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Two sides of the same coin. Part 1

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    Harry decides to release four death eaters on the twentieth anniversary of the victory and decides who. The story of McNair.


   Chapter 1
   Twenty years later, there are none left...
   And, by the way, how much?
   For a moment, Harry felt annoyed that he couldn't even begin to tell how many former Death Eaters were still in Azkaban at the time of the twentieth anniversary of the Battle for Hogwarts. It was this annoyance that made him go to the Archive.
   It was dark and quiet there now, and Harry, lighting his way with a Lumos, confidently walked between the high shelves along the narrow aisles. "Two thousand and seventeenth... fourteenth... tenth... sixth... third... Nineteen ninety-nine... ninety-eight."
   Harry stopped, stood for a couple of seconds, and slowly moved on.
   December... November... September... July...
   May.
   May one thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight.
   Here it was, a shelf reserved for the second day, dedicated to the very battle, the twentieth anniversary of which they had all just celebrated. Somewhere here, perhaps, there are answers to the questions that have been nagging him lately.
   The shelf was high - Harry pulled the ladder towards him and, climbing up, saw that the black and white divider separating the files of the deceased from those whose defendants had not yet left this world was located quite close to the beginning. He counted the folders on his white side-ten. There are only ten of them left out of... how many? He did not count, took the whole stack, went down and, returning to the tables located at the entrance, dropped his loot on one of them.
   Then he looked through the folders again, scribbled a list on paper, and thought gloomily.
   It turns out that there are not so many of them left - only a dozen. The rest died: someone was injured and, it seems, simply did not want to survive, someone was old, someone just died, who knows what ... the absence of dementors, which were abandoned after the war, strangely enough, did not make Azkaban a more pleasant and healthy place. There was less horror there, but its place was taken by heaviness, melancholy and cold - it was said that those who had something to compare it with even spoke in favor of the return of the dementors, but of course they were not listened to - or maybe it was just ordinary gossip.
   Harry ran his fingers through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut, leaned back, stretched, and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he looked at the paper that had slid to the near edge of the table again, as if hoping that something would change on it - to no avail, of course.
   He counted out loud, sliding his middle finger down the list:
   "One... two... three... six... nine... ten."
   He sighed, pushed the paper away from him - the sheet slid to the opposite edge and stopped, catching the corner of one of the folders - and spoke in a low voice syllabically:
   "Don't want. I! don't! want! to!"
   Then he took a deep, deep breath, held it, and exhaled, making a face, and said to himself loudly:
   "But you have to."
   And then he lit the lamp, took the topmost folder and, opening it, read:
   "Avery, Marcus."
   Harry gazed hungrily at the round, soft face of the man depicted in the photo, whose long, thick and curly hair gave him a slightly feminine look. He looked completely peaceful and seemed scared and confused, but Harry knew perfectly well that this was either an appearance or the consequences of defeat and arrest: a man who had carried a Dark Mark for many years simply could not be peaceful.
   Potter took a chair, sat down, pulled Avery's file towards him and began to study it, hoping to find at least some of the answers to his questions there.
   And the longer he read, the more questions he had.
   "Carrow, Alecto."
   He remembered her a little: small, somehow square, almost invisible, and, it seems, avenging everything alive for this invisibility. For some reason, the first thing Harry remembered was her voice, shrill and high-pitched, with a strange screeching intonation that sounded even when she seemed to be speaking completely calmly. Potter had hardly come across her himself, but he had heard enough stories, and these stories were vivid enough that every time he thought about her, he was overcome by a mixture of disgust and disgust, similar to what a person feels when he finds half of an apple still moving in half of an apple he has just bitten off. Grimacing, he closed the folder, placed it to the left of the list sheet, and picked up the next one, which predictably read "Carrow, Amicus." Harry remembered him perfectly well - he immediately slammed this folder shut and put it on top of the previous one.
   He picked up the list, turned it over in his fingers... wrote down the names alphabetically at the bottom. The following happened:
   Avery, Marcus
   Carrow, Alecto
   Carrow, Amicus
   Lestrange, Rabastan
   Lestrange, Rodolphus
   McNair, Walden
   Rookwood, August
   Rowley, Thorfinn
   Selwyn, Anguis
   Yaxley, Prosper.
   Harry sighed again, and simply moved the next two folders to the previous two.
   He sat for a while longer, looked at the paper, slammed it against the table with his palm, and took the next folder from the right stack.
