Harry stood in the Ministry lift feeling tempted to spell his eyes open. The previous night had been hard, leaving him with just three hours of sleep and the horrifyingly realistic image of Sirius getting a dementor's kiss seared into his brain.
He was supposed to meet with the Ministry hack here at half eight. The owl he'd received had instructed him to arrive fifteen minutes early, go down to Level 9, take the stairs to Level 10, and head towards the third courtroom. When he got to his stop, Harry was the only one left on the lift. Everyone else had gotten off a few floors earlier, leaving him to brave the way alone.
It still gave him chills, being here. The Hall of Prophecy was just a few turns away, but he forced himself not to think about it.
When Harry got to Courtroom Three, he paused at the sight of a familiar face. Blaise Zabini. What in Merlin's name was he doing here?
Zabini spotted him and clicked closed what looked to be a muggle mobile, stuffing it into the pocket of his robes. He then smiled in his wide, disarming way, teeth gleamingly white, and straightened up his spine. He was certainly handsome—more so even than he'd been at Hogwarts—and Harry felt himself flush involuntarily.
Now was not the time nor the place.
"Well, if it isn't the Golden Boy."
"In the flesh."
Zabini stuck out a hand and, after a moment's hesitation, Harry shook it. He didn't hold much against Zabini, after all. Despite being one of Malfoy's cronies, he'd never done anything all that bad to Harry and his friends, even if he was an arse.
"You're the inspector?" Harry asked. It seemed like a very fitting job. If there was one thing people would remember about Zabini, it was how much he loved judging people.
Zabini barked a short laugh, eyes shining. "Hardly. I'm the barrister."
"Er... what do I need that for, exactly?"
"It's a muggle term, you haven't heard it?" Zabini did not look impressed. "I thought you grew up with muggles."
"I know what a barrister is. I'm asking why I need one. The letter didn't mention this."
Zabini sighed once, letting out a puff of air. "I'll be presenting your case. I thought that would be fairly obvious, my apologies."
Harry took it all back. Zabini wasn't that attractive, and when he turned around to open the chamber door, Harry did not take even a small peek at his arse.
The inside of the courtroom was mostly empty, but it looked only moderately less intimidating than the one he'd been in the summer before fifth year. It had the same low benches and black stone as that one, with identical torches lighting the faces of the witches and wizards who were present.
Across the room, he thought he saw a glimpse of white-blond hair that he recognised, but as soon as he looked, it was gone.
A little old woman was sitting at the head of the room, and she tapped her gavel just thrice, waiting in silence for everyone to look at her.
The creak of her voice carried across the room effortlessly, though he hadn't seen her cast an Amplifying Charm. "This is a hearing to determine if Harry J. Potter—financier of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and henceforth referred to as the debtor—will be allowed an attempt at salvaging the reputation of said business after and as soon as the appropriate sum of 150 Galleons has been paid to the order of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Mr Potter, your statement, if you will."
"Er..."
Zabini stepped forward elegantly, commanding the room's attention. "My client was the original financier of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and, as such, he maintains the authority to make any and all legal choices concerning its foreclosure under the 1896 Wizards for Welfare Act. It is the nature of such a business that, in the event of an owner no longer being alive, a decline of patronage, profit, and reputation is expected. Mr Potter cannot be held at fault for this eventuality, nor should he be prohibited from exercising his right to reestablish a plan for growth. Business turnover from one owner to the next is never without its trials. That is all, Your Worship, thank you."
The little old lady nodded and read over a piece of parchment that was sitting in front of her. "This all seems fairly straightforward. Has the debt been settled?"
Harry realised she was asking him, and he leaned forward, head spinning. Why hadn't anyone told him about a trial? "Yes, Your Worship."
She nodded again and cleared her throat, voice coming out even more gargled when she spoke again. "Your inspector will report back to the Council before the date of December 31st, 1999 regarding your success. Due to the nature of your fame, the prominent location of your business, and the necessary preclusion of a biased assessment, the inspector whom the Ministry deems most impartial will be assigned to your case."
Harry let out a sigh of relief.
"Has the Ministry selected a candidate?" she continued.
A witch in a sharp, pressed suit stepped forward from a bench, twirling her wand in a small circle under her chin to speak. "Yes, Your Worship. The Ministry has selected Draco Malfoy as the inspector."
Harry choked on his tongue, and Zabini looked vaguely amused by this.
"That's acceptable, thank you. The debtor may petition for a replacement if and only if the following instances occur—"
Harry perked up at that, listening closely.
"life-threatening circumstances for which Mr Malfoy is the direct cause; substantial and well-documented proof of assessment bias; or Mr Malfoy's untimely demise, upon which his immortal soul does not remain as a magical portrait, contactable spirit, ghost, or ghost-like being."
He deflated, glaring at the back of the woman's head.
Perfect, just perfect. There was no way Malfoy wouldn't try to sabotage the shop somehow, but Harry had to find a way to prove it.
He was sure that more was said, but Harry was so wrapped up in his internal thoughts that the next time he looked up, Malfoy was standing directly in front of him and Zabini, and the room was nearly empty, court session over.
