Harry’s voice in the memory remained calm, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable.
“He did nothing wrong or illegal by escaping his illegal incarceration.
Hermione and I did nothing wrong or illegal by aiding his second escape from that same illegal incarceration.
If anything, Cornelius ‘Fumbling’ Fudge abused his authority as Minister by kidnapping not merely the man known as Sirius Black, but the rightful Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
He then compounded that crime by bypassing every lawful procedure and attempting to murder Sirius Black with a Dementor’s Kiss.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is attempted assassination.”
He let the words hang.
“Hermione and I, with Buckbeak’s help, saved him from that cold-blooded execution.
I certainly hope the Ministry’s Aurors will think very carefully before they consider arresting either myself or Miss Granger for it.
Should they be foolish enough to try, I will thoroughly enjoy seeking lawful recompense through every legal channel available.”
In the VIP box Amelia Bones turned on Fudge like a predator scenting blood.
“He’s right, you stupid shit,” she hissed, voice low but carrying.
“You had him in custody and still tried to have him Kissed.
That is attempted murder.
It goes on the list I’m already compiling against you.”
Fudge shrank in his seat.
He knew his career was finished.
He was no longer certain he would escape Azkaban himself.
Memory-Harry continued without pause.
“After we returned Sirius to safety, Hermione and I raced back to the hospital wing.
We arrived at the doors at almost the exact moment our past selves time-turned out of existence.
Dumbledore let us in at once.
We barely had time to reach our beds before the door opened again.”
The memory shifted.
Snape stormed into the ward in a foul temper, Fudge and Dumbledore close behind.
The Potions master crossed straight to Harry’s bed and began to rant, spittle flying, accusing the two students of somehow freeing Black.
He had no proof.
He didn’t need proof.
Rage was enough.
Dumbledore asked Madam Pomfrey, very politely, whether either patient had left their bed that night.
The matron looked scandalised and stated, in no uncertain terms, that they had not.
Snape’s face darkened further.
With nothing left to stand on, he wheeled about and stormed from the room.
Fudge watched him go, then muttered to Dumbledore that he believed the man was mentally unbalanced.
Shortly afterwards he agreed to remove the Dementors from the school grounds.
Both men left.
The memory faded.
Memory-Harry’s expression was unreadable.
“With Sirius’s exoneration, I should have been free to live with my godfather for the summer.
Instead, because Peter Pettigrew escaped — thanks in no small part to Snape’s idiocy, or deliberate sabotage, it hardly matters which — Dumbledore once again forced me back to the Dursleys.”
He paused, letting the weight of that statement settle.
“I lied to my relatives.
I told them my ‘escaped convict of a mass-murdering godfather’ had insisted I keep in regular contact so he would know how I was getting on.
The threat was enough.
They didn’t dare abuse me as badly as they once had.
I endured almost eight weeks in that house until Arthur Weasley and his sons collected me roughly a week after my birthday and took me to the Burrow.”
The summer at the Burrow passed in a blur of noise, food, and the twins’ experiments.
Then came the Quidditch World Cup.
The Ministry had spun what happened in the hours after the final.
They wanted the public ill-informed and calm rather than properly informed and worried.
Memory-Harry showed them the truth.
The memory played out exactly as it had happened: the sudden waking in the tent, the distant screams, the dark figures moving through the campsite with wands raised and masks gleaming, the chaos, the fear, the way the adults had tried to shield the children while the world burned around them.
When it ended, Memory-Harry stood once more in the centre of the chamber.
“And that,” he said quietly, “brought us back to Hogwarts on the first of September.”
He fell silent.
Then something changed.
Memory-Harry straightened.
His shoulders squared.
His chin lifted.
The posture that settled over him was old, pureblood, and unmistakably commanding.
He looked, for a heartbeat, exactly like the photographs of James Potter in his prime.
A faint, dangerous smirk touched his mouth.
In the VIP box Albus Dumbledore felt ice slide down his spine.
A premonition of disaster so strong it made his hands tremble.
He knew, with sudden and terrible clarity, that he had miscalculated.
Badly.
Memory-Harry lifted his gaze to the VIP stand.
When he spoke, his voice carried the same quiet authority that had once filled the Great Hall during the Sorting.
“Madam Bones,” he said, “if you haven’t already guessed, now would be an excellent time to keep your full attention on Albus Dumbledore.
He is about to hear information that will prove he has greatly underestimated me.
What I am about to show you — all of you — will change how you see both me and every event that has surrounded my life.”
He let the silence stretch, then added, almost gently:
“Many of you will find it difficult to believe.
At this time I remind you that Harry Potter — the one currently reading a novel on the sun lounge — swore a magical oath on his magic, his life, and his very soul that every memory you are about to witness is true and accurate.”
He paused again, eyes never leaving the VIP box.
The chamber waited.
Dumbledore’s dread deepened.