   "McNair, Walden."
   Harry, of course, remembered him too, but unlike the previous ones, this one did not disgust him. Perhaps because, although he held the position of an official executioner in the ministry for quite a long time, he never killed a single person outside of combat - in any case, nothing of the kind was ever proven, despite the veritaserum applied during the post-war trial. Perhaps because he never tried to pretend to be a decent person - he joined the executioners, went voluntarily, and had extremely positive reviews for his work. And compared to the others, he looked almost normal: an ordinary killer, without any twists or perversions. The executioner is the executioner, what can I take from him...
   Harry put an exclamation mark next to his last name on the list, then changed it into a question mark, put the folder to the opposite side of the table and picked up the next one.
   "Rookwood, August."
   Gritting his teeth, Harry shifted the folder to the left, fifth in the pile. No. Or, in any case, not at his suggestion. And even if it's a trivial revenge, he can't. Can not.
   AND HE DOESN'T WANT TO.
   "Rowley, Thorfinn."
   He didn't remember it right away - he had to open the folder, look at the photo, and read the first couple of pages. Then he remembered-the Muggle cafe where they almost got caught right after Bill and Fleur's wedding. Even then, Harry found him somehow ridiculous.... He leafed through the folder, sighed, shrugged, and put it down on the edge of the table, too, and put a question mark on the list next to the last name.
   "Selwyn, Anguis."
   He didn't remember that name either.... An old sorcery refreshed his memory, but Harry leafed through the file anyway. He thought about it, closed the folder, reached for the edge of the table, then to the left... then back to the edge... then he put it on the left, but across the stack. He'll have time to decide, plenty of time.
   "Avery, Marcus."
   Almost without thinking, with visible relief, Harry sent the folder to the edge of the table - only the third one, but still. He had already decided everything about Avery a long time ago, it was the easiest thing to do. After all, he could be accused of cowardice rather than murder - Voldemort seemed to know that, Harry remembered perfectly well how he met Avery with a Cruciatus, the only one of them all, right in the cemetery. He remembered the trial, and the pale, terrified man-it seemed he was the only one who was really scared, because he was the only one hoping for something-a short, plump man, but noticeably thinner while awaiting trial. Even then, the verdict seemed unnecessarily harsh to Harry, but at that time, despite all the honors paid to Harry Potter, no one would have listened to him - but now Harry had a chance to speak out, and he put an exclamation mark and an oblique cross in front of this surname.
   "Yaxley, Prosper."
   "No way," Harry muttered, almost happily shoving the folder into the left pile.
   The names on the sheet have ended. Folders too.
   Harry sat for a while, examining the result of his actions. Apparently, he wasn't too satisfied, because he pulled the left stack of folders towards him and picked up the top one. He spat and put it to the right this time. He took the next one lying across.
   Selwyn... Theoretically, his proven guilt was not very impressive and great. But ... the thought that this man might be free very soon - even if it wasn't his sole decision, the head of the auror office didn't solve such issues, it was the Wizengamot's responsibility - made Harry's teeth and muscles clench. After all, he, Potter, is not the only one who can initiate a review of old cases in the direction of mitigation of punishment - there are about five dozen people with similar powers in Britain, starting with the same members of the court, so why should he...
   The problem was that such reviews were carried out from three or four cases at a time - if there were fewer of them, then it was necessary to wait until the necessary number of the same type was collected: the cases were necessarily reviewed by the full Wizengamot, and no one would collect them all for the sake of one or two questions. Three was a controversial case, but Harry reasonably assumed that this dispute would be resolved in the direction of refusal - but four was for sure. This wasn't usually a big deal, but this time was special - there were only ten "similar" cases, and they were all on the table in front of Harry right now.
   One more thing had to be chosen, and no one else except Selwyn was suitable for this role. Because it was unthinkable to let Yaxley or any of the Carrows out, it was impossible to even talk about it, just like the Lestranges and Rookwood.
   That left Selwyn. Adding him to Avery (because of whom he had originally started all this), McNair (because he was the second one who, in Harry's opinion, would not be dangerous at large, and there was no one to take revenge on him and for nothing) and Rowley... wait, isn't this Rowley, Which one?..
   Harry snatched out the folder he needed and started flipping through it hurriedly. Then he cursed briefly and threw the closed folder on the table. He forgot... or rather, he didn't forget, but got confused - for some reason, Rowley's actions were associated with a completely different wizard, but it turned out... no, he couldn't be released. Must not.
