Chapter Text
Expelled.
The word echoed through Harry’s head from the moment it left Fudge’s lips. He expected things to turn numb, dazed, like he’d heard about with extreme instances of shock. On the contrary, his whole world became sharper — he could see every face in the Wizengamot crowd, from the horrified gaze of Amelia Bones to the smug satisfaction curling at the lips of Dolores Umbridge. He couldn’t make words out of the swarm of murmurs that erupted after the gavel went down, but he remembered every horrifying second of having to surrender his wand to the aurors and watch Fudge snap it in his pudgy, liver-spotted hands. It sparked when it broke, and Harry held back a flinch, feeling the aftershocks reverberating under his own skin. He kept his head held high, his jaw square. He would not break in front of these people, not even for a second. He owed himself that much.
When he was dismissed, Harry turned on his heel and left the chamber, stride confident even as he forced his shoulders not to shake. People were calling his name. He ignored them. He had nothing to say to any of them now.
In the corridor outside, the first person Harry saw was Mr Weasley — who went chalk-white at the look on Harry’s face, and the confirmation in the mutters of the dispersing Wizengamot members. Harry sucked in a sharp breath, turning away from the redhead. Do not break, Potter, he told himself firmly. You have faced worse.
In turning away, he noticed the other half of his welcoming committee. Albus Dumbledore, in a remarkably subdued lilac and silver robe, his blue eyes for once bereft of their twinkle. “Harry, my boy,” he began, “I’m so sorry. I was kept ignorant of the time change until it was too late — by the time I arrived, the courtroom was closed.”
Harry kept his face blank, even as he wanted to scoff in the old man’s face. At last, the great Albus Dumbledore’s habit of swooping in at the last second and saving the day had backfired on him. At least no one had died, this time.
“I will speak to the Minister — I’m sure he’ll understand how dangerous it is for you to be without a wand and away from school, even if he refuses to admit what sits so plainly before him.”
“No.” Harry surprised himself by speaking — surprised the headmaster, too, by the looks of it. Nonetheless, he continued. “No, thank you, sir. I would much rather you come back with me, so we can have a long overdue talk.”
“Harry, really, I know it’s been a stressful day—“ Arthur Weasley stuttered, reaching out with a hand that fell short before it could squeeze Harry’s shoulder. Harry continued to stare down the bearded headmaster, watching several expressions flit across his face.
“If this is something you would like to discuss in private, I understand, though I fear time is of the essence,” Dumbledore said eventually. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“What’s done is done. They won’t go back on their ruling.” He could still vividly recall the number of triumphant faces — there were too many people in the pocket of the enemy for him to expect fair play in that courtroom. It wasn’t worth the effort trying. He’d expected this outcome, deep down, from the second he’d had the letter confirming his hearing. He knew how this played out. He was Harry Potter; he always faced the worst, in the end. “Let’s go home.” He worried if they dawdled here much longer, the press would get wind of the result and he’d be ambushed before he could escape. If he faced Rita Skeeter right now, he couldn’t promise she would come out of it unscathed.
Without waiting for confirmation from the two adults, Harry set off down the corridor in search of a floo, his mind already whirring. Dread began to build in his stomach — not for himself and his future as an unqualified wizard, but for the hysterics he was likely to face from those waiting from him back at Grimmauld.
He appeared in the living room of Grimmauld Place, stepping aside for the headmaster and Mr Weasley to follow. A grimace crossed his face — the room was full of people, staring anxiously at the fireplace. All of them jumped when he arrived. His face must have said it all; Hermione choked out a sob, her hands flying to her mouth. Sirius cursed.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to have a private word with the headmaster,” Harry declared, barely glancing back at Dumbledore before he made for the door. No one stopped him. He vaguely heard Mr Weasley murmuring comforting words to his wife as she fell into his arms, but then the door shut, and the commotion was muffled.
Harry led Dumbledore through to the drawing room, the burn-marred tapestry of the House of Black glaring at him from the walls. When the door was closed, Harry turned to the elderly wizard, folding his arms over his chest. “You owe me a lot of information, sir, and I want the truth,” he declared without hesitation.
“I beg your pardon, my boy?”
