a king.”
Lie. Good. They want to use him as a figurehead, just as Harry suspected. And after the last bit about Muggleborns, he’s hardly going to have any fear of what he needs to do to them.
He salutes Shafiq with his water glass, and she relaxes. “Then please tell me more.”
While I make you fall, along with the Ministry.
*
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