As the Sister of Harry Potter

The next week or two passed in a blur. Fred and George had been right, Mrs. Weasley set us to work cleaning the drawing room, where we got to fight a Doxie infestation. That was fun, especially when Hyden got bit. We found out that the house was Sirius’s, where his parents used to live, and that the shrieking portrait in the main hall was actually his mum. Fred and George employed Launa and I to help them with their newest product, Skiving Snackboxes, and the Black’s ancient disgruntled House Elf Kreature muttered insults at us wherever he went.

It was wonderful.

But something nagged at the back of my mind and turned into full-blown panic as the date approached; Harry and I’s trial at the Ministry, where it would be decided if we were expelled from Hogwarts or not. By law, we shouldn’t be – but what if we were? Fudge was twisted enough, and judging by the articles out of the Prophet Hermione made us read about ourselves and Dumbledore, he was just as mental as he’d been in June, perhaps even more so.

The night before, Mrs. Weasley handed me a stack of laundry. “I’ve ironed out your best cloths Jennifer, and you and Harry are going with Arthur to work in the morning.”

I nodded. “Okay, thanks Mrs. Weasley.”

-

It was less than cheery at breakfast the next morning. Harry merely nibbled on toast, and I didn’t do much better. Hermione looked like she wanted to give us words of encouragement, but every time she tried to say something, she frowned and shut her mouth again. I went upstairs and put on my one pair of jeans that weren’t holey, a clean black dress shirt, and my school flats. I brushed my hair and fitted it with my usual black headband, which was the only thing about my person that had that worn look, but it was habitual to wear the thing. I sighed, pocketed my wand, and walked back downstairs.

We had to take the Underground to the Ministry because Mr. Weasley couldn’t get us cars and Harry and I couldn’t Apparate. We had a minor setback when Mr. Weasley got giddy over using Muggle money, but we were soon on a dingy London street, looking at an ancient red phone booth.

“Well, get in,” Mr. Weasley urged, and we squeezed in. “I’ve never used the visitors’ entrance before,” he said brightly and dialed on the phone 6-2-4-4-2. The booth shuddered and began sinking into the ground.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Visitors, please state your business.”

“Harry and Jennifer Potter for a disciplinary hearing,” said Mr. Weasley. Two badges slid into the phone’s tray, and Harry and I put them on. He looking at me and I snorted.

The phone booth stopped moving and the voice said, “You are required to submit your wand for examination. Enjoy your stay at the Ministry of Magic.” And the door opened.

Wizards and witches of all sorts bustled about, talking, popping in and out of fireplaces, and queuing up at the lifts at the far end of the huge hall. A fountain was in the center, with a Witch, Wizard, Centaur, Goblin, and House Elf statues. Mr. Weasley lead us to the back to get our wands checked, then we entered a lift.

We and several others waited through the many floors. Purple paper birds zoomed in and out. “Memos,” Mr. Weasley said, “we used to use owls, but the mess was unbelievable.” At the Auror floor, Kingsley Shaklebolt got on and whispered something to Mr. Weasley. He looked anxious.

“What’s wrong?” I asked after Kingsley got off.

“They’ve changed the Hearing time. Courtroom Ten, in five minutes.”

I gulped.

“Department of Mysteries,” said the cool voice on the intercom, and we were ushered off. We walked down a winding stone staircase.

Mr. Weasley stopped. “This is as far as I can go, it’s just down there. Good luck, and I’ll see you when you get out.” And he left us. We made it the last few stairs and stopped outside the door.

“Ready?” I asked. Harry nodded shakily, and we entered the room.

I gasped. It was the same room we had seen in the Pensieve whilst in Dumbledore’s memory last May. There were two stiff chairs in the middle of the room, and the wooden benches going around most the room were about half-full. In the center was Fudge. On his left was a stern woman with her brown hair pulled back, and on his right was a woman who’s face I couldn’t make out, but she was very stout. In front of them was Percy, clutching a couple quills and had two ink pots and several rolls of parchments in front of him. I glared at him as I took my seat. After Harry took his, Fudge spoke.

“Now that you are finally here, we can begin. The accused are Harry James Potter and Jennifer LilyAnne Potter, of Number Twelve, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Are you said residents?”

We nodded.

“The interrogators; Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister; Percy Ignatius Weasley, Court Scribe –”

The door burst open and in strode Dumbledore, very casually. “Witness for the Defense, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.” He conjured up a push armchair next to Harry and sat down, studying Fudge over his fingertips. “The charges?” he asked.