“Don’t.” Harry rolled his eyes. “Ever since I met you, you’ve been stringing me along one clue at a time, watching me stumble in and out of dangerous situations like they were nothing more than a game, never giving me more information than I needed to gather the bare minimum — just enough to have me haring into dangerous situations without so much as a second thought for the consequences. Often, dragging my friends with me. Don’t try to deny it; I might have been naive back then, but I know better now. Keeping the Philosopher’s Stone in the school was intentional — a test for me, and bait for Voldemort. The Flamels had kept it safe for over six hundred years, I refuse to believe they struggled so suddenly.”
“Harry, I—“
“Second year, knowing what I do now about the wards you’ve kept on the Dursleys, you must have known about Dobby the house elf. If you had no idea about Riddle’s diary, that I can believe, though it does concern me what can happen right under your nose. But you sat back and watched as the whole school declared me evil, waiting to see what I would do, and when I risked my life again you merely sent Fawkes to pop along and stop me from getting myself killed. Third year was another merry information chase, with a solution that you seemed to have worked out far too conveniently, and we all know how my fourth year ended.” That, finally, got a flinch from the old man. “I refuse to believe you had no idea one of your oldest friends was an impostor the entire school year.”
“It is easy to make assumptions in hindsight, Mr Potter,” Dumbledore pointed out.
“And it’s easy to play with peoples’ lives when you’re not the one suffering the fall-out,” Harry retorted evenly. “You’ve been having me watched the entire summer, Professor. Without my knowledge. You’ve been deliberately keeping me oblivious, making my friends deny me information. There’s clearly something bigger going on — and I’m not talking about the Ministry using me as a scapegoat to bury their heads in the sand. I know my dreams aren’t normal. Whatever Voldemort is up to, he wants me to be curious about it. And since you’re telling me jack shit, you want me to be curious, too. Well, I’m telling you, that ends now. If you’d told me from the beginning of the summer that I had guards, this could have been avoided. I wouldn’t have gone so far from the house. I would have coordinated with my guards to make sure everyone was safe. I would have known that something was amiss when no one came to help, rather than assuming I was on my own again, because God forbid I rely on anyone but myself. If your trials and tribulations have taught me anything, Dumbledore, they’ve taught me that much. But that’s the thing, see — they’ve taught me not to rely on you, either. And today’s farce of a hearing proved that. I knew from the moment I walked into that courtroom what I would be facing; a blind man could see they’d made up their minds before it had even begun.”
“Harry,” Dumbledore sighed, for once sounding his advanced age. “Harry, my boy, I can see now that my actions have upset you. But I assure you, I have never kept information from you for my own entertainment, like you seem to believe. I merely wanted to avoid burdening you while you are so young, when others can carry that burden a while longer.”
“Well, that’s worked out wonderfully, hasn’t it,” Harry replied dryly. “Bang up job you’ve done there, Headmaster. No burdens here.”
“I can never apologise enough for what happened today,” Dumbledore said. “And I will do my utmost to correct the injustice you have suffered.”
“Yeah, we both know that isn’t going to work. Fudge doesn’t want me armed and dangerous,” Harry pointed out derisively, quoting one of the Prophet’s many disparaging articles. “I don’t want you to try and get me back to school, Professor. I’m not even demanding you induct me into the Order. All I want is for you to be upfront with me about the things that concern me. Merlin knows Voldemort won’t leave me alone just because I’ve been expelled. And I would like to know why.”
At that, the headmaster tensed visibly. “Harry, that is dangerous information to give you. You’ve said it yourself; Voldemort wants you curious. Have you considered he is merely using you to find out his own answers?”
“Clearly he has the answers, seeing as he’s already set on killing me,” came Harry’s retort. “He’s taunting me, not encouraging me. After my upbringing, I’m well aware of the difference,” he added drily. “Tell me, headmaster. Why me? What’s so special about me?”
There was a long, stagnant silence. Dumbledore’s dim blue eyes bored into Harry’s, searching for something Harry wasn’t sure he would ever find. Eventually, the old man’s lips pursed.
“Before you were born, there was a prophecy. Spoken in a room that only contained myself and the prophet. Unfortunately, we were both unaware of the Death Eater lurking at the door, looking for information to take back to his master. He only heard part of the prophecy — but it was enough for Voldemort to set his sights on you specifically. Enough for him to learn that ‘the one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.’. There is more to the prophecy, but that was information enough. Voldemort made an attempt on your life, and it backfired; we may never know for certain why that is. But it was enough to make him sure that you were the one who would bring about his downfall, and he has been determined to kill you ever since.”
