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The Starlord - Chapter - 70
🕑 Added 2025-12-02 17:36:03 +0000 UTCThe Wizengamot’s arguing abruptly cut off when a crisp voice echoed across the stone walls:
“Next case! Breaking of the Statute of Secrecy — underage magic use in the presence of Muggles.”
A hush fell over the chamber.
The Minister’s secretary cleared her throat and announced loudly:
“Hermione Jean Granger — step forward.”
The heavy doors at the back of the courtroom swung open.
Hermione entered.
She walked stiffly, her hands clenched tightly together, Ted Tonks beside her like a protective shield. Even from the shadows of the visitor gallery, Harry could see the tremor in her shoulders.
Ted leaned in, whispering something quick and firm. Hermione nodded — but the fear didn’t leave her eyes.
She lifted her gaze—
And caught sight of the visitor’s booth.
Even though Harry wore a hood pulled low, covering most of his face, Hermione immediately recognized him — the dark traveling cloak, the way he stood with quiet power, arms folded.
Her expression softened into a small, grateful smile.
Harry returned a faint nod.
Then Hermione stepped toward the center of the chamber.
At the floor’s center stood the infamous chair — black iron, carved with wards, and bound with magical chains.
A chair meant for criminals.
Not first-time offenders.
Hermione hesitated only a heartbeat before lowering herself into it.
CLINK—
The first chain wrapped around her wrist.
CLANG—
Another curled around her ankle.
CLINK. CLINK. CLINK.
A dozen chains slithered from the chair, binding her arms and feet in place — not painfully, but oppressively.
Hermione’s breath hitched.
Harry’s hands curled into fists beneath his cloak.
Ted Tonks stepped forward immediately, waving a parchment high.
“Objection!”
His voice boomed across the chamber. “This is an underage magic case, not a criminal trial. My client should not be restrained in a chair intended for convicted criminals!”
Several Wizengamot members murmured in agreement. Others looked annoyed — mostly the pureblood bloc.
Cornelius Fudge gaped at Ted as though personally offended by the audacity.
“This is standard procedure—” Fudge sputtered.
“For criminals,” Ted said sharply. “Not fifteen-year-old students summoned for a non-felonious hearing.”
One of the elder purebloods sneered. “If she cast a Patronus, she might be dangerous—”
Ted turned toward him. “A Patronus is a defensive spell.”
The elder pureblood sniffed. “It is still advanced magic for a child—”
Harry barely restrained himself from standing up and snapping that man’s wand in half.
Amelia Bones cleared her throat loudly from the other side of the chamber.
“The Auror Office does not consider Miss Granger dangerous,” she said, voice firm. “Remove the restraints.”
Fudge turned purple. “But— but— this is highly irregular—”
“Then un-irregular it,” Amelia snapped.
With a groan of metal, the chains loosened and slithered back into the chair’s frame.
Hermione exhaled shakily, rubbing her wrists.
Ted rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
Harry quietly breathed out, letting the tension ease — but only slightly.
While Hermione steadied herself, Ted began handing documents to the Minister and the Chief Warlock, repeating:
“This is an underage magic matter. We will treat it as such.”
Harry lowered his hooded head and closed his eyes.
He inhaled slowly.
And let the Force expand outward.
Like a ripple spreading through water.
He felt:
the nervousness of law students behind him
the cold irritation of several pureblood lords
the professional calm of Amelia Bones
the self-satisfaction radiating from Dolores Umbridge
the brittle fear of Fudge
the quiet strength and terror tangled within Hermione
the controlled determination of Ted Tonks
And beneath it all, deeper, subtler emotions lingered — hidden beneath masks and lies.
Harry pushed further.
Searching.
Reaching.
Who sent Dementors at Hermione’s house?
Who among them reeks of guilt?
He swept through every mind in the chamber — not reading thoughts, but sensing emotions.
He felt:
fear
pride
anger
greed
political frustration
ambition.
The chamber fell into expectant silence as Ted Tonks strode toward the center of the courtroom, robes swishing.
“I will begin,” Ted said clearly, “by presenting Miss Granger’s memory of the event.”
The reaction was immediate.
Dolores Umbridge let out a squeaky gasp — half outrage, half triumph — and shot to her feet.
“Memories are NOT valid evidence!” she shrilled, voice dripping false sweetness. “The Wizengamot cannot accept enchanted recollections. They can be altered, influenced, or—”
Ted cut her off without even looking in her direction.
“I am well aware memories cannot be used as formal evidence,” he said calmly. “But I am not submitting it as evidence.”
He held up a hand.
“I am submitting it for context.”
A murmur rippled through the benches.
Amelia Bones nodded. “Context is allowed. Continue.”
Umbridge scowled so hard her bow twitched.
