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The Dust of Water	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 20632 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

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Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Twenty-One—Dealing With the Ministry
            Ron came back with a slow, measured knocking on the front door, instead of stepping through the Floo. That told Harry, long before he went to open it, who he would probably find on the other side—that was, not Ron alone.
            Sure enough, a tall Auror Harry had probably known at one point was standing beside Ron. He had long dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a long black beard looped into his robes at the waist. He held a shimmering glass instrument; Harry had no idea what it was. He nodded. “Mr. Potter. Can we come in?”
            Malfoy had gone back home last night. He’d said he needed to rest and consider what to do next as well as gather Potions ingredients. Harry had been more than ready to agree. Malfoy had done so much for him. He deserved a holiday from Harry’s demands for a while.
            But as he watched the two Aurors come into the house and Ron not look at him, Harry couldn’t help wishing for him to be here.
            The Auror glanced around, then went straight into the kitchen and put his glass instrument down on the table. He turned to face Harry. “You know who I am and what one of these is—”
            “No. Those are other things I’ve forgotten.”
            The Auror frowned and glanced at Ron, who only shrugged. Harry had to hide a smile. Ron looked as resigned as he used to when he knew they were going to get detention and nothing they said would help it.
            “All right. I suppose I should have realized. My name is Auror Kenneth Morganwood. I’m an expert in difficult legal cases like this—cases where people have cast Memory Charms on themselves, where crimes have been committed under the Imperius Curse, and so on. This is a Mind-Glass. It will help me mirror your state of mind at the time you were committing the crimes.”
            “Does it do that even when the memories aren’t there anymore?” Harry asked, staring at the Mind-Glass. It sounded like it would be useful, but what had happened to him was also different from a Memory Charm.
            “Technically, someone who’s been Obliviated thinks the memories are gone, as well. The Mind-Glass can still mirror them.”
            Harry kept his mouth shut on his further doubts. Malfoy would probably say it was wise anyway. Following Auror Morganwood’s directions, he moved around in front of the Mind-Glass and stared down at it. It looked like a round mirror balanced between two arching glass poles. There was also a thin, straight piece of glass rising from the top of the mirror, like a unicorn’s horn. It even had a few subtle spirals around it.
            “Look straight into the mirror,” Auror Morganwood began, in the tones of someone who said this a lot. “Think of anything you want. The Mind-Glass needs relaxation to reach into your head, more than anything else.”
            “So it’s not like Legilimency?”
            “No. Occlumency cannot fool a Mind-Glass, any more than a Memory Charm can hide the memories that have been covered up from one.”
            Harry wondered about a curse that had caused brain damage, but he stared into the mirror and tried to empty his mind out. He could hear Auror Morganwood chanting soft words beside him, and kind of see him making little passes with his wand.
            I should probably concentrate on the mirror. Harry leaned forwards and did his best to study his reflection in the glass, the face that was still unfamiliar compared to what he thought he should look like, without looking at anything else.
            There was a sensation for a second like he was swimming without a mask. Harry resisted the urge to spit out water. The sensation brushed through his mind a lot more gently than Snape’s Legilimency, at least. More like Dumbledore’s.
            Then there was a moment when Harry seemed to crash through something, like the surface of water or a pane of glass. He leaped and shook his head. Then he turned towards Auror Morganwood, wondering if he’d screwed things up.
            Morganwood was staring at the Mind-Glass. Harry followed his glance. There was a huge crack down the middle of the mirror, and one of the legs was splintered as though someone had picked it up and hammered it into the table.
            Harry winced. That was probably expensive. “Um. Sorry.”
            “That has never happened before. Of course, I’ve never tried to treat someone with the condition that Healer Granger told me you have, where the mind and magic sacrificed something to keep you safe from a curse.”
            Auror Morganwood picked up the Mind-Glass and turned it around, careful of the sharp edges. Ron cleared his throat. “Can something be done to fix it?”
            “It’s complicated magic. One reason it works so well is because the spells woven all over it complement each other and reinforce their own working. I’ll probably have to take it back to the Unspeakables and get them to fix it.”
            “Damn. I can pay for it.”
            Malfoy would probably say he was stupid to make that offer when he didn’t know how much it would cost, but Harry meant it. He would do anything he could to make up for stupid mistakes. And his money could do more good repairing something he’d accidentally broken than paying Kelvin or sitting in his Gringotts account.
            Auror Morganwood relaxed. “Thank you, Mr. Potter. But I’m afraid you can’t. This can’t be bought, and from what the Unspeakables told me, the cost to repair it comes in time and magic, not Galleons. But I’ll let you know if you can do something.”
            “What did that mean, that it cracked? I mean, I know you said it never happened before, but can you speculate?’
            “I should be extremely reluctant to do so…” Morganwood seemed to see Harry’s pleading expression, and sighed. “But I would say that the Mind-Glass tried to perform its job on something that was not present to be searched. It tried to reflect something with no reflection.”
            “Something like memories that aren’t there?”
            “Possibly. But as I’ve said, this has never happened before, and so I have no way to know for certain.”