Harry leaned back against the wall, taking in the information carefully. He wasn’t completely blindsided — it had always been clear Voldemort believed Harry specifically was a threat. He hadn’t expected a prophecy to be the root of it, though; most Divination was a crock of shit, surely Voldemort didn’t put stock in it? He said as much to Dumbledore, who shook his head.
“True Divination is ancient magic, and this was very much a true prophecy. Voldemort knew that as well as I.” The aged wizard perched on the edge of the desk in the corner, looking haggard. “I knew I would have to tell you eventually, but I convinced myself we had more time. I wanted you to have as close to a normal childhood as you could manage.”
“All due respect, sir; if you truly wanted that, you’d never have sent me to the Dursleys,” Harry bit out in reply. Something sad flickered across the man’s face.
“Perhaps. But everything I did, I did with your wellbeing in mind, Harry.”
That felt difficult to believe, but Harry didn’t respond. He mulled the words of the prophecy over in his head once more. “What’s the rest of it? The prophecy? You said there was more.”
Dumbledore grew hesitant again. “I do not know if it’s safe to give you that information, when you’ve said yourself that Voldemort seems to have access to your mind.”
“Only to my dreams,” Harry argued. “And you said it wasn’t even the important bit. Voldemort knows enough of the prophecy to have made plenty of moves based on it.” There was something deeper in the headmaster’s gaze. Harry peered at him. “Unless you’re intentionally keeping it from him because you want him to think it contains the key to his defeat. That you know something he doesn’t.”
The old man was suspiciously silent. Harry snorted. “Typical. Tell me, Professor; what’s worse? Voldemort knowing the rest of the prophecy, or all the people he might kill in order to find out?” They couldn’t even be sure he’d be able to pluck knowledge out of Harry’s head. “Hang on, if Voldemort could read my mind, surely he would have found me at my relatives’? Or even here? Even if there were wards on Privet Drive, I spent half the summer wandering Wisteria Walk, anyone could’ve picked me off there, guards or no.”
“The nature of your connection with the Dark Lord is unknown — it was formed in unique circumstances, after all.”
“So you have no idea how it works, you’re just using it as an excuse to keep me in the dark,” Harry translated bluntly. “Right, now we’ve cleared that up — tell me the rest of the prophecy.”
Dumbledore frowned deeply, but after several moments seemed to realise Harry was not going to give in. “‘The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. Either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live while the other survives’. That is the full extent of the prophecy, my boy,” Dumbledore relented. “You can see now why it’s so important Voldemort not get his hands on such information.”
Quite frankly, Harry didn’t see why that was important — Voldemort was already pretty set on killing Harry, regardless of whether Harry would be the one to kill him or not. The ‘power the Dark Lord knows not’ thing was interesting. “Were you ever going to help me figure out what that power might be, or were you hoping it might come to me in a dream, or something?” he asked wryly, watching the taken-aback expression cross the headmaster’s features.
“You’re only just fifteen, my boy — it seemed cruel to place such a burden on your shoulders. I planned to give you as much time as you needed to work on your skills.”
“The burden was there regardless of whether I knew about it!” Harry argued. “All you were doing is making it more likely that people would die when I went into these situations unprepared! Voldemort isn’t going to give me time.” Harry scowled. “I assume since I’m apparently the only one who can do it, a good old killing curse to the face won’t do the job?”
“I have strong evidence that Voldemort has taken great pains to achieve what he believes to be immortality. I am still researching the exact methods involved,” Dumbledore admitted. “But no, regular means will not kill the Dark Lord.”
“Fantastic.” Harry grimaced, running a hand through his hair. “I guess it’s a good thing I’m not going back to school, after all.” As if he could just sit around and go to class and play quidditch when he was the only one who could kill Voldemort. As if Dumbledore had been happy to let him. When would the headmaster have deemed it ‘appropriate’ for Harry to have this knowledge? How many people would have ended up like Cedric Diggory?
Harry knew the only reason he was getting so much information now was because the headmaster was still reeling from his expulsion. As soon as the man regained his composure, he’d close off again, and Harry would be on his own.
“Your studies are important, Harry,” Dumbledore insisted. “I’m sure we will be able to find a way for you to continue them. The Order will take care of the war effort.”
