Damn Tornados 10/13 (RW/HP, PG-13)

[wideworldsend]

Title: Damn Tornados
Author: Mad Maudlin
Pairing: Ron/Harry, Ron/Pansy unrequited
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Through OotP
Summary: Ron gets his hearing, but things don't quite go according to anybody's plans.


Act Two, Scene Two: The Stroke of Twelve

Ron rinsed his hands and splashed a little water on his face. It was eleven-thirty on Midsummer's Day; his hearing at the ministry had finally convened at nine. Skeeter and Malfoy had spent the morning allegedly presenting their cases to the panel, though to Ron it seemed more like they were staging an elaborate melodrama and nobody had provided him with a script. Soon, he told himself. It's got to end soon...

Malfoy stepped into the bathroom, letting a burst of chatter, and scowled at Ron. "Hurry up. You're the last person I'd expect to be wasting time."

"You're the one who left things so late," he grumbled.

Malfoy ignored this and stepped up to a mirror. He began to preen his hair. "You're really making a very poor showing in there, you know."

"You're the one running things like a three-ring circus!"

"Well, what do you think this is? A legal proceeding?" Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Now come on, or they'll start without us."

"Go to Hell."

"In due time."

The corridors were packed with journalists, who erupted with questions the moment they saw their targets. Ron shoved Malfoy ahead of him as fast as he could, but when they got back to the conference room, they were both dusted with bits of multicolored down from all the quills that had been waved in their faces.

"Would you kindly take your seats?" asked the nearest panelist. Ron cringed.

"Yessir, Mr. Weasley," Malfoy said cheerfully, and brushed himself clean with one flick of his hand.

The timing of the hearing was suspicious; the make-up of the panel was bizarre. Due, Malfoy claimed, to a series of interdepartmental squabbles, the arbiters of Ron's case were the recently-retired Aidan Lynch, Elvira Troutwig, and, of all people, his brother Percy. Ron thought he might've been able to deceive the ex-Seeker, but Percy would be impossible, and Troutwig—well, he still had to fight the urge to cover his bottom and flee when he saw her.

Picking down off his robes, Ron took his seat and tried to avoid Troutwig's eyes. He ended up looking right at Skeeter, who was absolutely hideous in glaring yellow robes. Since breaking the story, she had filled large columns of the Daily Prophet with stories of her persecution by irrational Chudley fans, her personal sacrifices for the good of Quidditch, and so much other self-aggrandizing drivel that even Malfoy had stopped reading it days ago. Now she sat amidst artistically-arranged stacks of parchment, smiling serenely at the crowd of observers that packed the rest of the room. All of the Cannons were there—whenever Ron glanced back, they smiled and waved, and Funt occasionally shot orange and black sparks from his wand. Ron tried not to glance back too often.

"Is everyone here?" Percy asked gravely, looking around. "Everyone? Good, let's continue."

Malfoy immediately had his arm in the air. "I move that we recess for a midmorning snack."

Percy glared at him. "Mr. Applegate, that is the fifth such recess you have proposed. I assume you'd like to be done with this matter before noon?"

Ron watched Malfoy carefully. The demon leaned back in his chair and said mildly, "Of course. I apologize."

"Indeed," Percy said brusquely. "Now, to the business of this hearing, Ms. Skeeter—"

"Mister Weasley!" she cried, and stood with her hand over her heart. "I hope to take this moment to thank the committee from the deepest recesses of my heart. When I consider the abuse I have suffered in my attempt to save the noble sport of warlocks from the scurrilous influence of such individuals as the alleged Ronald Hardy—"

"Ms. Skeeter, please!" Percy drew a deep breath and dabbed his forehead with a hankerchief. "Though your presentation of your accusations against Mr. Hardy was...ah...vigorous," and here several people muttered, "you have yet to provide any direct evidence to support them."

She blinked. "But—I told you, there's no record of his birth in the United States—"

"And since when has not being American constituted an offense in the British League?" Troutwig asked icily.

