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Author: Aibhinn Story: Heal The Pain Rating: Teens Setting: AU Status: Completed Reviews: 5 Words: 198,021
Miller had come to work early, a benefit of having a wife on a business trip and daughters skiing with friends. There'd been no one to make breakfast for, so after a quick shower and a stop at the local café for food, he was in the office, downing the last of yesterday's coffee and finishing the paperwork on the Lenderman trial. This was his penultimate case, the last one he'd try before the capstone of his career: Ministry of Magic v. Potter. He was surprised that he was as upbeat as he was about handling the Potter case as his last, but all good things (and a few not-so-good things) must come to an end, including his military career. After closing the file and sealing the permanent records, he paused, remembering that Miss Levine wouldn't be there to send them to archives. He jotted this down on his running list of things that he'd assign to the temporary employee who should be in later this week. He rinsed out the coffeepot, tossed the old filter and grounds, refilled the reservoir with fresh water, and reached for the coffee canister, which was surprisingly light. Darn, empty. He turned to the list and saw that he'd written down the fact that the office was out of coffee and cream yesterday, but he'd forgotten to do anything about that last night, given his haste in spending one last night with his wife before she went off to her conference. Looking at the wall clock and then his blotter, he figured that he couldn't very well dash out for supplies before his first and only appointment of the day. Working solo had its drawbacks. Working solo without an office manager was the pits. While he was alone in the office, part of his new routine included setting a Perimeter charm in the hallway approaching it. It wasn't connected to anything more drastic than a clicker within his office, but it did draw him out of the deep concentration that more often than not rendered him oblivious to normal background noise. The clicker gave a double click, indicating the number of living objects moving down the hall. Perhaps the lovely Miss Weasley was accompanying his client this morning. The musical sound of a woman laughing confirmed his guess. The room visibly brightened when the couple came into the room, he with his hands in the pockets of his Muggle-style overcoat, she with her left hand woven into the bend of his arm below his right elbow. She's leaving her wand hand free, since he doesn't have his own wand at the moment, Miller noticed, and his respect for both of them went up a notch or two. He was under no illusions about just how competent Ginny Weasley was; he had no doubt that between her talents and her fiancé's wandless magic, the two of them were safe from just about anything. She disengaged her hand and spun lightly before Harry, placing a kiss on his lips while standing on tiptoe. With a flash of crimson ponytail waggling behind her, she left before Miller could think of anything charming, much less intelligent, to say to her. "You're a very lucky man, you know," Miller said, lifting his own coat from the cloak rack. Harry smiled, looking out into the hallway. "Yeah, I know." He reached his hands to the buttons on his coat. "Don't take your coat off," Miller said, shrugging into his. "We need to go get coffee and cream." "Where's Miss Levine?" Harry asked with a slight look of puzzlement as he looked around the office. "It looks like she's been gone for a while." "She's out," Miller said with an evasive shrug of his shoulders, and left. Harry followed. *** Harry had never walked through this part of Muggle London before. The streets of the city were relatively quiet: the early commuters who started work at 8:00 were already at their desks, grinding away, while the second wave of 9:00 commuters were about five minutes away from appearing. The street vendors in the Camden market were setting up their carts and tables, some of which were licensed and authorised by the city, others apparently not. A wide variety of wares, from bootleg music and cheap incense to the usual assortment of foods and counterfeit watches, purses, scarves and ties, not to mention the ever-present brollies, were available among the throng of tables. Miller slipped through the flow of urban foot traffic, aiming for a small coffee shop. Rather than joining the line at the bar, Miller went left, to stand by the coffee-grinding machines. After a moment, a small woman wearing a purple kerchief on her green hair stood opposite Miller, murmuring something that Harry couldn't quite catch as he watched the sights, smelled the smells and was deafened by the cacophony of grinding, perking conversation. Miller pulled a bank note from his pocket and received a brown-wrapped package in return. As they left the store, Miller passed the package, roughly the size of a brick, to him. It was warm and exuded the heavenly smell of freshly-ground coffee. Bemused, Harry followed Miller into another narrow storefront, working his way back to the sliding glass doors of the refrigerator case. Miller plucked two narrow cartons off the shelf and got in the short cashier line. Measuring out some coins and another bank note, Miller left with the cartons in a paper bag with handles. Harry followed. It was good to be able to get out, even if it was just to stretch his legs. They were nearly halfway back to the office before Miller spoke again. "Miss Levine is on an unexpected holiday," he volunteered suddenly. "Is she all right?" Harry asked, startled. Miller shrugged. "Physically she's fine, but she's a bit of a basket case emotionally right now, which is why I sent her on holiday. I own a few beach houses as an investment in the British Virgin Islands," he explained. "She's living in my caretaker's flat right now, walking the beaches during the day and swilling piña coladas at night." He smirked. "If she doesn't drink herself to death, she'll be just fine. My wife will be checking on her tomorrow night." Harry's brow furrowed. That didn't sound at all like the brusque, efficient secretary he'd met. "What happened?" Miller chuckled and shook his head. "That, Captain Potter, is a story to tell over fresh coffee." The two men walked wordlessly back to the office, Miller nodding and waving from time to time at familiar faces he saw in the streets. Harry was glad he wasn't recognised, but then again, they were in Muggle London. Perhaps Ginny might consider living in a Muggle town or village, he thought as they walked in the front doors of the office building and headed up the stairs. The anonymity is nice after the past few years, and it would certainly make things much easier on the both of us. Ottery St. Catchpole isn't precisely a wizarding village, after all; she might not have any objection. Once they were back in the office, Harry noted with some interest that Miller made coffee in a Muggle coffee maker, sprinkling some cinnamon into the filter basket before scooping in the grounds. "Why do it the Muggle way, Major Miller?" he asked curiously. Miller smiled, not looking up from his task. "The short answer is that I just prefer the taste of coffee prepared the Muggle way, having grown used to it when I was a young man in Her Majesty's service. This office is completely wired and plumbed for Muggle occupancy, as this space is leased from Muggles and not owned by the Ministry, so it's simple enough." Harry blinked in surprise. "You were in the Muggle military?" Miller's mouth curved into a small smile. "When I was young and foolish, I did foolish things, Captain Potter," he said. "I jumped out of airplanes that were perfectly capable of reaching their appointed destination; I slithered on the ground carrying lethal weapons; I ate mysterious foods that I could not identify. Then I compounded my foolishness by going to University to read law, and came back to the wizarding world for a stint as a barrister's apprentice. One thing led to another, and here I am, one case away from retiring as a Military Judge Advocate." Harry got a sudden vision of his cousin Dudley being presented with the type of 'mysterious foods' he expected the Muggle military provided, and