The moment the three of them went through the doorway back towards the stairwell, Fawley scowled and glanced over his shoulder.
“I don’t like any of this,” he told Harry and Kempston. “Reminds me of when Fudge was in charge. I was with the Department of International Magical Co-operation back then, but his cronies kept coming in and mucking about, making things harder for all of us.”
“You shouldn’t be talking about this, especially while the Director is still here,” Kempston shushed him as they began climbing the stairs to the next floor.
“It's not talking about things that let the Ministry get so bad before,” Fawley argued. “What do you think about this mess, Goodwin? Great first impression for this place, huh?”
Harry obviously had his own opinions on the matter. He’d be a hypocrite to suggest that what Amelia was doing was somehow beyond the limits of his moral compass; he understood that when you were dealing with a bloated institution like the Ministry of Magic, sometimes cutting corners was for the best. Of course, the entire prerequisite for such a thing being justifiable came down to one’s intentions and ultimate goals.
Amelia was here to try to find out the truth about Dawlish and unveil the secret that Harry had kept hidden for well over a year now. And using this information, she was going to implicate Daphne in his schemes in order to dismantle her chances at the impending election.
While he had no doubts that Amelia would make a fine Minister for Magic under normal circumstances, these weren’t normal circumstances. Britain had faced Voldemort’s wrath twice now and yet remained so resistant to change that he couldn’t imagine it being long before another Dark Lord or Dark Lady tried to rise up. Harry and Daphne would do all they could to minimise such a thing by doing things differently: treating muggleborns and half-bloods fairly, gathering all of the illegal dark artefacts that pure-blood families still hoarded, and redefine the social systems in place in this country to give everyone a fair shot at a happy life here.
All that Amelia would do is maintain the status quo.
But this wasn’t the time for him to spout off any opinions about Amelia. He needed to remain undercover and not draw much attention to himself. Once Gabrielle recalled him to the mainland tomorrow, it would be best if everyone just forgot about Barny Goodwin.
So, Harry just offered a shrug. “Let’s just get on with this. The faster we get it done, the better.”
“Hear hear,” Kempston added with a stern look shot Fawley’s way. “We can debate this till we’re blue in the face. All that matters is getting things done quickly so that Savage doesn’t bite our heads off about it later.”
Dawlish’s cell was easy to find. It was on the western side of the prison as well and was lucky enough to be along the outer wall. As the three of them came upon it, fading sunlight was streaming in through the narrow slit in the wall that could barely be called a window. And atop the lone cot in the cell sat John Dawlish.
It’d been a long time since Harry had seen him. Dawlish’s normally stern, severe face had been replaced with something frailer. His short hair was getting patchy now, and he’d also lost the paunch he’d grown over the years that he’d sat behind his desk instead of actually working in the field when he was Head Auror. He looked like a shell of the man he’d once been. Harry knew for a fact that Azkaban was better than it had been in the past—prisoners were well fed and maintained so as to not let them suffer or wither away—so this was likely more a reflection of Dawlish’s poor mental state than anything else.
Even seeing him like this, Harry sincerely couldn’t say that he felt bad for the man who’d been such a terrible Head Auror. His inaction and terrible leadership had stunted the Auror Department and allowed countless illegal activities to run unchecked throughout the country. And in the end, when he’d had the chance to stand up and fight against the remaining Death Eaters who would see Britain burn, he’d hid in his house like a coward and let Susan Bones die.
A part of him wished that he’d killed Dawlish on that night. The anger he’d felt way back then flickered up inside of himself. It would be easy to just…
Harry shook his head, forcing the dark thoughts out of them. He’d already punished Dawlish enough with this sentence.
Dawlish barely looked up as Kempston opened the door to his cell.
“Prisoner Dawlish,” Kempston said loudly enough for the Auror standing guard at the end of the corridor to hear. “Come with us.”
Dawlish stood wordlessly. Were it not for the fact that he was moving around, Harry could’ve sworn that a Dementor had sucked out his soul.
Fawley placed manacles around his wrists and ankles and helped guide him out of the cell. Dawlish shuffled awkwardly, like he wasn’t used to moving, as they guided him back towards the stairwell. He had to cling to the railing just to support himself on the way down.