Rita tried to marshall her dramatic energy. "Madame Troutwig, you know that a reporter of my status would never publish such grave accusations without a thorough investigation of the facts." She had to stop for the snickering. "My first thought was to review the media coverage of the original McCoy affair in search of evidence that would link him to Hardy, but—and one can well imagine my surprise—upon arriving at the archives of that bastion of journalistic merit, the Daily Prophet, I discovered that an entire year's worth of back issues had been accidentally destroyed the very day I learned of the rumors following Mr. Hardy like a seething, billowing, black—"

"Ms. Skeeter," Troutwig said gravely, "need I remind you of the panel's request regarding illustrative metaphor in oral arguments?"

"Of course not, Madame," Skeeter said, clearly annoyed. "As I was saying—the records at the Daily Prophet had been mysteriously destroyed, but it was, perhaps, just an inconvenient coincidence. So I contacted that most honorable publication of the sport, Quidditch Quarterly, only to learn that their records had been badly damaged after a duel broke out during a staff meeting. Every other newspaper and magazine in the Wizarding World that I attempted to contact presented me with the same story; oh, the reason was never the same, but in every case, the records destroyed included every photograph ever publicized of the real McCoy!"

She glanced wildly around the room at this pronouncement, apparently perturbed that there had been no dramatic gasping. Lynch sat up straighter and cleared his throat. "And, ah, what exactly does that have to do with us?"

Rita glared at him. "I am trying to tell the panel that there is a conspiracy at work here!" There was some mumbling, and a rather inopportune laugh. Ron, however, glanced suspiciously at Malfoy. He seemed to be napping.

Percy leaned forward. "Ms. Skeeter, that is a grave accusation—"

"I am aware of that!" she declared. "But it is the only conclusion I could draw from so convenient a series of 'accidents'—convenient for Ron Hardy, that is!" She pointed at him dramatically; he did his best to look innocent, and Malfoy started awake. "In fact, the only place I could find any photographs of Shifty McCoy was in the offices of a small publication run by a Mr. Lawrence Lovegood—"

"Oh, come on!" someone in the back yelled, and that set off a wave of muttering and catcalls. Troutwig yanked the pipe from her mouth, transfigured it into a gavel, and pounded on the tabletop until the audience silenced.

Skeeter, meanwhile, rooted around in her artful piles until she produced an old issue of the Quibbler. "Here it is!" she shouted triumphantly. "The only photograph of Shifty McCoy to escape the mysterious purge of the wizarding media! Gentlemen, madam, I present to you incontrovertible proof of my claims!"

She slammed the paper down on the panel's table. Percy picked it up gingerly and examined it at arm's length. "Ms. Skeeter," he said after a moment, "this article alleges that Quidditch was invented by hedgehogs from the Moon."

"The picture, Mr. Weasley!"

Lynch peered over Percy's shoulder and frowned. "He's not there."

She seized the paper and scowled at the photograph, then spread it out on the table. "Then I motion we wait for him to reappear."

Malfoy leapt to his feet. "I object!" he shouted. "Ms. Skeeter is deliberately trying to obstruct the proceedings!"

"No moreso than you have, Mr. Applegate," Percy said hotly.

Malfoy folded his arms. "Gentlemen, madam, Ms. Skeeter's accusations are ludicrous. Once again I motion to dismiss them."

"She deserves a chance to present her evidence," Troutwig said, sticking the end of her gavel in her mouth.

Lynch peered closely at the newsprint. "I think I saw an elbow."

Ron glanced fearfully at the clock. Twenty-five minutes before his escape clause expired. It could be hours before the photographic McCoy flew back into the picture. He tugged Malfoy's sleeve until the demon reluctantly lowered his head to ear level. "Does the picture prove anything?" he whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, does Hardy look like McCoy?" If the picture would prove him innocent, he could dart out now, and let the matter sort itself out...

