Yours, Luna Lovegood

The Fallout

Harry dismissed his Patronus, pocketed his wand and sat cross legged on the cracked asphalt between the torn robes and the lifeless skeletal corpses of two impossibly large Dementors.

All was calm, and he waited.

Less than two minutes later, the alleyway echoed with cracks of apparition. A half dozen aurors appeared in a tight combat formation less than ten yards away, their wands pointed directly at Harry.

"Holy shit." The wizard nearest him lost all composure as soon as his eyes fell upon the Dementor corpse at his feet.

For a moment they stirred, unsettled by the violent scene before them. A voice behind the lead auror whispered, just loud enough for Harry to overhear. "They're Dementors, Dawlish. He's killed both of them. If they—"

"Enough!" Dawlish snapped. "You know what to do."

He turned his attention to Harry, pointing his wand menacingly. "Harry Potter, you have violated the International Statute of Secrecy and the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. You have compromised our community and threatened our world. You will surrender your wand or it will be forcibly taken."

Harry nodded. "The body of my cousin, Dudley Dursley, is laying eighty yards in that direction." He pointed. "He's received the Dementor's kiss. His mother, my Aunt Petunia Dursley, has likely collapsed in her home — No. 4 Privet Drive."

The resolve of the team of aurors was visibly shaken. Dawlish stumbled over the revelation. "Your... your cousin's been kissed?"

"That's correct."

He hesitated for just a moment, until his jaw visibly tightened. "Williamson. Savage. Retrieve the body; transport it to the medical unit for evaluation. Return for these... corpses. Transport them to the morgue and tag as evidence."

Harry held out his wand, which Dawlish snatched out of his hand. The remaining aurors bound Harry's hands and escorted him to the pavement before No. 4 Privet Drive. Dawlish himself entered the front door and emerged a moment later, Petunia forcibly restrained and levitating behind him.

"Smith. Take her to interrogation. Roberts. Take him to the holding cell. Stand guard until I arrive."

***

For the next twenty hours, Harry laid on a white, thinly padded stainless steel bunk, in a square, thinly padded cell lit brightly with a harsh white light. He was offered no food or drink. There was a small, stainless steel toilet in the corner.

At intervals, he pivoted to the edge of the bunk, set his bare feet flat against the concrete floor, and reflected.

Dudley.

He'd never so profoundly hated anyone. And yet.

What he could have been. It haunted Harry, every time he closed his eyes. Beyond the abuse, beyond the schoolhouse bullying. Harry imagined what Dudley may have been, free from the influence of Vernon and Petunia. He hadn't a chance.

Harry grieved the death of his cousin in that small cell. A death that had begun years ago, of which an alley kiss was merely the finishing blow.

At precisely ten, Harry's cell door opened. He was bound anew, and escorted down a series of white marble hallways.

***

Harry entered the lower chambers of the Wizengamot session to the hum of a dozen hushed conversations. It was a large, circular dungeon of dark stone walls, lit ominously by the flicker of torchlight. Tiers of plum-robed witches and wizards towered in a semi-circular balcony above him. As soon as he came into view, the room stilled.