   "What is this!" Harry jumped up with a mixture of annoyance and indignation, shoved the folder back, threw down his chair, and walked over to the wall, slapping it with his palm. The somehow built system was collapsing, everything had to start over.
   He returned to the table, took a large stack of folders, scattered them on the floor, pulled out a photo from each one and spread it on top. Seven faces looked at him: six male and one female, all seven gloomy, some kind of shaggy (why, by the way, don't they cut their hair in prison? And they don't let you shave, it seems) and look only from under their brows.
   Harry removed both Carrows, Yaxley, and Rookwood almost immediately.
   There were four left: Lestranges, Selwyn, and Rowley.
   Harry put Selwyn's folder aside.
   There are three left.
   They looked at him, as it seemed to Harry, with the same angry and hunted expression. He could have tried asking for a review of three cases, but Harry knew that if it didn't work out now, he would most likely have to wait another five years until the next anniversary - that is, a review could have been scheduled earlier, but there was very little chance of a commutation of the sentence at the usual time. And you can't even assemble the Wizengamot completely at the usual time - someone is always disappearing somewhere, and then everyone will definitely come to London.
   In general... it was necessary to act for sure, which means that it was necessary to choose one of the three.
   Only Rowley remained. Well, not Lestranges, really. Harry crouched down, peering into the faces of all three of them.
   Rodolphus. Large body, broad, well-shaped face. Dark eyes, dark hair... He was the one who tortured and tortured Alice and Frank Longbottom to madness. He, his wife, and his brother, Rabastan. Well, there's also Barty Crouch Jr., but he's been... worse than dead for a long time. No, it's impossible! It's unthinkable.
   But then only Rowley...
   The thought made my teeth clench again.
   Maybe we should try it with three? After all, this is a special case, and no one will have to come on purpose....
   Harry shifted his gaze to Rabastan. He looks, very much like his brother! Only the face is thinner and more nervous, the eye twitches, the lips are bitten... No, no, you can't! It's like a slap in Neville's face... and anyway... no.
   Rowley. Blond short-cropped hair, oval face... straight nose... eyes... Some kind of look... completely empty. Prison doesn't make anyone beautiful, but it's as if nothing has ever happened here-as if he doesn't even care what happens if it doesn't bring... something. No, he's not allowed either. You can't, because... Because he just felt that there was no way. This one will make trouble - just out of emptiness and boredom.
   But then ...
   "If the problem is formulated correctly, it cannot fail to have a solution," Harry recalled a statement that had once seemed to him extremely stupid. "If there is no solution, it means that something is wrong with either the task or the crucial one." Harry couldn't remember who had said it or what the occasion was, but it didn't seem so ridiculous now.
   The task was completely straightforward - so maybe it was possible to change the decider?
   "Why," Harry said thoughtfully, smiling slowly. "It's so wild that it might work..."
  

Chapter 2

   In theory, it all looked simple, but practice did not match it. Harry was sitting across from a man dressed in a striped robe, and he couldn't seem to ask him the question he'd called him in for. They had been talking for about a quarter of an hour, and there was no sign of a transition to the right topic.
   With every passing second, this idea seemed more and more stupid to Harry, and he was already beginning to be inclined to simply send the prisoner back - after all, you never know why, why, and for what the head of the auror office might want to talk to one of the prisoners sentenced to life. But letting him go just like that would be even more stupid than inviting him here....
   Harry was starting to get angry, which also didn't help resolve the situation in the right way. Finally, all possible formalities were completed, all the questions were asked, and silence fell in the office. Harry now just sat and stared at the man across from him, wondering why chance had chosen him to be his companion.
   All this was the embodiment of the idea of "changing the decider" that had dawned on Harry the day before: at first he thought of choosing someone from the interested parties on his own, but then he decided to leave it to chance, wrote the names on pieces of paper, conjured a hat, put them in it, shuffled and pulled out the first one he saw. It was this man who was sitting across from him now, staring indifferently out the window.
   Walden McNair.
   64 years old, former executioner of the Ministry, former Death Eater, participated in the Battle for Hogwarts...
   The prisoner suddenly got up and went to the window, through which the sun was shining into the room. He put his palms against the glass and froze, a faint smile appeared on his lips. He didn't seem to be paying any attention to where he was, or to Harry Potter, who was sitting a few steps away from him.
