The Dark Lord's Literary Appreciation Society

Chapter 23: Post-Script

Harry rolled over again, punching his pillow. He'd already heard the clock in the hall ringing out two in the morning. His trial started in less than seven hours.

He hated this, the way worry and nerves consumed him the night before a big event. It was the same before his quidditch matches, before his exams, before the Triwizard events.

Tomorrow he'd have to face the Magical World again, for the first time since the leaving feast. And now, they all thought he was crazy. The Prophet had taken their shots at him for weeks now, and even though Corvinus had a plan to change that—one he didn't really want details on—for now, that's what they thought.

And of course, tomorrow, he'd be alone in front of the entire Wizengamot. He'd have to act like a snotty pureblood idiot and keep a mask of indifference up no matter what tricks they tried to pull. He had never been good at keeping his temper.

The stakes were too important though.

He sighed. Yes, there was a plan, but he didn't have the best track record with plans. He sat up. The darkness felt cool and soothing around him. The covers pooled around his waist. He drew his legs up and rested his elbows on his knees.

If he failed.

If he failed tomorrow, then Sirius would lose his chance. Harry would be disgraced, his wand snapped, and no one would listen to him then. No one would believe that Sirius hadn't done those despicable things, that he hadn't murdered Harry's parents or a crowd of muggles. There would be no justice if he failed.

He ran his hands through his hair, and then dropped his head between his arms. He didn't want to do this, but he was the only one who could.

And if he failed.

He gave up and slipped out of bed.

He hated sitting still. Thinking. Talking. All through dinner they'd done nothing but talk and talk and talk. They'd made contingencies and suggested options and debated escape routes till he thought he'd go mad.

None of it mattered. Not really. Contingencies wouldn't help him, not when it would be only him sitting there in front of all those people. Escape routes wouldn't matter if he said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing.

If they found out.

Corvinus had said it—Harry had to find his own voice. He had to make the crowd of angry, arrogant, stuffy politicians hear him.

Sirius seemed convinced he could do it—said he believed in him—but Harry's nerves wouldn't die.

He paced to the windows and leaned against the sill. He'd already decided that he hated fancy dinner parties, even when he wasn't the focal point of so much plotting.

Corvinus liked them though. If he stayed here, he might have to get used to them. He snorted lightly.

He didn't have a lot of alternatives.

He wondered if his guest privileges extended to ordering pizza delivery, and if they did, whether Lucius had any muggle money to tip the driver.

That might be his reward for surviving tomorrow. He'd enjoy the look on Lucius' face as much as he'd enjoy the food.

The problem was Dumbledore.

Dumbledore.

He paused, staring at his reflection in the glass. He looked older than fifteen. Something in the set of his jaw maybe. Or his eyes. They always looked as though they'd seen too much.

The night outside was wild—as wild as his thoughts. Wind whipped the trees around, and thick clouds gathered and built up into massive towers of darkness, a freak summer storm. Lightning flashed.