            Morganwood’s voice was restrained. He reached out and picked up the Mind-Glass, cradling it against him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” he added, as he turned towards the door.
            Harry expected Ron to go with him, considering Ron had brought Morganwood along in the first place and hadn’t said anything the whole time they were there. But even though he frowned and squirmed a little and shook his head as if he had a bad taste in his mouth, he stayed.
            Harry waited until the door shut, then folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Well?”
            “I thought Morganwood would be able to tell if you were innocent or not. He’s done wonders with people who have a Memory Charm on them and can’t remember if they did something of their own free will.”
            “But I don’t have a Memory Charm on me—”
            “I know that! I know! But we’ve—I’ve—seen him do wonders. That’s why I thought he could help. That was the only reason.”
            “Do you want me to be guilty, Ron?”
            Ron’s face crumpled, and he sat down at the table and put his head in his hands. Harry sighed soundlessly, but continued standing there. He really didn’t know the answer to his question, and he wanted to know. Walking away or prodding Ron would just hurt more at the moment.
            “I want to understand what happened. That’s what I really want, more than anything else.”
            Harry nodded once. “I can respect that. But what if it turns out there aren’t any ultimate answers?”
            “There have to be. You said you knew a little.”
            “Just a little. And I haven’t been able to tell much about motivations yet. Plus, one of the memories I was able to recover had you in it, so you must have known about it. Death Eaters attacking the Burrow? It must have been soon after the war,” Harry added when Ron looked up at him with a blank face.
            “That wasn’t a crime, mate. We set up an ambush for them. You were just defending yourself!”
            “But that’s the kind of thing where I would have no idea of knowing what happened if I don’t have someone else to confirm it. And if there’s no one else, or if the memory only has actions and words and nothing about reasons, what am I going to do?”
            “How come we never knew that you were so bad? What made you decide to start consorting with Kelvin in the first place?”
            Harry hesitated. Did he want to tell Ron what he’d told Malfoy? There was only a guess, in the end, not proof. And while Malfoy had agreed with him without hesitation, that might only be because he’d suspected Old Harry wasn’t “good” for a while before the memory loss. Harry didn’t feel like arguing with Ron that Old Harry had been a hero.
            “What made you decide?” Ron whispered.
            Harry shook his head a little. “I don’t think we’ll ever know for certain,” he said. “And I still want to know whether the Ministry is going to try me formally or not.”
            “I don’t think we know yet. We’ve never had a case like this one. I got Morganwood involved because the only precedents I knew were cases like the ones he handles, and if he can’t help us, then what comes next?”
            Harry managed a wan smile. “Then if no one knows, I reckon we should just wait and see what Kingsley does.”
            “You could come and visit us, mate. We miss you, and it feels like you’ve done nothing but stay in this house and brood about memories. And spend time with Malfoy, probably.”
            Harry sharply bit the corner of his mouth and thought about it. Then he nodded. “I do miss you and Hermione. And I’d like to get to know the kids better.”
            Ron started a little. “They miss their Uncle Harry.”
            “Have you explained to them why I’m going to act strange and not remember everything they’re saying?”
            “They’ll get used to it. Kids are kids, and as much as I love Rose, well, she’s only five. And Hugo has no attention span at all.”
            “Did you and Hermione explain it to them, though?”
            “We didn’t know how.”
            Harry relented, mostly because of the expression on Ron’s face. If he’d had kids and was in Ron and Hermione’s position, he probably wouldn’t know how to, either. “All right. I’ll come for dinner.”
            “Good, mate. We miss you.”
            No. You miss who you think I used to be.
            But if he didn’t want to talk about the Ministry and the crimes he might have committed right now, he didn’t want to talk about Old Harry being dead, either. Harry found his cloak and followed Ron into the Floo.
*
            Dinner was excruciating.
            Harry supposed Hugo was young enough that he didn’t really remember Harry; he might not remember anyone he didn’t see for more than a few weeks. But he still should have looked familiar, and he didn’t. And Rose kept coming up to him with books and asking him to do the voices for the characters and asking him to play chess in “the special way,” and Harry had no idea what she meant and had to look helplessly at Hermione.
            Hermione did try to explain what chess in “the special way” meant, but in the end, she simply sighed and knelt in front of Rose and put her hands on her shoulders and whispered, “Uncle Harry was sick for a while, all right, Rose? And that means he can’t remember some things, and he needs your understanding while he gets better.”
            “How did he get sick? Did he fall down?”
            Harry gave a small smile. That would be a lot more understandable and curable than what had happened.
            “Someone hurt him.” Hermione gave Harry an apologetic look over Rose’s head. Harry waved his hand. Honestly, he felt more comfortable now than he had all evening. “He’s hoping he’ll be better soon.”
            “I will,” said Harry, and Rose twisted around to look at him, nibbling on a strand of hair the way Harry remembered Hermione doing when she was studying Ancient Runes. “And I’d like to get to know you. Why don’t you read the book with the voices?”
            “I can’t read!”
            Harry had to hold back a snicker. Rose was giving him the kind of look she would probably give most of her classmates in a few years.