“Because that’s been going so well up until now,” Harry muttered under his breath. “No, Headmaster — if I’m the one who has to kill him, then I refuse to let you be the one making all the decisions and expecting everyone else to play along. We can discuss what happens next, but it’s exactly that; a discussion. With everybody involved. This impacts the whole Order after all, and the Weasleys. If they’re going to be risking their lives for me, they deserve a say. I’m sure they’ll all have plenty of opinions on what happened today, after all.”
He felt a little bad about having left Mr Weasley to explain things by himself, especially when the man likely didn’t know much more than the bare minimum.
Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Very well,” he relented, getting to his feet. “Let us gather in the kitchen. I’m sure Molly has been cooking up a storm while we’ve been occupied.”
Knowing how much Mrs Weasley used cooking to distract herself from stress, Harry began to wonder if there would even be enough room on the table for it all.
Dumbledore waved his wand, and the door opened. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a flesh-coloured string quickly disappear overhead. Had Dumbledore warded the room while they talked? Had the twins heard anything?
The house was silent as Harry followed the headmaster back into the main hall, and through to the kitchen — there they found everyone gathered around the table, which was indeed heaving with food. They were tense and silent, and all eyes were on Harry the moment he stepped through the door.
“Well,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. “I suppose Mr Weasley told you I got expelled, then.”
“Oh, Harry!” A brown blur filled his vision, and suddenly Hermione was squeezing the life out of him. “There has to be a way to appeal, or something! It’s completely illegal; you were defending yourself, and your cousin already knew about magic!” She glanced over Harry’s shoulder, towards the headmaster, as if expecting him to declare he’d already fixed the situation. When there was no such declaration, Harry felt her shudder.
“They’ve already snapped my wand,” he told her. “Pretty sure they’re not going to bother with an appeal.”
Several gasps went up around the room.
“They snapped it there and then?” Tonks asked, horrified. “Those bastards! Usually there’s three feet of paperwork before we can even confiscate a wand, let alone destroy it.”
“As always, I’m a special case,” came Harry’s wry response. He gently untangled himself from Hermione’s grasp and urged her towards her seat beside Ron, whose freckles stood out stark on his pale face.
“That’s awful, mate,” he croaked. Harry shrugged.
“Are you… alright, pup?” Sirius asked tentatively, coming to sling an arm over his godson’s shoulders. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you.”
“It wasn’t safe,” Harry reminded. “And I’m fine, really. Honest,” he added, when Sirius’ face wasn’t the only skeptical one in the room. “I sort of expected this to happen. My luck, I was half expecting to be chucked into Azkaban.” Beside him, he felt Sirius flinch.
“They couldn’t do that!” Mrs Weasley blurted.
“I’m sure they could if they tried hard enough,” Harry pointed out.
“So… what happens now?” Sirius’ hesitant question was directed not at Harry, but Dumbledore, who had moved to his usual seat at the head of the table. Everyone in the room looked at him, expecting him to hold the answers. It made Harry’s stomach churn uncomfortably.
“Harry and I have agreed that it’s not in our best interests to attempt to change the Minister’s mind at this time,” the headmaster declared, as if he and Harry had already had a nice little sit down over the topic. It took everything in Harry not to snort.
“But Albus, where is he to go? He’s safest at school — you can’t send him back to those muggles, not without a wand!” Mrs Weasley protested. “He’s welcome at the Burrow, of course—“
“He can stay here with me,” Sirius argued, leaving Harry’s side to glare Mrs Weasley down. “The house is safe, I’m here all the time. I’ll keep him out of trouble.”
“Or encourage him into it,” Mrs Weasley retorted sharply.
“I’m not going back to the Dursleys’,” Harry declared, his voice carrying over their raised voices. “Let me get that very clear right now.”
“I will begin searching for a way to get the expulsion overturned without the Minister’s permission,” Dumbledore said, as if he’d never been interrupted. “Perhaps a loophole, or a codicil. In the mean time, I’m sure I can arrange for Harry to get permission to at least carry a wand again. As for his living arrangements — that will depend entirely on the outcome of that conversation.”
“We can always sneak the lad down to Knockturn, get him a wand off the grid,” Kingsley Shacklebolt suggested. “Or send an owl to Ollivander. He’s a good man, he’ll help us out.”
“I suppose now is a good time to admit that I don’t need a wand?” Harry piped up casually. Everyone in the room froze.
