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Made of Common Clay	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 10987 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 6
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- 8
Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Seven—Some Hydra-Headed Wrong
“We have to catch her.” Kingsley waves his wand, and a convincing approximation of the Muggleborn witch’s face flies up onto the board he’s set up in front of the…lecture room, is the only name Harry can give it. “We know that she was with the protestors yesterday. She’s the one who blew up the Minister’s desk.”
“What does her face look like?” someone asks. Most of the Aurors in the room are hastily taking notes. Harry leans forwards and pretends to study her mask as if he’s memorizing it, and he’s eager to get out there and slay “Dark” wizards who dare to dance into the Ministry.
“We don’t know,” Kingsley mutters, glaring at the green mask on the face of his illusion.
“And what about her hair color?” That’s Dawlish, ever the proud plodder. Harry makes a face at him, and then casts a spell that fastens a small sign on the back of his cloak. It says Please ask me what my arse looks like. That ought to keep him busy for a good long time before he figures it out, unless someone takes pity on him and tells him it’s there.
“We don’t know,” Kingsley says. “It was tucked up under her hat.”
“The same pointed hat that almost everyone in Diagon Alley wears?” asks someone else, so dismayed that Harry bites his lip and looks up at the ceiling to keep from guffawing.
“Yes, that’s right.” Harry can hear Kingsley’s teeth grinding from where he sits.
“Then how are we supposed to find her? She could be anyone! She could be any of those dotty people in the green masks!”
Harry bites back his chuckle—some of his friends would be so indignant to hear the masks described as green when they tried to make them emerald—and raises his hand. Kingsley nods to him, looking relieved. He seems to know that Harry’s question isn’t going to be about what the witch looks like.
“Have we tried talking to the protestors and asking them what they want?” Harry asks.
The room is silent as everyone gapes at him. Then they exchange looks and gapes with each other. Harry shakes his head sadly. “No one did, right?”
“We can hardly ask them what they want when they’re right in the middle of destroying the Ministry,” says Kingsley stiffly.
“Maybe not right then,” Harry concedes with a nod. “I just wondered if anyone knew what their cause actually was. I read the Daily Prophet the day they held the protest in Diagon Alley, but it seems none of the reporters asked them, either.”
Some of the Aurors frown, but none seem to know the answer. Harry sighs. Of course, he knows that the protestors are speaking up against the Sun Chamber, but as the mastermind behind them, he has to know that out of necessity. That no one else has even thought of speaking to a protestor is just….sad.
“They’re against the Sun Chamber, I think,” someone finally ventures.
That happens to be accurate, but Harry only nods with a serious expression on his face. “All right. But other than that? What do they want? Do we know? Do they want us to take the Sun Chamber to task or something?”
“We can’t do that!” Kingsley hisses. He’s greyer than Harry’s ever seen him. “We’re not even supposed to know they exist!”
“I didn’t understand that at all,” someone else complains. Harry feels safe to sit back and watch the show. “Why not? If they’re doing all these wonderful things for the wizarding world, why can’t we know about them?”
“The Sun Chamber was established—”
“By a bunch of poncey pure-bloods who don’t understand what really keeps the wizarding world running,” someone interrupts. Harry actually turns his head to stare at the newcomer with everyone else. He doesn’t recognize the voice, which means it’s someone he wouldn’t have expected to join their little rebellion.
It’s not. She’s an Auror with bright blonde hair and a thin smile. Harry remembers thinking that she must be related to the Malfoys, but he’s never interacted with her on a long-term basis. After a small struggle, he remembers her name is Calliope Weston.
“You don’t understand the traditions behind the Sun Chamber.” Kingsley’s voice is low and passionate.
“Well, of course not. The pure-bloods kept everyone from understanding them.” Weston swings one leg. “Do you want to tell me what’s so important about what they do for the wizarding world?”
Kingsley spends a baffled moment staring at her. Then he draws himself up and says, “I’m not a current member of the Sun Chamber, only related to one. I think you’d be better off asking the current Lord Potter.”