Ted placed a gleaming Pensieve on the pedestal in the center of the courtroom. A web of silver runes activated with a hum, connecting the Pensieve to a giant enchanted screen floating above the floor — visible to everyone, including the visitors’ gallery.
“Miss Granger,” Ted said gently, “if you will…”
Hermione stood, dipped her wand to her temple, and drew out the glowing thread of memory.
She placed it into the Pensieve.
The liquid inside swirled, silver and bright.
“Begin,” Ted instructed.
The runes flared.
The screen above flickered to life.
Hermione Granger was standing at the kitchen counter, helping her mother chop vegetables for dinner. Her father sat at the small round table, glasses perched on his nose, flipping through a newspaper. It was peaceful. Too peaceful.
Then the temperature plummeted.
Hermione’s breath fogged in the air.
The kitchen window frosted over in seconds, ice crawling across the glass like living fingers.
Her mother gasped.
Her father pushed back his chair, startled.
Hermione’s eyes widened with dread.
“No… not here…”
Two dark shapes glided past the window — tall, hooded, skeletal.
Dementors. In their garden.
Her mother screamed.
Her father froze, knuckles white around the edge of the table.
Hermione didn’t hesitate.
Her wand was out in an instant, arm trembling but steady.
“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”
A blinding silver otter erupted from her wand, bursting through the kitchen window in a flash of light. It streaked across the garden, smashing into the Dementors with a furious cry. The creatures recoiled, twisting away before slipping back into the night.
For a heartbeat, silence filled the room.
And the memory ended.
The screen went blank.
For several seconds, no one in the courtroom spoke.
Even the pure-blood lords looked rattled.
Amelia Bones’ monocle glinted sharply. “That… was a Dementor.”
One of the Wizengamot members muttered, “Near a Muggle household? Impossible.”
Another whispered, “Why wasn’t the Ministry alerted?”
Fudge looked ready to melt into his chair.
Umbridge recovered first.
Or tried to.
“Th-This proves nothing!” she squeaked. “Nothing at all! Dementors do not roam freely. The girl must have misinterpreted—”
Ted Tonks stepped forward so sharply that Umbridge flinched.
“That,” he said, pointing to the screen, “is not misinterpretation. That was a Dementor attacking a Muggle home.”
He placed a thick bundle of parchment onto a floating tray, which glided to the Chief Warlock.
“Medical reports,” Ted said. “Collected from multiple Muggle victims in Miss Granger’s neighborhood.”
Murmurs erupted again.
Ted continued, voice ringing:
“Patients admitted to Muggle hospitals on the same night as Miss Granger’s attack. Symptoms consistent with Dementor exposure — coma-like state, unresponsive, no medical explanation.”
Umbridge turned purple.
She tried again, voice shrill:
“The girl could have caused that! She used magic—”
Ted arched an eyebrow.
“A Patronus charm?”
He snorted. “A Patronus cannot harm anyone. It is defensive magic. You cannot use a Patronus to injure or incapacitate Muggles, witches, or wizards. The Ministry’s own magical tracking detected one spell that night — Hermione’s Patronus.”
Every wizard in the room nodded.
Dolores Umbridge’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
No sound came out.
The courtroom buzzed with the soft scrape of quills and anxious murmuring. Hermione sat stiff and pale in the chair. Ted Tonks remained beside her—calm, steady, unshakable.
And then Cornelius Fudge rose.
He did so slowly, as if trying to reclaim dignity that had slipped through his fingers the moment that silver otter flashed across the court.
He straightened his bowler hat. Cleared his throat. Lifted his chin.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Fudge began, “we must not let ourselves be carried away by dramatic visions or speculative assumptions.”
His voice trembled faintly. “This hearing is not about Dementors. It is not about unverifiable stories of Muggles fainting in the streets. For all we know, Miss Granger could have—”
Ted Tonks moved like lightning.
Two steps forward, one hand raised.
“Minister,” he said sharply, “you will not accuse my client of lying. Not after you yourself witnessed that memory.”
Fudge flushed scarlet.
Ted continued, voice crisp and ringing:
“This hearing is about one specific charge: breaking the Statue of Secrecy.”
He paced slowly, turning to face the Wizengamot.
“Now, let us remind ourselves: the Statue of Secrecy applies when magic is performed in front of people who do not know about magic.”
He lifted a finger.
“Hermione Granger’s parents are fully aware of the magical world—exactly like the parents of every other Muggle-born student in Britain.”
Several pure-blood witches nodded politely.
A few whispered to each other, realizing how obvious this sounded when spoken aloud.
Ted pressed on.
“So tell me, Minister—how can one break the Statue of Secrecy if the only witnesses are already aware of magic?”
The courtroom fell quiet.
Very, very quiet.
Even Umbridge couldn’t find words.
Hermione breathed a small sigh of relief.
Ted rested both palms on the Wizengamot bench and said clearly:
“Therefore, no law was broken.”