Malfoy coughed. "There may be a slight resemblance..."

"How slight?"

"Mr. Applegate," Troutwig said gravely, "is there a problem?"

"None whatsoever," Malfoy said, straightening. "Mr. Hardy was merely suggesting a way we might, ah, hasten the proceedings a bit."

Percy leaned forward. "How so?"

"If, as Ms. Skeeter alleges, my client has been using performance-enhancing potions, there should be evidence." He paused dramatically. "Physical evidence, that is. The sort a Healer should be able to detect."

"I object!" Skeeter screeched.

"On what grounds?" Percy demanded.

She pointed one ruby-red talon at the two of them. "Neither of these wizards can be trusted! Who knows what sort of despicable ploys they may use to manipulate such an examination!"

Lynch snorted. "Ms. Skeeter, what would you have us do? Conduct it in public?"

For a minute, Ron was terrified she'd suggest it; Madame Troutwig looked altogether too interested in the idea. But Malfoy came to the rescue with a hauty chuckle. "That's hardly necessary. If the examination itself is in question—as I hardly think even Ms. Skeeter would go so far as to impugn the integrity of the St. Mungo's staff—then perhaps one of you would care to observe the procedure as a safeguard against any...improprieties?"

"Excellent idea," Percy said. "I'd be glad to do it."

Troutwig's eyebrows went up, and Ron's stomach sank. "Excuse me, Mr. Weasley, but I am the most senior member of the panel...."

He blinked at her. "I mean no offense, Madame Troutwig, but I feel I am the most qualified."

Troutwig swelled like a balloon, and Ron had no doubt Percy would be happy to niggle over his credentials with a shrieking harpy for the rest of the afternoon. "Excuse me," he blurted, "but I—I'd be more comfortable...that is, I don't think it's proper—"

"My thoughts exactly!" Malfoy chimed it.

Troutwig pouted and relaxed back into her chair. "I see. Very well, Mr. Weasley."

Summoning a Healer from St. Mungo's wasted more precious minutes; Percy refused to adjourn again, and so Ron spent the time cowering under the gaze of Madame Troutwig while Rita and Malfoy traded glares. When the healer finally appeared, Percy led them to an empty conference room on the other side of the hall. It turned out he needn't have worried about Troutwig; the examination was thorough, but nothing to be embarassed about. "Relax, Mr. Hardy," the Healer said more than once as Ron checked and rechecked the clock on the wall. When it was finished, Ron yanked his shirt back on and nearly bolted from the room without his shoes.

While the Healer testified, Ron grabbed Malfoy again. "Five minutes," he hissed.

"I'm aware of that."

"I don't care if the hearing's over."

"Do you want to get acquitted or not?"

The Healer wrapped up his remarks, and Percy looked to Skeeter. "Does that satisfy your concerns, Ms. Skeeter?"

"No!" She shrieked. "Obviously the witness was suborned by Mr. Applegate!"

"I was?" asked the Healer.

Rita jumped to her feet and pointed at Malfoy again. "Mr. Weasley, this disgrace to the name of Wizard has been plotting against me from the moment I publicized my findings! This panel has been deceived!"

"Deceived?" Malfoy said, and rose smoothly from his seat. "Ms. Skeeter, you are hardly the one to talking about deception."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she hissed.

"It means I can prove that your vaunted claims of acting for the good of the game to be a convenient fiction." Malfoy held up a slim file folder he hadn't had a moment before. "I have here truly incontrovertible proof of Rita Skeeter's agenda: this woman is in fact a partisan of the Tutshill Tornados."

He whisked from a folder a large, glossy picture of a crowd of Quidditch fans. Front and center was Rita Skeeter, dressed in Tutshill, blue, silently shrieking as she waved a Tornados pennant. Several people in the audience gasped aloud, and someone in the rear started booing. Skeeter gaped for a moment before managing to squeal, "Lies! All lies! That's a fake—"

"These accusations are a mere a ploy to prevent the Cannons from threatening the Tornados' supremacy in Britain!" Malfoy shouted over her.