had to hide a smirk. "So what happened to Miss Levine?" he said, changing the subject. Miller replaced the filter basket, poured water in the top of the machine, put the pot under the drip, and hit the rocker switch. The switch lit, a wet burbling sound emitted from the coffee maker, and the office began to fill with the familiar, warm smell of coffee. "I've known Jenny Levine for the ten years that she's worked with me here at Defence Services," Miller said, sitting down in his desk chair and propping his feet on the blotter. "For eight of those years she's had a miserable live-in boyfriend named Thomas. I loathed him, but knowing how stubborn she is, I did my best to say nothing about him, which was a trial at times. When he was working, he was a musician, piano player to be precise. Jenny said many times that there were three things that Thomas loved: his piano, his car, and her." He pulled a face. "I expect that was the approximate order of priority too." "Did something happen with the boyfriend?" He couldn't imagine Miller gossiping about his office staff under normal circumstances; this had to be quite a story. Miller smirked again. "You could say that. Thomas lost his day job, so he started playing at various clubs around London at night and took piano students by day. Pretty soon, it seemed like there just wasn't much time left for little old Jenny Levine any more, between the lessons and the evening and weekend piano gigs. Jenny even went so far as to have him followed." Harry's eyebrows went up. "Did she find evidence he was having an affair or something?" he hazarded. Miller shook his head mournfully. "No, not a blessed thing. I was most disappointed. Jenny started beating herself up, thinking that she wasn't being supportive enough of him as an artist; she started showing up at his piano gigs, dressed like a groupie." Miller made the words 'supportive' and 'artist' almost sound like profanity. "Probably would still be with him, except for the day that she went home at lunchtime to pick up a package she'd left on the breakfast table." "She didn't catch him in the act, did she?" Harry asked, fascinated. He wondered if he'd be breaking a confidence if he told this story to Ginny, Ron, and Hermione. Miller rose and went to the coffee pot, which had stopped making brewing noises. "Nah, he'd probably have talked his way out of it if she had caught him. This was better." Miller filled two mugs with the freshly-brewed coffee, which smelled like the Burrow's kitchen on a weekend, only better, added milk and sugar to one, and handed it to Harry. "He'd left a videotape in the VCR. Jenny didn't recognise it as one of their pre-recorded videos, so she sat down and watched it over lunch. Needless to say, she didn't feel much like eating once the video began." Oh, it can't be…"Home video smut?" Harry asked with a sort of horrified fascination. "Yup." Miller gave a broad grin. "Oh, God." Harry couldn't help but laugh, though he felt truly awful for Miss Levine. "Poor woman. Was it anyone she knew?" "Oh, yes," Miller said with relish. "Several someones that she knew: most of his daytime piano students, including the landlord's daughter—blonde, busty and barely legal. All of them were captured in living colour in high resolution VHS. Thomas was making music with his students, all right, but it had nothing to do with eighty-eight black and white keys." Harry shook his head. He couldn't imagine what that must have been like. "So what did she do to him? Flay him alive?" Miller chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, no. She did nothing directly; she's far too clever for that." He took his feet down off the desk and leaned an elbow on it instead. "It seems Thomas was out that day, first to the gym and then to his first club gig of the evening. He'd taken the bus, so his car was parked next to their building. Jenny had started drinking while she watched the video, on an empty stomach no less. By the time she'd watched it to the end and rewound it, she was both furious and well-pickled." He shook his head again and took a swig of coffee. "From what I could reconstruct afterwards, she did a very complicated charm where she levitated Thomas' grand piano out the fourth floor window, floated it over the parking lot, and sent it crashing down onto his car." "Oh, well done!" Harry exclaimed, delighted. "There wasn't any collateral damage to anyone else's car, was there?" Miller snorted. "No; the little twit always parked at the end of the lot so that no one would scratch his precious Mazda Miata. Needless to say, a small convertible doesn't hold up too well to a full-sized grand piano dropped from four stories up." Harry laughed; he couldn't help it. I've got to remember to tell this story to the twins, he thought. Miller was continuing, his voice coloured with amusement and an odd sort of pride. "Next she took their bed—queen-sized, no less—and did the same thing: floated it out of the flat's balcony window, centred it over what was left of the car, and let it drop. She'd probably have been in the clear if she'd stopped there," he added professionally, "but she then went out to the parking lot and set the wreckage on fire, which got some attention from the local fire department and constabulary. The lieutenant on the afternoon shift is an old acquaintance of mine, and brought me to the scene." Harry shook his head. This was quite possibly the best revenge story he'd ever heard. "What was Miss Levine doing when the constables arrived?" Miller's eyes twinkled. "She was sitting on the lawn," he said, propping his head on his fist, "eating popcorn and watching the fire burn." Eating popcorn? Harry laughed. "She didn't get arrested, did she?" he asked. "Almost," Miller told him. "She had a collection of kitchen knives on her lap underneath the bag of popcorn. I explained the situation to the local magistrate who, after hearing the whole story, agreed that apart from holding a bonfire without a proper permit, no great harm was done, provided that I keep Jenny away from Thomas. Which I was more than willing to do," he added blandly, though the tone didn't fool Harry. "Nobody saw the floating objects, so there were no Obliviations for the Ministry to deal with. The next day, after she'd sobered up, she agreed with me that she needed to take a spot of time off, and was quite appreciative when I put her on the Portkey to the Virgin Islands to recuperate." He took another long swig of coffee, then turned to refill his mug. "I've had a pair of letters from her since she's left. My guess is that she's got about two more weeks before she'll be ready to come back." "What happened to Thomas?" Harry asked, still spellbound by the whole scenario. "Something moderately ghastly, I hope." Miller sighed. "Unfortunately not, aside from the destruction of his precious car. He came back to the flat that evening and found a note on the door letting him know that the locks had been changed. The next day, he came to my office and got rather testy with me until I pointed out that some of the, er, ladies on his home video were not quite of age in this jurisdiction. He left me an address to send his things from the flat, so I did. I sublet the flat for the balance of the lease and found Jenny a new place – I don't think she could bear to return to that flat without thinking of him every time she turned around." He shrugged. "We'll see if my amateur psychology works when she gets back." Miller took another long pull from his coffee tumbler and locked his gaze on Harry's. "Enough gossiping," he said firmly. "We've work to do, Harry. It's time to tell me everything—about your child, about the night Voldemort cashed in, about your fiancée's Sight, everything. I can't help you if I'm working in the dark." Harry met his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. He twisted the ring on the bottom of his coffee tumbler until steam rose from the vent, then finished the scalding brew in one long chug and set it down on the table. He began talking in a low, clear voice as if he were reporting in at the end of a shift, and didn't stop talking until lunchtime. ------------------- "So where do we stand now?" Harry asked, wadding up the last sandwich wrapper and tossing it with one of Katie Bell's best Chaser moves into the corner rubbish bin. "Right now we're sitting, Captain Potter," Miller observed. Harry snorted. "If I want lame humour I'll go see Ginny's brothers." "If I want surly impertinence I'll bring Miss Levine back early," Miller retorted. "We'll talk shop when I'm finished eating lunch, and as you can plainly see, there's still chocolate on that plate. You know the rules, Potter." Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, work starts again when the chocolate is all gone." "Be a good lad and fetch me a fork from that side table. Thanks." Ten minutes later the last of the chocolate-raspberry torte was gone, the coffee pot was empty, and the table was cleared of plates, napkins, and forks, all Banished, along with the crumbs, to the corner rubbish bin. "Slick," Harry said appreciatively. "You did that wandlessly." "One of the few things I can do without a wand," Miller said modestly. "After I proved to myself that I could do it, I found it to be far more trouble than it's worth, 99% of the time." "When did you teach yourself?" It had never been something Harry had worked toward; he'd just always been able to do it. Like speaking Parseltongue, he thought humourlessly. "When I was a grunt in Her Majesty's Royal Marines. I thought it might be a skill that could keep me alive a time or two." He grinned at Harry. "Did a lot to keep my motivation high, rather like when you were learning the Summoning Charm back in school." Harry blinked. "How'd you find out about that?" he asked. The depth of Miller's knowledge about his life astounded him. "I've been interviewing witnesses and potential witnesses," Miller said carelessly, "delving a bit into your past." He pinned Harry with a look. "She loves you like a brother, you know." There was no need to mention her name; they both knew that the she being discussed was Hermione. "Yeah, I know," Harry said soberly. "I've just recently discovered how much she cares." Miller's eyebrows rose. "Apparently a lot of your friends care," he said. "I've had all sorts of inquiries being made into my past by individuals who act a good deal like Unspeakables." Harry's eyebrows shot up as well. "You noticed?" He'd've thought the twins would have been more careful than that. He had no question that it was Loki who'd done the investigating—that was what they did best. Miller snorted. "I may be just a lowly barrister now, Captain Potter, but before that I ran around in nasty places where people tried to kill me. I keep my ears open and my network of informants loyal and active." Something to remember. We might even be able to use that network at some point. "So, Major, where do we stand as far as my case goes?" he asked. It was time to bring things back on track. Miller reached behind him into the file drawer in the bottom right of his desk. "As things stand right now, we're going to trial." He pulled out a file and laid it on the table. "I got a formal offer from Major Whitaker that if you'll plead guilty to the Unforgivable charge, they'll stipulate to a one-year stretch in Azkaban." "That's good news?" Harry asked skeptically. Miller's eyes widened. "NO!" he exclaimed. "I'd have to be insane to suggest that you accept that offer." He shrugged. "But my opinion doesn't really matter. In the end, it's your call. We barristers lead vicarious lives; we do our client's bidding, not our own. The client decides how to plead. The client decides whether or not they take the witness stand. The client accepts or rejects any settlement offers. The rest are mere—" he waved his hands airily "—tactical details that should be left to counsel." Harry stared down at his hands for a moment, though there really was never any question what he'd decide. "I don't fancy a one-year stretch in Azkaban," he said firmly, looking up to meet Miller's gaze. "Tell Whitaker to go pound sand." Miller gave a small smile. "That's Major Whitaker to you, Captain Potter," he said in a pleased tone of voice, "and I will tell him to go pound sand down the rodent hole of his choice." Major Miller scrawled a quick sentence on a sheet of parchment and stuffed it into an envelope. Pulling open his desk drawer, he pulled out two thick files sealed in large pearl grey envelopes. "All right, Harry. Let's talk about the trial. You can't understand the substance until you understand the procedure, and the procedure makes no sense without the substance, so I'm probably going to repeat myself a few times, and you should not feel at all odd about asking me to explain things." Miller stood, stretched, walked to his credenza and rinsed out his coffee tumbler, pouring the water into a plant stand by the window. He then refilled the tumbler with water, capping the tumbler when he was done and twisting the ring in the cold direction. "Okay: Military Justice 101." Miller sat back down at his desk, put his cup down, and rested his elbow on the desktop, leaning back in his chair and facing the table where Harry still sat. "The purpose of the Military Justice system is not the administration of justice, though it does a pretty good job at it, compared to most civilian systems, Muggle or Magical. Rather, the purpose of the Military Justice system is solely the maintenance of military discipline." He pointed a finger at Harry. "Don't forget that—ever. The guiding principle is that the system is there to give people pause should they consider following their inner child rather than their lawful orders. "Courts-Martial have judges and juries, just like Muggle courts. The juries decide most questions on the basis of a three-quarters majority, except when voting on Unforgivables and on capital sentences, when the voting must be unanimous. We abolished the death penalty before I was born, so the only capital sentence we have left is life imprisonment at Azkaban without the possibility of parole, or, for the very worst cases, a Dementor's Kiss." Harry shuddered. He saw that Miller noticed, and a look of sympathy passed over the barrister's face before he continued. "In a normal case, the jury votes a maximum of twice. The first time is to determine whether the defendant is guilty or not guilty. There is no finding of 'innocent,' mind you," he added. "Only God can make that pronouncement. The second time, presuming that they vote 'guilty', is to determine the sentence." He took a drink of water, setting the tumbler conscientiously down on the coaster that sat beside his blotter. "Now, unlike Muggle systems, in the Military courts you're not guaranteed a jury of your peers; you're guaranteed a jury of your superiors, which at the minimum means that every member of the jury will be an officer with a superior rank: Majors, Lieutenant Colonels, and full Colonels, most likely. I rather doubt that we'd get a flag officer on the panel. Add to this mix the fact that we need to find officers who outrank you but don't owe you a life debt, aren't related to you by blood, marriage, or adoption, and haven't been involved in your case up to now." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Empanelling a jury for this case is going to be a nightmare. Chances are the only way they can fill out a full panel is to bring in some of the defence attachés serving in foreign countries." He smirked. "Fortunately, that's not my job." "Whose job is it?" Harry asked curiously. He was beginning to think he was getting the hang of all this legal talk; his head wasn't spinning nearly as badly as it had before. "Major Whitaker," Miller answered. "Or someone on his staff." Harry felt his heart simultaneously sink and harden in anger. "That sod wants to put me away," he said harshly. "Actually, no," Miller said, surprising Harry. "He's just doing his job. We had a long chat about all of this last week. It seems that he's taking his orders on this case from a political in the Ministry of Justice—some holdover from the prior administration." Harry's jaw dropped. "One of Fudge's boys?" I thought I smelled a rat, he thought darkly. "Absolutely. Just like the lyrics to the old blues song, 'friends may come and friends may go, but enemies stay for the late show.'" Miller sang softly, carefully modulating his tone until his voice cracked on the next to the last note. Harry grimaced and then looked