By the time they returned to the lower level, it was clear that the tension between Savage and Amelia had only grown. They stood apart; Savage had his arms crossed over his chest while Amelia’s piercing gaze was waiting for Dawlish’s arrival. When Dawlish came into view, her eyes narrowed.
She must hate Dawlish as much as Harry did. He was responsible for her niece’s death. Though, Harry didn’t know if Amelia even believed his story about what happened, even the true parts.
“Commander, we have Prisoner Dawlish, as requested,” Fawley told Savage.
The gruff commander made a grunting sound and gestured to the cell opposite Proudfoot’s. Kempston opened the cell as Fawley unshackled Dawlish and gently pushed him inside. Silently, Dawlish walked in and sat down atop the new cot, looking exactly as he had in his original cell.
“A moment of privacy, if you would,” Amelia said dismissively to Savage.
“There is no privacy within Azkaban. I will not leave until Prisoner Dawlish has been returned to his original cell,” Savage replied firmly.
“Fine,” Amelia replied, turning sharply. Her heels clacked sharply on the floor, echoing down the long, silent corridor. “Dawlish… John, I’m here to speak to you about Harry P—”
The name wasn’t even out of her mouth before Dawlish lunged forward like a wild animal, slamming himself against the bars. It was so sudden and such a drastic shift from the placidity he’d shown up to this point that nearly everyone jumped in fright. Everyone except for Harry. He drew his wand and had it up and ready to defend everyone should Dawlish somehow break through the metal bars. It wasn’t until Savage signalled him to lower his wand that he did so.
“Potter,” Dawlish spat on the floor.
Amelia did her best to not show any lingering fears or nervousness. “Yes, Potter. I want you to tell me about the night he took you into custody.”
There was fury in Dawlish’s eyes as he gripped the metal bars in front of him so tightly that the veins on the back of his hand looked fit to burst through his papery skin. “You already heard what happened.”
“You were quite riled up during your brief Wizengamot trial,” Amelia pointed out. “So much so that you were barely able to discuss what happened at all. I want to hear it properly now.”
Dawlish snarled and pulled away from the bars. He fell back onto the cot as though this momentary burst of exertion had drained him of all of the energy he had.
“Death Eaters were roaming the streets, and I locked down my house to protect my wife. I always knew that I’d be a target, so I made sure that our wards were the best that they could be. I saw that Potter and your niece were out there fighting, but when Bellatrix Lestrange arrived, the situation went out of control. I made a floo call to the Auror Department to report what was happening, and then I waited for help to arrive.”
“You stayed inside the entire time Potter and… my niece were fighting for their lives?”
“What else was I to do?” Dawlish asked with a sardonic smile. “You helped to get me put on a leave of absence. I wasn’t Head Auror anymore; I was just another citizen of Britain.”
“A leave of absence doesn’t mean that you were no longer an Auror,” Amelia argued.
Dawlish just shrugged in reply.
Amelia’s cold glare didn’t seem to faze him. “What happened next?”
“I came outside once the fighting was done,” Dawlish told her. “Potter was there and furious with me. And I…”
He paused in thought, frowning to recall the false memories that Harry had implanted in his mind.
“Potter called me a coward, and I tried to curse him. He blocked it and then took me down. My wife heard the commotion and came out to see what was going on. That’s when everything came out.”
Maybe Harry shouldn’t have made him to be so forthcoming with the false memories by assigning more of a shameful emotion to them. Dawlish was a coward at heart, someone who liked to shirk his duties except those that made him feel superior to everyone else. Oh well, no changing things now.
Amelia nodded. This was practically the same story that Harry had told everyone, albeit Dawlish was offering far fewer details that Harry had.
“So, Potter only found everything out that night?” She asked him. “He never discovered your misdeeds prior to then?”
“My ‘misdeeds’ were trying to care for my sickly wife and making a horrible mistake all because Shacklebolt treated his golden boy better than everyone else,” Dawlish snapped. “But no. At the very least, he never confronted me before then.”
“What about Daphne Greengrass?” Proudfoot suddenly asked.
“You will be quiet, Prisoner Proudfoot!” Savage nearly shouted at the man.