"Give me that!" Rita snatched at the photo, which Malfoy jerked away. She wobbled on her improbably spiked heels and toppled into him, sending them both to the floor.

"Stop that!" Percy shouted, pounding his fist on the table. "Stop that at once! Ms. Skeeter, I demand you release—Mr. Applegate, you will let go—both of you—!"

"We will have order in this hearing," Troutwig shouted at the same time, addressing the observers, who ignored her, "we will have order, and to have order means to have silence and we will have silence right NOW—"

Lynch suddenly grabbed the Quibbler off the table. "I think I saw a foot!"

Ron could only watch the clock ticking in horror....

"EXCUSE ME."

The amplified voice froze everyone in the room. Ron's gaze snapped to the doorway, where Harry Potter stood with the tip of his wand held up to his mouth. Hermione and a strange woman in an old-fashioned dress squeezed in behind him. Harry cleared his throat and lowered his wand, speaking again at normal volume. "I wish to address the panel."

Percy straightened up and set his glasses back on his nose properly. "What is it, Mr. Potter?"

Harry stepped forward, and Hermione and the other woman followed, forcing the door shut behind them. Hermione didn't look exactly happy to be there, and the woman...there was something familiar about her, but Ron couldn't place it. "I've brought a witness who can personally testify to Ron Hardy's identity," Harry said.

Skeeter clawed her way to her feet and shoved her hat back on backwards. "What do you mean, testify?"

"May I ask exactly how you are involved in this, Mr. Potter?" Troutwig asked.

Harry made eye contact with Ron for a split second. "Mr. Hardy is a friend of mine, Madame Troutwig. When I heard about these accusations, I naturally wanted to help however I could. I'm sorry to leave everything so late, but I've just gotten back from America with—" he pushed the strange witch forward—"with Mrs. Melusine Trott, a longtime resident of Hannibal, Missouri and an old friend of the Hardy family."

Ron blinked at him, then glanced at Malfoy; the demon was staring furiously at Harry, and scowling. Percy righted his chair and sat primly. "I see. Mrs. Trott, I thank you for coming such a long way."

Trott giggled shrilly. "Ah, shucks, 'tweren't nothin'. I'da come to China for little Ronny-poo. Oh, Ronny!" She rushed over to him and firmly pinched his cheeks. "My, but you have grown! I remember when you was knee-high to a garden gnome! Don't you look just like your momma now?" She turned to Malfoy. "He looks just like his momma!"

"I'm certain," Malfoy ground out.

"Hello, Mrs. Trott," Ron said, hoping he sounded convincing.

Mrs. Trott laughed. "Oh, honey, don't be shy now! I'm still your same Auntie Mel, just like when you was little. Oh, you look so fine now..."

Madame Troutwig cleared her throat. "Mrs. Trott, can you verify that Mr. Hardy was, in fact, born in Hannibal?"

"Of course he was born in Hannibal!" Mrs. Trott said indignantly. "Didn't I pull him outta his momma myself? And what a fat baby he was, you know—"

"Auntie Mel," Ron whispered pleadingly.

Skeeter leapt forward. "Then why isn't his birth registered with the magical authorities there?"

Trott's face softened. "Oh, honey, you mean he hasn't told y'all?" She embraced Ron dramatically. "Oh, bless your little cotton socks, your momma woulda been so proud of you!"

"What haven't you told us, Mr. Hardy?" Troutwig asked.

Ron panicked.

Sniffling loudly, Mrs. Trott dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "Oh, Ronny, you let Auntie Mel handle this." She turned to the panel. "Y'see, well, Jane Hardy—bless her soul—well—she wasn't one of us, if you catch me meaning. "

A murmur ran through the room. Percy nodded slowly. "I see."