Fudge bumbled slightly, but said, “They are both charged with intentionally and in full-knowledge of the consequences performed a Patronus Charm in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the presence of a Muggle.” Fudge looked satisfied, as if he had just proven we were guilty. Then he faced Harry and I. “You have already been sent a warning from the Ministry for underage magic three years ago?”

“Yes, but –” Harry started, but Fudge cut him off.

“And you performed said Patronus Charm anyways?”

“Yes, but –”

“In the presence of a Muggle?”

“YES, but –”

“I see…” Fudge said, smirking.

“Look, we only did it because of the Dementors!” I burst out, glaring down Fudge.

“Dementors?” asked Amelia Bones, shocked. “In Little Whinging?”

“Yes,” I said, slightly exasperated, “two of them. They attacked us and our Muggle cousin in an alleyway!”

“Ah, yes,” said Fudge, still smirking, “I thought we might have to hear a story like this…” My jaw dropped at his ignorance. “Well, seeing as you can produce no witnesses to the event…”

“Actually, we can,” said Dumbledore cheerily. “She’s just outside, should I –?”

“No, Weasley, you go,” snapped Fudge. Percy scrambled out of his seat and let someone in. In shuffled Mrs. Figg, carpet slippers and all. Dumbledore conjured her a chair, and she sat down looking at Fudge shiftily. “Full name?” Fudge barked.

“Arabella Doreen Figg,” she stated.

“And, er… who are you?”

“I’m a resident of Little Whinging and a Squib.”

“Very well, what’s your story?”

Mrs. Figg launched into her story, which I’m sure was rehearsed. “Well, I was on my way home after buying cat food when I passed the alleyway between Winistera Walk and Privet Drive and I saw the two Dementors gliding towards three teens.”

“Describe the Dementors,” asked Madame Bones.

“They were big and wearing cloaks.”

“Anything else?” Madame Bones asked disbelievingly.

Mrs. Figg flushed slightly. “Yes. Everything got really cold, and it was a really hot night, mind you. And then I felt as if… as if all the happiness of the world was gone…” her voice trailed off.

“What did they do?” Madame Bones asked, now slightly startled. Mrs. Figg regained her confidence.

“They went for the children. The big one had ran off and fallen over, and the girl had chased after him and fallen too. The Dementors went straight for them. Then the other boy got the Dementor off the girl and dealt with it. That was Harry. Then the girl, Jennifer, got up and conjured her own Patronus and chased the other one off. And… that’s how it… happened.”

“That’s all?” Fudge asked.

“That’s all,” Mrs. Figg stated.

“Alright, you can leave.” She stood hesitantly and showed herself out.

“Not very convincing, was she?” Fudge asked.

“I don’t know,” said Madame Bones thoughtfully, “she described a Dementor attack quite well.” She frowned. “I just don’t get why…”

“Honestly, Dementors just wandering a Muggle suburb and happen upon the only two magical beings in miles?” Fudge scoffed.

“Oh, I don’t think anyone really believes this was just an accident,” said Dumbledore. Fudge turned slightly red in anger.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means they were ordered there.”

“We would have record!”

“Then they are taking orders from someone outside the Ministry,” said Dumbledore pointedly.

“There is no one outside!” roared Fudge.

“Then why would someone within the Ministry order a Dementor attack?”

The woman next to Fudge leaned forward so we could see her. I bit back a laugh at how ridiculous she looked. She was all in pink and very short and stubby. Her bulging eyes looking like frog eyes, her mouth was quite wide, and her face broad and flabby. Her lack of neck rivaled Uncle Vernon. The black satin bow perching on her short curly hair completed the looking, giving the impression of a large, black fly, waiting for her long tongue to lash out and eat it. But she spoke, my jaw dropped. Her voice was frilly, high-pitched, and girly; the opposite of my expectation.

“Excuse me Dumbledore, but it sounds like you are accusing the Ministry for this attack.”

“My dear lady, I am accusing no one. I am merely stating the possibilities,” said Dumbledore coolly.

“Well,” started Madame Bones, “the law says underage wizards may perform magic in life-threatening situations. You’ve heard the charges and the Potters’ defense. Those in favor of conviction?” Seven or eight people raised their hands, including Fudge and the Toad Lady. “Those in favor of clearing of all charges?” My heart soared as over half the room raised their hands including Madame Bones.

Regretfully, Fudge said, “Cleared of all charges.”

-

“Cleared of all charges,” Harry and I repeated together at the dinner table that night.

“I knew you would!” said Hermione triumphantly.

“THEY GOT OFF! THEY GOT OFF!” chanted George, Ginny and Fred at the tops of their lungs.

“SHUT UP!” screeched Mrs. Weasley. I grinned.

It was good to be free.