“You what, boy?” Moody barked, electric blue eye fixed on Harry. Harry shrugged.
“Don’t need a wand. Haven’t for a while now.” With a wave of his hand, he summoned a plate of sandwiches towards him, helping himself to a couple. Everyone stared at him, gobsmacked.
“But… Harry — wandless magic is really difficult. We don’t even get taught it til seventh year, and even then just for little things!” Hermione lectured, as if she hadn’t just seen him use it.
“Yeah but no one told me that,” he reasoned. “So I just sort of— did it. I had so many incidents of it before Hogwarts, when I didn’t know what magic was; I wondered if I could learn to be a bit more intentional with that. So I started practicing, and… it came pretty easy. I’m still stronger with a wand, but that’s probably just because I use it more. If I work on it, I’ll be fine without. I just never did it in front of people because I never saw anyone else use it and I didn’t want to be weird.” If the parseltongue debacle had been anything to go by, he’d learned that the wizarding world didn’t like people with unique talents.
Hermione looked like he’d just burned down the entire Hogwarts library in front of her. Indeed, several others in the room looked utterly astonished, including Dumbledore. Sirius and Remus were both beaming with pride, while the twins had scheming expressions on their faces that made Harry stifle the urge to grin.
“Here’s the plan,” he said, turning back to the group and pointedly ignoring Dumbledore before the headmaster could try and take back control of the conversation. “I don’t need a new wand, and I don’t want anyone getting in trouble trying to get me one. It’s exactly what the Ministry would expect, they’ll be on the lookout. And I’m not going back to the Dursleys’, under any circumstances. I’ll stay here, under the Fidelius charm and the Unplottable wards and everything else the Blacks have no doubt smothered this house in so no one will ever find me, and I’ll train, because Voldemort isn’t going to leave me alone just because I’ve been expelled.”
“But you’re just a boy!” Mrs Weasley protested. Harry huffed.
“A boy who will be dead the next time I set foot in the wizarding world if I continue being so defenceless,” he pointed out, slightly sharper than intended. He didn’t mean to hurt the motherly woman’s feelings, but he was done being coddled. “I’ll have plenty of work to get on with by myself, especially with the Black library at my disposal, but if anyone wants to offer their time or expertise I’d be grateful for it.” Here he glanced at the trio of aurors across the table. Tonks smirked at him.
“We’d be happy to put you through your paces, kid!” she declared cheerfully.
“Are you sure you want to stay here, in this dreary old place, Harry dear?” Mrs Weasley continued, worrying the edge of her apron in her hands. “There’s plenty of room at the Burrow, it’ll be no trouble at all to have you — you can even floo over here if you want to see Sirius in the day.” That looked like it caused her physical pain to offer, and Harry attempted a kind smile.
“I appreciate the offer, Mrs Weasley, but it’ll be safer for everyone if I’m here.”
“Harry’s my godson, and he’s staying with me,” Sirius agreed firmly. Mrs Weasley turned on him, puffing up angrily.
“It’s not either of your decisions,” Harry cut in firmly, before the argument could really kick off. Both of them stared at him, shocked. “It’s mine. I’m not choosing one of you over the other — I’m choosing the best strategic option. And if you don’t like it, I can always leave and go live in the muggle world. I was raised there, I still have records there. It would only take a moment for me to go back and pretend the wizarding world never existed.”
His voice was hard, sending shivers down the spines of everyone in the room. They didn’t need to know that Harry would never even consider that option — even if he had to retreat to the muggle world, he’d never abandon magic.
Sirius gaped like a fish, spluttering with several failed attempts to talk. Dumbledore was pale behind his beard. Harry looked him dead in the eye. “I’m not a student anymore, Professor Dumbledore. But I have a job to do, and it’s in all your best interests if you sit back and let me do it. I’m fed up with everyone arguing about my life like I don’t even get a say in it. If you keep trying, I’ll leave.”
All around the room, cupboards began to rattle. The temperature dropped several degrees. Harry stared the headmaster down, until he got a nod of assent.
“As you wish, my boy,” Dumbledore said sadly. “You will stay here, then.”
“Good. Now if you’ll all excuse me, I’m dying to get out of these robes,” Harry said with a grimace, tugging at his starched collar. He gathered a few more sandwiches and some crisps on a plate, snagged a glass of pumpkin juice, then left the kitchen; its occupants were too bewildered to do anything but stare after him as he went.