back at Miller. "Please tell me that you're not going into music in your retirement." Miller took a playful swat at the back of Harry's head, lightly brushing it. "I'll have you know that I love music; I'm just no good as a singer. Invite me to your wedding and I'll play piano at your reception for free – I'll even promise not to sing." Despite himself, Harry grinned. "It's a deal. So, what are we going to do about my trial?" "It's all up to you, Captain Potter," Miller said, leaning back in his chair and regarding Harry. "You're sitting on a pile of information, all of which is germane to your defence, all of which is admissible. Your lovely bride-to-be lost your child when she took out Voldemort. She's a Seer, probably the only one left alive after the First and Second Wars." "But why is Ginny's gift an Umbra matter?" Harry interjected. "I mean, I know why she doesn't want to tell anyone about it, but why is it under such tight security?" His protective instincts were flaring. I don't want her to have to go through another experience like she had telling her parents. Miller regarded him with some sympathy. "You won't like the answer to this, I'm afraid. She's considered a strategic asset to the Ministry as a whole and to the Aurors and the Corps of Unspeakables specifically." He sighed. "During the first War with Voldemort, the first casualties were the Seers – same as with Grindelwald. That nasty little fact has caused most true Seers to make their gift a great secret, which makes her extremely useful—especially if she chooses to cooperate with the Ministry in any future conflicts. Which she certainly doesn't have to do—nobody can command a Vision." Harry nodded. "And what does our child have to do with my defence?" he asked. Miller sighed again and shifted his chair a bit, turning it to face Harry a little more directly. "It all goes to motivation, Captain Potter. Your response to a Death Eater atrocity is not that of a normal man, because you've lost much more than any of us: your grandparents, your parents, your childhood, your firstborn." He ticked each point off on a finger as he spoke. "And now there have been attempts on the lives of your friends as well. When you apprehended a Death Eater by the book back in the orchard at the Burrow—and yes, even though you weren't part of the Corps at the time, you did do it completely by the book—they Portkeyed away, literally under your hands. Under those circumstances, application of Cruciatus could be considered a reasonable means of securing a prisoner. For reasons the bright boys at the Department of Mysteries can't figure out, the Cruciatus curse interferes with the Portkey mechanism." "But I wasn't trying to secure him," Harry protested. "That wasn't my intent at all." "Didn't you read the report?" "Yes, of course." Well, skimmed it. It hadn't exactly been easy reading, after all. The wounds were still too raw for him to be able to read about his use of an Unforgivable Curse with equanimity. "Malcolm Jones had a Portkey built into his belt. Three of the on-scene witnesses all state that he was reaching for his belt just before you whacked him with that curse." "They said that?" And he had a Portkey? Damn. No wonder the other Death Eaters got away. Though I wonder why their Portkeys didn't take their Stunned comrades with them this time. "They said that," Miller affirmed, "and before any of them knew that he had a hidden Portkey." Harry felt himself blushing. "I must have missed that," he said a bit apologetically. "You've been busy getting your head back together. We'll let it slide this one time." Miller smiled, leaning back in his chair again, tapping the tips of his fingers together in the rhythm of some unheard melody. "Is there still a training instructor named Shard with the Unspeakables?" Harry blinked at the sudden change of subject. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Teaches unarmed combat—short little fellow." "Did he do a demonstration during your training?" Harry felt another grin stretch his mouth. "Yeah, riled up the trainee with the biggest mouth, and then mopped the floor with him." The fact that it had been Cipher he'd riled up and then used like a dishcloth hadn't hurt Harry's feelings any, either. Or Ron's, Harry thought cheerfully. I haven't seen Ron so gleeful since the Amazing Bouncing Ferret. "That's what I intend to do to the Prosecution in this case," Miller said with a note of smugness. Well, that's encouraging. "How do you plan to do that?" Harry asked. "What's your leverage?" "Classified information," Miller said, drawing the phrase out and grinning wickedly. Harry felt a spasm of hurt and anger. "So you're not going to tell me?" "No," Miller said, still grinning. "That's not what I mean. I mean that I'm going to play the security regulation the same way that I'm going to play the piano at your wedding reception." "Oh," Harry said, not understanding, but playing along. "We're going to play classified information hardball, Captain Potter." "Hardball?" Harry repeated, confused. Now his head was spinning. So much for understanding all this legal stuff, he thought. Miller pulled a face. "Sorry. An American term I learned from a Yank colleague a few years ago. I mean, we're going to play the grown-up game here—and we're going to use everything we can to our advantage." Oh. That makes much more sense. "How?" Harry asked. His respect for Miller, high to begin with, had been growing steadily all day, and by this point he was ready to agree to nearly any suggestion Miller made. Miller shifted, resting an ankle on the opposite knee. "Under Ministry regulations, any time the Defendant of a Court-Martial holds a high clearance, top-secret or higher, the prosecutor has to get a go-ahead from the security directorate before preferring charges. In this case, the alleged misconduct didn't involve any obvious application of classified information, so the case was cleared for prosecution, probably at the level of the Court-Martial Convening Authority. With me so far?" Harry nodded. "My attack on Jones wasn't an Umbra matter in and of itself." "Right you are. Now, if the Defence raises issues that involve classified information, the Prosecution comes to a grinding halt while the security directorate determines a) whether the information is really necessary for trial, and b) whether the trial should go forward. In this case," Miller tapped the file on his desk, "if we demand a jury trial, and we most certainly will—I'm not having you accept that farce of a deal Whitaker proposed—the process of finding a judge and jurors with the clearances, or getting suitable personnel cleared for Top-Secret-Umbra clearance, will take months." Harry frowned, considering. "Why is that good?" he asked. The answer was probably the one Harry himself had come up with, but he was learning an immense amount from listening to Major Miller, and he was not about to pass up that chance. "It's fairly simple." Miller pointed at him. "You've got enemies, as you well know. But you've got friends as well. The longer this case drags on, the greater is the likelihood that a new administration will take power and toss the prosecution of this case into the rubbish bin." "What, you think that Rita Skeeter will write favourable articles in the Prophet and the Quibbler for me?" Harry said, pulling a face. Miller chuckled. "Rita wasn't the first one that came to my mind, but she's as good as any. I've never tried any of my cases in the press, but I'm willing to discuss it as we go along." Interesting—wonder if Rita would do her nut if she were forced to write good things about me? Harry smirked and cocked his head, thinking for a long moment and tapping his fingers idly on the table. "What's the likelihood that the Ministry would find a judge and jury with Umbra clearances?" he asked. "Pretty slim." "And what happens if they do?" Miller shrugged. "Then we go to trial. We put on the best case we can for why Harry Potter, the most patient wizard in the realm, lost it the night two classmates were brutally murdered. We emphasize all the good you've done, all the loss you've incurred—you and your lovely fiancée—and how much you're at risk." "Playing the Ginny card," Harry said sourly. Damn. I really hoped I could keep