   "Why did you come to him?" Harry asked softly, remembering something that had puzzled him about the McNair case. "After all, your family is ancient, but not pure-blooded, as far as I know."
   "That's right," the smile widened a little, but nothing else changed in him. Harry waited a bit for her to continue, and when she didn't, he insisted: "So why?"
   "That's how it happened," McNair replied reluctantly, and there was something like annoyance in his voice, as if the conversation was distracting him from something important... or pleasant. The sun, Harry realized. "They never see him there..." The cells in Azkaban had windows positioned so that neither rain nor sunlight ever entered them: being under the ceiling, they were slanted at a slight angle down to the water, so they let in light, but at least they could see the sky. It was impossible. It must be hard not to see the sun for twenty years....
   "I'll let you out for a walk," Harry said quickly, and hesitated, realizing how insulting these words might seem to his interlocutor. However, this did not happen: McNair, before Potter could finish, abruptly turned around, without taking his hands off the glass, and, looking at Harry with either amazement or confusion, asked hoarsely:
   "Go for a walk?"
   "There's a garden here," Harry stood up too and smiled as warmly as he could, "We can go out there for a while.... I'll put some spells on you, of course, but..."
   "I don't care," McNair shook his head, and suddenly he smiled, so much so that his face seemed twenty years younger, and suddenly the color of his eyes became noticeable - dark gray, and not just abstractly "dark", as it seemed before and as it was written in the file. "I'll tell you anything you want." He took a deep breath, still smiling. "After. You can give me veritaserum, or whatever you want... give me an hour and I'll answer any questions you have." He caught Potter's eye, and they stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Harry nodded and found himself smiling too.
   "I think you'll have to drink a polyjuice potion- it's just enough for an hour." He suddenly felt amused himself. This fun was very similar to the one he felt, for example, back in school, when in the second year he and Ron - also under polyjuice potion, by the way - sneaked into the Slytherin common room disguised as Crabbe and Goyle. "Otherwise, I will drown in paperwork, and it will take a year to get a permit...."
   This was not entirely true: strictly speaking, the head of the auror office did not need any such permission; on the other hand, no one, including him, had any right to take prisoners outside. But the decision came by itself, and it seemed very simple and understandable - all you had to do was figure out who to turn McNair into... you needed someone who...
   "I don't care," McNair repeated, "even for the best... when?"
   "Wait for me here," Harry clearly decided to set a record for the most idiotic phrases today, because, well, what kind of "wait"? Who! Whom? Where?!! But it didn't matter. "I'll lock the office... and don't try to open the windows, they're enchanted... I'll be back soon!" For some reason, he didn't even think about putting shackles on McNair's feet - they, like the hand ones, had been removed from him on Harry's orders when they brought him to the office. True, aurors were waiting outside the door, but it was still unacceptable and stupid.
   It wasn't difficult to get polyjuice potion from Aurora-it was more difficult to find a person into whom McNair could be turned without unnecessary risk. But then Harry was incredibly lucky: in one of the corridors, he literally bumped into the minister, who was clearly in a hurry, but stopped for a minute to exchange a few phrases with him. It wasn't difficult to remove a hair from his clothes....
   When Potter returned, he found McNair no longer standing, but sitting on the windowsill - leaning sideways against the glass, he met him with a strange look, happy and as if assessing at the same time.
   "I should have mentioned that it should be a human being." He said as soon as the door closed behind Harry.
   "It goes without saying... It would be fun to turn you into some kind of spider, though," Harry laughed, handing him the vial. "This is for you."
   "It's hard to catch spiders," McNair grinned, taking the potion and looking at it thoughtfully. "I'm not sure I wouldn't prefer to spend the rest of my days like this-I've been told that they feel very differently." He raised the phial to his lips and drank it down in one gulp without even flinching. And then he didn't make a sound, just winced painfully and bent slightly when the transformation began.
   The sight of the Minister of Magic, dressed in a prison uniform, completely amused Harry - he even regretted that he had not thought to take a camera somewhere, it would have been very funny to take a picture. The sight of the Minister of Magic, dressed in a prison uniform, completely amused Harry - he even regretted that he had not thought to take a camera somewhere, it would have been very funny to take a picture.
   "So who am I?" McNair asked, his voice still the same, and it sounded strange.
   "It doesn't matter" Harry believed that he had already done enough strange things for today, and he did not plan to inform the prisoner about who he would be seen by others within an hour. "The main thing is, don't talk to anyone. Stretch out your arms."
