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HP: Bloodraven Chapter 231 - The Trial and the Turmoil (IV)
🕑 Added 2025-08-22 20:44:30 +0000 UTCDing...
The phone booth—elevator, or whatever it was meant to be—shuddered to a stop. Its glass door swung open, and Harry stepped out beside Maverick, at last, into the true heart of British magic: the Ministry of Magic.
The Atrium they stepped into stretched so wide and long that Harry couldn’t make out the far end at first. It felt grand and unmistakably magical, with dark wooden floors gleaming under the glow of hundreds of torches mounted high along the walls.
“Speaker Caesar…”
He turned toward the voice and saw a witch in uniform hurrying toward them, bowing slightly as she addressed Maverick with obvious respect. Standing beside him, Harry felt out of place amid all the ceremony.
“The trial is about to begin, Mr. Speaker,” she said, motioning for them to follow. “All the seats are filled, and most of the registered guests are already inside as well...”
Maverick nodded and stepped forward, with Harry following close behind, his head swiveling in every direction. To their left, a row of tall fireplaces roared with green flames, sending witches and wizards vanishing or appearing in bursts of Floo powder. On the right, golden lifts clattered open and shut, ferrying people up and down to who knew where.
Up ahead, at the center of the hall, a fountain rose proudly, adorned with golden statues: a wizard, a witch, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf. Water poured from their wands, arrows, and outstretched hands, cascading into the wide pool below.
The whole place was alive with sound and movement. Paper memos fluttered overhead like flocks of birds, shoes tapped across the polished floor, and voices blended into a steady, busy hum.
Harry slowed without realizing it, taking it all in. For all the magic he had seen before, this felt different. The Ministry was busy, important, and overwhelming, like he had stepped into the very heart of the wizarding world.
"It's quite the sight, isn't it?"
Harry glanced up at Maverick and, after a moment, nodded before hurrying his steps to keep pace.
"Is it always this busy, Professor?"
Maverick hummed, rubbing his chin. Honestly, the place felt much livelier than the last time he had been here—crowds everywhere, noise bouncing off the walls, and the usual solemn order completely drowned out.
One detail that caught his eye as he glanced around was the witches and wizards with cameras slung over their necks—undoubtedly journalists. They hurried along, jostling for spots near the elevators. He even spotted some international correspondents, and without a doubt, they were all here for the same reason: to witness the trial of Sirius Black.
"Not really..." Maverick said after a moment. "It’s probably so busy because everyone’s here for the same reason we are..."
"You’re right, Mr. Speaker. Most of these people are here for the trial, but we didn’t expect it to get this crowded," the witch leading them chimed in as well while guiding them through the bustling atrium toward a row of doors—likely more elevators.
Indeed. Even though the Ministry had prepared for some commotion, they weren’t expecting chaos on this scale. Even if it was a sudden public hearing born of countless conspiracies, it shouldn’t have blown up into such a spectacle, yet here it was—drawing attention even from foreign newspapers.
From every Floo Network entrance, fires flared nonstop as wave after wave of people poured in, and officials darted back and forth doing their best to wrestle the chaos into something resembling order.
The truth was, someone had quietly set it all in motion—and that someone was none other than Maverick himself. He wanted every wizarding home in Britain to know what was happening today, and he had turned the noise up as high as it could go.
And just then, a flurry of clicks and scribbles cut through the hum of the crowd, drawing their attention.
Click.
Click. Click. Click.
"Mr. Speaker..."
"Speaker Caesar..."
"Are you also here to watch the trial, Mr. Speaker? Is Sirius Black someone you know?"
Sigh... journalists, magical or Muggle-born, seemed to be the same everywhere, Maverick thought to himself, shaking his head slightly.
The moment they spotted Maverick walking through the hall, cameras lifted and pens poised, they swarmed, each eager for a word from him.
Fortunately, the line staff here were well-trained and professional, even if the very top was a moron.
"Stand back!"
"Move aside! This is no place for interviews!"
Order wasn’t lost. Three Aurors, sharp in their dark uniforms, appeared out of nowhere, pushed through the growing crowd with wands discreetly at the ready, and quickly formed a barrier between the receptionist witch, Maverick, Harry, and the frantic reporters. The journalists jostled and murmured, but the Aurors’ presence made it clear: no one was getting past.
However, that little episode had now placed them at the center of attention, with every staff member, guest, and reporter turning their heads, whispering and murmuring to one another.
For Maverick, this kind of attention was nothing new, and Harry—well, he was the Boy Who Lived. Cameras flashed, pens scratched across notepads, and amid all the commotion, they kept walking, led by the receptionist witch and the Aurors, until they stopped before an elevator that was clearly more distinguished, reserved for important figures.