“Let him speak,” Amelia ordered Savage. She was pushing the man to his very limits, but he knew that there was nothing to do but ride it out. If he made too much of a fuss, then Amelia would simply remove him from his position.
“I’ve seen her around the Ministry before but I’ve never spoken to her,” Dawlish answered.
Proudfoot frowned and rubbed at his bad knee to help his circulation. “What do you remember about the investigation into the person trying to sabotage you?”
Dawlish scowled. “Why don’t you just tell me what you’re looking for instead of bringing up all of my bad memories.”
“We know that Harry Potter was behind your downfall,” Amelia told Dawlish bluntly. “That he was the one who orchestrated all of those public gaffs of yours and that he somehow had a hand in landing you in Azkaban.”
“Of course he did!” Dawlish shouted. “Everyone knows that he could get away with whatever he wanted. I’m glad that he’s finally dead. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named would’ve done us all a favour if he finished him off when he was a baby.”
“Even though he’s dead, his allies aren’t,” Proudfoot reminded him. “Daphne Greengrass, Harry’s former fiancée, is running for Minister, and if we can find any evidence that she somehow helped him or even knew about any of this, we can take her down too. Are you certain that you never spoke with her?”
Dawlish chewed on the inside of his cheek as he thought the matter over. Then, a spark of life filled his eyes and a small smirk crossed his lips.
“Oh, wait,” he announced dramatically. “How could I have ever forgotten. She came to speak with me once with a threat. It was right after I was removed from my position. She told me to stay away from Harry or things would get much worse for me.”
It was a blatant, bold-faced lie. Harry knew it and so did everyone else in this room. Dawlish wasn’t fooling anyone with his pathetic attempt to discredit Daphne, but what would Amelia do?
Her face was stone cold, not a single emotion slipping through. But Proudfoot… he had a look that Harry never expected to see from a man like him. He seemed overjoyed that Dawlish was playing along with this.
Everyone knew Proudfoot was an honest and noble Auror—the fact that he’d been caught spying on Harry had come as a massive shock to everyone in the Auror Department—but every man had their limits. Harry found his when he saw that Britain wasn’t changing for the better after the war with Voldemort. Maybe it was knowing just how far that Harry was willing to go to achieve his goals that made Proudfoot willing to go along with Dawlish’s lie.
“Excellent,” Proudfoot smiled. “And you’re willing to go on record with this?”
“Absolutely,” Dawlish smiled back.
The two men had come to an accord, but Amelia still hadn’t said anything. It was normally a sign that someone was too uncomfortable to speak up… or maybe she was just thinking things through, imagining the possible permutations that could come with going along with this scheme.
But just as he was hoping she’d chime in with something, Amelia instead turned to Savage. “I’d like for Dawlish to remain in this cell here. I will be returning to speak with him again soon.”
“Fine,” Savage replied curtly. Evidently, all it took was the signal that she was going to leave to make him more eager to acquiesce to her wishes. “Is that all, Director Bones?”
“Yes, it is,” she answered.
Harry, Fawley, and Kempston were dismissed promptly as Savage escorted Amelia out of the prison himself. They’d barely made it a few steps away from the cells before Proudfoot started asking Dawlish more about Daphne.
When night came, Harry was ushered into his temporary room. Once he was away from everyone, he finally took a moment to decompress on his bed.
The final debate was only a few days away, and if Amelia wanted a chance at winning, she’d either need to sway quite a lot of the muggleborn and half-blood voters or discredit Daphne. Even if she used Dawlish’s lie, Daphne could easily counter her by pointing out that he’s a disgraced, convicted former Auror who gave away government secrets to the Death Eaters. It was hard to imagine that Dawlish’s lie could do any damage to Daphne’s campaign.
But Amelia was smart enough to do anything she put her mind to. If anyone were to find a way to make it all seem legitimate, it would be her. And her reputation was so stellar that more than a few people would be swayed to her side.
This was all getting to be incredibly complicated in his mind. Between worrying about what Amelia would do, he still had to contend with the fact that Rhys was planning to blow up the Ministry of Magic. Harry needed to get back there soon to see if any new explosives had been planted and disarm them before they could be used.
But these were all problems he could deal with tomorrow. Tonight, he would sleep and dream of what life would be like once all of this was done and behind him.