   It took a couple of minutes to change his clothes accordingly and cast binding spells that, on the one hand, would allow McNair to move freely, and on the other, would not allow him to escape. When everything was ready, Harry took him by the hand and apparated into the garden.
   "You have an hour," Harry said, sitting down on a bench. "Try to behave somehow... like a human being," he asked. "No one usually comes here at this time, but still..."
   Yes," McNair replied dully. For now, he was just standing there, his face and palms turned up to the sun, and there was such a blissful expression on his face that Harry felt awkward - as if he had accidentally witnessed something purely intimate. After some time, McNair slowly moved along the path, approached a bush and gently touched the leaves with his palms, stood there for a while, and buried his face in them, pressed them with his hands and froze for a while. Harry, becoming more and more embarrassed, turned away and stared intently at the only entrance that led to the garden, convincing himself that this was the right thing to do in such a situation - but it was impossible to leave McNair out of sight, and after a few minutes he still turned around and jumped up, no one was there. having seen it. However, he immediately sank back down, feeling himself blushing, cursing himself for putting himself in such an awkward situation, and praying to all the gods, chance, fortune, and whatever else there was-that no one would come here now.
   Because it was difficult to explain to anyone why the Minister of Magic was lying face down on the grass, taking off his robe, shirt and shoes-fortunately, at least leaving his pants.
   ...The grass, warm from the sun, slightly pricked someone else's body, imprinted on someone else's skin, and left its green and bitter juice on it... He plucked one of the blades of grass and chewed it - the bitterness filled someone else's mouth, and the greenery stained someone else's teeth. He laughed softly, as he had been asked not to draw attention to himself. The part of his mind that always remained on guard noted that his current behavior could hardly be considered "not attracting attention," but the other part, which he no longer even remembered - the one that wanted to live and feel-brushed it aside and sucked in, absorbed all these smells, sounds, tastes and feelings.
   Time was gone-he remembered that it wasn't enough, and he tried to use every second, but there weren't any seconds either, and how could he keep track of what wasn't there? He got up, wandered through the grass and the ground, looked at other people's feet, stained with grass juice and gravel, lay down on the grass and on the ground, touched bushes and trees, inhaled their smell and felt their bark, smooth and uneven, and scratched someone else's skin with it...
   ... and suddenly it was over. A voice-familiar and, it seemed, unpleasant, although nothing in the world could be unpleasant to him now-called him:
   "I'm sorry, Mr. McNair... we have to go. Time..."
   ... and he managed to see his hands change, but they still had juice, scratches, and bark particles on them, when they grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him out - for a moment the world crumbled and disappeared, and when it reassembled, there was just a room in which there was nothing left of the real world. only the sun.
   "I'm sorry," Harry repeated, hurriedly transfiguring the prisoner's clothes back on and removing the spells from him. He tried not to look at his face-it was still too happy and... he couldn't tell if it was open.
   There are things and states that outsiders shouldn't see, and Harry knew that this was it. Even if it's a prisoner... especially a prisoner. When he was done, he sat down at his desk, half facing McNair, and began to watch him. He saw how the expression of delight and happiness faded at first, and then disappeared from McNair's face, as it regained its familiar features and age, but the eyes did not go out, and the lips continued to smile slightly.
   Finally, McNair came to the table, sat down on the other side, looked at his dirty hands -there were also traces of grass, gravel and bark on his face-and said:
   "Ask away."

Chapter 3

   "Why did you come to Voldemort?" Harry repeated, looking at his interlocutor.
   His elongated face had once been well-shaped, but now his sunken cheeks made him look like a skull covered in skin that was unhealthily pale and thin, riddled with wrinkles, and now smeared in places with green herbal juice. His lips were just as colorless, some of his teeth were missing, but for some reason his beard was missing, his face was clean-shaven, and his hair, which had lost color and was thick in some places, was pulled back in a ponytail, which was now completely disheveled. In general, he looked pitiful, and the only thing that contradicted this impression now were his eyes - shiny, bright, without fatigue or fear, which always settled in the gaze of those who had spent at least a few months in Azkaban - Harry could no longer remember if that expression had been in them before their strange walk.
   "It's simple," McNair replied, also openly examining the auror sitting in front of him. "I didn't like Muggleborns. They really pissed me off back then."