“And Lord Black. I remember reading about that.” Weston turns towards Harry like he’s scattered his blood in the water. “What’s so important about what you do?”
“Well, nothing that has to be kept secret,” Harry says immediately. He likes Weston’s attitude, but there’s no guarantee that he’ll actually get to invite her to participate in their rebellion. She could be the sort who doesn’t like armed resistance against the Ministry, or hates pure-bloods so much she can’t distinguish between people like the Malfoys and people like the Weasleys. “That’s why I blurted it out in the first place. I didn’t take the secrecy prohibitions seriously because there didn’t seem like there was a reason to. Honestly.”
“Honestly…what?”
Yes, Weston might or might not be a good recruit, Harry thinks, and keeps up the earnest expression. “Honestly, they seemed like they were priding themselves on traditions that don’t matter that much. Being the sun around which the whole world revolves? I couldn’t see myself doing that. No matter how many titles they gave me.”
“But the Sun Chamber doesn’t have titles that relate to particular places,” Kingsley intervenes, probably because he can see the probable course of their future discussion in Weston’s hungrily sparkling smile. “They just have titles that relate to bloodlines.”
“And what’s so special about someone’s bloodline?”
“What your ancestors did.” Kingsley is looking blankly at Weston, as if he almost doesn’t understand the point of the question because he’s never heard one like it before. “You honor your ancestors by carrying on the name.”
Weston leans back and laces her fingers together. Harry conceals his chuckle. Kingsley is going to get a berating, from the look of it, and for once it doesn’t need to come from him. Harry might as well sit back and enjoy it.
“You aren’t your ancestors,” Weston says. “You might be noble and honorable yourself, but in that case, people should give you Orders of Merlin and talk about how you saved the wizarding world—” for an instant, her eyes dart to Harry. “—not talk about your heritage. And your children might or might not be good people. And probably all the people you’re blood-descended from weren’t the same level of good. Why does one remarkable person stamp their descendants forever after as someone who needs respect? Why doesn’t it work the other way around and people acknowledge their ancestors who were wrong or irritating? It doesn’t seem to work that way, except with Muggleborns. Then we’re supposed to apologize for our parents being human, day in and day out.”
Not related to the Malfoys, then, Harry concludes with some glee. He thinks he’ll try to approach her later and see if she’s interested in joining his group.
“Because—because that’s the way it’s always been.” Kingsley seems to realize even as he says it that this isn’t a great thing, and shakes his head. “I mean, we’ve had centuries of tradition—”
“That results in things like the Sun Chamber and protests against the Ministry.” Weston nods to Harry. “And mad Dark Lords that we need someone to save us from. Why keep those traditions now?”
“That’s not the only thing they’ve resulted in!”
“You’re right,” Weston says in a serious voice after some consideration. “There’s also prejudice against Muggleborns. I forgot about that as a pure-blood institution.”
Harry has to hold his face grave and calm. But he resolves to himself to find a way to owl his appreciation to Weston, even if he can never let her know who he is personally. Respecting the conventions of work and the safety of his comrades doesn’t prevent an anonymous letter.
“There are plenty of reasons to keep the Sun Chamber, and prevent disrespect to it.” Kingsley is puffed up like Umbridge. “If you understood the centuries of tradition, the decisions they have made—”
“But we were never supposed to know the decisions, right? Or that they existed at all.” Weston smiles at him again. “Rather strange to find respect demanded for what would have remained a secret body if not for Auror Potter’s article.”
“I do wonder,” Harry says, and makes it a nervous little murmur while he tugs at his fringe to keep it flat over his scar, “how different the Lords and Ladies would feel if their particular bloodlines had never been part of the Sun Chamber. There are some who aren’t, you know. Like the Weasleys.”
“And here I thought it was all pure-bloods.” Weston picks up the cue as smoothly as if she’s always been part of his alliance, seeming to muse over it. “Why aren’t the Weasleys included?”