"This will take you straight to the Wizengamot hall, Mr. Speaker. Apologies for the inconvenience," one of the Aurors said respectfully, while the other two swept their wands in synchronized motions. The enchantments stirred, and a silvery shimmer ran across the door before it slid open.
"Thank you, gentlemen..." Maverick said with an easy smile.
"It’s our pleasure, Mr. Speaker..."
More than a year had passed since Maverick first stepped into Amelia Bones’s office, and now he found himself once again crossing the monumental entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic in central London.
This time, though, he was not slipping in quietly to meet one official in private. He was walking openly toward what was perhaps the second most important chamber in the entire building—the Hall of the Wizengamot, the wizarding Britain’s equivalent of a Muggle parliamentary hall.
---
Maverick and Harry stepped into the lift with the receptionist, and as the doors slid shut behind them, she pressed a button, sending them into a swift descent. The Wizengamot chambers must be even deeper underground—likely hundreds of feet, Maverick thought, noting the speed.
“Here we are,” the woman said softly.
From seemingly nowhere, she produced an elaborately embroidered robe of deep blue, its fabric rich and heavy, the stitching gleaming faintly under the light.
“I’ve been instructed to provide you with the official robes,” she explained. “All members of the Wizengamot presiding over a trial are required to wear them. Of course”—her tone carried a note of deference—“yours is special, Mr. Speaker. This shade is reserved only for the Minister, Speaker Dumbledore, and yourself.”
With that, she gestured for him to let her drape it over his shoulders.
Sighing inwardly, Maverick turned, and the lady—surprisingly professional, without so much as a blush—carefully draped the robe over him, smoothing out the wrinkles with a gentle pat.
“Thank you… uh…” Maverick said, darting his eyes to see if she had a name badge or something on her... chest.
And that, for obvious reasons, earned a reaction—she flushed slightly this time, and Maverick’s brows couldn’t help but twitch.
Great. Hopefully I don’t get labeled a pervert, he thought.
“Apologies, I was just looking for a name badge, ma’am.”
“Oh… my name is Thalia, Mr. Speaker. It’s really an honor...” she said, regaining her composure.
Meanwhile, Harry: What’s happening? And don’t I get a cool robe as well?
Ding...
Fortunately, the elevator saved the atmosphere from growing more awkward as it smoothly glided to a halt with a soft chime, and a ceremonious voice crisply announced in clipped tones, ‘The Hall of the Wizengamot.’
“Please…” Thalia said, gesturing for them to follow once again.
Although the deep blue hue of the robes leaned toward an atrociously garish shade, they still carried a majestic and imposing air once properly worn. Whoever had made them clearly possessed remarkable skill, for they fit him perfectly without the aid of enchantments—a true mark of the tailor’s craft.
Adjusting the robes with a quick tug and nudging Harry to keep up, Maverick followed close at the woman’s heels as she led them swiftly down the corridor they had just entered.
This hallway was strikingly different from the upper levels above, with bare, cold stone walls stretching on with no doors or windows in sight, carrying a hollow, unsettling stillness.
“This passage is reserved for special guests,” Thalia explained, her voice echoing softly as she guided them through the maze-like turns. “That’s why you don't see anyone else around.”
True to her word, they did not pass a single soul—until a sharp bend opened onto a decently lit service staircase that spiraled farther below.
And there, the silence broke. The secluded stairwell was suddenly crowded with what looked like a small army of security personnel, stationed along the steps and landings, eyes sharp and alert, scanning every approach.
Among them, Maverick immediately recognized a few familiar figures—Kingsley Shacklebolt, tall and broad-shouldered as ever, and two Aurors he had last seen fighting desperately in the forest, moments away from being overrun by Greyback’s werewolves.
"Good morning, Mr. Speaker—" Kingsley greeted him, his voice steady but respectful before Maverick could speak.
"Director Scrimgeour informed me that you would be coming and arranged for your escort inside." He paused, then glanced at the only woman there. "Thank you, Thalia. I’ll take it from here."
She nodded, understanding it was her cue to leave. Maverick offered his thanks, and she gave one last respectful bow before slipping away without another word.
The Aurors guarding the door finally stepped aside, and it swung open, allowing them to enter.
“Mr. Harry Potter,” Kingsley said, turning to him with a gentle glance. “Please follow my colleagues. They will see you to the guest area.”
Harry shot a quick look at Maverick first, silently asking if it was okay, and Maverick gave the kid a faint smile and nodded. “I made sure your seat is right next to Mrs. Weasley.”
Harry stepped back reluctantly as the Aurors moved to guide him, while Kingsley gestured toward Maverick. “Mr. Speaker… after you.”
Comments
Mohamed Rayyaan
I mean... there's like only eight of them...
Callum Runchman
Wow they really tiptoe around speakers. I get they're immensely powerful etc but this is a little extreme isn't it
Dark_pheonix
Thanks for the chapter!
QuantumServer
Thanks for the chapter