her out of this. "Every last strand of red hair, Captain Potter," Miller affirmed. "I don't know that I like that," Harry said a bit sharply. "Ginny has more than enough on her plate right now." Though she'd do it, he thought bleakly. If I even suggested it, she'd do it. Miller fixed him with a sharp look. "How does it compare to what you hear when the Dementors drop by for afternoon tea?" Utter cold… a faint voice, screaming… a deeper voice: "Run, Lily! It's him! I'll hold him off. Take Harry and run!" Harry shook his head, pulling himself out of the memory with difficulty. I can't go to Azkaban, he thought. I can't. He sighed. "I still don't like it, but I guess I'll have to accept it." Though if Ginny objects, he thought rebelliously, I'll go to Azkaban without a complaint. I can't ask her to do that for me. Miller smiled sympathetically. "Good man. By the way, I'd also consider further Pensieve testimony showing what you see and hear when you're close to the Dementors. In addition to that, I'd put on some medical testimony from Healer Endicott as to how long you'd last at Azkaban." "Endicott?" Harry repeated blankly. "Who's that?" "One of the Healers you saw at St. Mungo's." So those examinations, the discussions that had seemed so pointless at the time, had a point after all. "What's he say?" Harry asked curiously. "Same thing that Red Knight said: you'd die in under a month." Harry shuddered, thinking of being with Dementors day in, day out, for a year or more. He couldn't even imagine the horror of it, and his heart went out to Sirius, trapped in that place for twelve years. "Why would you put all of this testimony on?" he asked, as a distraction for himself. "How will it help?" "The numbers, Harry." Miller picked up a Muggle ball-point pen and began toying with it. "When prosecuting an Unforgivable, the jury has to be unanimous. All I need is one juror voting my way to keep you out of Azkaban. My gut feeling is that with most of the juries that I've seen over the years, I'd be likely to get at least a third, which for any other crime would be close to an acquittal, much less for an Unforgivable." "What would happen if you got the one?" "They'd probably convict on a lesser included offence of assault instead." Hm. That might not be too bad… "What's the punishment for that, then?" "Maximum?" Miller tapped the point of the pen on the desk, slid his fingers down it, flipped it over, and repeated the motion. "Two years' confinement, but not at Azkaban, and there's no minimum; they could sentence you to as little as a reprimand." Harry's eyebrows rose even as his heart lightened. "This is looking better and better," he said appreciatively. "I try." There was a pause. Harry chewed a thumbnail pensively. Something was still bothering him. There are a lot of ifs in this plan, he thought. A lot of maybes. I have to know what the worst could be. "Major Miller," he said quietly, "I know you know what you're doing, and I trust you completely—but I need to know: what happens if you're wrong, we go to trial, and I get convicted and sent to Azkaban?" Miller looked at him for a moment, then stood, walked over to his credenza, opened a drawer, and pulled out some familiar-looking bottles. He broke open the seals, poured them together into a tall glass, and then measured the combined contents back into the bottles. Returning to the table, he smacked one—it was labelled pomegranate juice—onto the table in front of his client. "See if you can drink this without pulling a face," he ordered. Lifting the bottle to his nose, Harry took a sniff and then a swig, managing somehow not to shudder. Making sure he kept a straight face, he looked at Major Miller. "This is awful, but I can drink it. What did you do to it and why?" Miller waved a hand toward the bottle. "That's pomegranate juice at 50% strength. The rest is essence of Murtlap." "Murtlap?" Harry repeated, startled. "That's for external use only. Why would anyone want to drink it?" "Funny thing, Murtlap," Miller said airily as he leaned his hip against the table. "Not only does it promote healing when applied externally, but when ingested, it changes the body's chemistry. Totally interferes with the action of anti-Apparition bands." "Wow." Harry stared up at his barrister. "Wouldn't someone notice?" And does the Corps know about that particular side effect? "Why would they notice?" Miller shrugged. "When you looked at the bottle, it looked normal, it smelled normal; it's only the taste that would give it away. Your medical record has an annotation in it from your last visit to St. Mungo's that you have a vitamin deficiency requiring pomegranate juice; they'll let you have it in the courtroom." Harry frowned. "I don't have any vitamin deficiency." "Your chart says you do," Miller said, smiling slightly. Harry let that sink in, then chuckled and shook his head slowly. "Remind me not to play cards with you anytime soon." Miller grinned. "Not a problem—I only gamble when I'm in the courtroom." He took the files and his notepad and locked them in his office safe. Turning off his desk lamp, he picked his coat up off the back of his desk chair. "Talk things over with your beloved, then come back tomorrow, same time, and we can go over some of the finer points in greater detail. Let me know if you approve of my plans, and we'll refine the options some more. Do you need the Floo connection, or do you have other ways to get home?" "I hate Floo—I'm Apparating home." "Right, then." Miller held out his hand. "Good night, Captain Potter." Harry took it and squeezed, trying to communicate his appreciation and respect. "Good night, sir. You don't know how much better I feel after today." "Oh, I have a notion, Captain Potter." Miller smiled warmly. "I have a notion." ------------------- "'Playing the Ginny card'?" Ginny repeated, a note of confusion in her voice. "Yeah." Harry ran his thumbs lightly over the backs of her hands. They were sitting on the edge of her recently-expanded bed—their bed now, he thought with a flush of pleasure—angled toward each other and holding hands. Harry had Apparated straight back to the Burrow from Miller's office, intent on telling Ginny everything that had happened. "He seems to think that threatening to put you on the stand has a good chance of keeping me out of Azkaban." Ginny's brow furrowed and her gaze fell to their clasped hands. "I'd do anything to make sure of that, Harry," she said softly. "Anything at all to keep you out of that horrible place. But… all those people… " "I know, love." He squeezed her hands gently. It was hard enough to tell her parents, he thought guiltily. I can't imagine what she must be feeling, envisioning telling an entire courtroom full of people. "But Major Miller seems to feel there's a very small chance that you'll actually have to testify. Just threatening to bring Umbra-classified information into the courtroom would require the prosecution to get clearance—and clearance for Umbra is harder to get than you can imagine. It's much more likely that they'd be willing to strike a deal instead." Ginny looked up. "It's just…" She swallowed, and he saw tears glitter in her eyes. "Harry, I will not let you be put into Azkaban," she said fiercely. "Never. But… isn't there some other way?" Heart twisting for her, Harry shook his head. "I don't know, Gin. Major Miller is pretty clever, though; I'm certain he wouldn't even consider putting you through that if there were any other way as certain of success. But he's asked me to bring you in to see him tomorrow morning; I think he wants to talk with you personally and let you ask him whatever you like." He released one hand to brush his fingers across her cheek. "I don't want you to be hurt," he whispered. "I don't want you to have to go through all that again. We'll do everything possible so you don't have to, I swear it." She met his gaze, then took a deep breath which shuddered as she let it out. "All right," she said softly. "All right. I'll go see Major Miller tomorrow morning, and I'll do everything he asks if it means you'll be safe." She smiled tremulously. "I want that wedding you promised me this summer." Relief spilled through him, and he released one of her hands to cup her chin and draw her to him for a kiss. "You'll