   "Then?" Harry asked.
   "Then," McNair chuckled. "It doesn't matter now."
   "With what?"
   "What infuriated?" he asked again and thought about it. "They... come to our world and stay in it, not knowing and not observing the laws. And they destroy it. I didn't like it."
   "And that's why you decided to kill them?"
   "I was seventeen," McNair shrugged. "And I really wanted to serve someone. Did you see what he looked like then?"
   "Did you want to serve?"
   It was strange and unexpected. Harry was not surprised by the information about the dislike of Muggleborns, but the desire to serve in its purest form was incomprehensible to him. It's clear to serve some idea... to all people... but to want to be someone's servant?
   "I wanted to," McNair nodded. "Don't you understand?"
   "Not really..."
   "It's complicated," McNair mused. "I'm not the best storyteller.... But yes, I wanted to serve. Everyone in our family served. Previously, this was not difficult: there was a suzerain, there was a king ... yes, the head of the family at least. And here I am..."
   "But... why?" Harry was even taken aback. "What's in it for you? For what?"
   "It's just life," McNair shrugged. "This is the way to live. Everyone is born for something. You're a hero," he said as easily as if he'd called Harry an auror, or a salesman, or a teacher, "and I was born to serve. Well, that's it...."
   "And now?" Harry thought he hadn't heard anything so... wild in a long time.
   "It's not relevant right now," McNair chuckled. "Azkaban solves this issue perfectly."
   "No, I mean, when are you coming out?"
   "Will I get out?" He burst out laughing. "You're a joker, Mr. Potter. I'm not getting out of there. If you remember."
   "Well no... so... That's the whole point", Harry had forgotten that he didn't know anything about the reason he was here, and therefore the question must seem mocking to him.
   "Actually, that's why I called you", It was a pity to change the subject, but on the other hand, the moment was too opportune. "I want to review some cases, and yours in particular. I believe you've been in Azkaban long enough - but the decision is made, of course, by the Wizengamot.... That's why I need your help. I'll explain."
   There was silence. McNair just sat there for a while, seemingly realizing what he had heard, then an expression of surprise appeared on his face, he frowned slightly and clarified:
   "Do you want to let me go?"
   "I can't let anyone go!" Harry grimaced. "I can only initiate a review of the cases and prepare them accordingly. But the Wizengamot decides. And here's the problem."
   "Wow," McNair said softly. "why?" He suddenly looked into Harry's eyes. There was no surprise in his gaze anymore - there was attention, alertness, and something that Harry defined as "study."
   "Why what?"
   "That's right... For starters, why me?"
   "Actually, initially I was thinking about Avery," Harry admitted honestly.
   McNair's eyebrows went up again.
   "Then I reread all your files.... Even then, you weren't charged with any murder outside of combat. And you..."
   He paused, almost saying, `Don't give the impression of being dangerous.' Perhaps McNair would have taken it as an insult, and that's not the best thing to say to a person if you want to get or learn something from them.
   "And me?" he asked.
   "Your wand was checked. They didn't find any Cruciatus or Imperio on her... just a few Awads."
   "So what?"
   "I'm..." Is that how to explain it? Even Ginny and Ron didn't understand at the time why Harry considered a person using Avada better in some ways than using Cruciatus, much less Imperio. Of course, anything can happen, but in general, it's better. More honest, at least. And definitely not as dangerous.
   "It doesn't matter," he waved his hand. "What difference does it make to you?"
   "Indeed," he agreed easily. "So you've decided to let Avery and me go.... Yes, yes, I remember," he nodded at Harry's grimace. "I'm doing this for brevity. And what's the problem? Do you want to teach us what to say in court?"
   "I... don't!" Harry even raised his voice in outrage.
   "I'm sorry," his interlocutor immediately reacted. "I judge everyone by myself." He sounded serious, but Harry could tell he was joking, even if it was weird. Although everything was already strange here...
   "It doesn't matter," he smiled briefly, and suddenly offered, "would you like some tea? Or to eat? Lunch time has long since ended, but the elves will find something...."
   "You know," McNair replied after a short pause, "if you also offer to wash me, I will completely lose faith in the reality of what is happening."
   "Is it in Azkaban..."
   "It's... different. It doesn't matter," he tilted his head back and shook it slightly from side to side, stretching his neck. "Of course, I will not refuse lunch."
   "Then order... What do you want?"