Fudge sputtered. “W-Well—yes, but—”
“And furthermore,” Ted said, cutting him off, “Hermione has no prior offenses. In every case like this—every single one—the Ministry issues a warning, nothing more.”
Ted’s gaze swept the court like a sharpened blade.
“But instead of that, you have summoned the entire Wizengamot… dragged a fifteen-year-old girl into a criminal’s chained chair… and turned a routine first-offense case into a public spectacle.”
Murmurs rippled.
Nods followed.
Ted’s voice hardened.
“It feels, Minister Fudge, as though this hearing is not about Hermoine Granger breaking a rule—”
He paused, letting the silence rise.
“—but about you attempting to punish, intimidate, or drive away one of the brightest witches of her generation.”
He let that sink in.
“And it feels,” Ted added with surgical precision, “strikingly similar to how this government’s actions and its newspapers drove Harry Potter out of the country entirely.”
The words hit like a thunderclap.
Every head in the chamber turned.
Someone whispered, “He said it…”
Harry, hidden in the shadows of the visitor’s gallery, smiled humorlessly beneath his hood.
The guilt spike from that one Wizengamot member flared again—panic, fear, regret.
A hush fell over the courtroom—heavy, expectant, almost suffocating.
The Chief Warlock rose. His old eyes swept the chamber, reading the faces, weighing the panic Fudge tried so desperately to hide.
“Members of the Wizengamot,” he announced, “we call for a vote.
Charge: Underage use of magic in violation of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery.”
He raised his hand.
“All those who find Miss Hermione Granger not guilty, raise your wands.”
In a heartbeat—dozens of wands lifted.
A sea of glowing tips.
Nearly unanimous.
And then—slowly, with visible irritation—Dolores Umbridge’s remained stubbornly lowered. She scowled around the room, but even the pure-bloods she normally influenced refused to support her.
The Chief Warlock nodded once.
“Miss Granger is absolved of all charges. She will receive only a formal warning.” He struck his gavel. “The matter is closed.”
A wave of relief washed through the courtroom.
Hermione gasped—half-laugh, half-tear—as the chains uncurled themselves from her limbs. Ted placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she stood.
But he wasn’t done.
“Chief Warlock,” Ted said, stepping into the center again. “Before we adjourn—there remains a matter of grave concern.”
A few members groaned; others leaned forward with interest.
Ted spoke clearly, loudly, pointedly:
“Dementors attacked a residential Muggle neighborhood. If they were not ordered by the Ministry. If they were not under Auror supervision. If the Ministry cannot control the creatures it entrusted with guarding Azkaban, what will the public think? What will foreign governments think?”
He paused.
“And what will our enemies think…?”
Fudge stiffened like someone had doused him in ice water.
“You have to explain,” Ted cut in sharply, “why the Dementors are wandering freely without orders. Explain why people were kissed in broad daylight. Explain why the Ministry is losing control.”
Every Wizengamot member looked at Fudge.
Not one came to his defense.
Fudge tugged at his collar, cheeks glossy with sweat.
“This—this is not the time—!”
“That’s exactly why it is the time,” Ted said, bowing politely to the chamber and ushering Hermione toward the exit.
The doors closed behind them.
And Harry remained in his seat.
From beneath the heavy hood, Harry let the Force unfurl like a net over the courtroom. Every heartbeat. Every twitch. Every ripple of fear or hatred—it all pulsed in him like a second skin.
Relief from several members.
Annoyance from the pure-bloods who wanted Hermione punished just to maintain tradition.
Fear from Cornelius Fudge—raw, choking, panicked fear.
But the darkest presence in the room burned like boiling tar.
Dolores Umbridge.
Her anger was not a spark—it was a cauldron.
Bubbling. Frothing. Poisonous. She glared at Hermione’s empty chair as though she wished it would catch fire with the force of her hatred alone.
She didn’t just dislike Hermione.
She hated her.
Hated Muggle-borns.
Hated clever girls who reminded her of everything she despised.
And Harry saw it.
Felt it.
Smelled it in her emotions like rancid smoke.
If not for the trial’s outcome, she would have made Hermione suffer—gleefully.
Salazar Slytherin’s voice echoed in Harry’s memory, cold and instructional:
“Mercy for the wicked is cruelty to the innocent.
If you allow evil to live, every life it ruins afterward is on your hands.”
Harry’s fingers curled slowly into a fist beneath his cloak.
There was a time when he might have believed in second chances.
A time when he would have trusted the Ministry to punish the guilty and protect the innocent.
But that Harry was gone.
Buried under the teachings of Darth Bane.
Refined by Salazar Slytherin’s ruthlessness.
Sharpened by betrayal from the very world he once fought to save.
He opened his eyes and looked down at Umbridge.
And whispered, voice low, almost tender:
“…I won’t forgive you.”
His hood hid the smile that followed.