Malfoy was just as pale and pointy as ever, but he'd grown into his features since Harry had last seen him, now missing the dark bags he'd had under his eyes since the beginning of sixth year. His hair wasn't slicked back like it used to be, either, instead falling partially into his eyes until he brushed it away with a hand.
Everything else was much the same, and yet Harry took a moment to get his brain to work, too busy staring at the sharp angles of Malfoy's pressed muggle suit and the way he was staring right back.
"Potter," he drawled. "I can't say I'm surprised to see you, but this certainly is an unusual circumstance we've worked ourselves into." He nodded at Zabini. "Blaise. Effective as always."
"It wounds me that you would expect anything less."
Malfoy rolled his eyes, sniffing disdainfully. "Alright then, chop-chop. I need to do my preliminary viewing of the shop so I can make an initial assessment."
He turned without saying anything else and Harry stared blankly after him before Zabini patted his shoulder and pushed him forward.
"Careful, Potter!" Zabini called when he had almost caught up with him. "That one's a man-eater."
Malfoy didn't say a word, but he flipped Zabini the two-fingered salute and pushed open the courtroom door, waiting for Harry to walk through before he shot two whispered spells over his shoulder.
Zabini's cackling abruptly stopped, and Harry could hear him gasping as the door swung shut.
"Oh, you bastard!" came out muffled through it, followed by a lot more cursing.
"What'd you hit him with?" Harry asked.
"Just a mild Itching Jinx and the Stickfast Hex. Not to worry, Zabini's gotten particularly good at getting unstuck over the years."
The door to the courtroom slammed open, and Zabini was storming down the hall.
"Ah, that's our cue," Malfoy said, and then he grabbed Harry's arm and everything went black—the familiar pressing sensation of side-along apparition closing in on him from every side, his ears popping sharply, and his eyes threatening to fall out of his head—before they landed at the corner of Diagon Alley, right outside the building that used to be Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour.
"Nice day," Malfoy commented dryly, while Harry attempted to catch his breath. He was right. It was sunny, but the wind still felt cool against Harry's skin—the type of weather that Aunt Petunia had always complained London didn't get enough of.
They started walking, the air tenser than he knew what to do with, though thankfully it didn't take long for Malfoy to break the silence.
Merlin, this whole thing was so bizarre. Harry couldn't believe he was actually thankful for something Malfoy was doing, minor though it was.
"So, your... shop is struggling for business?"
Harry nodded.
"Can't you just owl Skeeter and ask for a press release? I'm sure it'd be packed in days."
Harry gritted his teeth, annoyed at the expression on Malfoy's face which clearly indicated that he thought Harry was lacking in all forms of intelligence.
"It's not so much getting people there that's the problem as it is having anything to sell. George hasn't been himself, and we're at a shortage of ideas."
"Ah, that's," Malfoy coughed awkwardly, "well that's quite unfortunate."
Harry scowled for a moment, content to walk in silence until he remembered something the witch in the suit had said. "What makes you the most impartial?" he asked.
"Pardon?"
"That's what that one woman said when she discussed why the Ministry had chosen you. The least biased, actually, was her wording. Considering our history..."
"It came as a surprise?"
Harry scoffed—that was the understatement of the century.
"Well, I suppose it has to do more with the other employees than it does with me. And my bloody arsewipe of a boss."
"Sorry?" Harry choked.
"Well, the other employees are all typical Potter Fanatics, the really obnoxious kind who worship the ground you walk on. I'm pretty sure my cubicle-mate has a poster of you hung over his bed."
"Agh."
"Precisely. And he's not the worst. There's this one woman who says she's written you a new poem every day since she was 15–she's graduated Hogwarts now—and is still waiting to hear back."
Harry wondered if there was some charm in place that stopped him from receiving those letters, and he felt vaguely grateful for whoever had put it in place. Hermione, probably. "And your boss?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "He has it out for me. Perhaps for you, too. Or maybe he just likes to see people suffer, there's really no way to be certain."
"And I gather I can't just ask for a replacement."
Malfoy tapped the tip of his nose and pointed at Harry. "Got it in one."
"So, I guess you'll have to quit, then."
Malfoy stopped walking, though they were still a bit away from Wheezes' front door.
"You don't want that," he said, voice low.
"Pretty sure I do."
The street was mostly empty this time of day, but one young child and his mother stared as they walked past, making Harry feel too exposed.
"There are no other employees who were deemed impartial enough."
"Hmm, let's see," said Harry. "I could either have you, the man who hates my guts and is probably going to give me a bad review regardless of how well the shop does, or I could have a fan. Now, I'm not usually one to take advantage of fame, but that seems like a pretty easy choice."
"Lucky for the both of us, you don't have the privilege of choosing."
"Will you get fired if you drop my case?"
Malfoy's lips thinned into a flat line and the heat of his glare could be felt even across the distance between them. "No, it's not likely."
"Then I guess you're the one with the choice, aren't you?"
With that, Harry approached the door of Wheezes and stepped inside, bell tinkling behind him.