“Because of the public perception of them as blood traitors,” Harry hisses, leaning over to whisper, as if everyone in the room doesn’t know perfectly well what’s going on. “Because they have this reputation as not real pure-bloods.” He nods, eyes wide, drawing and holding Weston’s gaze. “It’s the silliest thing. But that’s the way it is.”
Weston smiles, a little, and then the rest of the room joins in, trying to defend the Sun Chamber or trying to agree with Harry and Weston or arguing among themselves, as the case may be. Harry only turns his gaze back to Kingsley and waits as if he thinks that whatever Kingsley’s answers are will settle the matter.
Kingsley shouts, finally, turning attention back to the witch they think destroyed the Minister’s desk. Harry waits for the best moment to throw everything into confusion again.
It comes near the end, when Kingsley is making yet another passionate speech about the importance of the Minister’s desk. Harry lets his eyes widen as if he’s only just thought of something, and begins waving his hand around.
“Yes, Harry?” Kingsley sounds weary. And wary.
Well, he should be, Harry has to admit as he rearranges his face into an expression of innocent puzzlement. “I thought—well, I thought it was just that she destroyed the Minister’s desk, and she couldn’t be allowed to get away with that!” His charged voice makes a few of the other Aurors nod in respect. “But there’s something else, right?”
“What do you mean, Harry?”
Oh, yeah, he knows what I’m about to say. Look at his shoulders tense. Harry bites back a malicious chuckle and blinks. “I just mean that the Minister had a lot of Muggleborn criminal records stored in his desk. Do we even have copies of those other records? We’re missing a lot of information! How are we going to track Muggleborn cases?” Harry refrains from clutching his heart.
“I had no idea that cases were divided up by the blood status of the suspects,” Weston says casually.
“That’s not—that’s not the reason the Minister had those records in his desk,” Kingsley manages, glaring at Harry.
“Oh? What’s the reason, sir?”
Harry beams at Weston with his eyes wide. “The Minister likes to keep those cases close at hand, that’s all. Go through them and make sure there are no irregularities that might prevent us from getting a conviction.”
“And does he keep all the files with the records of pure-blood criminals that close at hand?”
“I don’t know that. I mean, I’m not the Minister’s confidant. I only know a few things that are the sort of things anyone can know,” Harry says eagerly. “For example—”
“That is enough, Auror Potter.”
Harry pretends to flinch a little under Kingsley’s glare. Cowering would be too much of an overreaction. “All right, sir. I’m sorry. I suppose I shouldn’t repeat gossip.”
“I don’t know if it’s gossip when no one here is saying that it’s untrue.” Weston sweeps her eyes around the room, and then laughs a little. “And I still want to know why files are divided up by the blood status of the suspect. If that’s the right way to do it, then I’ve been doing it wrong in my filing all this time.”
Kingsley looks as if he’s about to start shouting in a second. He massages his forehead and finally says, in a voice as grave as Harry remembers from some of his speeches when he was Acting Minister, “It is true that a great many records were stored in the Minister’s desk, and that their loss may impede our ability to go to trial for the crimes. And it is true that a great many of those records concerned Muggleborn criminals. But not all of them.”
“How many would you say, sir? Are any of my cases likely to be affected? I know I have a few cases on the go with Muggleborn criminals. I can see if any of the copies I’ve made would help with bringing them to trial.”
Kingsley looks as if he’ll start tearing his hair any second. Harry sits back and looks anxious and helpful.
He doesn’t know how long he can continue to hamstring the other Aurors without being caught, but as long as he can, he’ll do it.
*
“But why are you doing this, Harry? I mean, you hate the Sun Chamber, fine. But what about the other things? Don’t you want to see any criminals brought to trial, even if they’re Muggleborn?”
Harry smiles tolerantly at Rolf Scamander. He’s not very close with the man, but he’s Luna’s husband, and that makes him part of the inner circle that understands Harry’s real nature and way of handling things. And Harry knows he’ll never betray them. He loves Luna too much for that, and Luna is too loyal to Ron and Hermione and the rest of them.