            “Well, I can read it to you,” said Ron, and snatched Rose off the floor and planted such a large kiss on her cheek that she wriggled and squealed. “And then Uncle Harry can listen and know how to read it next time.”
            Harry would have followed them and listened in willingly, but Hermione caught his eye, and looked at Ron the next second. Ron nodded his surrender and led Rose off. Hugo was already asleep on a blanket in the middle of the floor, one hand curled next to him with his thumb almost in his mouth.
            “What are you going to do next?”
            “Direct as always, Hermione.”
            “I don’t see the point in putting it off. You said—you said Old Harry was dead, and he is. We need to get over that.”
            Hermione stared at the floor. Harry kept quiet. He knew it couldn’t be easy for them, to only have seven years of friendship to fall back on instead of seventeen.
            If they could even see it that way. After all, Harry felt like he was a different person, so it only made sense if they did, too.
            “I don’t know yet,” Harry said. “I’m trying to decide what I should do about my past. I was willing to agree to a full Ministry investigation at first, but now Ron—he told you about Auror Morganwood?” Hermione nodded, and Harry sighed and shifted on their comfortable couch, glancing around the drawing room. It was full of lamps and furniture and books and photographs that he knew should bring back memories to him, and didn’t. “If they can’t actually pull my memories up, I don’t know what to do.”
            “What are you going to do about Ginny?”
            “I know you don’t want to hear this, Hermione, but I really don’t think there’s going to be any more me and Ginny.”
            “She loves you.”
            Harry almost asked Hermione to repeat that, but he knew pretty well what she’d said. “I know. But—Hermione, this sounds horrible, but I’m wondering how much he really loved her. And the person she loves isn’t here anymore, even if he existed at one point.”
            “You don’t think you could come to care for her?”
            “Doesn’t she deserve more than that?”
            “Yes, she does.”
            Hermione was quiet after that, and Harry sat with her. He didn’t think he had anything to say, just like he didn’t have anything else to say about the Ministry right now. The resolution of both situations depended on other people.
            He knew what he hoped for: that the Ministry would decide they couldn’t try him without more direct evidence, and that Ginny would decide he wasn’t worth mooning over and move on. Ginny deserved to have someone who would love her and remember their every moment together. The Ministry deserved—well, maybe it was more about what his victims deserved.
            But Malfoy was right about one thing. Going and sitting in Azkaban would help nobody.
            Rose’s laughter soared. Harry turned and began listening to the way Ron read her the story. At least he could make new memories.
*
            This time, Harry stepped into Grimmauld Place and knew that it wasn’t Ron and Hermione who had disturbed the harmony of the house.
            There was a broken dish on the floor by the sink and a handprint in what looked like grease on the wall. Harry leaned his back against the fireplace, his hand clamped on his wand. The handprint was too big to be a human’s.
            Then he realized it just trailed down the wall. But it still didn’t look human. It looked like a house-elf’s.
            “Kreacher?” Harry made the word deliberately so soft he almost didn’t hear it himself. A summons didn’t have to be loud to call a house-elf.
            Nothing happened for twenty heartbeats. Then a muffled struggle erupted from the drawing room.
            Harry sprinted towards the sound, ducking low to avoid a Stunner as he came out through the kitchen doorway. Then he rolled along the bottom of the wall, grunted as he bumped his ribs on the lowest step, and cast a Disarming Charm in the general direction of the noise. One wand came flying over to him.
            But two voices spoke at the same time. One was spitting curses in what Harry thought was French. The second voice was the one he’d heard in the Pensieve memory of the graveyard. “Just because you took my colleague’s wand doesn’t mean you can take mine, Mr. Potter. And we do have your house-elf. Please stand up and come out like a civilized person.”
            Maybe there are only two of them. Better odds than Harry had expected, for a second. He stood up and said calmly, “I really did lose my memories. I can’t give you the location of any money I hid. I don’t even remember what the secrets I blackmailed you with were.”
            “You think I came here to retrieve them?” There was laughter now. “Mr. Potter, really. We came here for another purpose. You’re smart enough to figure out what it is.”
            “Revenge,” Harry said, as he edged away from the staircase and further into the room. He felt as if all his muscles and flesh had turned into pure nerve.
            By the fireplace stood two cloaked wizards. Kreacher was wrapped up between them in what looked like a mummy’s bandages; Harry only knew it was him because he could see his ears and feet sticking out of opposite ends of the bundle. The taller wizard had blond hair that made Harry’s heart thump sickeningly for a second, but it was a straw-gold very different from Malfoy’s. He glared at the extra wand in Harry’s hand.
            The other wizard had a heavy beard, and heavy dark eyes, and a smile that was heavy in a different way. He held his wand against the bandages, and gestured a little. Blood began to seep from the bandages as Kreacher shrieked and thrashed.
            “Well met, Mr. Potter,” said Kelvin. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
*
Severus1snape: Thanks! I don’t yet know how many chapters it will be, but probably somewhere in the high thirties.
I’m not employed, currently. Before that I was an academic.
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The Dust of Water