   "Meat. Chicken. Fresh bread. Fruits. Anything but oatmeal, boiled vegetables with fish, and pumpkin."
  
   "You didn't tell me what the problem was," McNair reminded him when lunch was ordered and the elf disappeared. "With the Wizengamot."
   "The fact that there are only two of you. I did add one more thing, but it's still not enough. The Wizengamot will not gather less than..."
   "For three or more cases of the same type," McNair finished for him. "In our case, it is clearly "and more." That is, you need another one. I repeat, what does that have to do with me?"
   "I want to know your opinion. Who would you release if you were deciding?"
   "Me?!" McNair was amazed. "I must say, Mr. Potter, you've chosen a strange... adviser. You should have asked Avery."
   "I'm asking you," Harry countered.
   "Who should I choose from?"
   "Here," Harry handed him the list. McNair thought about it, then said with a grin:
   "You can't let anyone out here, seriously. It's all about the case. Except maybe Avery."
   "Why Avery?" the answer was wrong - in the sense that Harry, by and large, agreed with him, but the problem was not solved that way. However, the fact that both he and the former minister's executioner agreed on this man was interesting, and he wanted to hear the rationale.
   "Because he's a coward," McNair laughed. "For which I got it all the time from everywhere. Smart, curious, funny-but a coward. He doesn't seem to have ever killed anyone, except by accident and also out of fear. He got to the Lord solely out of cowardice... in general, he's not dangerous at all, and he certainly served his time."
   "What do you mean, `I got to the Lord out of cowardice'?" Harry asked with eager curiosity. "How is this possible?"
   "Well... I met him and I was scared," McNair smiled. "The lord was interested in him, invited him, but Avery didn't have the heart to refuse. That's how he took the mark," he laughed again. "No, he's really good. He was just unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time one day. Dad, again."
   "What's Dad?"
   "They were classmates with the Lord. In any case, they definitely studied at the same time in Slytherin. I think he introduced Marcus to him.... But you'd better ask Avery himself. Treat him to lunch with a good dessert - he will do a lot for you for a pie with cherries", he laughed again, not unkindly, but rather a little condescendingly. "I didn't help, did I?"
   "Yes," Harry sighed. "I need to choose two more, otherwise it won't work."
   "Lestranges, then. Strictly speaking, of course, Rodolphus, but he won't go without his brother."
   "No," Harry snapped. "It's not up for discussion."
   "And who is being discussed?" McNair was not at all embarrassed.
   At that moment, an elf appeared with a huge tray, and the conversation was temporarily interrupted as lunch began. Harry had never seen anyone eat both greedily and slowly before, savoring every bite and sip, sniffing, examining, lingering in their mouths... They didn't talk: Harry didn't want to interfere with such a strange and intense pleasure, and McNair seemed to have simply forgotten about anything other than what he was doing directly. When most of it was eaten, Harry, eager to continue the conversation, said:
   "If you want, you can take whatever remains with you. It's a bit against the rules, but I don't think anyone will object.
   "Thank you," McNair didn't answer immediately, but it sounded so sincere that Harry was even embarrassed: no food was worth, in his opinion, such gratitude. McNair seems to have noticed it:
   "Are you surprised? Is such a small thing not worth such gratitude?"
   "Well ... anyway... I guess," Harry looked confused. "It's just food."
   "This," he chuckled, "is not just food. It's human food. It's not the same thing."
   "Are you poorly fed?" Harry was very surprised.
   "Not that it's bad," McNair stammered, searching for words, "rather... terrible," he chuckled. "It's always exactly the same. Oatmeal - toast with beans - boiled vegetables with fish. There is, however, a variety here - according to the season, I suppose. So... How long have I been sitting there? How many years have passed?"
   "Twenty," Harry replied cautiously after a pause. "Almost."
   At these words, his companion's eyes widened and flashed - there was a flicker of disbelief, then amazement, and then something else that Harry couldn't recognize, but he didn't like it.
   "Twenty years," McNair said softly. "Can you imagine: twenty years of oatmeal and boiled fish?"
   He said it quite seriously, even his eyes weren't smiling, but it turned out to be very funny - Harry couldn't help but snort, and only then McNair's face came alive, laughter splashed in his eyes, and his lips parted in a wide smile.
   "That's why it's not just food," he finished, smiling. "I'm really grateful to you. It's nice to feel like a human being."
   "Then help me find the other two," Harry asked.

Chapter 4.

  
  
  
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