have it," he said. "I swear." Mrs. Weasley's voice filtered up the stairs to them: "Harry! Ginny! Dinner's ready!" "Coming, Mum!" Ginny called back. She kissed him again, then they both rose and headed downstairs. The dining room was, as usual, filled with people and noise. Hermione and Ron were both home, and the twins, too, were there. Mr. Weasley had apparently just arrived, as he was hanging up a pair of cloaks. Harry frowned, looking about to see who belonged to the second cloak. There was movement behind the cloak stand, and a lean, gaunt-faced, sandy-haired man came into view, smiling broadly. "I've not heard so much noise in months," he said in a familiar voice. "It's marvellous. Thank you again, Arthur." Harry's jaw dropped. It can't be. The sandy-haired man glanced over and saw Harry. His face lit up, making him look a good ten years younger—which was to say, much more like his actual age. He began to wend his way through the chaos. "Harry!" he exclaimed. "R-Remus?" Harry stuttered, taken completely aback, and then they were embracing like father and son. Remus thumped him on the back, then pulled away, grinning like a maniac. "When did they release you?" Harry demanded. "This evening. Arthur and Molly have been kind enough to allow me to stay here until I'm a little stronger." He turned to Ginny, who was standing next to Harry, and held out his arms to her. She flew into them. "And it's good to see you as well, Ginny," he said, squeezing her tightly. "Dinner's on the table, Remus," Mrs. Weasley said. "Right you are." He released Ginny and the three of them took their seats along with everyone else. "So," Remus said, helping himself to the bowl of mashed potato before passing it to Harry, "I understand congratulations are in order, you two. When is the wedding to be?" Harry met Ginny's eyes and they both smiled. "This summer," Ginny told Remus. "After I've finished school." "Can I be your flower girl, Ginny?" Fred asked, fluttering his eyelashes. Ron snorted into his plate. "Only if you'll wear a Muggle dress and lace gloves, and scatter flower petals at my feet," she said impishly. "I suppose that makes me the ring-bearer," George added. "Ah well, the things one does for family." "Did you really want to have a Muggle wedding, Ginny, dear?" Mrs. Weasley said worriedly. "I think a nice wizard wedding would suit you so much better. Of course, it's not my decision to make—but I had so hoped you would wear my own wedding robes—" Harry and Ginny exchanged glances again, and Ginny rolled her eyes. Harry suppressed a chuckle as she turned to her mother. "Mum," she said patiently, "we haven't even really talked about the wedding yet. I haven't made any decisions of any kind." "Harry," Remus said very quietly, catching his attention. Harry glanced at him. "I know you're not working now, at least until the trial is dealt with. Right?" Harry nodded. Remus had visited him in St. Mungo's, albeit briefly each time; he knew the whole story. "Have you given any thought to what you'll be doing with yourself between now and then?" Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Not really," he admitted. His focus had been much more on the trial and on Ginny for the few days he still had her with him; it was Thursday now, and she would be returning to Hogwarts on Sunday. Remus dropped his voice even lower and leaned in closer. "The Order contacted me while I was in hospital," he said. "There's a great deal still to be done, with the attacks that have been going on the past few months." He met Harry's gaze soberly. "You'd be welcome back, if you like." Harry blinked. His mind was suddenly whirling. "I—" he began, not precisely sure what he was going to say. Remus held up a hand. "You don't have to answer right now," he said. "I know it's a lot to think about. But keep it in mind. You've a lot of time to get through before they can schedule a trial; it might be good to have something to do." Harry nodded numbly, and Remus smiled and turned his attention back to the conversation. Ginny touched Harry's hand and raised an eyebrow inquiringly. "Later," he murmured, and she nodded. Back with the Order, he thought as Remus made some dry comment about the wedding, which had become the main topic of conversation. That's definitely worth looking into… ----------------- Harry and Ginny returned to Miller's office early the next morning. They'd been talking long into the night—in fact they'd fallen asleep talking, which was the subject of a lot of good-natured ribbing from Ron, who had discovered them sitting by the fireplace when he'd left for work at midnight. Harry had told her about Remus' suggestion that he rejoin the Order. She'd thought it a very good idea. "You'd go nutters if you were forced to stay home all day, every day," she'd said gently. "And you'll be safer working with the Order than you would if you were still working at your regular job." She'd kissed his cheek. "Harry, if you want to take Remus up on his offer, I think it would be quite a good choice." The office building was hushed; it unnerved her a bit. She wasn't used to so much quiet. The light in Miller's outer office was lit, however, and as they opened the glass doors, the smell of fresh coffee came to them unbidden. The witch behind the front desk was not Miss Levine, Ginny noticed with a bit of surprise; she introduced herself as "Rachel" when she invited them to take a seat opposite a low table littered with magazines and a tall illuminated fish tank, filled with a colourful assortment of freshwater fish. Music was pouring out of Major Miller's office. Ginny was entranced. It was a piece she'd heard often from one of the sixth-year Gryffindor girls who'd got a CD player charmed to work by magic; a classical piece, but one she'd always enjoyed. Harry was apparently absorbed in the random motion of the fish tank until he noticed Ginny tapping her foot and moving her head in time to the music. "You know this tune?" Harry asked. Ginny nodded. "Rachmaninov, Third Piano Concerto, but I've never heard it played like this before. It's almost as if the melody is being lobbed back and forth between an orchestra and a piano. It's interesting." The music stopped abruptly and there was a clatter from Miller's office that sounded like something had fallen off his desk, leaving only the burbling of the fish tank's air pump and power filter. Major Miller's voice rang out. "Rachel, could you come in here, please?" Moments later, a slightly cowed Rachel reappeared in front of Harry and Ginny, announcing, "Major Miller will see you now." Major Miller rose from behind his desk as they entered, grasping Harry's hand in a firm handshake. Miller looked from Harry to Ginny and back again. "We can't have a privileged conversation with the people currently standing on my rug," he said in his curiously deep, raspy voice. "I can talk to you, Captain Potter, or I can talk to your lovely bride-to-be, but not both. Capische?" Ginny looked at him as if he'd grown two additional heads in the past ten minutes. Privileged conversation? she thought, confused. What does that mean? And what on earth is 'ca-peesh'? "Do you want me to wait outside, Major?" Harry asked. "No." Miller reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. "Do you remember the second store we visited yesterday?" "Yeah, I think so." He held out a twenty-pound note. "Here's some Muggle money. Bring back an entire Raspberry Chocolate torte—keep the change." "Er, ok," Harry said. He bent down to place a quick kiss on Ginny's lips, then headed out. Miller sealed the room with a Silencing Charm after Harry had passed the glass door. They eyed each other warily until, at last, Ginny extended her hand. Rather than shaking it as he had Harry's, Major Miller bent down to gently kiss the back of her hand. "It is truly a pleasure to finally get the opportunity to chat with the lovely and gifted Miss Weasley," Miller said gallantly. "I only wish that we were meeting under more pleasant circumstances." Despite herself, she felt a warm little thrill at the attention. She forced it away. She wasn't happy with his desire to "play the Ginny card," as Harry had put it, and was damn well going to make him work to prove it was necessary. "Harry's told me a lot about