Harry leans back in his chair, thinking about the best, most convincing answer. He’s had dinner with Luna and Rolf this week, something he didn’t manage to do last week what with sowing chaos, and now they’re serving wine made from what Luna serenely calls “Orlack milk.” Harry knows better than to ask.
“Harry would rather see a thousand criminals go free than one innocent person be punished.”
As always, Luna can come out with some startling, well-phrased insights. Harry toasts her with his glass. “Exactly, Luna. And anyway, I have absolutely no faith in the judicial process anymore. The Minister divides files up by blood status. The Wizengamot listens to the Sun Chamber when they make judgments. Who knows how many innocent people were convicted and I never knew it? And that doesn’t count the ones where I knew and couldn’t fight it.”
“But why not fight to reform it?”
“Because,” Harry says bluntly, “I don’t give a fuck about preserving the system anymore.”
In the silence that follows his declaration, Rolf pales. Luna reaches out and pats his hand. She’s knitting, the way she almost always is these days. She seems to make long, twisted plaits of red and blue yarn that never go anywhere, but like Harry can say that this life up until this point was any more productive.
“Harry won’t just destroy everything,” she says, and twists a thread of red carefully around the blue. “He wouldn’t do something like that. He’ll find a way to talk about the destruction and bring in other people who have different ideas.”
“He doesn’t sound like it right now,” Rolf replies, staring very hard at Harry. “I don’t see how this is a good thing for anyone, even the Muggleborns you want to protect.”
Harry sighs a little. At least he’s full of good food and good wine. That makes him more patient than he might otherwise be. “Look. Has anyone ever walked up to you and told you that you shouldn’t do the work you’re doing? Traveling around the world and studying animals?”
Rolf blinks. “No.”
“Have they ever turned their backs on you when you try to enter a meeting and pretend that you’re not there for the rest of it?”
“No. What does this have to do with—”
“If you went in front of the Wizengamot,” Harry persists, leaning forwards, “you would expect a fair trial. And you wouldn’t have any doubt that you’d receive one, or that you had the right to receive one.”
“Of course not!”
“None of that happens when you’re Muggleborn,” Harry says, and relaxes and leans back to pick up his glass again. “Or even half-Muggleborn. Everything but the trial was taken from my own experience. I’ve had people tell me I shouldn’t be an Auror, ignore me in meetings, turn their backs on me and walk away when I try to engage them in conversations we have to have as Aurors, and refuse to partner or share information with me. And every time, it was made clear it was because of my mother’s blood. Your family is famous. You haven’t had that problem. Meanwhile, I have fame of my own and it still isn’t enough to counter the blood prejudice all the time. You see the problem?”
Rolf’s throat works. Then he says, “But surely if we talked to some more people—”
“I’ve talked. And talked. And talked until my head throbs and my throat is hoarse. Nothing stops them.” Harry shrugs and takes one more sip of his wine. “I can’t tell you how many chances they’ve had, down all these years, to see that their way isn’t working. They won’t take the one that does. So we force them.”
Rolf goes on staring at Harry as if his head is about to fall off his neck like Nick’s in Gryffindor Tower. It’s Luna who interrupts, clasping her husband’s hands and sending a small smile at Harry.
“There are winning sides and losing sides, and it’s time the pure-bloods were on the losing side,” she says. She has a graceful shrug. “That’s all.”
Rolf stares at her in turn, then laughs shakily. Harry toasts them both and downs his glass.
If more people looked at the world the way Luna does, he thinks as he carefully Floos home, it would be a much happier place.
*
Moodysavage: Yes, he is! Even though the underlying cause of this is his bitterness.
SickPuppy: Thanks! I think too many people discount Harry's intellgience just because he isn't interested in perfect marks like Hermione. Considering how many other things he has going on in his life, it's no surprise that he isn't interested in good marks for themselves.
Kain: Susan may or may not reconsider. We'll see.
Yes, and the Malfoys are still incapable of suspecting that Harry is trying to destroy the Sun Chamber. They just think he's stupid. They can't imagine not wanting that kind of power.
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Made of Common Clay