"But she raised herself a good boy!" Trott said defensively, and patted Ron vigorously on the arm. "And me 'n my man Lucillius done our best to help—and believe you me, we're jest proud as anyone of what he done—" She burst into tears, and Ron patted her awkwardly on the back.

Malfoy rallied himself admirably. "You see?" he said, gesturing. "I move to declare Ms. Skeeter a raging lunatic."

"Lies!" Rita shrieked again. "That—they're—you can't believe this! That woman is an actor! It's all lies!"

"Prove it!" Malfoy snapped.

She stalked towards the panel. "Mr. Weasley, Madame Troutwig, Mister—oh, never mind." Lynch was engrossed in the Quibbler. "I have been derided. I have been disdained. I have been demonized and demoralized and...and disgraced." She took a deep breath. "But I tell you that Ronald Hardy is Shifty McCoy, and that I first discovered it—not from some unnamed source—but from Hardy's own manager, MISTER APPLEGATE!"

"What?" Ron pushed Mrs. Trott away and spun towards Malfoy. "From who?"

But the demon dismissed Skeeter with a casual wave of his hand. "Nonsense. She can't possibly prove it."

"Yes, I can!" Rita cried. "I can! Granger—that witch there—she was with me! She heard him too!"

Ron gaped at Hermione, who'd been standing a little behind Harry with an expression of mild disgust. She blinked at Rita's quivering finger and folded her arms. "Honestly, madam, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Rita whimpered.

Percy sighed. "I think, in light of these revelations, we can put this matter to a vote. Those in favor of acquittal?" He raised his hand. So did Troutwig. "Those opposed?"

Everyone looked at Lynch, who looked up from the Quibbler and blinked. "Hmm?"

"We're voting, Mr. Lynch," Percy said evenly.

"But I haven't read this issue..."

"Aiden," Troutwig snapped.

Lynch jumped. "Oh! Acquit."

Ron had never heard a room exactly explode, but that was the nearest he could come to describing it. The shouts reverberated off the walls, and the first row of observers swarmed up to shake his hand, pat his back, congratulate him in one continuous smear of voices. Paul Stebbins took a flying leap and landed in his arms, then planted a wet kiss on his cheek "That's my boy!"

"We knew you were innocent!" Wood said enthusiastically, pushing his way up.

"Nothing between us and the Cup now!" Macelwrath shrieked.

Brajnikoff pumped his hand and said something emphatic in Russian.

"Yes—thanks—right—" Ron stood on his tiptoes and peered over the milling crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of Harry; he spotted him trying to sidle his way to a side exit. Not yet, don't leave yet—

"Gentlemen!" Malfoy called, mercifully directing attention away from Ron. "Ladies! Please, I want to thank you all for coming, we really appreciate your support—now if you please, we're going to have a press conference in a moment. I know you want to congratulate the man of the hour, but we need this room..." Ron seized the opportunity and threaded his way through the milling shoulders, kicking over a chair in his haste.

"Harry! Harry, wait—" He grabbed Harry's sleeve and stopped him at the door. "Harry...I can't...I don't know what to say."

Harry bit his lip and looked aside. "You're going to have to figure something out if you're going to have a press conference."

"No, I mean..." He glanced at the people filing out while the press filed in, and lowered his voice. "Where'd you find that Trott woman?"

"You'd be surprised who you can find when you know a Metamorphmagus," he said with a little smile.

"Ohhh." Ron nodded, and thought warmly about how soon this would all be over—he could be a real human being again, he'd have his family back, he'd have Harry...

On the other side of the room, Bagman stepped up to the podium that someone had conjured. "I know you don't want to hear from me," he said jovially, "I know you're probably itching to hear straight from the golden boy himself so you can get your stories written and get to lunch—"

Lunch? Ron thought blankly.

"—but I have a few words I'd like to say before we get down to business. I've always had enormous faith in Ron..."

With a slowly sinking heart, Ron looked at the clock hanging above the door.

The time was 12:01.

"...do anything for Chudley. Why, he'd go to Hell for this team..."

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