you," she said. "I wish I could say the same." Ginny didn't know what to make of this comment, so she changed the subject. "The music was lovely. What recording was it?" "It's not a recording." She frowned. "Surely there wasn't an orchestra in your office before we entered." "The orchestra portion is a studio recording from my uncle. He's a musician on the continent." "And the piano?" Major Miller walked over to the credenza against the wall, removing his dark top coat. Underneath the topcoat was a Muggle keyboard. He plunked out the first twenty notes of the first movement with one hand. Ginny began to laugh. Miller hung his coat on the cloak rack and faced her, turning a baleful glare on her that was mitigated by a twinkle in his eyes. "What's so funny about that?" he asked. "Harry said that you were a Royal Marine . . ." Ginny dissolved in a fit of giggles. "You play like an angel, but I can't help thinking of you crawling through the jungle with a keyboard on your back!" They both dissolved into a round of hearty laughter. Miller rolled his chair closer to the credenza, sat down and began to play. He started with a Bach prelude, transitioned to American ragtime, and then moved briefly into stride piano before settling into a twelve-bar blues tune. He continued in this vein for a minute or two before beginning to speak, playing more softly so she could hear. "Royal Marines like to drink, Miss Weasley, but they prefer to drink in pubs. I don't know why. Every pence that I earned as a Marine went into savings so I could pay for school afterwards. Most every pub near a Marine camp has a piano. I discovered early on that if I were playing the piano, some kind soul would always buy my drink. Never did I appreciate more the piano lessons that Tante Johnson forced on me than those evenings in the pubs with the Royal Marines." He stopped playing, moved from the small-wheeled chair to the larger one behind his desk, the one that faced the big client chair. He folded his hands on his desk and looked at her. "You have questions for me, I assume, Miss Weasley." Ginny crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap in unconscious imitation of him. "Harry says you want to 'play the Ginny card'," she said. "Yes," he said simply. "I can keep him out of Azkaban if I do." "And if you don't?" He shook his head. "Then he will most certainly be convicted and sentenced to Azkaban for some amount of time." Ginny felt a flare of panic and anger flash through her. "I won't have that." "Yes, well, that's why we're having this conversation, Miss Weasley," he said reasonably. She sighed, uncrossed her legs again, and leaned forward. "I need to understand why." "Why what?" She took a deep breath. "Why do you have to embarrass me in public to keep Harry out of Azkaban?" There. It was out. She felt herself flushing brightly, but forced herself to keep looking at Miller. His voice was quiet, sympathetic. "Are you ashamed of being a Seer?" Again panic flashed through her. He doesn't know about me, she thought desperately. He can't know. There's no way. "I'm not a Seer." He snorted and leaned back in his chair. "Balderdash," he said bluntly. "People who consistently see what is going to happen before it happens are Seers. I know Seers—Tante Johnson was a Seer. She was murdered on the eve of the First War, along with the other British Seers, several years before you were born." Oh, God. "I didn't know," she said quietly. "I'm so sorry." He waved a hand reassuringly. "It was a long time ago. I've learned to deal with it. So you're not ashamed of being a Seer; you're just reasonably cautious about releasing risky information." She shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. Though 'risky information' is a little tame, don't you think? It's more along the lines of 'putting a great target on my back, which is doubled because of my current last name and the one I'll soon be adopting'." He pulled a face, acknowledging her sally. "So, are you afraid of letting the world know that you gave Harry your virginity when you were a sixth-year student at Hogwarts?" "Afraid?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "No, I'm not afraid. I told my mum and dad the other day; after that, telling anyone else pales by comparison. I just don't understand what this has got to do with Harry's case." "Fair enough. I'll see if I can explain that for you." He rested his right ankle on his left knee. "The men and women of the jury will all be officers—not guaranteed to be Unspeakables, but I'm sure that there will be a few on the panel. Unlike a civil jury, which consists of Harry's peers, these officers will all outrank him—they'll be Majors and Lieutenant Colonels and full Colonels. I've got to present the real Harry James Potter to them, eighteen years old. All of them have heard of the Boy Who Lived, but they expect him to be some perfect person, and they won't excuse a perfect person torturing a fellow subject with an Unforgivable Curse. Given the nature of the charges, all I need is one juror voting no, and that charge is wiped out." "Does that mean Harry goes free if someone votes no?" Hope began to flutter in her breast. He shook his head. "Not so simple, Miss Weasley. If we knock out the Unforgivable charge, the jury will most likely convict on a simple assault charge as a lesser included offence." "Is that good?" It couldn't be as good as letting him go completely, of course, but there were better and worse possibilities. "Yeah, actually, it is. No minimum sentence is required for punishment, and the allowed punishments don't include Azkaban." She nodded slowly, chewing her lip. "Okay," she granted him, "that much I understand. But what's that got to do with my virtue—" she gave the word a decidedly sarcastic flavour "—and my gift?" "Everything and nothing." He shifted forward again, putting both feet on the floor and leaning his elbows on his desk. "I need to make the jury panel see Harry as you and I see him: a kind, funny, impetuous, honourable bloke, the type of fellow who could get carried away with a beautiful girlfriend in the midst of a war and end up with a child he hadn't planned on. A fellow who would do anything to protect that which was most dear to him. I can do all of that if I put you on the stand. You project a warmth, a sincerity, a vulnerability that I couldn't duplicate for a million Galleons. You can show the jury the real Harry Potter, and if you embarrass yourself in the process, it will only underscore the fact that you're telling the truth. No one in their right mind would think you were fabricating the story." Damn it. He's got a point. A very good point. She chewed her lip. "Would I be the only one testifying?" she asked. Miller shook his head. "No, we'd also have Madam Pomfrey testify about your miscarriage. As it stands right now, she's the only one besides you who knew about it at the time, and she's the only one I can call to the stand who knows about it and is unbiased as regards both you and Harry." "She can't testify about one of her patients," Ginny protested. He smiled slightly. "Trust me, she can testify about one of her patients if that patient authorises her to do so. Medical and legal confidentiality are more or less the same thing with different names." So I guess I'd better authorise her. "Anyone else?" "Hermione, obviously. Harry's commander. A few others." She took another deep breath. "And if I decide I don't want to testify after all?" Miller's expression hardened. "Do you know what Harry hears when he's around the Dementors?" he asked quietly, a note of steel in his voice. Ginny gave no response, though she felt a twinge in her heart. She knew what Miller was going to say, but couldn't bring herself to answer him. "He hears the sounds of his parents being murdered by Voldemort," Miller continued harshly, his gaze boring into hers. "He hears his dad trying to buy time to allow Lily to escape with baby Harry, then falling to the Killing Curse. He hears his mum begging Voldemort to let Harry live, then falling to the Killing Curse herself." Ginny swallowed, closing her eyes and folding her arms over her stomach. She felt sick. I don't want to hear any more, she thought, but could not say. Please, make it stop. "He hears newer things, too, which you might not know about," Miller continued inexorably. "Cedric Diggory. Hagrid. His godfather, Sirius. Albus Dumbledore. And he sees things as well—sometimes he sees things that never happened. Himself alive and you dead at the Battle of Hogsmeade. Your brother dead. Hermione dead. The Burrow destroyed." Oh, God… no… She put her hands to her ears, shaking. "Stop it," she whispered hoarsely. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" "I can't make it stop, Ginny," Miller said steadily. "Only you can make it stop when you take the stand. Because if you don't, that's what Harry will hear every second of every day he's in Azkaban. Which will be about thirty days, all told, since more than one Healer from St. Mungo's has testified that Harry would likely give up and die within a month of his incarceration." Dead within a month… Harry, dead in a month, one month, and you could have stopped it… "You bastard," Ginny hissed. Two tears spilled from her eyes and wended their way down her cheeks. "You wanted to know what the stakes were, Miss Weasley. This is what we have to do to keep Harry out of prison." Miller's gaze softened slightly. "He loves you, you know," he said gently. "He'd go to Azkaban for you, to spare you the embarrassment of testifying in a closed hearing on a restricted, classified transcript. He'd do it without batting an eye. And you know it." Miller stood up and walked around the end of his desk, sitting down at the credenza once more. He began to play again, softly, moving from a jazz piano number into a melody Ginny recognized from Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition. Ginny sighed, wiping her cheeks on her sleeve. "I'll take the stand," she said softly. Miller said nothing, continuing to play, albeit a bit more quietly. "I said I'll take the stand," she repeated, a little impatiently. "You're not doing me any favours, Miss Weasley." She flinched at the indifferent tone of his voice. "You are a cold bastard, Major Miller," she snapped. There was a rapping on the now-sealed door to the reception area. Miller stopped playing long enough to flick his wand at it. Harry entered, carrying a short, square box. He put a few coins and a bank note on Miller's desk, looking from Ginny to Miller and back again. Miller was working on the second movement from the Mussorgsky piece. "Your fiancée has enough of an accent that every time she says the word 'barrister,' it comes out sounding like 'bastard,'" Miller said blandly over the music. "Funny things, accents. You never know when they'll crop up." Against her will, Ginny almost smiled. Yes, he's a bastard, she thought with only mild rancour. But he's only trying to save Harry. I can't argue with that. Harry turned to look at her, and she saw an expression of concern form as he noticed her damp cheeks. "Gin?" he aked "Are you okay?" "Just corking, Harry," she said dryly. "Talking with your barrister about the choice between embarrassing myself in public and having you die in Azkaban." Harry smiled weakly. "Which one is coming out ahead?" he asked as he sat on the arm of the big client chair. Ginny punched his thigh hard, and he winced. "You prat! I'd commit unnatural acts with Snape to keep you out of Azkaban." "Any interest in selling tickets?" Miller said, turning away from the keyboard to regard them with curiosity. "I'm sure we could pack any venue with a top-liner act like that." Ginny laughed, but Harry grimaced. "That would have been bad enough when the sod was alive," he said. Ginny snorted and kissed him. Miller flashed a grin. "The point to all of this, Miss Weasley," he said, "is that your testimony is like a nuclear deterrent, to use a Muggle phrase. If we threaten to use it, most likely the other side will quietly back down and go home. If we keep it a secret, or declare in advance that we won't use it under any circumstances, we get over-run by the enemy." He indicated the box. "Thanks for the torte, Harry—if you're staying after this, you may see it again at lunchtime." "There's no way the three of us can finish off that whole thing!" Harry laughed. "Even if we could stay, which we can't, unfortunately." Miller grinned again. "I wasn't offering you the whole thing. I'd planned on bringing at least half of it home for dinner tonight. Jenny's coming over; she's cut her holiday short and wants to come back to work." Ginny had taken time during the by-play to compose herself, and now cleared her throat, drawing the attention of both men. "Major Miller?" "Yes, Ginny?" She swallowed, and her eyes flickered to Harry before she spoke. "What about marriage?" Miller's eyebrows went up. "I think it's a grand thing," he said, deadpan. "Best thing that ever happened to me." "No," Ginny said, reining in her impatience. "I mean, why did you suggest that Harry and I need to get married as soon as possible?" Miller paused, pulling on his chin. He stood and wandered back behind his desk, seating himself in his chair again. "Without engaging in the charade of having you two pop in and out of the office like tag-team wrestling," he said, "I'm going to explain something briefly, but I'm not going to answer any questions with the two of you present. Okay?" Ginny and Harry nodded. "When Harry and I talk," Miller began, "that conversation is privileged, and I cannot be compelled to testify what Harry and I discussed—I'd go to jail before I'd talk, and I'd lose my licence if I talked without Harry's permission. This is based upon the attorney-client privilege. If there's a stranger sitting in on that conversation, the privilege is waived and that discussion can be used against Harry, assuming that the Prosecutor ever figures out who to call as a witness. "That situation changes if and when you two get married. In that case, neither of you can be forced to testify against the other, but each of you can freely choose to do so. It's a one-way street – you'll only testify if you want to, not if you are compelled to. Also, if and when you get married, I can have a joint strategy session with you both, as your marital privilege combines quite nicely with the attorney-client privilege." He raised an eyebrow at Ginny. "That being said, have I answered your questions, Miss Weasley?" Harry took her hand. She smiled up at him, then at Miller. "Yes, sir." "In that case, I need to make a Floo call in the conference room. I'll see the two of you later. Miss Weasley—" He slipped out from behind his desk and took hold of her hand, kissing it again. "—it's been a real pleasure meeting you. You'll see me at Hogwarts in a few weeks, so I can brief you on what you'll have to do. Captain Potter—" He released Ginny's hand and shook Harry's. "—you are one very, very lucky man. I'll be contacting you as well." "Goodbye, Major Miller," Ginny said. Harry echoed her. Miller smiled and stepped out of the office, pulling the door closed behind him. Harry looked at her. "Feeling any better about the 'Ginny card'?" he asked seriously. She took his hand again. "Yes," she said honestly. "I'm feeling much better." "Good." He raised their joined hands and kissed her fingers. "Come on. I'd like to show you a shop I passed as I was getting the torte." "Oh really?" She rose and let him open the door for her, then preceded him out into the hallway. "What sort of things do they sell?" His grin was impish. "Muggle wedding gowns." A/N: Sheesh. So much for "chapter 15 will be out soon"! I'm very sorry about the delay; Real Life decided to bite me in the butt. Thanks go to Sherry, AllieKiwi, and OHGinnyFan for pre-beta work, as well as to Michele, to whom I once again owe big, smoochy kisses. She and I sat across from each other in her office one Sunday afternoon and spent the better part of a couple of hours tweaking the chapter. Ahmie, of course, is a beta beyond all betas, and we all kowtow at her feet. *grin* Without all of them, this chapter would be much less than it is. And many hugs and kisses on the cheek (after all, he's a married man!) go to Kokopelli, without whom this chapter would not exist at ALL. Most of the framework is his. John, you're absolutely awesome, and I owe you big time. Maybe a raspberry-chocolate torte the next time I see you?
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